Page 24 of Your Every Wish
Out of mild curiosity, I stroll over to the kitchen table and try to catch a glimpse of what Emma’s writing over her shoulder. I’ve read “Dear Abby” a time or two and mostly disagreed with her advice.
“This woman is angry with her brother because he and his wife are divorcing after thirty years of marriage. She wants to know if she can ban him from their annual family Thanksgiving, which is at her home this year,” Emma says.
“Sure, why not? It’s her damn house.”
“What does one thing have to do with the other? It’s her brother and sister-in-law’s marriage, it’s between the two of them. Why is she inserting herself into their decision? More importantly, why is she angry? Her brother probably needs family more than ever, so why would she want to ruin a perfectly lovely family tradition?”
“Maybe she thinks he’s a jackass for leaving his wife. Are there kids involved?”
“Yes. But she says in her letter that the divorce was a mutual decision, that her brother told her that neither he nor his wife has been happy for a long time. Yet, she thinks they should stay together anyway for the sake of the children. It’s not her call and it’s incredibly presumptuous of her to think it is.”
“Are you telling her that?” I stare closer at Emma’s laptop screen.
“Yes. I’m also telling her that she needs to look deep within herself to identify why she’s having such a visceral reaction to something that doesn’t concern her. My guess is that she’s living in her own unhappy marriage and is angry more with herself than she is with her brother for not doing anything about it.”
“Or maybe she’s just a bitch.”
Emma laughs. “There is always that, I suppose.”
“You’re pretty good at this, aren’t you?”
“I like to think I am.”
“Do you, like, have a psychology degree?”
“Nope, I majored in English. How ’bout you?”
“I didn’t go to college.”
I’d wanted to but even junior college cost more money than Mom and I had. And the truth was I wasn’t much of a student. In high school I was lucky to come home withCs andBs (in math, if you can believe it). It wasn’t that I was stupid, I simply had other things going on. For one, taking care of Mom, who would’ve spent every cent she made on tacky clothing and manicures if it wasn’t for me managing our money. By the time I was thirteen, I was stashing portions of her paycheck in neatly designated envelopes for rent, utilities, and food. I cooked and cleaned and laundered Madge’s costumes, meticulously hanging them on her bedroom door, ready for her the moment she got out of bed in the afternoon. She put in long nights, performing grueling dance steps to packed audiences, and slept most of the day.
Weekends, when Sue next door couldn’t babysit me, Mom dragged me along to sit in the dressing room for her matinee and night performances. It was noisy and chaotic with dancers everywhere, stretching and singing and filling up every corner of the crowded space. Needless to say, it wasn’t conducive to homework.
When I was fifteen, she let me stay home by myself. Bad move. Because there were other latchkey kids in our complex and none of us was up to anything good. We were like a pack of wolves, feral and sneaky, using the alleyway between our apartment building and a Popeyes fast-food franchise to smoke cigarettes and make out.
At sixteen, my money-managing skills netted us a two-bedroom subsidized apartment—a real step up from the one-bedroom walk-up next to the Popeyes—on the other side of town, which meant a new school. And new friends. I was so busy trying to make an impression that my schoolwork took a back seat to my social life.
“College isn’t for everyone,” Emma says.
My first inclination is to shoot backDamned right, I probably make more in a week than you make in a month, but there was no condemnation or even condescension in her response. The fact is Emma is too nice for that.
Hell, she’s too nice to be related to me.
“How many of those do you do a day?” I point to her computer screen.
“One. Sometimes two, so I can save one for a sick day or vacation. It depends on how long the first one takes me. Some take longer than others.”
“How come?”
“Sometimes I have to think about the question for a while. Nothing is cut-and-dried and I don’t want to give bad advice. I want it to be thoughtful as well as helpful.”
“Hmm.” I put my plate in the ancient dishwasher and stick my head in the fridge before determining that there’s nothing else I want. “I’ll get out of your hair, let you work.”
I suppose I could head over to the clubhouse and join the ladies for their coffee klatch—if they’re still there. Ultimately, I opt to stroll around the park and do a little inventory on the assets here, such as they are.
The park is actually quite large and the spaces between trailers roomy. Not that I’m an expert on trailer parks but I would’ve thought it would be more cost effective to clump the mobile homes closer together to make room for more. A good pitch for the sale: “So much hidden potential.”
I follow a trail flanked by a split-rail fence that wends through the park. Though the landscaping is weedy and mostly unkempt, there’s a wild beauty to it. It reminds me of summer camp, though I’ve never actually been to one. But the tall trees and grassy knolls resemble what I imagine a summer camp looks like. A happy place. And for all Cedar Pines’ deferred maintenance, it does feel like a happy place.
