Ma’s words from last night echoed in Emilia’s head as she rode her bike from Uniondale to Levittown. You were just a child. Did Ma mean it wasn’t her fault? Or that it was, but that she couldn’t really be blamed because she was just a child? Either way, Emilia had to face exactly what she’d done.
You’ve gone fucking crazy, Emilia, she told herself.
Maybe, she answered. But anyway, I can’t take the chance of running into him.
If Ma knew what you were doing, if anyone knew what you were doing, they’d kill you. You’d be institutionalized.
Maybe. But when I see him, I want to be ready.
Emilia looked down at the paper in her hand, not that she needed to. If she closed her eyes, she could still see the address on the report the detective had brought over and laid on their coffee table. It was strange the way things happened. She didn’t think she knew what she was doing when she stared at that paper, or what she would do later, but she ran upstairs and wrote it down as soon as she got to her room.
She knew she didn’t want to forget the address. And she couldn’t trust her memory anymore.
Emilia looked up and slowly rode past addresses displayed on mailboxes until she came to 346 Fort Road. She stared at the brick house with dead trees and bushes obstructing the windows.
She didn’t have to do this. She shouldn’t do this. She was sure her mother would grab her by the arm and pull her away from here as fast as possible if she knew.
But Emilia parked her bike and went up the walkway.
She rang the doorbell.
She waited.
Will she call the cops?
Will she push me as soon as she sees me, send me flying down the porch steps?
Flying.
Will he answer? She hadn’t even considered it until that very moment, and now it was too late. The heavy door opened and a woman—Mrs. Lance—stood on the other side of the screen door between them.
“Hi,” Emilia said. It came out funny. Like she’d been holding her breath. Katherine Lance stared out at her.
Emilia knew she should say something, but she didn’t know what.
Finally, she spoke.
“I’m . . .” Her words got stuck. “I’m . . . My name . . .”
“I know who you are,” Mrs. Lance said. Her voice chilled Emilia and something told her to run, but she stayed.
Why are you doing this? You have no right to be here. She must hate you. You ruined their lives.
Emilia swallowed the panic.
“And you, you’re Mrs. Lance?” Emilia felt the need to confirm. Her voice trembled in her throat.
“Yes,” she answered. She let Emilia stand there awkwardly, uncomfortably, before speaking.
“And you’re Emilia. Emilia DeJesus.”
Emilia nodded, though she knew Mrs. Lance was not asking for confirmation. Here they were, face-to-face, staring at each other in silence.
“Why are you here?” she asked finally.
Emilia’s mouth went dry. Why was she here? Because she was afraid of running into them somewhere. Because she didn’t want to hide. Because she wanted to apologize even though it would mean nothing.
Because I’m so sorry. I thought I saw Jeremy that day, but I was wrong, so wrong.
“I asked why are you here?” Katherine Lance repeated sharply.
Emilia startled, but her mouth refused to utter a word, and now her body refused to run.
The woman shook her head. “So you ring my doorbell, and now you have nothing to say?”
“I’m . . . I’m sorry,” Emilia said.
Katherine Lance stared at her. She didn’t say anything.
Emilia looked at the ground. “I . . . I’m sorry. I don’t know why . . .” Tears filled her eyes. Her heart beat faster. Her body felt like it was shaking.
Go home, she thought. She turned to leave.
“Wait.”
Emilia looked back. Jeremy’s mother looked disgusted with her, but she reached for the screen door and opened it.
“Come in,” she said.
As soon as Emilia entered the kitchen, she noticed the sign on the far wall.
WELCOME HOME, JEREMY!
She swallowed the bitter taste in her mouth and tried to find somewhere else to look as she sat down at the kitchen table. She kept on her coat and scarf even though the house was warm, stuffy. Mrs. Lance stood by the kitchen sink.
Mrs. Lance must have made the sign, right here, at this very table. Emilia ran her hand over the surface, imagined a welcome-home cake, Mrs. Lance here with Jeremy, looking at him, how? The way Ma looks at me? Like she can’t quite believe I’m really there sometimes?
“Tell me why you’re here.” Mrs. Lance’s voice cut into her thoughts.
But Emilia couldn’t tell her it was because she felt like she should show her face. That she should come here and tell Mrs. Lance, Jeremy, that she was sorry. How silly and simplistic and terrible and impossible it felt in this moment. Why did she ever think this would make a difference? Had she done this to feel better, for herself? Or for them? As if they cared about anything she would have to say.
And maybe, a small voice told her, if I see him, I’ll know once and for all. And I can be sure it wasn’t him.
All these thoughts raced through Emilia’s mind. She glanced at Mrs. Lance, her pinched face, her narrow eyes. The woman hated her—Emilia knew she did. She had to.
How could she answer the question? Nothing seemed appropriate. She could feel Mrs. Lance staring at her.
“I don’t know,” Emilia finally said.
Suddenly a door to a room down the hall opened noisily and a young man emerged. He rushed through the kitchen, past Emilia, and headed to the side door that led outside. “Rec time,” he yelled.
He was gone in an instant, the door slamming behind him, and Emilia caught her breath as it registered. It was him. She recognized him.
He was thin and pale. And the little bit she caught of his face looked hollow and gaunt.
His mother went to the door, yelled at him to be careful, and closed it slowly.
She turned and looked at Emilia. “That’s Jeremy,” she said, watching Emilia for her reaction.
Emilia nodded.
Mrs. Lance went to the window and looked outside. Emilia could see him from where she sat as he rode his bike. He rode in and out of their visibility.
Mrs. Lance took a deep breath. “Did you come here to tell me your side of the story? Is that it?”
Maybe. Maybe she was there to assure Mrs. Lance she never meant to name him. Maybe she was there to tell her it wasn’t my fault. Or to be told it wasn’t her fault.
I am so very sorry that I’ve ruined your life, your son’s life. And now I want you to tell me I didn’t. So I can go on with mine.
She looked at Mrs. Lance, who wouldn’t even look her way now. “Let me tell you something. Let me give you our side of the story. Does that sound fair?”
She glanced at Emilia, her lips pressed together firmly as she waited for an answer.
“Yes,” Emilia said.
Katherine Lance took a breath, and began. “Jeremy was a difficult kid. Didn’t talk until he was eight years old.” She looked back outside as she spoke. “I feel like he was somehow locked up, inside himself, ever since he was little. But I could see him in there, my boy, lost somewhere. And I had to pull him out. Do you understand me?”
Emilia didn’t respond, just stared as Katherine Lance continued.
“No, of course you don’t. But it doesn’t matter. I knew I could get him out. I had to tell him, ‘Come out to this world, be free. It’s okay. I’ll help you, I’ll protect you.’”
Mrs. Lance wiped at her face quickly.
“He trusted me. I got him into that group home. Do you know how much he—we—had to work to get him to say his name? But he did, and he trusted me. And he came out of himself. Sometimes, he’d have rough days.” She looked out the window. “One time he punched his hand through a bus window because he’d lost a bracelet I told him gave him special powers.” She shook her head. “It was stupid of me, but he refused to ever take it off because he trusted me. Because he thought it helped him. Because he was convinced it was the reason he made so much progress.”
She turned to Emilia, who sat there, her blood running cold as she remembered picking up a bracelet that day. The way Jeremy was looking at her from the window.
“Then that day. And you said it was him. They arrested him . . . at the home.” Emilia looked away; it was so hard to look at Mrs. Lance, the stone-cold face, and now with all this new information.
“I wasn’t there when it happened,” Mrs. Lance continued. “I was here when I got a phone call from one of his therapists.” She closed her eyes. “I could hear him screaming in the background.”
Emilia’s eyes filled with tears.
“The group home is twenty minutes away. I drove to the police station where they were taking him. I got there before them, saw as they brought him in. Screaming. Yelling. He was . . .” She shook her head, as if trying to forget. “There was no calming him down.” She took a deep breath. “And I saw it all unravel. All that work, since he was three. All kinds of therapies to get him to walk, to speak, to socialize, to interact with others. The things that come so easy for so many other kids, Jeremy had to work for, harder than I’ve seen anyone work before in my life. All that progress, just undone, right there.”
Mrs. Lance looked at Emilia. Stared at her with that same impenetrable look. But then Emilia saw it crack, fall as Mrs. Lance was overcome with so many emotions. She brought her hands to her face, turned away.
Emilia closed her eyes, as if that would help shut out the sound of this woman’s sobbing, profound sobs that had been pushed down deep, time and time again. It was too much.
What have I done? What have I done? Emilia wondered as tears spilled down her own face.
Finally, the sobbing subsided. Mrs. Lance took deep breaths, gained control of her voice, and asked, “So tell me, why did you name my boy?”
Emilia shook her head, wiped her eyes and running nose. “I don’t know,” she said.
“You don’t know? That’s not an answer.”
“I don’t know,” Emilia repeated.
“That’s not an answer. You came here. You came to our house. You showed your face here, so now give me an answer!” Her voice was firm and Emilia was scared.
“I . . . I was scared. I was scared of him!”
Mrs. Lance looked at Emilia, nodded. They stayed there in the silence of the kitchen a long time. Emilia wanted to leave, but she was afraid to move.
“Everyone’s always afraid of him. At least you were honest.”
Katherine Lance walked over and offered Emilia a few paper napkins. Emilia wiped her face, blew her nose. Her eyes fell on a schedule on the refrigerator with times for eating, showering, sleeping. Jeremy’s mom followed Emilia’s gaze.
“His daily schedule,” Mrs. Lance explained. “Same one he kept in prison. It makes him feel safe. Keeps him calm. The first few days home were horrible. But then I remembered how he liked things just so as a little boy. And . . . if I keep to that schedule, just so, it helps. Except for the shower.” A new edge came into her voice then. “He needs to keep to the schedule, and yet, as soon as he gets in the shower, he’s yelling and screaming and . . .” Mrs. Lance turned and walked back to the window.
Emilia’s heart filled with more horror and guilt.
What horrible things had happened to Jeremy?
A type of radio on the counter buzzed, and Mrs. Lance automatically reached out her hand and turned it up.
Something about an accident on a street Emilia somewhat recognized. She suddenly realized it was a police scanner and wondered why Katherine Lance owned one.
Mrs. Lance turned it back down.
“You’d be surprised what we’re surrounded by every day, Emilia. There was a murder three weeks ago, barely made the news. A young woman was assaulted while jogging last year, found unconscious in the bushes by another jogger. She lived. That’s nice, isn’t it?”
Emilia stared at Mrs. Lance’s face.
“Another was followed in her car for half an hour until suddenly, at a red light, some guy got out of his car and started banging on her window, threatening her, calling her names. There are so many, Emilia, I can’t keep them straight. I used to study each case, any newspaper clipping I could find, took notes while watching the news, if they made the news, if I thought there was the slightest possibility it was him. The man who attacked you and got away with it. I looked for clues. I used to call the police, give them leads.
“At first they were . . . courteous, at least on the surface. But then they just thought I was a mental case. Too distraught, they said. Finally they told me I had to stop or they’d take legal action. And they said anything on my record would keep me from being able to visit Jeremy in prison.” Katherine Lance stopped, shook her head, and took a deep breath. But Emilia could see the anger in her face at the thought of being forbidden from seeing her son.
“And what did they do when they found out about Carl Smith?” She looked at Emilia but went on, not waiting for an answer. “Sorry, they said. They are so sorry. As if that means anything.”
Emilia got a sick feeling in her stomach.
A buzzer went off, making Emilia jump. Mrs. Lance looked at the kitchen clock. “I have to start his lunch,” she said.
Emilia knew that meant it was time for her to go. She stood up and headed toward the kitchen door slowly.
She struggled to unglue her tongue from the roof of her mouth.
Tell her.
Now.
Emilia’s hand was on the doorknob. She closed her eyes and forced out the only words she had. “I know it doesn’t mean much. But I’m so sorry. I will always be sorry.” Her voice was thin and weightless and she didn’t know if Mrs. Lance heard her. Emilia was too ashamed to look back at her.
Emilia turned the knob and opened the door. A cold gust of wind rushed in.
She closed the door behind her.
Outside, Jeremy Lance approached Emilia on his bicycle as she picked up hers.
Even though she knew the truth—he wasn’t the attacker, Emilia!—she couldn’t help the fear that shot through her heart and the rest of her body. Emilia looked at the kitchen window, where Mrs. Lance stared out at her. She resisted jumping on her bike and pedaling away as fast as possible.
“Hi,” he said.
Jeremy Lance pedaled past Emilia. He reached the corner, made a wide turn, and rode back at the same, even pace.
“Hi,” he said as he approached again.
“Hi,” Emilia managed. This time he stopped, just next to her and her bike. Emilia’s heart beat faster.
The day was hardly bright, but he squinted his eyes as he looked at her, as if the light outside was too much, and Emilia realized, with a fresh pang of guilt, that maybe it was.
“You came out of my house. Were you talking to my mom?”
Emilia nodded, looked toward the kitchen window again, but now she couldn’t tell if Mrs. Lance was still there.
“That’s nice,” he said. His lips were pale and his smile was too big, and Emilia tried not to be afraid of him, but she was shaking and even if she wanted to pedal away, her legs felt too weak now. She stared at the dark shadows under his eyes that made him look like he hadn’t slept in days. “I love my mom,” he said.
He looked at Emilia expectantly. “I love my mom, too,” she said, swallowed the lump in her throat. “I should get going.” She was afraid to turn her back on him, but she wanted to leave.
He nodded, put one foot up on his bike pedal like he was going to leave, too, but then set it back down on the ground.
“Hey,” he said, cocking his head to the side before she could ride away. “Do I know you?”
Emilia’s blood froze.
What will he do if he knows it’s me?
Emilia couldn’t help thinking this.
She shook her head. “No.”
“Oh,” he said. “I’ve been gone for a while.” He looked down at his feet, at the untied laces of his sneakers. “I’ve been in prison,” he said. “Shoot, I’m not supposed to tell anyone. You won’t tell, will you?”
Emilia shook her head. He smiled. She wished he would stop smiling.
“Anyway, I thought maybe I met you a long time ago.” He kept his gaze on her. She saw drool puddling up in the corners of his mouth.
Emilia was scared—dizzy, and cold, and so scared.
She shouldn’t have come here.
She wouldn’t look him in the eye, but she felt his gaze on her. And she didn’t want to make any sudden moves. He took out a pack of gum from his pocket, a red, white, and blue packet with one-eyed Bazooka Joe staring at Emilia. Jeremy held it out to her. “Want one?”
She was afraid to say no, so she reached for a piece. Her hand shook as he placed it in her palm.
“Chew it,” he said, laughing.
Emilia could see his teeth and it made her feel queasy. She unwrapped the gum and reluctantly chewed it.
“Hey, you’re cold,” he said, noticing how she shivered. Her mind flashed with the memory of his face. On the playground. On that day.
She looked up at him, shook her head.
“Wait . . . I do know you,” he said.
“No, no, anyway I gotta go . . .” Emilia turned away and got on her bike.
“Wait.”
Emilia started pedaling, glanced back as he struggled with his bicycle, his shoelaces getting caught up in the pedals.
“Wait,” he called. “I know you! Wait.”
But her body prickled with fear and restraint.
“I said wait!” he yelled. He sounded angry. Maybe everyone was wrong. Maybe she was right. Maybe it was Jeremy Lance; maybe it had been him all along.
Emilia pedaled faster and tried not to look back. She didn’t want to see his face, angry, coming for her.
But at the end of the block, she looked quickly—she couldn’t help it—and saw him riding toward her on his bicycle so fast. His face twisted in confusion. And his mother was suddenly running behind him, chasing him, calling his name.