Emma wasn’t sure what to expect. Her family wasn’t accustomed to delving into anything too far outside the realm of academia, and now that she’d uncovered the one subject that had been kept the most quiet of all, now that the lid was—quite literally—off the box, Emma wasn’t entirely sure how to proceed.
But if what she’d expected was another lecture, another point-by-point explanation dictated by logic and reason, then she’d been wrong. Instead, without saying a word, Mom crossed the basement and sat down beside Emma on the couch, leaning over to plant a kiss on her forehead. She didn’t say she’d been wrong, and she didn’t tell Emma why it had been kept a secret. She didn’t apologize, and she didn’t explain. Instead she took the photo album gently from Emma’s hands and opened it up to the first page. And then she began to talk.
“This was just a few hours after you were both born,” she said, her voice soft and thick. “I was in labor for twelve hours. You two were worse than any of the others.”
Emma watched her mom’s face as she flipped the pages, the lines that gathered at the corners of her eyes like a map of their shared past.
“You came out first,” she said, tracing the edges of the picture with her thumb. “And then he …” She cleared her throat, then started again. “And then Thomas—Tommy—was next. His face was all pinched like he was already annoyed at being last.” She smiled and blinked hard. “He would’ve been a real handful. He was already stubborn as anything. It’s amazing how much you can tell, even in such a short time.”
Emma leaned in closer to look at the pictures, so close that their elbows were touching, and after a few minutes she rested her cheek on her mother’s shoulder, looking on as Mom colored in the pictures, filling in the missing pieces.
When she paused, Emma sat up to look at her.
“I study anthropology,” Mom said, her eyes focused across the room. “I lecture about grief, about burial rights and the way people mourn.” She turned to face Emma. “There’s no right way to do it. Some people need to talk, and others just can’t. Some need to remember, and others to forget. It’s different for everyone.”
Emma nodded, and Mom shook her head and smiled.
“And some need to steal a couple of cars and drive a few hundred miles.”
“Some do, I guess,” Emma said ruefully.
There was another soft thud from the top of the stairs, and they both looked over to see Dad’s loafers, and then a moment later his balding head, as he ducked to see who was below. And by the time he reached the bottom step—his face already changing as he realized what they were looking at—Patrick was pounding his way down as well, muttering all the while about how hungry he was before falling silent when he saw the scene on the couch. One by one they were joined by the rest of the family, until all of them were huddled together in the damp coolness of the basement. Nate nodded at Emma from where he sat on the arm of the couch, and she smiled at him gratefully. Upstairs the burgers were burning on the grill, and the salad was growing limp in its bowl. But no one seemed in a rush to leave as Mom began to speak again.
There were no asides about poetry or statistics, no interruptions or jokes. They were too busy listening and remembering, digging through the old collection of memories, the lost history that belonged to each and every one of them. It almost felt as if the story couldn’t have been told until now anyway, until they were all gathered here together like this.
And just like that, Emma knew what she wanted for her birthday.
Chapter twenty-six
When Peter woke the following morning, it was to discover two state troopers leaning against the blue convertible and regarding him suspiciously. Their patrol car was parked just behind it, the squawking of the radio interrupting the otherwise quiet morning. Beside him the dog lifted his head and then—seeing nothing of any great interest—rolled back over in the soft grass with a contented sigh.
Peter ruffled the back of his hair and yawned, stumbling to his feet. His clothes were wet with dew, and when he glanced out over the battlefield, he found it hidden by a low-hanging fog.
“Morning,” Peter said with a nod, ambling past the officers. He fumbled for his keys, then opened the passenger-side door and reached in to grab his cell phone, which was making a series of faint beeps, its battery nearly dead. He rested an elbow on the roof of the car, scrolling through his missed calls, his heart picking up speed when he guessed it was Emma who had been trying to reach him.
One of the troopers cleared his throat a bit too forcefully, and Peter glanced up at them over the top of the car. He raised his eyebrows and tried his best to look polite, though all he felt was impatience. There suddenly seemed about a million places he should be, a thousand things he needed to say and do, and two people he wanted desperately to talk to. He didn’t have time to exchange pleasantries with two cops in pointy hats and overly tight pants.
“Everything okay?” the taller one asked from behind aviator glasses that made him look like a bug. Peter slipped his still-beeping phone into his pocket and nodded.
“Are you lost, son?” the other asked, and Peter couldn’t help laughing at this, shaking his head and grinning like an idiot, because for once in his life he was lost, yet somehow, as unlikely as it seemed, he’d never felt quite so sure of himself.
“I’m okay,” he told them, feeling a lot like Emma, bold and spontaneous and unafraid. “Just passing through.”
“Where to?”
Peter shrugged, still smiling. “I don’t know yet.”
“Right,” said one of the troopers, reaching for his walkie-talkie. He glanced at his partner, rolling his eyes in Peter’s direction with a remarkable lack of subtlety. “Your call, Joe.”
Joe was now working a sesame seed out of his front tooth with his pinky, having apparently lost interest. He shrugged. “Don’t let it happen again, kid. This is a historical site, not a hotel. If you can’t tell the difference, I suggest you get yourself a map next time.”
Peter nodded, just barely managing to keep a straight face. “Thank you, sir,” he said, appropriately solemn. “I’ll do that.”
The messages had been left only minutes apart, all of them late the night before. In the first she didn’t even bother with a greeting, instead launching right into a recitation of the names of important battlefields—in alphabetical order—until the phone cut her off. In the second one all she said was, “Those are all the places I promise to go with you on the way home if you’ll just do me one last favor.” Then there was the sound of yelling in the background, and a whistle, and then muffled laughter before the message came to an abrupt end.