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Emma
The librarian watched her nervously and then hurriedly said, “Of course” when Emma explained that she couldn’t find her library card.
Did this woman know who she was? Did she know what was going on in her life? She was acting so uncomfortably that Emma thought she knew everything. Or was Emma being paranoid?
She left the library as fast as she could and kept her head down as she hurried back to Mrs. Patterson’s.
“Emma!” a voice called out from behind.
She turned to see Jason with two of his friends. They each eyed her curiously, as if they were looking at a bug under a microscope.
“Hey, Jason,” she said self-consciously. She wished he hadn’t seen her.
He started closer, and her breath caught. She fought the urge to back away. She was grateful that his friends stayed behind.
“Hey, I just wanted to thank you. Coach Packard told me what you tried to do. I would’ve called to thank you, but I don’t know your number.”
He paused, and she wondered if he was waiting for her to give him her number. She decided that was preposterous and bit her lip.
“Anyway, it was super nice and thoughtful of you. I was shocked, actually. And I’m really sorry I beat up your dad.”
She raised an eyebrow. “You are?”
He smiled and shrugged. “Well, yeah. I’m probably going to have a record now.” He laughed. “But really, I am sorry. I’m not your dad’s biggest fan, but I shouldn’t have done what I did. I was just so angry, and I wanted to do something about the whole thing, even though there really wasn’t anything I could do.”
She nodded. “I understand. I’ve felt that way too.”
He grinned again. “All right then.” He playfully punched her shoulder. “You take it easy, Emma.” Then he turned and headed back to his friends, who were still staring at her.
She rushed home, now glad she had ventured out to the library, no matter how weird and awkward the librarian had been.
She found Mrs. Patterson back in her chair drinking what looked like iced coffee. It looked yummy. The ice clinked in her glass as Mrs. Patterson eyeballed her over its rim. She swallowed and let out a satisfied sigh. “Did you find anything good?”
“Don’t know yet, but I got some possibilities. And I ran into Jason DeGrave.”
“At the library?” Mrs. Patterson cried, as if that were the most preposterous thing she’d ever heard.
“No.” Emma snickered. “I saw him on my way home. Anyway, he was really nice, and he thanked us for trying to bail him out. He also apologized for beating up my father.”
Mrs. Patterson raised her eyebrows. “Is that right?” She clicked her tongue and turned back to the television. “Just when you think people can’t surprise you anymore.”
Was she talking to Emma? Or herself?
“Is there any more iced coffee?”
Mrs. Patterson’s face fell. “Oh. Sorry. I’m afraid this isn’t iced coffee. It’s coffee brandy. I often have a little nip in the afternoon and evening. I haven’t been since you’ve been around. Don’t want to be a bad example and all. But I thought”—she paused— “I thought you would take longer at the library.”
Emma smiled. “Sorry. I hurried. I felt like I was being watched.”
“You probably were being watched.”
This didn’t help her feel any better. She opened one of the books and started to read. It wasn’t bad. There was a little too much romance, but other than that, it seemed it was going to be a solid end-of-the-world story.
She was vaguely aware that Mrs. Patterson got up and went back to the kitchen. Then she returned and flipped through the television channels. Emma stretched out on the couch and tried to focus on the words in front of her.
But when Mrs. Patterson made her third trip to the kitchen, Emma got curious. She sat up and listened. Ice clinked against glass, and then Mrs. Patterson was back with another serving of creamy brown beverage.
“That stuff must be pretty good.”
“Tastes terrible, actually. Don’t ever try it.”
Emma had never been around anyone drinking alcohol before, and it made her feel grown-up. She tried not to stare, tried to act as if she was used to people swigging coffee brandy all the time.
“I didn’t like it the first several dozen times I tried it.” Mrs. Patterson laughed at herself. “But after a while, I developed a taste for it.” She took another swallow. “I’m grateful I don’t have more of a problem. I don’t drink much, just enough to take the edge off.”
The edge off what, Emma didn’t know. “Why did you keep trying it if you didn’t like it?”
Mrs. Patterson let out a long sigh. “I was young and trying to fit in. I didn’t know yet that I would never fit in. Could never fit in.”
“Fit in with who?” As soon as she had asked, Emma knew. The music people. “The other musicians?”
She nodded slowly. “The other musicians. The managers. The agents. The producers. The supporters.” She gave her a sardonic look. “You know the rock stars have fans coming out of the woodwork, but that’s not how it was for us classical folks. We had to beg for fans.”
“But you’re still selling albums.”
Mrs. Patterson looked at her sharply.
“I saw them online.”
“Just because they’re for sale doesn’t mean someone’s buying them.”
“Oh.”
She took another drink, and her ice tinkled again. “I sell a few here and there. I guess I should be grateful. It helps pay the bills. But I’m not exactly swimming in the dough.”
There was a long pause, and Emma tried to think of a way to keep the conversation going. “Is that why you stopped playing, because it wasn’t making much money?”
“No. I never cared about the money. I just wanted to make good music, but I was never good enough. I quit because I got tired.” She leveled a gaze at Emma. “You probably know that artists are the sensitive type.”
Emma thought about it. Had she known that? She wasn’t sure. She thought about the kids who hung out in the art room in school. The emo kids. The goth kids. Yes, they were the sensitive type, weren’t they? She nodded enthusiastically.
“Well, I was the most sensitive of the sensitive. It made me a good musician, but it also made me a bad musician.”
Emma frowned. She didn’t understand.
“It’s not that I couldn’t take constructive criticism. I could, when it was constructive. But Emma...” She stopped talking and stared at the television.
It felt as though she was about to share something big. “What?”
Mrs. Patterson shook her head. “I shouldn’t be giving advice. I’m not qualified.”
“I wasn’t asking for advice. I’m just interested in who you are.”
She smiled, looking thoughtful. “Who I am and who I was are two different people. Who I was was a fragile flower, and everybody who stabbed me in the back, who stole from me, manipulated me, who insulted me, betrayed me... all those people. It was just more than I could take. There was no one good in the world except for my husband.” Her voice got thick. “And then he left too.”
“Is that when you...” She didn’t know how to politely phrase her question.
Mrs. Patterson did it for her. “Is that when I started staying in my house?” She chuckled. “No. I think he left me because I started staying in the house. He married the girl who got up on stage and flounced around and smiled for the cameras. When I decided I couldn’t do that anymore, he grew tired and he left, the last betrayer in a long line of betrayers.”
Emma’s heart cracked for her. She sounded so lonely. “I’m so sorry. Does he live around here?”
“No, he died years ago. Got in a bad car accident with his new wife. She was twenty years younger than me, and that irritated the snot out of me, but I still didn’t wish them pain or death.” She finished her glass and set it on the end table beside her. “I don’t think I should have any more brandy. It’s given me the gift of gab. So you got your story after all. Please keep it between us. I don’t think anyone around here knows my past, and I’d like to keep it that way. I don’t really like attention, and it’s not a very good story anyway. I think they’d end up disappointed.”
“I won’t tell anyone.”
She nodded gravely. “If you can keep that promise, it’ll be the first promise anyone has ever kept for me.”
Emma had never felt greater resolve to keep a secret. She would prove it to Mrs. Patterson, prove that people weren’t all bad, that they weren’t all cruel. “Don’t you miss playing?”
“Oh, of course I do,” she said quickly. “But when I play, all I can hear are my mistakes.” She looked at her curiously. “Do you play any instruments?”
Emma shook her head. “My mom took piano lessons for years, but she was always terrible. She would get so frustrated that she would cry and bang on the low keys. Learning an instrument never looked like much fun to me.”
Mrs. Patterson laughed appreciatively. “Sounds like your mother and I have more in common than I might’ve once thought.”
“How old were you when you learned?”
“I was five when I started. I was a natural. If I had kept playing naturally, I might’ve been okay. But I tried to get trained. That’s when everything started going wrong.”
“Trained? You mean like lessons?”
She nodded. “Lessons upon lessons. Then Juilliard.”
“Juilliard? Isn’t that that fancy music school in New York City that no one can get into?”
Mrs. Patterson laughed. “Indeed it is. I am an alumna.”
“Wow. I’m impressed.”
“Don’t be. I’m also a woman who doesn’t leave her house.”
“You left your house when Jason needed you.”
She shook her head. “That was different. That was an emergency.”
Emma waited for her to make eye contact and then gave her a sly smile. “Well then, I guess I have to find you more emergencies.”
