Chapter 19

Neither my mother nor I had mentioned Mr. Linaberry for a while. But every once in a while, I’d see signs around our apartment that he’d been there. Like finding the loose tiles in the bathtub replaced. Or the crack in the living room wall fixed. Or the bad burner on the stove turning red hot one morning when I switched it on. I could never forget about him. Even if I didn’t see him, he was always there, living right below us or working out back in his welding shop.

Then, one day, when we had a half day so teachers could go to a conference, I came home and found him in our kitchen with Mom. I’d come rushing in, not thinking about anything special, just calling Mom. Then I saw the two of them. They were eating lunch, that’s all they were doing, but it felt like something else to me. They were sitting elbow to elbow, and Mom was still in her bathrobe.

I didn’t like it. I didn’t like Mr. Linaberry being there. I didn’t like the pizza on the table. Or the coffee they were drinking. Maybe my face got red. It seemed to be burning. Mr. Linaberry nodded to me. I dropped my books on the counter and went to the refrigerator.

Mom said, “Hello, sweetheart, I forgot … half a day. Hungry?”

“No.” I was, though. I poured a glass of juice and gulped it down.

“Plenty of pizza. We can’t eat all this …”

“I don’t want any.”

Mr. Linaberry stood up. “I’ll go now. You can eat. It’s okay.” He almost smiled at me. My face was burning more than ever.

Mom walked with him into the living room. I heard them talking to each other, murmuring. I imagined they were standing by the door, standing close. Maybe Mom was slumping a little because she was taller then Mr. Linaberry. What were they saying? Were they talking about me? I sat down at the table and sniffed the pizza. It smelled delicious, but I didn’t touch it.

Mom came back. She poured another cup of coffee and sat down across from me. “If you want to say something, say it,” she said.

“What?”

“I don’t know. Say whatever it is.”

“I don’t have anything to say. You say it.”

“Why didn’t you talk to Len?”

“I don’t have anything to say to him.”

“You could just be polite, say hello, how are you, nice weather we’re having, thanks for fixing the light in my closet.” She sipped her coffee and stared at me over the rim of the cup.

My hand went to the pizza, then I snatched it back. I didn’t want that pizza!

“Emily—can’t you accept … that Len is my friend?”

I looked down. “I don’t know.”

“Why not? Why is it so hard?”

“He’s ugly,” I burst out.

Mom looked like I’d slapped her. “I can’t believe I heard you say that.”

I couldn’t speak. I felt ashamed. What I’d said was shallow and superficial. Was that me? A shallow, superficial person?

“Do you want to take it back?” Mom said. “I’m giving you a chance to take that back.”

I started breathing hard. I still couldn’t speak.

“You’re immature,” Mom said. “I didn’t realize …”

I kept biting my lip so I wouldn’t cry. How could Mom say that? I took care of the kids all the time, I cleaned the house, I shopped, I cooked supper, I did anything she asked me to do. And I worked and earned money, too! “I’m responsible,” I choked out.

“Yes, you’re responsible. I don’t deny that. But you’re emotionally immature.” Her voice was dry and hard.”

I pushed back my chair and ran to my room. I was panting, and then I was crying. I hated what she said. I hated that she said it to me. It was as if all the things I did for her didn’t mean anything. My thoughts raced. Why did I have to live here with her? I wished I was somewhere else, with my father or with Bunny, anywhere but here! Mom didn’t love me anymore. I lay across my bed, willing myself to stop crying. And I did. Didn’t that prove how wrong she was about me?

I heard her come into my room. I lay still. She sat on the edge of the bed and put her hand on my back. “Emily.” It was hard for me not to burst into tears again. “You hurt me … very much … with your attitude.” Her voice was low. Suddenly I rolled over, flung myself against her and held on, as if I were Wilma’s age. I was babbling and crying. I felt so sorry. I felt so bad.

Mom stroked my hair. “I know … I know …” She held me for a long time. She kissed me. “I know you don’t mean to be hurtful.”

“No, no!”

“I know it … I know you.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. Tears again. “I won’t be like that anymore. I promise.”

“That’s okay, don’t promise anything. Just … be yourself. Be Emily.”

She had to get ready for work. I got up and made her lunch. I wrapped her sandwich carefully. I thought about putting a note in the bag. Dear Mom, maybe you’re right about me. I’m going to grow up more. I’m going to try hard not to be emotionally immature. Love, Emily. I didn’t write the note. Instead, I put in two cookies and an apple.