For Emma

By Kelsey Ipsen

My little sister was born with her head wrinkled like a squished pea. I was there, and this is how I know. I had heard my mother moaning pain moans while my father lay, passed out on the couch, in the late afternoon. I had gotten her into the car, her belly swelling against the dashboard. I drove, speeding a bit, although that was risky because the police know exactly whose car this is. My mother screamed my name from the passenger seat and my knuckles grew white while my mouth formed the calming words that a parent would use to soothe. It was only when the nurse handed the baby girl to me that I realised I was still wearing my schoolbag. My little sister kicked at the loose strap, screaming louder than the woman she came out of. Then we were all three alone, if you count my mother out of it on the hospital bed with pain medication and god knows what else jumping in her veins. ‘I’m sorry.’ I told the baby girl. And I was sorry, sorry she had to be born into us. But I already loved her, and I was happy even though I should not have been.

The nurse came back in and glanced at my mother then at me. ‘I’ve brought some bottles and formula.’ I throw her this line so that she doesn’t have to ask me anything. I’ve spared many people the task of saving me because of my foresight to be prepared. The nurse busied herself checking the formula and telling me how to feed the baby. I told her we would be calling her Emma and she helped me fill in the forms. Before the nurse left she touched the back of my arm, I felt the knot of myself shiver and want to give way. ‘Are you sure you’re OK?’ I smiled at her, making my teeth count. ‘Yeah.’ The nurse wasn’t that much older than me, really. I can do anything, I reminded myself. I can, I can, I can. I looked down at Emma’s face and smoothed out her wrinkles, told her she was safer outside of mama’s body than in it.

My parents are not bad people, they just look like they are. They have rotten teeth and baggy clothes, unwashed with the whites gone old and gone off. If they ever take them off I wash them separate from my clothes and Emma’s clothes. I rinse off the resin and bleach everything. I dry them in the fresh air and fold them up clean. I wish I could wash out my parents’ addiction, just as easy, and watch the blue sky bring them back to life. It was not always like this. My mother worked in a cafe when I was nine, she got to take home the food that didn’t sell. We would have sandwich and cake dinners while my father told us stories from whatever odd job he had worked that day. He had a knack for milking the drama out of any situation. A spade was not simply thrown to the ground out of anger but flung in the air, narrowly missing chopping off the limb of either an innocent bystander or some shifty guy who probably had it coming from what’s been said about him. ‘A fucking pandemonium.’ He would usually finish and we would laugh, powdered sugar on our cheeks.

One day he came home with a tent, it was not new or beautiful but it was the coolest thing I had ever seen. At school I spent my lunch time in the library reading and making notes about how best to light a fire and what plants you could eat and which could soothe a rash. We spent ten days camping, I did not need to forage for medicinal plants but I did light fires, catch fish and point out the different birds. “You could survive anywhere, you don’t need us at all.” My mother had said, proudly. Back home the demand for work went down. We started rationing the cafe food and the tent was sold. There was first a plate smashed against the wall, then days they spent in bed, then chunks of money exchanged for powders or pills. Sometimes I wonder if it would have been better if I had needed them more, if I had’ve been a bad survivor. Then perhaps I could have been a stronger teether to the real world.

Emma’s been crying high pitched and thin. The noise gets into everything, making the walls brittle, making the milk curdle. Our father puts his fist through the living room wall so I go to the store for more milk and a poster big enough to cover our mistakes. I choose one with different types of butterflies. Our mother says they are nice, that the colours all bleed together like they are all one and the same. She’s been trying really hard. She’s been holding the bottles and singing. She says I was easier, quieter. We know why Emma’s like this, we know what she’s hungry for but we don’t mention it. One day I get home from school and our mother is screaming louder than Emma. Our father is sobbing in the corner with a needle in his hand and mum is splaying herself across the border of Emma’s room with her mouth open wider than a cavern. I take the needle from my fathers’s hand and put it away in the locked drawer. ‘It was just going to be a bit Riley.’ He clutches my ankle. ‘Ry I’m sorry.’ I feel disgusted, I feel like I want to cry and let him hold me.‘Let me get to mum.’ I pull my ankle free and make my way to her. I wrap my arms around her body tight. At first she fights and then she goes quiet and moves to the couch, dropping her head into the palms of her hands. I pluck Emma from her cot and grab a bag of diapers and milk and leave the adults in silence.

There’s a clearing with a creek running across the back of it at the edge of our neighbourhood. I take Emma there and lay out a blanket to change her on. She wont take her bottle, she just cries and cries with her whole body red apart from the white creases around her clenched fists and her scrunched nose. I notice that I have two wet spots on my shirt, the same shape as my mothers eyes. I open my mouth and scream silently. A crow cocks its head at me and takes off and I think of my feet, heavy on the ground. I’m not going anywhere. I pick up Emma and rock her as I walk up and down the edge of the creek. The water bubbles merrily, I kiss Emma’s head. I tell her a story about something. I think it’s about living underwater, I think it has a happy ending. When Emma gets too tired to keep crying I feed her. I love her more than anything, I think as I let all her fingers curl around just one of mine. I see Liam walking across the grass towards me. Liam whose father thinks he owns the world because he sells but rarely uses, that his son was born to be his heir. ‘Hey Riley, the kid yours?’ He laughs. He knows whose it is, I know he’s seen my mother pregnant in his living room begging his father for a little more. ‘Hi, Liam.’

‘You’re looking particularly beautiful today.’ I see him looking at my tear-soaked shirt. I don’t move my body. ‘Ditch the kid and we can go out, have some fun.’

‘Sounds nice, but I’ve got someone else to look after.’

‘Fucking hell, Riley, live a little? Look we can even just go back to mine and chill, my dad’s just got some—’

‘Riley?’ I hear another voice cut across Liam’s. Liam is now inches from me and I can’t see anything else but his face, and I note his eyes drifting to my lips. Emma squirms and begins screeching again. Liam jumps back. ‘Jesus that’s loud, should have cut your mother off.’

‘Riley, I’m glad to see you.’ I know this guy, he’s in my English class. I force my brain to dig past Emma’s screams to find his name.

‘Noah, hey.’ I don’t say that I am glad to see him because I don’t know why he’s here. He’s throwing glances at Liam as if he knows everything about who he is, I don’t know how though, seeing as he’s not one of us. Emma screams and Liam doesn’t move. ‘I have to take her home.’ I remember the crow flying away, I remember the thought of leaving everything behind.

The house is quiet. Our parents are asleep on the couch, all bunched up at one end where the stuffing sags. I put Emma to bed and make some toast. I’m eating it on the front porch outside Emma’s window so that I can hear her when she wakes up. When my eyes get used to the night I notice that Liam is moving against the dark to lean against streetlight opposite. He becomes illuminated, right down to his designer sneakers. I abandon dinner and walk over.

‘Who was the guy?’

‘He’s someone from school, I don’t really know him.’

‘Right, well, kiss goodnight?’

I kiss him and he slips something in my pocket.

‘Night Ry.’ He says then stalks off into the dark. There’s not that much difference between good people and bad people. I take the money out of the package, slipping it into a pocket I’ve made in my schoolbag while Emma begins crying again.

I skip a few days of school to look after Emma.When I’m back the brightness and laughter of it all surprises me. Noah stops me after class and asks me to meet him in town, he says to bring Emma. People don’t often speak to me at school, I see Noah’s friend eye him quizzically and hear ‘You know she’s friends with Liam?’

In town the adults stare at me, I become a stereotypical too-young woman with a wailing baby in my arms. ‘Teen mothers.’ I catch the phrase amidst the torrent of voices. I see Noah and he leads me down a side street. ‘My mum’s a doctor, she can help with Emma.’

‘Thanks.’ I hear myself say. I don’t remember the last time I slept, I don’t care why he is helping me. Noah buzzes us in and Noah’s mother welcomes us into her office while Noah sits himself in the waiting room.

Dr. Durett asks me to call her Renee and she teaches me how to wrap up Emma so that she feels calmer. Emma stops crying and I hear a ringing in my ears. Renee tells me about signs to look out for and writes everything down so I won’t forget.

‘You’re doing a good job.’ Renee says which makes me feel like crying myself but Emma’s done enough of that for the both of us so I thank her, my eyes empty.

Noah asks if I want coffee and I follow him upstairs to their apartment. It’s big, quiet, and the light shines in making even the dust motes look pretty. I don’t let myself imagine what my life would be like if I lived in a place like this.

‘Look,’ says Noah. ‘I realise we don’t know each other.’

‘It’s ok.’ I stop him. ‘I’m not offended or anything.’ The coffee feels good, even as it burns my mouth. Emma sleeps in her new wrap, close to my body. She is breathing slow and steady.

‘My dad is in a recovery clinic.’

‘I’m sorry.’

Noah shrugs, ‘He’s doing much better.’

I don’t know what to say to Noah, Noah in his beautiful house with his capable mother and his father in an expensive recovery clinic. Noah who is a little like me but different. ‘Be careful about Liam.’ He tells me like he knows something I don’t, which I find hard to believe. I feel myself stiffen and Emma opens her eyes briefly.

‘Liam isn’t allowed to be anything other than what he is.’ I want to sleep. I want to not see other people looking at me. I stand, a mouthful of coffee stays at the bottom of my cup.

‘Thanks, Noah.’ I say, meaning it.

Noah is looking at me desperately, as if he wants to stop me from going home, but he doesn’t move.

‘Where the fuck have you been?’ Liam’s standing at the corner of my street, bolt upright and jittery.

‘Stop, you’ll wake Emma.’

‘They took your dad to the hospital.’ He stops towering over me when he sees my face and takes my hand instead, ’Come on.’ He leads me back home. Mum is sleeping in bed. ‘The medics gave her something to calm her down.’ I look at her body, so small under the sheets.

‘I’ll go to the hospital.’

‘Yeah alright. I’ll stay with the baby.’

‘Thanks Li.’ I’m looking for the car keys, pushing stacks of mail onto the floor, clattering dirty plates around and throwing out instructions on how to look after Emma. ‘You have to check that the milk isn’t too hot ok? She calms down sometimes if you talk to her, about anything but use her name. Just say Emma and then whatever comes into your head.’

‘Breathe a second, will you?’ Liam grabs my shoulders.

‘Don’t.’

‘Emma? Really?’ I stare at him and he drops his hands. I see the keys on the kitchen bench.

‘Bye.’ I hear him as the door shuts.

When Liam and I were kids we used to play the same game over and over again. We had imagined a house between the trees where we lived together. I wrote stories while he made important business calls, then we would cook a dinner of pine needles and rocks together. We would discuss our days, making sure to share our numerous successes as well as complimenting a neighbours’ blooming rose garden or new car. After dinner we would pretend to watch TV and then curl up in bed. ‘Goodnight kiss?’ He’d ask and we’d kiss once then lay looking at the stars through the tree branches and only then could we talk abut the secret things that terrified us. We’d seen the goodnight kiss on a show once and had decided it was the epitome of normal life. His pretend name had been Oliver and mine had been Emma. We had stopped when Liam’s father started using him to sell drugs. It started feeling too ridiculous to pretend we were anything other than what we were. Maybe it seemed a bit tacky to give my sister the name Emma, or maybe Liam just thought I was giving her something that should have belonged to me.

In a hospital bed my dad looks anonymous. He is not awake. I think he’s just going to keep doing this until he dies. I wait for the doctors to tell me that he’ll be okay this time. I do not ask if there’s anything they can do. I drive home. Liam is smoking a cigarette on my porch and I’m glad. I curl up against his side. I do not cry.

‘I’m sorry, Ry.’

‘It’s not your fault.’ I say, although sometimes I do think it is the fault of people like him. The problem with blaming people is that once you start it’s hard to stop and the anger gets too big to deal with. Anger is my least favourite emotion, it is like a monster on the inside of you where you can’t run away from it. We stay on the porch leaning in on each other, filling the air with smoke and letting the mosquitos chew us to bits while the secret things that terrify us hover unmentioned. It’s times like these where love feels like it could be enough to save us.

THE END

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