The Day Emily Was Told She Had to Earn Her Way Home

Daniel walked Rachel to her car.

Emily had fallen silent again. She climbed into the back seat and struggled with the buckle, though she had fastened it alone for years. Rachel leaned in to help. Emily’s fingers were cold despite the heat.

“Thank you,” Rachel told Daniel.

He nodded toward Emily. “She remembered everything you taught her.”

Rachel glanced at him.

“I taught her the phone number this morning.”

“Then this morning mattered.”

Rachel looked across the roof of the car at the gas pumps, the road, the neighborhood entrance. Ordinary places had become points on a map she would never see innocently again.

“Did she say anything else when she came in?”

Daniel hesitated.

“What?”

“She asked whether she could stay behind the counter until her mother decided if she still lived with her.”

Rachel closed her eyes.

Daniel’s voice remained gentle. “I told her mothers don’t make housing decisions through gas station employees.”

A breath escaped Rachel that was almost a laugh.

“She said I didn’t know her grandmother.”

“That sounds like Emily.”

“She’s observant.”

“Too observant sometimes.”

Daniel rested one hand on the car door without closing it. “Don’t make her explain everything tonight. She kept checking the entrance. She may still be waiting for someone to tell her she did something wrong.”

Rachel looked into the back seat. Emily was staring at the cap of her water bottle, turning it exactly one quarter rotation and back.

“I won’t.”

Daniel gave her a doubtful look, not because he distrusted her, but because adults promised things when frightened.

Rachel corrected herself. “I’ll try not to.”

He nodded. “That’s more believable.”

At home, Emily stopped just inside the apartment.

Rachel had expected her to run to her room, or to the couch, or to the bathroom. Instead she stood on the entry mat while the air conditioner rattled above them.

“Can I take my shoes off?” she asked.

Rachel’s throat tightened. “Of course.”

“Even though they’re dirty?”

“They always come off there.”

Emily bent and untied them carefully. She lined the sneakers against the wall, toe to heel. Rachel set down her purse and keys. The keys made a small metallic sound against the kitchen counter.

Emily flinched.

Rachel noticed and moved them onto a dish towel.

“Do you want a bath?”

“No.”

“Food?”

“No.”

“Television?”

Emily shrugged.

Rachel opened the refrigerator anyway. Inside were half a rotisserie chicken, yogurt, apples, mustard, and a container of rice that had hardened around the edges. She had planned to grocery shop after work. The ordinary failure of the refrigerator made her want to sit on the floor.

“Toast?” she asked.

“Maybe.”

Rachel made toast. Emily sat at the small kitchen table with the water bottle Daniel had given her. She had finished it, but she kept it beside her.

The toaster popped.

Emily jumped.

Rachel stood very still. “I’m sorry.”

“You didn’t do it.”

“No, but I should’ve warned you.”

“You don’t warn me every time.”

“Today I can.”

Emily watched her spread butter. “Are the police going to arrest Grandma?”

“I don’t know.”

“Do you want them to?”

Rachel placed the knife beside the plate. It would have been easy to say no. Good mothers did not tell children they wanted their grandmothers arrested. It would also have been easy to say yes, because anger wanted a clean shape.

“I want people to understand what happened,” she said. “And I want it to never happen again.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“No. It isn’t.”

Emily took one bite of toast.

Rachel sat across from her. “Part of me is so angry that I want somebody to make Grandma feel as scared as you felt.”

Emily chewed slowly.

“But that isn’t your job to fix,” Rachel continued. “And it isn’t your job to decide what happens to her.”

“Is it your job?”

“Some of it.”

“Because you left me there?”

Rachel breathed in.

“Yes.”

Emily looked down at the toast. “I told you I didn’t like it.”

“You did.”

“You said I was complaining.”

“I did.”

“You didn’t believe me.”

Rachel pressed her thumb into the edge of the table until it hurt. “I believed the part that was easier for me.”

Emily’s eyes filled, though she did not cry.

“What part?”

“That Grandma was strict and you were annoyed. I didn’t let myself consider that something worse was happening.”

“Why?”

“Because I needed help. Because I was worried about missing work. Because Grandma has a way of making me feel twelve years old, and sometimes I let that happen.”

Emily frowned. “You’re not twelve.”

“I know.”

“You’re thirty-four.”

“Yes.”

“That’s old.”

“Thank you.”

The smallest pause followed. Emily almost smiled.

Then she asked, “Did you say I had to earn my bed?”

“No.”

“Did you say I didn’t help enough?”

Rachel thought of the phone call with Laura four days earlier. She had complained that Emily left art supplies on the floor and had begun arguing about putting away laundry. Rachel had said, “She needs to understand everybody earns the fun parts of a household by helping with the boring parts.”

Laura had taken one sentence and handed it to Margaret, who had sharpened it into a weapon.

“I told Aunt Laura that you needed to help more at home,” Rachel said. “I never said you had to earn a place to sleep. A bed is not a prize. Food is not a prize. Being safe is not a prize.”

Emily rubbed butter into the crust with one finger. “Grandma said people who don’t work don’t get privileges.”

“Some things are privileges. Your tablet is a privilege. Staying up late is a privilege.”

“My room?”

“No.”

“The blue blanket?”

“No.”

“You?”

Rachel looked at her.

“No,” she said. “You do not earn me.”

Emily began to cry then. Quietly at first, with her face still angled toward the plate. Rachel moved around the table and stopped beside her rather than pulling her into an embrace.