Little Miss Scare-All

Shakespeare had once posited “all the world is a stage,” and if this were indeed true, then the institution of high school was surely the stage for grand drama, poignant emotional tragedy, and the sort of bloodthirsty scheming and implied violence the groundlings demanded for their sixpence, adjusted for inflation.

Daymar High School possessed none of these particular attributes, given the population was more focused on escaping the confines of the titular community rather than the myriad distractions adolescence can provide. This did not prevent Emmeline from imagining a Byzantine world of intrigues and alliances, for if she did not project interest onto the outer world, she was in danger of losing her moorings in the internal altogether. Because she had discovered the entire enterprise to be mind-numbingly boring. How sad that growing up involved coming to terms with how incredibly banal the world really seemed to be. More than wanting to know anything else: about sex, about hormones, about responsibility – about her father, even – the one thing which might have been useful information imparted from Marissa would have been: the older you get, the more every day seems exactly the same as the day before it.


On the bus to school, the first week of October, a month after school had started, Emmeline came to the realization that her chances of perhaps finding synergy with the right group of girlfriends was not going to materialize this year either. The fear she felt yawning in the pit of her stomach had to do with the fact it was her Junior year and she hadn’t managed to fit in any more than she had all the years of her life. Other kids were still skittish around her, like horses which scented something bad. Little by little she began to give into the consensus of opinion and let the darkness seep through. Purposely dressing out of fashion, changing her dark honey hair to a dense black with henna, keeping quiet, and befriending the two boys who were considered the real oddballs of the school: fraternal twins named Steven and Shea Reinman. Torn from her self-pitying reverie by their arrival at the back of the bus, she watched as they flung themselves into the ancient seats, sprawling in a way only 16-year-olds seem to do.

“Gooood morning, Emme-line!” Shea called out, putting his face inches from hers.

“Dude, you’ve been doing that since the beginning of the year. The least you could do is come up with a new one.”

“Hey, the classics never die!”

“Yeah, but the statute of limitations on lame is forever,” Steven countered, high-fiving Emmeline as he did so.

“Weak,” Shea muttered, digging into his backpack. He pulled out two packets of Twinkies, tossing one to his brother.

“Ah, Breakfast of Champions!” Steven held one out to Emmeline, “want half?”

“Ugh no, if I eat junk food my face will explode.”

“Dude please, you’ve got the best skin in the entire Junior class. That’s why those bitches hate you, you know.”

“Thanks for reminding me.”

“At least you’ve got something to be jealous of,” Shea said.

“Aw c’mon,” she told him, smiling, “everyone is sooo jealous of the fact that you guys are the biggest freaks in town!”

“Em, I’m gonna force feed you a Twinkie and watch your zits pop out like that time-lapse photography film of flowers we saw in Biology.”

“Eat shit, cock knocker.”

The bus pulled up in front of the town library, where a group of Daymar High students waited to be picked up.

“Both of you, shut it,” Steven whispered, looking out the window. “Oh sweet Jesus, there she is, I’m gonna die.”

“Fuck, not this again,” Shea groused, slouching in his seat and pulling his skull cap over his face.

“Steven, you know I, like, want you to be happy and stuff, but seriously, did you really have to fall for Little Miss Perfect Princess of the Universe? I mean, it’s not like you have a chance with her or anything.”

“Em, you have to dream big.”

The group of popular kids boarded and had no choice but to sit across from Emmeline, Steven and Shea. The object of Steven’s undying affection, Wendy Mahner, gave them all a bemused look.

“Oh hey, it’s the Creepy Kids! Emmeline, where did you find that skirt, Goodwill?”

Simultaneously flustered and bristling, she responded, just remembering to apply some tact at the last minute, for Steven’s sake.

“No. My mom and I made it – I saw it in Paris Vogue last month. Uh, hey, so I know you flunked your last Trigonometry test, Steven here could tutor you.”

Wendy looked down her exquisite, pert nose when Steven sat up, flushed by the sudden scrutiny.

“Uh. . .no thanks. But yeah, I forgot about your mom. Does she get mice to help her like in Cinderella?”

Emmeline did not respond, and noticed Steven had put a hand on her arm. She swallowed her anger, which then manifested itself in a sharp report as the bus blew out a tire two blocks from the high school.

“Damn, I was hoping I wouldn’t have to hump it till gym,” Shea sighed, slinging his backpack over his shoulder.

“Weak,” Wendy said, rolling her eyes, passing the three by without another word as the bus emptied out. Steven and Emmeline sat there after everyone was gone.

“Hey Em, thanks for that. You’re right, I’m wasting my time.”

“No, I get it. She’s beautiful and everything. I understand how that fucks with your head.”

“Yeah well, I need a shrink then. Maybe I should go talk to the counselor.”

They looked at each other, mock seriousness edging into giggles.

”Naaaah!” They collapsed against each other.

“Hey, the first bell just rang,” the driver informed them. “Get your rears in gear!”

“Shit,” Emmeline gasped, grabbing her things, “just another fucking day.”

”Exactly,” Steven replied, hot on her heels.


Lunch time was the one moment in the day in which Emmeline, far from the scolding concern of her mother, was able to indulge what she considered acceptable junk food. Her favorite lunch was a cheese burrito and a Dr. Pepper. Steven and Shea always brought Tupperware containers of their mother’s culinary specialties, which usually consisted of some kind of stew. They ate as if their lives depended on it. Emmeline nibbled at her burrito and watched the hoards interacting with the curiosity of an anthropologist.

“Hey Em, I found some birthday money I stashed away,” Steven said, as he mopped up the liquid remains of his lunch from the bowl with a roll. “I was thinking, since your mom said it was okay for you to sleep over on Saturday, that maybe we should score a little somethin.’”

“Eh,” she replied, her voice trailing away. “If you guys wanna burn, that’s fine, whatever, but pot only reminds me of how miserable I already am. At least when I drink I’m a happy drunk.”

“Dude, you’re a goofy drunk,” Shea observed.

“Same thing.”

“This is so sweet,” Steven enthused. “After Twin Peaks is over, we can watch Macabre Movies. They’re showing Burnt Offerings this week.

“A classic,” his brother continued, and they high-fived.

“What else?” Emmeline asked.

“I dunno what the second movie is.” Steven answered.

“I wonder if the station got my letter.”

“Are you still trying to convince them to show Susperia?”

“It’s a noble cause.”

“And a lost one – they’re never gonna show something like that on local TV.”

“I need friends with cable.”

“And I need a friend who’s not a whiny ass bitch.”

“I guess we’re both out of luck then.”

The three of them cackled crazily, causing the other people at their table to look towards them, and look away just as quickly.

“Retards,” Shea muttered. “Dude, so what, you’ve got Yearbook after school today?”

“Yeah,” Steven said, with barely veiled disdain. “I’ve gotta go take pictures of the football team.”

“Guys, we’re never going to finish our movie at this rate.”

“Don’t worry, we’ve still got the whole month!”

“Yeah, but we’ve got to be ready to show it on the 29th to Mr. Jaines.”

“We can work on it this weekend.”

“Shea, call me tonight so we can talk about effects, okay?”

“What, you actually think you’re gonna have our Bio homework done before midnight?”

“Yeah, you don’t have to work after school,” Steven chimed in.

“I do too!”

“Dude, your mom never lets you do any work while you’re at the store. You always finish your homework before us!”

“Look, you can crib my answers in the workbook, okay? I do not want to fail Film!”

The brothers groaned and rolled their eyes in unison.

“We’re not gonna fail, Em! Jesus, take a tranq already!” Steven exclaimed, glancing at the clock on the cafeteria wall. He began to gather up his belongings, seeing there were only five minutes left until the bell.

Shea noticed Emmeline staring at the table, her mouth pursed. He nudged her and in his best imitation of The Man From Another Place said, “She’s full of secrets.”

“The owls are not what they seem,” she said in response, again, a flawless intonation of the actor who originally spoke the line.

“Dude, you really freak me out when you do that,” Steven said, as the bell rang to announce the end of the lunch period.

“You’re scary,” Shea said, an ersatz Peter Lorre.

“I’m creepy,” Emmeline shot back, her impression note-perfect.

“Okay, stop!” Steven exclaimed. “People are looking at us.”

“Dude, what else is new?” Emmeline noted, pulling out her compact and checking her reflection.

“You’re still ugly,” Steven taunted.

“Yeah, but not enough to break a mirror, apparently.”

“Shit, if you did that, I’d be worried.”

“Worried that I was ugly, or telekinetic?”

“I think it would be cool if one of us was telekinetic,” Shea said, as they moved out of the cafeteria into the hallway. “Think of the fun we could have fucking with people!”

“Psychic power is way overrated,” Emmeline countered, “think of all those movies where no good ever came of being telekinetic.”

“I’d take the risk, just so I could blow some shit up, or something,” Steven enthused.

Emmeline and Shea exchanged an eye-rolling glance.

“Oh that’s real enlightening, dickweed.”

“Like, tell me you didn’t want to set fire to Wendy’s hair this morning!”

“Well sure,” Emmeline agreed, pausing at a classroom door, “but that’s way better than blowing up her locker.”

The brothers chuckled and nodded, then answered in unison. “Way better.”

“Dude, you really freak me out when you do that,” she deadpanned.


During sixth period, which was Emmeline’s study hall, she went to the school office and asked to call her mother. She thought she might keep Shea company while he was waiting for Steven until their mother came to collect them at five. Upon making the request to the school secretary and having the receiver handed to her across the front counter, she was surprised to hear Joanne’s voice on the other end.

“Oh hi, Joanne. Is my mom there?”

“Oh Emmeline, your mom went home a few hours ago.”

“Is she sick?”

“No, but she told me if you were to call, you need to come home right after school today.”

“Okay. Is there anything wrong?”

“No, no” Joanne said, though her voice betrayed her, in that there seemed to be an odd hitch in her speech pattern. The kind of tic one develops when circumstances are less than normal.

“All right then. Thanks.”

Emmeline hung up the phone and offered a placating smile to the secretary. She was the type who went into panic mode at the least sign of trouble. On her way back to the library, she saw Shea pushing a projector cart down a nearby hallway.

“Hey, AV weenie!” she called out.

Shea turned suddenly, his brow furrowed, but when he saw who his taunter was, he grinned. “Fuck you!” was his good-natured retort.

Emmeline went up the hallway to where he stood, at the intersection of the adjoining corridors, each looking around to see if anyone lurked to tell them to get back to class.

“Which way are you going?” she asked.

“Storage room. Aren’t you supposed to be in study hall right now?”

“Yeah, but I went to call my mom and ask her if I could hang out with you after school; but Joanne said she went home and I’m supposed to go home too.”

“What’s up?”

“I dunno. C’mon,” she said, moving in the direction of the AV storage room.

“Okay, but if anyone sees us, you’re going back where you came from.”

Emmeline kept an eye out while Shea went through the ring of keys in his hand to find the one for the storage room. After unlocking the door, he pushed the cart in and pulled her inside after him, quickly. He shut the door but did not turn on the overhead light.

“Why is it always freezing in here?” she whispered.

“Em, stop pretending you get cold like other people. You’re like a furnace.”

She was glad it was too dark to see her blushing. She pulled him closer, and Shea chuckled.

“May I admire you again today?”

“Shut up and let’s make out, before someone catches us.”

They kissed. In the dark, it was instinctual, as all their secret affections had been carried out in dark rooms, movie theatres, the cab of the Reinman’s pickup truck on moonless nights parked in deserted rural roads. Shea always offered to drive Emmeline home. She breathed her internal warmth into him, and it melted the rime of his angst: the darkness to Steven’s light, the less attractive one, the less talented and outgoing one, the one for whom everything came with more of a struggle. Until this.

“I love you,” he told her, closing his eyes as he said it, even in the dark it was hard not to be a self-conscious boy, wanting so much, so intensely.

“I love you too,” she said, pulling away. “I’d better go, I guess.”

“Yeah. I’ll call you tonight, okay?”

“Okay.” She kissed him again, a quick peck, then ducked her head out to ensure a clean getaway. Shea remained several minutes before exiting, waiting for his heart to stop pounding. . .among other things.


The bus ride home was full of rowdy classmates who, although surprised to see Emmeline in their midst, ignored her as usual. It failed to faze her, as she spent the journey wondering what caused her mother to go home in the middle of the day. The bus let her off at the head of the lane where the farm was located, and she walked the half-mile to the entrance. She had begun to think of typical things: schoolwork, the film project, how she and Shea were going to manage to stay up all night on Saturday to have some time alone once Steven got high and fell asleep, when, glancing at the mailbox next to the front gate, she noticed something very odd. There was a trellis arch which framed the gate, Marissa told Emmeline it once had a morning glory vine growing on it; and its’ flowers were of the deepest blue, with a tinge of purple around the edges. Marissa had a still life of a morning glory hanging in her bedroom, she had painted it from memory one winter. What Emmeline was now staring at was the flower’s twin, or maybe its’ doppelganger.

She dropped her backpack and ran towards the house, yelling for her mother. She ran up the porch steps and threw open the front door, calling all the while. She stopped short when she reached the kitchen. Two people, having tea at the dining table, looked up at her, their faces composed with faint smiles.

“Hello Emmeline,” her father greeted her.

Though her face betrayed incredulity, she resurrected her nonchalance in response.

“Hello Michael,” she said.

Marissa took a breath in reproach, but Emmeline responded to what she knew was coming.

“I’m not going to call him ‘Dad,’ because that would imply I had one. He’s just my father, but who am I, Luke Skywalker?”

Michael looked up at her, confused. “Who?”

“Uh, never mind,” she replied.

He looked over at Marissa, then at Emmeline. “It’s like seeing you for the first time, all over again.” It took Emmeline a moment to realize he wasn’t speaking to her.

“I thought she looked more like you,” Marissa said, quietly.

“No, look at her eyes, the shape of her face, that’s all you. And she stands there like you.”

Marissa smiled. “But she’s your daughter.”

Emmeline grabbed the chair nearest to her and pulled it away from the table, then sat down. The silence which followed was unnerving, as Michael stared at her, taking her in, the same vacuous smile she remembered even now, as if the last three years were but an illusion. Finally, just to say something, she spoke.

“So. . .what are you doing here?”

Before answering, he stared off into the middle distance for a while, and Emmeline recalled he had that way of speaking: thoughtful, careful.

“It’s a long story,” he finally said, “but I’m on my way somewhere, and this is part of the journey.”

“Okay,” she answered, slowly, used to her mother’s New Age pronouncements, but not delivered with such deliberate seriousness.

Marissa sensed Emmeline’s discomfort and intervened quickly.

“Emmy, why don’t you get started on your homework. I’m working on dinner and we should be ready to eat in about an hour, okay?”

She nodded and headed toward her room. As she moved from the kitchen to the hallway, she could feel her father’s eyes upon her. His previous gaze was curious, but not in a way which could be considered familial. She wondered if he had any other kids, or a wife, or anyone he loved. She had the sense, in this second viewing, that he was living under a sort of mandated austerity: not necessarily like a monk, but without any of the trappings of so-called “civilized” society.

Reaching her room, Emmeline realized her backpack was still sitting on the road in front of the gate. Before she went out to collect it, she sat down on her bed and picked up the phone from the bedside table. Marissa did not mind letting Emmeline commandeer the phone, as she was normally wary of any type of communication which was not face-to-face, though she did enjoy writing letters.

“Hi Mrs. Reinman,” she said, when her call was answered on the other end. “Have you picked up Steven and Shea yet?”

Listening, she frowned. “Oh, okay. I’m expecting Shea to call me tonight, so I’ll just wait till then.”

She then smiled in response to a remark, but more of a polite smile than a genuine one. “Yes ma’am, I’m looking forward to it too. I can’t wait to have some of your gingerbread!”

More smiling, more nodding (a funny thing, isn’t it, how some gestures are automatic even when we know them to be unseen). “Yes ma’am, I’ll tell my mom you said hello. Okay then, see you Saturday. Good-bye.”

She replaced the receiver and sighed, then fell back on the bed. A sudden curiosity made her sit up and remember she had yet to retrieve her backpack. Leaving the house and closing the screen door behind her quietly, she looked around at the yard. Everything looked the same, but sure enough, peering down at the ground she could see a few blades of grass emerging from the hardened mulch of a lawn long-dead. Other indications greeted her scrutiny: brave stalks of gladiolas had suddenly appeared in her mother’s flowerbed under the living room window, and green shoots showed through the tangled bramble of defunct grapevines. Walking down to the front gate, she was engaged as well by the song of a nightingale, a liquid trilling which echoed across the sky, warm with golden light. At that moment, it was as if some confused reaction within her was also that song: raucous with virtuosity. She replied to the call - the same silvery sequence of notes emerging from her alien larynx – but the bird had flown, perhaps confused by the subtle signs of a season he did not expect to see, and a sudden sweet warmth in the air.


Over dinner, a strictly vegetarian affair, stilted conversation occasionally broke out, but at the prompting of the women. The three sat at the table in a triangle, each attempting to define their space without intrusion upon the others. They did not reach across the table or offer anything hand-to-hand. Marissa poured wine for all of them from a bottle-green jug. Emmeline took a small sip and grimaced.

“It’s a bit flinty, isn’t it?”

“It’s the Saunders’ new wine. They’ve got rocky soil, but that makes for good cabernet,” Marissa answered.

“Are you bringing her into the family tradition?” Michael asked, the corners of his mouth curving upward with the ghost of a smile.

“Well I don’t see how I can,” Marissa replied, curtly. “But you know how it is here: wine is everyone’s livelihood, in some way. So that’s how you grow up, learning to appreciate it.”

“Do you still have some of the vintage?” he asked.

“Yes, though I suspect –“ Marissa paused and looked over at Emmeline, “- that a little mouse occasionally raids the cellar.”

“We’re educating our palates, like you said we should.” Emmeline said, smugly smiling as only an indulged, favored child can and still be lovable.

“Just as long as operation of heavy machinery or discussions of metaphysics are not involved, that’s fine. The first time you throw up or wake up with a headache which feels like someone took an axe to your skull, you’ll learn.”

“I used to think that all oenophiles were like your mother, until I met more of them.”

“Like her how?”

“Not snobs.”

Marissa laughed, and the nuance held a certain embarrassed quality. “I’ve never understood the notion that one wine should be better than another. Certainly, one might like a certain wine better than another, but wine is wine. When you make it, you learn to apprehend it at that level.”

“We grew grapes, at the Sanctuary,” Michael offered, looking into his glass, “but only for eating, and grape juice.”

“I’m sure it tasted wonderful,” Marissa said, looking at her plate. Emmeline sensed the subtext in their gestures, a stronger flavor than the wine in her mouth.

“Everything did, for a while,” came his answer, after a pause.

“So, what’s the deal with the Sanctuary?” Emmeline asked, sensing this was the best time to ask such a question.

“It’s disbanded now,” Michael replied, choosing to examine a forkful of vegetable casserole rather than look his daughter in the eye.

“What are you going to do?” Marissa queried.

“You were right, I have to say,” he went on, and the women were unsure if he had even heard the question. “It was wrong of me to think that I alone could hold a community together. To ask people to make the kind of sacrifices which it seems only I am comfortable with. As much as people may believe they want to exist outside of what modern life defines they should be, in the end, they miss certain things.”

“People define themselves in different ways, is all,” Marissa opined.

“You know as well as I do that people define themselves in ways that have nothing to do with being human. I just finally came to terms with it, and understand that whatever I have to do, I will have to do it alone.”

Time had not changed her father much, Emmeline could see. Though it had been longer than the three years since she had seen his image on the tape Michael had gained scant wrinkles around his eyes and mouth, but his brow was still smooth, and his hair long and thick as ever, though the bleaching of the sun seemed to have faded from the edges, as if he’d been inside for a long while. His hair was now the natural color of her own and a certain pang of nostalgia made her purse her mouth. Marissa looked over at her in that moment.

“Do you want some water in that, dear? Too sharp?”

“Huh? Oh, no, it’s fine.”

The phone then rang, and Emmeline sprinted for her bedroom. Marissa gave Michael a bemused glance.

“Her boyfriend, calling. The most important event of the day.”

Michael chuckled, wryly.

“It’s good to see that the piety didn’t cling too tenaciously,” Marissa cracked.

“Yes, I know I was insufferable. You’ve my apologies for that. So is he a nice boy?”

“He adores her. And he doesn’t know. No one does. Though I’m certain they all suspect. . .something.”

“’They?’”

“The town. She’s your daughter, after all.”

“It doesn’t seem that she’s much like me at all.”

“You’ll see,” Marissa said, as she began to clear away the dishes. “She wants so desperately to be normal, the same thing most young people want, I suppose, but what she really is, is just like you.”

“Then I feel sorry for her. I thought, that maybe, if I was gone –“

“Some things are deeper than environment, you know. Though it wasn’t for lack of trying. Besides, you shouldn’t feel too badly. I understand you think you’re a failure now, but how can you look at that girl and really believe that?”

“But you don’t know how it is,” he said to her, coming to stand next to her at the sink, half a foot taller, she still refused to look up and meet his eyes, which were trained upon her face. He felt the same calm looking at it now as he did when he first saw it, a feeling like being bundled in a blanket. “Being saddled with something you don’t understand.”

Her response was to meet his blue gaze with her hazel one, her eyes narrowed.

“I don’t know what that’s like? What do you think my life with you was all about, Michael?”


Emmeline knew who was calling, so her greeting to the receiver was a softly-whispered “Hey.”

“Hey,” Shea offered in response. “My mom said you called earlier. What’s wrong?”

She took a breath, the enormity of it all becoming visible, suddenly. Her answer had spaces between each of the words, an effort expended in speaking them.

“My father is here.”

“What?!”

“Yeah, I guess he showed up today.”

Shea’s voice turned tremulous. It had already changed the previous year, but panic made him squeak. “Do you think he’s gonna, you know, make you go back with him?”

“No. The Sanctuary is closed.”

“Huh.” There was a moment of silence between them, as they contemplated what the event might mean. “So, then, do you think he wants to get back with your mom?”

Emmeline’s laughter in response was rueful. “Dude, trust me, she wouldn’t take him back. She loves him, yeah, she won’t look at other guys – not even Greg Brooks, that vintner who spends a ton of money in her store because he’s got the hots for her, but we all know the whole woodworking thing he says he does is totally fake – but no, she’s not gonna let him walk away from her again. Not like that.”

“Then what’s he doing here?”

“I dunno. Maybe he wants to, y’know, not screw things up again, so much.”

“Are you okay? I can come over if you want me to.”

“No, I’m not okay, but it’s alright.”

“Are you sure?”

She smiled, loving how Shea could be so protective of her at times. Her vision was beginning to swim as tears collected in the corner of her eyes. She sniffled.

“You know, like, I’ve been reading about kids who grow up without a dad, you know, for that psych paper we’re supposed to do? Anyway, it’s like it affects everything else in your life, even though you don’t think it would. You know?”

“Yeah,” he replied, quietly. She could sense he wanted to say something comforting, but his own experience, defined by age and life in a small town, was distinctly lacking in such conflict to draw on.

“I’m just scared,” she went on. “I’m scared that I’m always going to be sad about what I don’t have, and that I won’t ever really understand everything I do have. And that sucks, man, it really does. Why can’t I just be happy for one fucking minute?”

“Em –“ Shea began, but then she heard him sniffling too, over the hum of the phone line.

“Hey,” she broke in, suddenly. “Are you on the phone in your dad’s office?”

“Yeah.”

“Good.”

“What, you don’t want me to tell Steven?”

“No, tell him. But tell him he can’t say shit to anyone, or I will break his fucking neck. With my mind.”

This made Shea chortle loudly. “Dude! What are you talking about?”

Emmeline caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror on the back of her bedroom door, looking vengeful. “Heh, never mind. But seriously, no telling anybody else. I don’t think I’ll be there tomorrow, though, okay?”

“Okay. But call me if you need to, alright? I love you, Em.”

“I love you. Call me again around 11, okay?”

“Okay.”

Emmeline replaced the receiver and went over to the mirror, wiping at tear tracks on her face. She did not want Michael to see he had made her cry. Turning back, she grabbed a handful of tissues from the box on her bedside table. Wiping her eyes free of eyeliner she peered closely at her face, then up at her hairline. The tissues in her hand fluttered to the floor as she stared open-mouthed at her now dark honey hair.


After Marissa had called the school to fib that Emmeline had caught a sudden cold and needed to stay home (although her classmates would later assume she had played hooky to bleach her hair), she had left the other occupants of the house to their own devices and went to open the store.

The two furtively stared at one another across the table, over the remains of breakfast. She observed her father ate his oatmeal completely plain.

“That was really funny,” she said, the words delivered with a malicious bite.

“What?” he asked, spoon poised over the bowl.

“My hair.”

“Emmeline, I did not do that. Your mother might have misled you as to my abilities. There is only one thing I can do which the majority of people cannot.”

“Make stuff grow.”

“That is correct. Whatever caused your hair to revert to its’ natural color, it wasn’t me. I suspect you did it to yourself.”

“I can’t just, like, make stuff happen.”

“No? In one of her letters, your mother seemed to think whenever your emotions were strong, there was always some psychic fallout to be had.”

“Jeez, she makes it seem like I’m Yuri Geller in a bad mood, or something.”

This caused Michael to laugh, again, the same dry chuckle he had delivered the previous evening. To Emmeline’s ears it was the sound of laughter rarely used, possessing a rusty quality.

“Given that you seem to be capable of so many things, dependent on your whim, I tend to think I wouldn’t have been much of a useful counsel in that respect.”

Emmeline sat up straight in her chair, tucking her legs underneath and pushing aside her bowl. “Since you are here now, and Mom thinks we should be talking, or whatever, then let’s talk.”

“Yes, I fully agree,” he said, also moving aside his breakfast and running his hands across his face.

“Why did you leave?”

Michael put a hand to his mouth, and Emmeline noticed it too was unlined. He seemed to be searching for a way to couch his explanation which would seem painless – she could tell by the way his expression kept softening, mulling over phrases in his mind – but she grew impatient during the pause and blurted out, “Just tell me!”

“I wanted to see if I could survive given my own wits, entirely. I was possessed of the notion that I knew the best way to live, you see, and if I could prove it, well then, I had something to share with the world. Your mother is a far more pragmatic soul, and didn’t understand why I couldn’t be happy here.”

“So it wasn’t us, it was you. And your ego.”

“Yes. But also, when you were very young, we came to know there was something different about you. I was worried, and I didn’t know how to come to terms with having a child. I was abandoned as a child, you see, so –“

“What, you were an orphan?”

“Yes.”

“So then you had to perpetuate the cycle.”

“I suppose that’s correct.” Michael sighed and stared down at his hands, clasped together as if in prayer. “Sounds like a homily offered by one of those deplorable daytime talk shows.”

Emmeline’s frustration and self-pity surged in her response, as Michael’s juice glass developed hairline cracks at the sound of her voice.

“No, you asshole, it’s because I’m trying to figure out why most people are afraid of me, they won’t get near me, and it’s because I’m screwed up somehow. How could you just leave her, to deal with this? And me, how the hell could I understand what this is?!”

He looked up at her, she had stood up and leaned across the table, shouting at him. She was taller than he thought she would have been, taking more after him in that respect than her mother. Her limbs were willowy, but she carried herself with a peculiar adolescent awkwardness, as if a stranger in her own body. Her hair hung down an inch or two off her shoulders, thick and shining as his own. And her face, angular and chiseled, it was like seeing a female version of himself. But her eyes were strictly a gift from her mother: round, luminous, and utterly engaging. The color was softer than Marissa’s: more of a sage or sea green than the bright hazel of the materfamilias. His impulse was to gather her in his arms, but he feared more evidence of her rage. To defuse the situation, he thought another tack was in order.

“My goodness Emmeline,” he said, eying the damage, “your mother must spend a fortune in crockery.”

Her expression went from anger to surprise to begrudging recognition of his humor all in an instant. She left the room, but the mood which remained in her wake seemed more of a resignation than a refusal, and at that, Michael was heartened.


Later in the afternoon, as Emmeline made a half-hearted attempt to complete her Biology assignment, hunched over her desk amongst open textbook and notebooks, a soft knocking upon the bedroom door announced her mother’s return.

“So dear,” Marissa said, after being allowed entrance and crossing over to run a hand through her daughter’s hair, “how was your day?”

“Well, I got mad and called him an asshole, what do you think?”

“Did it make you feel any better?”

“No,” Emmeline replied, frustration evident. “Everybody is scared. I’m scared, he’s scared, Shea is scared he’s going to try and take me away, or something. Everybody but you.”

“Well, someone has to be the rational one. Believe me, that’s usually the harder role to play.”

“Can I still go over to the Reinmans’ on Saturday?”

“I don’t see why not. Frankly, I don’t expect your father to stay very long.”

“Will he disappear again, do you think?”

Marissa went over to the window and looked out. Emmeline thought she looked tired and pale, causing her to wonder if any of them has slept the previous night, or if her parents laid awake, much as she did, wondering about everything.

“I think he wants to. Once you’ve lost your way, the only thing left to do is either to find it again, or embrace being lost. And when you’re lost, then you do whatever it takes to disappear completely.”

“I did figure something out, though.”

“What’s that, my love?” Marissa moved to the bed and sat down, her attention fully engaged.

“He told me he was an orphan, so now I know he doesn’t really understand this –“ she moved her hands out from her body, in an attempt to evocate that which could not be fully articulated, the nature of her inherited power, “- stuff, so I can’t expect him to explain it to me.”

“He used to say it was a gift, and leave it at that.” Marissa smiled at the memory. “I remember when he was at ease with it. Now I wonder if that’s what I loved, the confidence he had in his abilities, rather than the person who possessed them.”

“It must be something more than that, I mean, ‘cause you still love him, right?”

Her mother mused on the question, pulling her long, wavy, tarnished-gold hair off her shoulders and back behind her head as she thought.

“I believe it’s probably that I’ve never met another man who inspired in me what your father did, and that I can only be moved by such a one.”

“Sometimes I feel like I don’t love Shea enough, not like he feels about me.” Emmeline had turned around in her chair, to straddle it, and in that moment, clad in jean shorts and a t-shirt, Marissa thought she looked far too young to be experiencing any of this heavy weather, courtesy of a male stormfront.

“You may always feel that, because some feel love is like faith, effortless; while others experience it as a constant question. Or, that unquestioning leap may arrive one day, in a way you don’t expect.”

“Oh that’s helpful.” Emmeline softened her sarcasm by sticking her tongue out, in a teasing fashion.

“Emmy, I can tell you what it all means to me, but you see, I grew up with a father, so the nature of the opposite sex is less of a mystery to me. I can’t make you understand something which you may not ever know. Michael could choose to become a part of your life, but does that mean he will be a father to you? Probably not.”

Emmeline sighed, resting her chin against the top of the chair. The two women sat there a while, as the sun dipped down to the horizon and the nature of the light turned thick and glowing, the world rendered through warm glass. They did not speak any further, not until they heard the screen door knock against the wooden frame of the front doorway, announcing Michael’s return from a walk around the farm. Emmeline wondered how many more things had begun to bloom again in his wake.


Sometime Saturday morning, Emmeline had begun to dream she had followed in her father’s footsteps and joined a carnival. Her act was spinning plates, with her mind. She saw herself on a stage in a tent, before a crowd of country folk who had reserved their judgment, sitting with arms folded and stony stares. She wore a costume: brightly beaded bustier, fishnet stockings, frilly tutu, high heels. She smiled at the audience, throwing plates into the air which began to spin on their edges. A collective breathy “huh” overcame the tinny music which accompanied her, as two-by-two, more and more china spun until it was merely a blur in her sight. But she had to keep smiling, and she could not, for at the edge of the seats, standing, was her father. He looked disappointed. Her grin faded, her face relaxed, gratefully; and all the plates fell to the floor with a tremendous crash. But the audience, they didn’t sense she had failed. They rose to their feet, clapping and cheering, and for a moment she felt good. Then, she met his eyes and saw they were sorrowful, displaying a type of pain she also knew, but fought constantly to bury.

Is this it? she thought. Is this my real inheritance?

The question made her wake, with a start.

Blinking, her first view was out her window. There was blue sky. Puzzled, she rolled over and looked at the clock on her bedside table. It read 7:08.

“Where’s the fog?” she asked aloud.

Rousing herself, Emmeline climbed out of bed and made her way to the bathroom. It took her a moment to remember to shut the door behind her, as there was a man in the house. She knew this, hearing the muted voices of her parents as they conversed in the kitchen. Suddenly, a burst of music rang out, and from the opening chords, she knew her mother had put on The Original Soundtrack, a record which had been released the year after she was born, and one she knew just as well as any other influence in her life. After initial biological concerns were addressed, she went into the kitchen, but it was empty. The table bore a bowl of oatmeal and a glass of apple juice at her place-setting, so she sat down to eat. Halfway during her breakfast, the record moved on to the most well-known song, “I’m Not In Love.” As the voices which comprised the majority of the backing accompaniment swelled and seemed to fill the room, Emmeline had the sensation of feeling as though what she heard in her mind had somehow escaped into the world at large.

I’m not in love
so don’t forget it
it’s just a silly phase
I’m going through.

She had always thought the lead vocal to be very sad, like the guy was really crying, but the kind of crying you can’t hear, only see. Tears slipping down a face desperately attempting not to crack, from the corners of the eyes.

Be quiet, big boys don’t cry
big boys don’t cry
big boys don’t cry.

Marissa had once said this song was “psychodrama for the masses.”

Oooh, you’ll wait a long time for me.
Oooh, you’ll wait a long time.

In a reverie regarding the meaning of those lines, she was startled by a pair of cold hands placed over her eyes.

“Guess who?” a voice asked, attempting a gruffness not yet accessible to his age.

“Who let you in, loser?” she replied, but placed her own hands over the others, and turned to kiss her questioner; as the voices swelled at the end, drowning out even the heartbeat which kept time, in the song and in the world.


Marissa entered Emmeline’s room while she was packing up for the overnight stay at the Reinman house. She eyed the large duffel bag on the bed.

“How much wine are you taking over there?”

“I was thinking two bottles. Steven will want one of his own, but Shea and I can share.”

“Please don’t take any of the Thackrey – I wanted to give some to your father.”

“Don’t give him the Orion, you said we were going to save that for my graduation.”

Marissa smiled, and in a familiar gesture, ran a hand through her daughter’s hair.

“Like the label says: it will age better than any of us.”

Emmeline turned her mother to face the mirror and put her chin on the woman’s shoulder.

“Yeah but have you looked at us lately? It’s like time is going backwards.”

“Maybe it is.”

“You think he’ll make better decisions?”

“I can only hope we’ll all make better decisions.”

She left Emmeline to her packing.


Emmeline brought her duffel bag out to the living room and found her father examining her mother’s stereo equipment.

“I can’t believe she still has this reel-to-reel,” he marveled. “We bought this in the City in 1970, or ’71, I’m not quite sure which.”

“It only broke once,” Emmeline told him, “but I fixed it.”

“You did?”

“Yeah, I just knew what it was. I think one of the springs had to be replaced, or something.”

“So your talent extends beyond breaking things, eh?”

Without thinking, she stuck her tongue out at him, then blushed slightly. But encouraged by his chuckle, she went on.

“It’s not like I can ‘fix’ things, really, it’s just sometimes I can look at something and know what’s wrong with it. But it’s not a sure thing – I still can’t figure out how to program the clock on Joanne’s VCR.”

Shea poked his head in the front doorway.

“Hey, are you ready to go? We’re going to lose the morning light totally if we don’t get moving.”

“Oh yeah,” she replied, exiting the house. Michael followed them out as well.

“Shea told me you’re making a movie for a school project.”

“Yeah, we’re taking a film class, and this semester we get to do a movie for our final.”

“What is it about?”

“These kids who go camping and get lost. They come across this weird little town.”

“So it’s autobiographical, in a sense?”

She laughed, and he was pleased to notice it contained a joyful note.

Shea waited at the bottom of the stairs, and took the duffle bag from her as she moved off the porch.

“Your dad’s pretty cool. He looks like he should be an actor, actually.”

“Movie star, cult leader, what’s the difference?” she murmured.

“What?”

“Nothing. C’mon, let’s go.”

“Steven’s gonna be mad you bleached your hair back – now you can’t be the creepy girl.”

“Oh, I could probably swing it. Don’t I manage to be scary every Halloween?”

“I never thought you were scary. Remember, I used to let you catch me whenever we played vampire tag.”

“Ah, now your heinous plan is finally revealed!” she exclaimed, tugging at the mass of curls which framed his face. He responded by kissing her, then opening the passenger door of the truck. As she climbed into the cab, Emmeline noticed Michael was staring at her with a faint smile.

“See you later,” she said.

He nodded.