Page 11 of Little Pieces of Light

Emery

I’ve missed you.

I nearly said it; it’d been on the tip of my tongue, but I locked it behind my teeth. What did it even mean, anyway? I had to constantly remind myself that Xander and I didn’t actually know each other. How could I miss what I never had?

I miss him because I never had him. But I could have had him, all this time…

I’d started to gather my things, but my hands fell away from my bag, and I sank back into the chair.

Xander said he’d written to me, and I could feel it in my bones he’d been telling the truth.

And that changed everything. My heart had been broken, and now it broke again, imagining him as a little boy, writing to me over and over and never hearing anything back.

Now that we’d let all that defensive anger out, I could just be sad.

Sad that we’d both wanted to stay in touch, but something had gotten in the way.

He’s right. It has to be my dad.

But what I’d said had been true too: My father never resorted to secrecy or mystery. If he didn’t want something to happen, it didn’t happen, and he made damn sure everyone knew why.

I inhaled a shaky breath. “Only one way to know for sure.”

***

Dinner that night was Belinda’s pot roast, my favorite. But my food grew cold as my stomach twisted in knots at the thought of confronting my dad.

My mother sat at one end of our long dining table, my father at the other.

She’d hardly touched her food either; since Grant died, she’d become sticklike and pale, her thin fingers always wrapped around the stem of a wine glass.

Jack sat across from me, shoveling his food so he could be excused as fast as possible.

The entire room was loud with silence and thick with the tension of a broken family going through the motions.

Not that my dad seemed to notice any of it. He ate leisurely, sipped his wine, and complimented Belinda on the meal when she brought in a basket of rolls, fresh from the oven.

“Apologies for the delay,” she said, setting the fragrant basket down. “I got too busy with the roast.”

I reached for a roll, and my mother cleared her throat and gave me a warning glance. My hand froze in midair and then I snatched it back. Belinda hurried out, mumbling something about turning off the oven.

“Jesus, Mom,” Jack snarled. He took two rolls from the basket and tossed one across the table to me.

“ Jack ,” Dad said. “That is hardly appropriate table manners.”

“She should be allowed to eat her fucking dinner,” my brother snapped.

“That language is inappropriate, as well,” Dad said in that deadly calm tone of his. “One more outburst and you start losing privileges. Such as participating in any upcoming social events.”

There were a ton of back-to-school activities coming up, including the annual bonfire party on the beach down at Castle Hill Lighthouse this weekend, a party that no one at school wanted to miss. Not even Jack.

“I’m nineteen,” Jack said. “You can’t tell me where I can and can’t go.”

“So long as you’re living under my roof, eating my food, and sleeping in the bed I provide for you, I certainly can.”

Jack snapped his mouth shut and glowered at me and my untouched dinner roll. Mom went back to her wine. The silence grew unbearable, as it usually did. I felt its weight on my shoulders. If I didn’t say something, no one would.

“I’ve hired a tutor to help me with math,” I said. “We had our first meeting today.”

“That’s wise,” Dad intoned, “considering how you struggle with the subject.”

“But I’ll need money for it. He’s thirty dollars an hour.”

He frowned. “That seems high.”

“Yes, but he’s the best. A genius,” I said, hearing the pride in my voice, as if I needed to defend Xander.

You don’t need to defend him; you need to protect him.

“This tutor is a student? Do I know him?”

“No. He’s new.”

“I’ll need his name and address if you plan to be at his home,” Dad said, dabbing butter onto his dinner roll.

“We’ll study at school.”

My father peered down at me over his glasses. “His name, Emery.”

It was a command, not a question. And ridiculous anyway, considering he never seemed to care where I went or what I did on my dates with Tucker.

“Xander Ford,” I said, and watched my dad’s face for a spark of recognition or any hint that he’d seen the name before on an envelope—many envelopes—years ago. But his expression remained impassive.

“Ford,” Dad mused. “Do I know his parents? Are they members?”

Are they members? was code for Are they one of us? If they didn’t own a yacht or play tennis at the Castle Hill Country Club with its $50,000 annual membership fee, they weren’t worth knowing.

“No,” I said, trying to keep the impatience out of my voice. “His dad is a scientist who used to work for the government. In Maryland.”

Mom drained her glass and stood up. “I have a headache,” she said, almost a whisper. “I’m going to bed.”

“Another headache,” Dad mused, annoyance coloring his voice. “Seems to be an epidemic lately.”

“Don’t trouble yourself about it, Grayson,” she muttered tiredly, smoothing a lock of silvery blond hair. “Tomorrow is another day.”

“Whatever that means. Goodnight, then.”

Mom slipped away to her bedroom—separate from Dad’s; they hadn’t shared a room in seven years. She walked carefully, stiffly, as if she were delicate and the slightest bump could break her apart.

“Well, I’m impressed to see you taking initiative, Emery.” Dad pointed his butter knife at Jack. “You would do well to emulate your sister on that front.”

I cringed and averted my gaze from my brother’s cold stare, ashamed to admit that I gobbled up the tiny bit of praise like a starving dog who’d been tossed a scrap at the dinner table.

“Can I be excused?” Jack asked. “I also have a headache.”

“Go,” Dad said, waving him away as if he were a fly.

My brother tore out of his chair and stormed up to his room.

Just another Thursday night in the Wallace household.

I wanted to escape to my room too. Every molecule in my body recoiled at the idea of asking my father about Xander’s letters. He didn’t seem to recognize the name and now he was irritated. Best to leave it alone. But Xander’s words came back to me.

I didn’t break my promise.

His beautiful, mismatched eyes had been as heavy as his voice. I thought he’d forgotten about me, and that hurt. But he thought I’d forgotten him too, and somehow, that hurt even more. For both our sake, I had to know.

“Daddy?” My voice was a croak. I cleared it and tried again. “I was wondering, do you remember a few summers back when I asked you if I’d gotten any letters?”

“I recall you pestering me about this a long time ago,” he said. “My answer is the same now as it was then: No, I don’t recall. Why? Who was allegedly writing to you?”

His pale blue eyes felt like X-rays straight to my heart.

“No one,” I said quickly. “We’re studying Sylvia Plath in English class. She wrote a lot of letters. It made me think of that, is all.”

It was a terrible explanation that didn’t even make sense, but confronting my father always did that to me—turned my thoughts to mush so that I never said what I’d planned to say.

Dad’s lips turned down. “Can’t say I approve of your teacher using Plath in her curriculum.”

“Why? Sylvia was an amazing poet. She—”

“She was a weak-willed basket case. Life comes with pressure. Glorifying someone for caving into that pressure is not a proper use of school material. I’ll be having a word with your teacher.”

“Daddy, please don’t—”

He slammed his fork down. “Maybe you’d like to stay home from this weekend’s activities, too?”

“No,” I said in a small voice. “I’m sorry.”

He stared at me a moment longer, pinning me down with his eyes. Then he tossed his napkin on his empty bowl and stood up. “I’ll put the money into your account for this tutor, but I’d better see results.”

He walked out, leaving me alone in the dining room. Marooned, like a survivor after a shipwreck. With Dad’s tyranny and Mom’s remoteness, we’d already been a dysfunctional family, but Grant’s death had smashed us to bits, and I don’t know why I still hoped we could be put back together.

Belinda came in to clear the plates, smiling at me pityingly. I wondered, too, why she stayed. How she could stand it.

“Goodnight, Belinda,” I said, and got up from the table.

“Goodnight, Miss Emery.” She slipped a roll into my hand.

I smiled gratefully and turned to go, then stopped. “Belinda?”

“Yes, dear?”

“What do you do with the mail when you bring it in?”

“I put it directly on your father’s desk, every afternoon, as I have for years.”

“Did you ever happen to see any personal letters for me?”

“No, dear. But I would never look through the mail.” She lowered her voice. “Your father would find that inappropriate.”

“Okay, thanks.”

I headed upstairs, but instead of going to my room, I made a right and stood in front of Grant’s closed door. After pausing to make sure the coast was clear, I stepped inside.

It was just as he’d left it—there were even dirty clothes in the hamper and a UI sweatshirt on the floor. He’d gotten into the University of Iowa, home to the famous Iowa Writers’ Workshop, and planned on majoring in creative writing. An amazing accomplishment…and our father couldn’t see it.

I turned to his bookshelf and grabbed A Prayer for Owen Meany . It had been some years since I’d looked at it. Since Xander disappeared. But as I flipped open the first page, what I’d written about him came back to me.

I’m doomed to remember a boy with mismatched eyes…

Only I didn’t have to remember him anymore. He was back.

And he’d kept his promise.