~ by M. C. Pehrson
Papa and Christina Kester were now husband and wife. On the little farm, Emma loved waking up to a rooster crowing and finding herself high up in a cozy attic room. There was no closet to stir her fears — only a freestanding cabinet that Papa called a “wardrobe.” From her windows, she could see all the way to the orchard, where the branches were bare and the weather-beaten tipi awaited warmer days.
Emma’s cat, Puff, soon learned to climb the attic stairs. After a week of skirmishing with the Kester’s German shepherd, Puff and Buddy settled into a wary truce. Relations were even more peaceable with Aunt Daisy, who decided to remain at the Arbor Street house — renting it, at Papa’s invitation. After moving her belongings from her out-of-town apartment, she had secured a job at St. Germaine School as a substitute teacher. Now that Daisy felt appreciated, her disposition was so improved that Emma and Susan often stopped in and visited after school. Sometimes there were home-baked cookies, but the neglected yard benefited most from Aunt Daisy’s energy. With clippers and shovel and hoe, she was gradually accomplishing all the things that Papa might have done, had he not spent so many hours on his research.
Papa’s scientific equipment now cluttered the farmhouse basement. Some evenings, he disappeared downstairs for an hour or two, at times accompanied by a visiting teenager, but more often by his new stepchildren. Emma might have suffered a pang of jealousy if she had not been so preoccupied with Christina Winberry. Now that Emma had spoken the first “Mom,” it fell more and more easily from her lips. Though she still preferred wearing pants, she admired the feminine way Christina dressed. Old memories of Mama stirred when she watched her new Mom apply powder and lipstick and dab sweet-smelling cologne behind her ears. With her golden hair and heart-shaped face, Christina did not look like Mama. But they both shared a sweet loving quality that was common to all good mothers, and Emma responded to it.
One bright Saturday morning, as winter was releasing its hold, Emma helped Susan clean the horse stalls. They were still settling into their new role as sisters, feeling their way through each day. It seemed to Emma that the arrangement was working out well, but there was one thing she did not understand.
As they were finishing the job, she said, “I noticed you’re still writing ‘Kester’ on your school papers. Why? Aren’t you a Winberry now?”
Susan helped rake clean straw into a corner. “Kester is my legal name, and Tommy’s, too — our Dad’s name. It’s different for Mom. Hers changed because she got married.”
The girls put away their tools and walked toward the windmill. Sunshine glinted off the silver blades as they turned ever so slowly.
Emma rose from her thoughts. “You never say anything about your father.”
Susan stopped and frowned up at the windmill. “You don’t say much about your mother, either.”
“I was pretty young when she died,” explained Emma, “and that last year, she was so sick. Your father wasn’t sick, was he? I mean before he had his heart attack. What was he like?”
Susan’s frown deepened. “I don’t want to talk about him.”
Emma almost wished she had not brought it up. “I’m sorry. You must still miss him a lot. Was he nice?” There she went again, asking questions. “Your Mom says he was a barber, but he liked farming a whole lot better.”
Susan nodded. “And he could build anything.” Pointing up at the windmill, she said, “He made that all by himself. The chicken house, too.”
“Wow.” Emma’s father could barely hammer a nail straight.
“Yeah,” Susan’s voice growled, “if only…”
“If only what?”
But Susan marched off without explaining.
All weekend, the words played on Emma’s imagination, growing more sinister by the hour. Of course, they could easily have been interpreted to mean that Susan regretted her father’s death. Didn’t Emma feel the same way about Mama? But Susan’s secretive behavior soon had Emma suspecting there was more to it. Perhaps Susan was hiding her true feelings about Emma and Papa. “If only” might mean, “If only Dad were alive, things would be back to normal around here — without those Winberrys.” But Susan seemed to like Papa, so Emma came up with another, equally troubling version. “If only Dad were alive, things would be back to normal around here — without that Emma Winberry in the attic.”
For the first time, Emma began to wonder. Why wasn’t her bedroom downstairs with the others? Was it because she had loved the neglected little room from the first moment she saw it? Or was it because Susan did not want her anywhere near? By nature, Emma was drawn to the more dramatic conclusion and soon convinced herself that it was quite true. “Knowing” that Susan secretly hated her made Emma feel as rejected as poor St. Germaine. But Emma was not yet a saint, and she began to treat Susan coldly. She no longer wanted to share Papa with Susan, and plainly said so.
Red-faced with anger, Susan replied, “Fine then! You stay away from my Mom!”
Tempers flared daily. The two stepsisters no longer walked to school together, and at recess, they pointedly ignored one another, splitting their friends into rival factions. Only Emma stopped to visit Aunt Daisy and admire her garden, while Susan passed on by with her nose in the air.
“What in the world is wrong with that girl?” Daisy asked, down on her knees, planting bulbs in a flowerbed.
Feeling very sorry for herself, Emma replied, “She doesn’t like me anymore. Sometimes I think Papa shouldn’t have married Mrs. Kester.”
Daisy glanced up, trowel in hand. “Nonsense. Anyone can see they’re made for each other.”
“I know,” Emma said in complete misery. “It’s just me. I’m the problem.”
Daisy poked vigorously at the soil. “Sounds as if Susan’s the problem. If it keeps up, I’ll have a talk with your father.”
Emma liked the idea of getting Susan into trouble, but it would only make Susan hate her more. Homesick, she glanced over at her old bedroom window. Some of Mama’s ivy had been trimmed away, but the delicate branches of the elm tree were as green and inviting as ever. It made her wish that she had never moved away.
That evening while Papa said grace, Emma bowed her head and sneaked a sidelong peek at Susan. There had been another quarrel, and they were both under punishment. After dinner, they were to stay in their rooms, but that was just fine with Emma.
As Papa reached for the platter of spaghetti, Emma said, “I’m not hungry. May I be excused?”
Papa did not look pleased. “Filling up on Aunt Daisy’s cookies?”
“I only had one.”
“Uh-huh,” Papa responded doubtfully.
Mom studied her. “Emma, you’re not getting sick, are you?”
“I’m fine,” Emma insisted.
“Well, both you girls have been out of sorts.”
Tommy piped up. “That’s for sure!”
At last, Emma received permission to leave the table. Gathering her courage, she said, “Papa, can you come to my bedroom after dinner? There’s something I need to tell you.”
She was lying on her bed, just staring at the ceiling, when Papa came in. Emma sat up and tucked her feet under her. With a lump in her throat, she said, “I want to go live with Aunt Daisy.”
Papa could not have looked more surprised. “Aunt Daisy! Emma, what is this all about?”
“I miss the old house.”
It was only half true, and Papa saw right through her. “This is really about Susan, isn’t it?”
Emma gave no reply. She expected Papa to sit down and talk things over with her. Instead, he opened the door and called downstairs.
“Susan! Christina! Can you please come up here?”
“No!” Emma pleaded, but in a moment, they were all in her bedroom. She tried to hide her face under her pillow, but Papa took it away.
Right in front of everyone, he said, “Emma has told me that she wants to move out. Obviously, it’s because of these squabbles with Susan. We all knew there might be some friction, but we’re going to get to the bottom of this if it takes all night.”
Mom gave Susan and Emma a reproachful look. “You girls have been tearing into each other for days. What’s the matter with you?”
Susan perched on the foot of the bed and glowered at Emma. It was more than Emma could bear. Bursting into tears, she cried, “It’s her! She doesn’t want me around anymore!”
Susan’s mouth opened wide in protest. “That’s a lie! I never said any such thing! But you told me to stay away from your Papa!”
“And you told me to keep away from your Mom!” retorted Emma.
Papa interrupted. “That’s enough! I’m surprised at both of you. Emma, you first. What started all this ruckus?”
Emma felt everyone’s eyes on her. Thinking back to that day by the windmill, she said, “I was asking Susan about her father…and she…”
Susan exploded. “He’s none of your business!”
“Susan Rachel,” warned Mom.
“But she doesn’t need to know,” Susan said in defense. Suddenly her face puckered and she began to cry.
Papa and Mom shared a sad, knowing look. Then Mom sat beside Susan and put an arm around her. Very gently, she said, “Darling, it’s alright. Papa knows all about your Daddy, and Emma needs to know, too. That way, she’ll understand why it hurts so much.”
Understand what? Emma wondered. She watched Susan press her face into Mom’s shoulder and sob bitterly. What painful truth was everyone hiding? All at once, Emma’s own half-imagined hurts seemed small. “Susan,” she said, “I’m sorry. Really, I am.”
“Susan is sorry, too,” said her mother. “You see…it’s hard for her to talk about her father. We all loved him. Deep down, he was a good man, but no one outside this house knew that he drank most every day. Drank even more, when Tommy came along, and there were some pretty bad times. It was the drinking that killed him, not heart trouble.”
Emma felt numb. It must be terrible to watch the person you love get so drunk that he seemed like a stranger. No wonder Susan and Tommy could not get enough of Papa. Rising from the bed, she gave her sober, dependable father a heartfelt hug. Then she turned around and gave Susan a big hug, too.
Wow, didn’t see that coming.