I AM at Emmett’s house, and we are baking cookies. I’ve slept over because school was canceled last night in anticipation of snow again, and it is indeed snowing out, so cookie making is the only logical thing to do. I let him handle most of it, because I burn myself every time I go near an oven. I really shouldn’t be allowed near food until it’s cooked.
I settle for eating dough when Emmett’s not looking, and scooping it onto the cookie sheet so that we have actual cookies, eventually.
When the cookies go into the oven, I pull out two cans of root beer and hand one to Emmett in celebration.
“What’s the occasion?” he asks, popping the tab. I shrug.
“I’ve had these sitting on my desk for a while, but they don’t need to be there anymore.” I made sure to check the expiration dates on the bottom and wipe the small amount of dust off the cans before I packed them. I don’t need them anymore.
“Alright, I’m not complaining,” he says, smiling a little as he takes a sip.
“I’m also celebrating being here.”
“At my house? Yours is nicer.” I roll my eyes.
“No, you asshole, being here. Alive. Everything got better. I’m glad.”
“Oh.” Emmett is quiet for a moment, and I can feel tension beginning to build in the room. Thankfully, Emmett takes the dramatic way out, putting a hand on his chest. “Don’t go getting sentimental on me, I can hardly bear it.” He hugs me a moment later.
“I’m glad you’re still here too,” he whispers into my ear.
It’s February 27th, one year to the day I woke up without a hand. Emmett made me sleep over, and we spent all night talking about who we were a year ago. It’s funny how much can change in a year.
Emmett’s mom came back for a little while in October, about three weeks after she left. She told Emmett she loved him, but she needed time to process everything. She left because she didn’t want to be with his father anymore. She promised that it wasn’t Emmett’s fault, and she really doesn’t care who he likes as long as he’s happy and that she left because she wasn’t. She acknowledged she shouldn’t have left the way she did, but she was sorry.
She left again and lives one town over now. Emmett goes there occasionally and always comes back with fresh pumpkin bread that he shares with me. Their relationship is strained, but he thinks it’s getting better. He forgave her. He doesn’t talk about it much, but he goes to a therapist now. I think Emmett will be okay. He can do it; he’s resilient. And he wants to get better.
When I was depressed, I didn’t want to get better, and it didn’t seem possible. But Emmett’s always been a happy dude. Even under stress, he’s pretty happy. Not like my guidance counselor happy, because that’s not natural, but still happy. I wish I could be more like Emmett. I think the world would be a happier place if we were all like Emmett. But then it’d be boring because there wouldn’t be any variety.
The cookies look like they’re coming along nicely, but I’ve put the dough globs too close together, and now they’re all going to run together and bake into a monster cookie mutant. Emmett thinks it looks awesome, and we high-five. I get distracted and look away for a second and he misses my hand, awkwardly hitting my forearm.
“How hard is it to miss my only hand, Emmett? You had one job.” He laughs in response, and we try again, but I miss his hand this time, and he rolls his eyes and mutters under his breath.
“One job, Carter, come on.”