Emily felt her lower lip start to tremble. She hated when her mother cried. All Emily could do was repeat the same two words until she died. “I’m sorry.”
Her mother said nothing. She had her head in her hands. She hated for people to see her at her most vulnerable.
Emily thought of all the things she could do right now—go to comfort her mother, hold her, rub her back the way Mrs. Brickel had rubbed Emily’s—but emotional support exceeded their long-established duties. Emily always excelled at everything she did. Esther watched approvingly. Neither one of them knew what to do with failure.
All that was left to Emily was to stare at her clasped hands on the table while Esther collected herself. Dr. Schroeder, her father—they were right about one thing. This was solely Emily’s fault. She could see every mistake she had ever made turn luminescent on the graph of her life. She wanted to go back in time with the insight that she had right now. She wouldn’t go to any stupid parties. She wouldn’t stick her tongue out like a dog and blindly swallow whatever was put in her mouth.
As flawed as Franklin Vaughn was, he had seen through Emily’s clique in every way.
Nardo was as crooked as a stick in water. Blake talked big about going to college on the money from his parents’ wrongful death lawsuit, but they all knew he would drop out eventually. And Clay—how had Emily ever convinced herself that Clayton Morrow was worth her time? He was arrogant and soulless and so very, very selfish.
Esther sniffed. She blew her nose in a tissue from the box on the counter. Her eyes were red and raccooned. Devastation was writ into her marrow.
Again, Emily could only say, “I’m so sorry.”
“I don’t understand how you could let this happen.” Esther’s voice sounded rough. Tears kept rolling down her face. “I wanted so much for you. Do you know that? I didn’t want you to struggle the way I had to. I was trying to make life easier for you. To give you a chance to be something without having to sacrifice everything.”
Emily had started crying again. She was devastated by her mother’s disappointment. “I know, Mom, I’m sorry.”
“No one will ever respect you now. Do you understand that?” Esther gripped together her hands as if in prayer. “What you’ve done is you have wiped away your intelligence, your hard work, your drive and determination—everything you’ve done that’s good until this moment is gone because of five minutes of—of what? You can’t have enjoyed it. Those boys are barely out of puberty. They are children.”
Emily nodded, because she was right. They were all a bunch of stupid kids.
“I wanted—” Esther’s voice caught again. “I wanted you to fall in love with somebody who cared for you. Who respected you. Don’t you understand what you’ve done? That’s gone now. Gone.”
Emily’s mouth was so dry she could barely swallow. “I didn’t … I didn’t know.”
“Well, you’ll know now.” Esther shook her head once, not to move on to the solution, but to indicate that a final decision had been made. “From now on, every time someone looks at you, all they’ll see is a filthy whore.”
Esther left the kitchen. There was a door to the hallway, but Esther didn’t slam it. She didn’t stomp her feet across the hardwood floor. She didn’t scream or punch the walls. She simply left her words echoing around Emily’s head.
Filthy whore.
That was what Dr. Schroeder was thinking when he’d jammed that cruel metal instrument between her legs. That was what Mrs. Brickel was secretly thinking. Her father had all but said the words. The label would be what Emily heard at school from her teachers and former friends. Clay, Nardo, Blake and Ricky would all say the same thing. It would be Emily’s cross to bear for the rest of her life.
“Sweetie?”
Emily stood quickly from her chair, shocked to find Gram sitting on the cases of wine stacked inside the pantry. She had been there the entire time. She must have heard everything.
“Oh, Gram.” Emily hadn’t thought she could feel more ashamed. “How long have you been here?”
“I don’t have my watch,” Gram said, though it was pinned to the lapel of her dress. “Would you like some cookies?”
“I’ll get them.” Emily walked to the cabinet, opened the door. She couldn’t look at her grandmother, but she asked, “Gram, did you hear what they were talking about?”
Gram sat down at the table. “Yes. I heard what they said.”
Emily made herself turn around. She looked into her grandmother’s eyes, searching not for judgment, but awareness. Was this the Gram who had raised her, who was her champion, her confidante? Or was this the Gram who didn’t recognize the strangers who surrounded her?
“Emily?” Gram asked. “Are you all right?”
“Gram.” Emily sobbed out the word as she dropped to her knees beside her grandmother.
“Poor lamb,” Gram said, stroking back her hair. “Such bad luck.”
“Gram?” Emily pushed herself to speak while they had time. “Do you remember early last month when I woke up in your bedroom on the floor?”
“Of course I do,” Gram said, but there was no way of telling if she did. Her memory was getting worse by the day. She oftentimes mistook Emily for her long-dead sister. “You were wearing a green dress. Very pretty.”