Chapter 12 - I Went Home Without Asking Emily To Come
My mother opened the front door before I reached the porch.
Three years had changed her hair.
More gray.
Shoulders smaller.
Same blue cardigan she wore every winter even though it was September.
She covered her mouth.
I stopped at the bottom step.
Neither of us moved.
“Hi.”
Diane cried.
“Hi.”
I climbed slowly.
She didn't touch me until I nodded.
Then she hugged me hard enough that my ribs hurt.
I let her.
For maybe fifteen seconds.
Then pulled back.
She looked at my face.
My scar.
My hands.
Like she needed proof in pieces.
“You're thin.”
“Mom.”
“Sorry.”
We went inside.
My photograph was everywhere.
Not shrine-level.
Normal family pictures had simply stopped receiving updates.
Graduation Rachel.
Christmas Rachel.
Twenty-fourth birthday Rachel.
Then nothing.
I sat at the kitchen table.
Mom put coffee down.
Didn't ask what I wanted.
Then caught herself.
“Do you still take cream?”
I almost laughed.
“Yes.”
She brought it.
Small repair.
We sat.
“I’m sorry about Monica.”
“I know.”
“I’m sorry about Elias.”
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry I let Emily—”
“Stop.”
She froze.
“One at a time.”
Diane nodded.
“Monica first.”
“Why did you think you had the right?”
“I didn't think about right.”
Good.
“What did you think about?”
“Getting you back.”
“You didn't know it would.”
“No.”
“You wanted Vanessa to react.”
“Yes.”
“So somebody else could prove something for you.”
“Yes.”
She looked down.
“I was tired of having no move.”
There.
“How long after my disappearance did helplessness become unacceptable?”
My mother almost smiled sadly.
“About six minutes.”
That sounded true.
We sat.
Then she asked:
“Why didn't you call me?”
I had answered versions of this.
Not hers.
“At first, I thought someone was watching.”
“Were they?”
“I don't know.”
“Then?”
“I thought Vanessa had arranged my death.”
“Did she?”
“Not the beginning.”
“Then?”
“She helped it stay useful.”
Diane absorbed that.
“And after six months?”
I looked at the table.
“I was angry.”
“At us?”
“At everyone.”
“That isn't enough.”
“No.”
I took a breath.
“I didn't want to come home and admit I had left voluntarily.”
My mother stared.
“You thought I would care?”
“Yes.”
“I would have cared.”
“I know.”
“That isn't the same as not wanting you.”
“I know now.”
She looked away.
Then:
“You watched the page.”
“Yes.”
“You read my posts.”
“Yes.”
“You knew Emily was searching.”
“Yes.”
Her eyes filled again.
“Did any part of you like being searched for?”
That hurt.
I almost denied it.
Then stopped.
“Sometimes.”
Diane closed her eyes.
There.
Ugly truth.
“When?”
“When I felt alone.”
My voice came out quieter.
“Knowing you were looking made me feel loved without having to face what coming back would cost.”
My mother stared at me.
No absolution.
Good.
“And Emily?”
“I knew she wouldn't stop.”
“Because?”
“Because she always needed to solve things.”
Diane laughed bitterly.
“Wonder where she got that.”
Both of us almost smiled.
Then Mom said:
“I let her become the person who kept hope alive.”
“Yes.”
“And she let me.”
“Yes.”
“And Elias used it.”
“Yes.”
“But he didn't invent us.”
“No.”
We sat until the coffee went cold.
Then Diane asked:
“Are you staying here tonight?”
My old room waited upstairs.
I looked toward the hallway.
“No.”
Her face changed.
“Hotel?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because coming home isn't the same as moving back into being who I was.”
That hurt her.
She nodded anyway.
“Okay.”
I stood to leave.
Diane walked me to the door.
Then:
“Rachel.”
“Yeah?”
“Do you want me to tell the family?”
I thought.
Aunts.
Cousins.
People who had attended my memorial.
“No.”
“Okay.”
“Not yet.”
She nodded.
For once, my mother didn't turn not yet into a deadline.
I hugged her before leaving.
My choice.
May you like
She held on.
Then let go when I did.
