Page 12 of A Heart So Haunted
Emma would tell you that she was the product of an affair. Sort of.
My father was the man you might read about in unhinged online articles. The one leading two lives: one where he decided to marry my mother, the second where he had a girlfriend, and neither knew the other existed.
Emma’s mother, Penny, got pregnant by my father nine months before he decided to marry my mother. Not only did he move in with his new bride, but he moved in with Penny, too, in an effort to “be a supportive father.” For years, he kept both lives separate, banking on work trips and late hours to keep his wife and girlfriend in different corners of his life.
The diligence to keep both secrets amazed me—and not in a good way.
My mother found out about Emma and her mother just after my fifth birthday. Emma was six at the time. There were only so many business trips, missed softball games, and midnight phone calls one could have before someone grew suspicious.
What haunted me the most was nothoweveryone found out, but what occurred afterward.
I remembered the moment my mother stood crying at our back door, watching as the headlights to his truck flickered on and disappeared down the driveway. Because he chose Penny and Emma over my mother and me.
Everything else from my childhood had been a blur. The only buoy of happiness was our family dog, Belvedere. A cane corso, if I remembered right. I used to sit on his haunches while Vince, when I still called him Dad, and I walked to the mailbox in the morning. Thedriveway snaked this way and that. Belvedere walked tall and sturdy. I’d used him as a pillow, a horse, a prince, and dress-up mannequin more often than not.
Belvedere was put down the day my mother found out about the affair.
Happy birthday, indeed.
After my parents had officially separated, Penny and my mom met one time at the park. Emma and I had gotten along well enough, and my hesitance toward her softened when she called our father a jerk.
“Mommy chose him over Mike,” Emma said. Her brow wrinkled, eyes nearly black as she squeezed the soccer ball she’d brought. “I hate him.”
“You do?” I hovered by the goal post. In the distance, my mother waved her hands as she spoke to Penny, who remained seated on a bench.
“Well, duh. Mommy says he’s my daddy, butMikehas always been my daddy.” She squeezed the soccer ball so hard that it shot out of her hands and rocketed down the field. She stomped after it, ponytail swinging.
Only when I was older did I realize Emma had admitted her mother had been in a long-term relationship, too. She’d always assumedMikehad been her dad—and it seemed Mike had thought the same, until my father came into the picture.
Her fiery attitude made me follow her down the soccer field that day. She kicked the ball farther and farther before turning and kicking it to me.
One word led to another. I asked her about her mom, if she cried a lot at night, too, or if she didn’t cry since Dad was there. At one point, she asked me if I ever got angry, and I said sometimes, when the kids at school were mean. Emma told me she’d been bullied because of her vitiligo. I told her I was bullied because of how little I was.
Things shifted, like broken china pieces, bloodied, jagged edges touching one another’s until they found a place to fit. Over the years, Emma and I kept in touch. Emma’s oldest half brother, Mason, wastwenty-two at the time. Emma managed to persuade Mason into driving her over for playdates until cell phones were allowed. Through high school, we kept tabs on my father’s extramarital affairs via social media (on my behalf) and physical stalking (on Emma’s behalf). By the time we were accepted at USC, we had a six-year-long text thread dedicated to our father’s adventures.
“We need to keep tabs in case we run into these people in the wild,” she said one night over a bucket of Neapolitan ice cream. “You never know when the opportunity to embarrass him might strike.”
I’d pushed my ice cream around in my bowl. “I don’t think we’ll ever be so lucky.”
The TV flickered blues and grays and whites from the other side of the room. Her eyeliner was smudged in deep crescents under her eyelashes. “To pin a cheater? Like him? Never. But it’s worth a shot.”
“Your mom won’t leave him, though,” I said. Penny chose to act oblivious.Vince would never, ever step outside of our marriage, she said. When she really should have said,His money is too, too important for me to get rid of him.
“Nah,” Emma grunted. “She won’t.”
“Where you heading? I could come.” Emma trailed after me, off the front porch and down the cobblestone path. I carried a small box of knickknacks on my hip toward my SUV. A few ceramic chickens rattled inside—Aunt Cadence had a penchant for them. I’d never gotten a chance to ask why. Meredith, a shop owner in Stetson, took donations no matter the day, and she’d never once turned one down. I figured donating what I could to Meredith would be easier than reselling them myself.
“Out,” I said, pointed. I tried to keep my expression soft. “Don’t worry about it.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, I’m positive.”
I needed a breather. To visit the funeral home without a shadow, to do anything besides sit in that house. With her. Fermenting in my thoughts. Emma’s mouth pursed. I hadn’tmeantit as a jab.
I tried to remind myself that Emma was a part of my life, that she loved me, that she cared. That we’d been through worse than a missed funeral and an absent phone call.
Even still, the frustration simmered below the skin of my bone.
