Between the Lines

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Emma

“Emma, what’s going on?”

My father’s question hangs in the several hundred mile space between us. I’m sitting on my bed after this hell of a day, in the middle of taking an SAT practice test online. I’ll have to start over if this conversation doesn’t end quickly.

“Um, what do you mean, exactly?” I stall, unsure if he’s referring to the rumors that I’m sleeping with Reid, and/or Graham, or breaking up with one or both of them, or the report of my baby bump… or something else altogether.

“Is there anything you need to talk to me about?” This is a characteristically evasive question that I’m both grateful for (because I don’t have to answer to anything specific) and annoyed by (does he even care?).

“No.”

He’s quiet for a moment, and I begin to relax. He never presses about anything like this. Sometimes he asks, because he thinks he should. But he doesn’t really want to deal with it. So I’m taken by surprise when he doesn’t drop the subject, but instead asks a question that blows my nice predictable view of my father apart.

“Emma, you know how much credibility I give to celebrity gossip, but I can’t pretend it’s all crap, I can’t ignore it if… if you need my help. Because, dammit, I’m your father, and that’s my job. So I need to know,” I actually hear him gulp, “are you pregnant?” If this isn’t a nightmare moment, I don’t know what is.

My mouth works as though I’m speaking, or chewing something, nothing but little clucks coming out until finally I say, “No. No.”

He exhales, and I imagine his hand at his forehead, his eyes closed. This time, his moment of silence doesn’t fool me. I’m on high alert, not that it helps. “I know we’ve never really discussed, uh, sex, before,” he charges on, “but as your father, I have to make sure you have the tools you need to be safe.”

“Huh,” I say, my face flaming.

“So, you know that uh, condoms are necessary to protect yourself against not only unwanted uh, pregnancy, but also STDs—er, sexually transmitted diseases…” He’s explaining this stuff as though I’ve never heard it before, as though I haven’t known it since Grandma and I talked years ago. I’m thinking late much? and trying to contain my hysteria while he morphs into one giant sex ed TMI, “…herpes and chlamydia. Um, I think those are the major half-dozen, though there are more, but you don’t need to know them all…”

“Dad.” The word feels strange, like someone else is saying it, because I don’t think of him as Dad. He’s my father, formal and impassive. Like our relationship has been since Mom died. “I… I know all of this.”

“Oh? Did Chloe—?”

“No,” I say, too harshly. “No—Grandma, and Emily’s mom.” And then because I said Emily’s name, I’m crying.

“Emma, what is it?”

“I had a fight with Emily!” It bursts from me, unable to be contained any longer. “She’s not talking to me and I don’t know what I did or what I can do or should do.”

He goes quiet again, and just as I start to berate myself for blurting this out to him of all people, he asks, “Have you tried calling her?”

“Sort of. Not really. I don’t know what to say.” I sniffle. “She thinks I was ignoring her, and maybe I was, but I didn’t mean to…”

“Then that’s what you say, sweetheart.” He hasn’t called me that in so long. Not like that—like a caress, like a hug. “You and Emily have been like sisters for almost your whole life; she’ll listen.”

“What if she hangs up on me? What if she hates me?”

“Emma, do you really believe that’s possible? Think how long you two have been attached at the hip. Now you’re both about to be adults, have separate lives. Maybe she’s scared of losing you.”

“Then why is she pushing me away?” I sob.

He’s quiet for a moment. “Because that’s what people do sometimes, when they’re scared, and they’re just being reactive. Maybe you need to be the brave one.”

“But I’m not brave,” I say, my voice small.

“Oh, honey, I don’t know anyone braver than you.” What? “Let’s make a deal, you and me. You call Emily tonight. And I’ll tell Chloe that you’re going to college next fall. SAT a week from Saturday, right?”

“Yes.” I shake my head, saying, “You haven’t told her?”

“Time for me to be brave, too,” he says, not thrilled. I start laughing and he joins in.

“Are you going to tell her about your lunches at McDonald’s?” I ask, teasing. I try to be rational and suppress the hope that this is for real, but hope has a way of closing its eyes to reason and it just keeps growing.

“Let’s not go crazy, now,” he says, all pretend-serious. “In some cases, what she doesn’t know… well, you know Chloe.”

“Yeah, I do.” I take a shuddering breath. “Thanks, Dad,” I say, liking the sound of it, afraid that this image of him is a mirage, that if I look away and look back, it’ll be gone. I think about what he said. That I’m brave. If that’s true, maybe I won’t let him go so easily this time. Maybe I’ll remind him, if he forgets again.

“Goodnight, sweetheart,” he says, and I let that one word envelope me and shove the doubt away, at least for tonight.