Best Friends Forever

Chapter 3: You Promised!

She lies on her bed with her eyes locked on the ceiling and a full bottle of stolen vodka leaning against her thigh. It's the last of the stash. She knows she'll have trouble getting more but doesn't want to think that far ahead.

The quart's not open yet. She isn't sure she's in need of it anyway. Sometimes drinking makes everything so much better, softens the edges. But other times it sends her on a spiral down into the dark so far she is sure she will never come out.

She isn't certain which she prefers.

Sneakers shuffle on the carpet outside her door, the soft rap of knuckles on the flimsy wood.

"Go away." It is a whisper. She doesn't have the motivation for more.

"Emmy?" His voice is soft and squeaky, a mouse's voice in a little boy's mouth. "Can we go to the park today?"

Her head falls to the side, eyes drifting to her outstretched hand lying palm-up on the comforter. Her fingers are curled toward each other, parts of a crumpled, dead thing refusing to move.

"Emmy?" The door vibrates. She pictures the toe of his shoe tapping, tapping. "You promised. Remember?"

She rolls her head back. The vodka is whispering to her blood.

Go away. Her will is too weak. Insufficient.

The doorknob rattles. "You said you would!" She knows his rising voice will get attention she doesn't want. "You promised!" The door shudders with a bang. "You PROMISED!"

She rolls sideways, off the bed, the momentum carrying her to the door. She unlocks it and jerks it open in one motion and stares down at him.

His brown eyes are afraid but he stands his ground. He is half her size, but he hangs on. His lower lip trembles, but he stays and waits. And hopes.

Once he could have won her over. Even though she resented him sometimes. The miracle baby boy who got all the attention. Even hers, at least when she was around. There was a time when he was the only one who could make her smile. When joy meant playing with her little brother.

Doesn't he get it? Why won't he understand? Joy is dead. And soon, she will be too.

She finds her voice.

"GO AWAY!"

She slams the door in his face and collapses on her bed, face-first this time. The bottle digs into her shoulder. She pushes herself up, ignoring the sobbing retreating down the hallway, the sound of voices raised in the kitchen below, the running tread telling her she has been noticed at last.

Two large mouthfuls of the burning stuff go down before her mother pounds on her door.

"Emily Jane Underman! You open this door right now!"

She considers ignoring the demand. What's the worst that can happen? The bottle winks at her, the glass catching the stray sunlight her heavy curtains do their best to block.

"I will take this door off and leave it off, young lady."

That's new. And sounds like she means it. It can't happen. She gets up, tossing the bottle to the bed, goes to the door. Rethinks, goes back and hides it under her pillow. Not so her mother won't see it. She doesn't care if they know about her drinking. But it wouldn't do to have it taken away. She needs it too much.

And she cares that much at least.

Her mother glares at her from the hallway as she opens the door again. She knows the look, feels it, but doesn't see it. Instead, she studies her mother's brown leather shoes.

"What?" It's a sullen thing, that word. She knows it is a mistake the moment it leaves her.

"You will apologize to your brother." Pamela's voice is quiet but carries in the gloom of the hall. "You will come down for dinner. And when dinner is over, you will take Cole to the park."

Rebellion stirs. The gray place calls, protests. They always loved him more. Made her do things for him while they never did anything for her. Things have been different ever since he came along. Especially with her mother. So why should she?

Besides, she is safe in her room with the girls and her bottle and the darkness. The sunlight hurts her and she resents it. How can it be so bright when her world is so black?

"It's time you snap out of this." Pamela's shoes shuffle, her tone uncomfortable. "It's been four months. We want you back."

She refuses to answer. They don't understand. Never will. No amount of time will ever be enough.

A deep sigh. "Dinner is in five minutes."

"I'm not hungry." The standard excuse. Which has led to a tray at her door every night, a tray she ignores.

"This isn't a debate. You will join us for dinner."

The 'or what' hangs between them. She knows if she fights hard enough, she will win. She always does. But she has so little left inside her, it hardly seems worth the effort.

"Whatever."

She closes the door in her mother's face and turns back to face the gloom. Another sigh and the retreating footsteps. It doesn't matter. She can barely breathe. Or move. Her arms hang at her sides, head tilted to the left, face slack. The bottle beckons from the underside of her pillowcase but even that has lost its draw.

Dust motes dance in the slim line of sunlight. It stabs her right eye as she shifts her weight, driving the bright into her brain. She stumbles back a step, trips over a discarded shoe and catches the headboard for balance. A photo frame rattles and falls from the wall, landing on her pillow.

Smiling faces. Tans. Times Square. Her fingers find the frame, lift it. Her eyes see again for the first time, really register. They had such fun on that trip to New York. She can smell the hot pavement, hear the rush of traffic, Sam singing show tunes on Broadway at two in the morning just to say she did it. Her girls smile at her and her lips lift.

She smiles back.

In a flash, she is moving, diving for her dresser, flinging open the bottom drawer, the picture still clutched in her hand. Desperate, panicked, she tears at the contents, dumping faded sweaters and T-shirts onto the dirty carpet, pawing through her old life until, at last, at the bottom and tucked away in the back, she finds what she is looking for.

The photo falls to her side with a muffled clunk, forgotten, discarded. She collapses against the bed, energy spent. The slim muslin money belt hangs limp in her hand. She bought it for their trip, to keep her money and passport safe against her skin. Sam laughed at her but Madison bought one too.

It is the perfect answer. She slides herself over the floor to her backpack and gently unzips the pocket. The girls are waiting for her there.

"Emily!"

She knows her mother is at the bottom of the stairs but her voice carries.

"I'm coming." She places the girls inside their new home one by one, taking great care with each of them. She arranges them side by side before closing the zipper. She gets to her feet, goes to the full-length mirror. Catches a glimpse of herself and flinches away from the dark circles and ghostly skin. She lifts her hoodie, exposing her stomach. Her fingers fumble with the catch of the belt as she winds it around her waist. It closes with a sharp click. She strokes the belt once, twice, three times, then drops her sweatshirt over it.

A sideways turn, a self-examination. Not a trace. No one will know. And they are safe. Better, she has them next to her now. Perfect.

"Emily! Now!"

"I'm coming!" She hugs them against her, cradling them for a moment before forcing herself to go downstairs for dinner.

***