A hope for emily, p.21
A Hope for Emily, page 21
All through the morning I check it—refresh, refresh, refresh. Eight thousand. Ten thousand. Twenty-five thousand. The numbers continue to soar, and I have no idea why. People have donated twenty-eight thousand dollars.
Then, when I am standing in line at the hospital cafeteria, my phone rings. It’s a blocked number, and I answer it as I always do, because there is the chance it could be about Emily, an emergency that I must know about.
“Is this Rachel Lerner?”
My heart lurches up towards my throat at the officious tone. A nurse? A doctor? “Yes…”
“I’m calling about the webpage regarding your daughter, Emily Harris, and how your former husband James Harris doesn’t seem to know anything about it?”
18
Eva
Things got out of control very quickly. That’s my only excuse, and I know it’s not much of one. I was going to tell James. Every day, I was going to tell him. The words formed a pressure in my chest, bottled in my throat… and then stayed there.
I told myself that despite my efforts, not many people were actually looking at Emily’s page, so it didn’t really matter. Another excuse. I knew that, but I let myself believe it anyway. And despite the dark cloud looming over me, James and I had a nice week.
We went to see a new indie film at an arthouse cinema, and met up with some of James’ work friends for drinks. It was full summer, the most social season of the year, when everyone wanted to be outside, when the days were long and balmy instead of short and dark and encased in ice.
A weight seemed to have slid off James’ shoulders, while another one rested squarely on mine. He was more relaxed, coming home an hour early from his evening visits with Emily, spending only half the day on Saturday. I noticed, but didn’t say anything. I wondered if Rachel knew, and suspected she didn’t, and that if she did, she wouldn’t like it, but I didn’t say anything to anyone.
It wasn’t my problem, or so I told myself, even as I continued to furtively and obsessively check the views on Emily’s page. Even as I continued to tweak the keywords and settings of the page, and post on Facebook groups and Twitter.
A week after we put the page up, I set up an Instagram account with Emily’s duck logo as the profile photo and posted every day—facts about experimental treatment, neurological conditions, anything to raise both awareness and interest. It was all part of what I’d promised I’d do, and I found it both interesting and heartbreaking, so it wasn’t any trouble. For some reason I didn’t choose to articulate even to myself, I didn’t tell Rachel about any of it.
Even as I sipped sangria with James’ friends; even as we discussed the moody, black and white film we’d thought was too self-conscious over Thai food; even as we made love slowly and languorously, as the last of the summer sun spilled over the bed, I thought about that stupid page and I never told James.
It was as if I had been fractured into two selves—the wife I was to James, and the woman I was inside. I’d become obsessed; even in the midst of it all I could see that. I started checking the page at work, sometimes every hour or more, and then, in a reckless moment of determination, I used my work contacts—lifestyle and beauty bloggers who were meant to care about things—to promote the page. It was just a few emails asking for favors—a mention, a post—but I knew, on some level at least, that what I was doing was risky, if not actually wrong. The lines had blurred so much my whole life felt like a canvas of gray, and yet it felt right. Whether it was or not, I couldn’t say.
And then Mara discovered what I had done. Stupidly, while at my desk, I was checking Emily’s page and updating the Instagram account I’d created for her when I heard someone clearing her throat behind me, and I turned to see Mara standing there, dark brows drawn together in a damning, straight line.
“Excuse me, Eva, but are you working on something personal during work hours?” Her voice rang out through the open space, and everyone glanced up from their laptop before ducking their heads down again quickly, ears perked up for the drama.
I hesitated, and then decided to play it light. “Sorry, Mara, I’m on a break and it’s a favour for a friend.” I wasn’t about to mention the complicated relationships involved—me and Rachel, me and James, me and Emily for that matter, even though we’d never met. I swivelled around in my chair and gave her a quick smile without any apology in it. “Her little girl is really sick—terminally, with a very rare condition—and she wanted me to manage the social media to raise awareness. Actually, I thought Maemae might like to be involved, but we can talk about that later.”
“I see.” Mara’s gaze was penetrating as she stared at me for a long moment. I held her gaze and my smile, and then finally she turned around and walked back to her office, her heels clicking ominously across the floor. I let out a shaky breath. I wouldn’t make that mistake again.
But I still checked and posted on my lunch break, at home, before bed. As James came into the bedroom, toothbrush in hand, I slid my phone in the drawer of my bedside table, instead of keeping it on top as usual. He noticed, his gaze moving from the drawer to my face before he turned back to the bathroom. He didn’t say anything, and I didn’t know what that meant. Everything in my life felt tenuous, and yet just a few minutes later, when we were both in bed, James rolled over to me and kissed me gently on the lips. I kissed him back, and as his arms came around me, I made myself forget everything else.
And then on Sunday night, after a weekend where I’d hardly thought about Emily or checked her page at all, everything changed. With only half-hearted interest, assuming things wouldn’t be much different, I checked the page’s stats before going to bed. They were at four hundred. My tweaks and posts were helping, but not nearly enough, and I felt both relived and frustrated. I didn’t know what to do with either emotion, and I told myself, yet again, that I wouldn’t check the page tomorrow. I’d managed all weekend, more or less. It was time to let this go. And tomorrow I would tell James. I’d explain it all to him matter-of-factly, apologize for my deception but help him to understand why I’d done it. In my head, it all sounded so simple. So easy.
As morning breaks and James heads to the bathroom for the first shower, I keep to my promise. I don’t check it all morning, as I shower, dress and sip coffee in the kitchen while James scans the news on his phone, kissing my cheek before he leaves and suggesting we go somewhere downtown for dinner. I murmur my agreement and wave him off with a smile.
I’m not going to check it.
I walk to work and my phone stays firmly in my pocket. I work all morning on a new campaign, and I don’t do anything but what I am supposed to do. Just after my lunch break, a salad eaten at my desk, Rachel texts me. I don’t read her message. She’s texted me a few times, asking me about any updates on the page, as if she can’t see them for herself. It’s never anything urgent, and I decide to look at it later. I want to stay focused on my job, my life.
And that’s what I’m doing—working hard, staying focused—when everything begins to fall apart.
“Eva?” Mara’s voice, calling from the doorway of her office, is noticeably tense. I turn around in my chair. “A moment, if you please?” Her formality is ominous. I ignore everyone’s furtive stares as I walk towards her glassed-in box of an office, trying not to feel nervous. I haven’t done anything wrong…
Except I have.
I stand completely still, my face starting to burn, as Mara goes through the list of my offences—from being distracted, to using company time for personal matters, to accessing work contacts and pressuring—her word—them to feature my friend. Apparently some of the bloggers were unenthused about my suggestion and let Mara know. Somehow I’m not even surprised about any of it.
“I’m really shocked by all of this, Eva,” Mara says as she shakes her head. “Shocked and saddened.” She pulls a face, and I know exactly how this is going to go. Mara, my boss, is going to be disappointed in me. She’s going to lament about how much potential I’ve had, how thrilled she’s been to see me develop the digital marketing strategies for seven years, and then she’s going to sigh and shake her head and say how sorry she is to have to let me go.
And that’s exactly what happens. I’m fired, effective immediately. Twenty minutes later, I am clearing out my desk—not that there’s much for me to take. My laptop belongs to Maemae, and since we change desk spaces every few days, all I have is a photo from my wedding day and a potted cactus Naomi gave me for good luck when I started. It’s survived longer than I have.
I am numb, my mind seeming as if it is full of buzzing bees. I can feel people’s glances, burning and inquisitive, and a few colleagues I’ve called friends hug me and say we must get together for drinks. I wonder if we will, or if I’ve become that person no one talks about, a work pariah because I’ve been fired.
Fired. I can’t believe it, and for a few seconds I consider my options. I could file a complaint of unfair dismissal, register something formally with HR, consult a lawyer. I know I won’t do any of it. Even if I hadn’t been fired, my time at Maemae had been coming to an end. I’d been getting bored with makeup, ethical as it was. I’d lost my passion and my drive, and I don’t blame Mara for firing me. Using work contacts, updating Emily’s page on company time… all of that was just an excuse to get rid of dead weight. Me.
I feel leaden inside as I say goodbye to everyone, a flurry of air kisses and pressed hands. I’ve worked here for seven years, and I’ve made some friends, albeit not very close ones. Occasional drinks, idle chitchat as we get coffee, the odd bridal shower or bachelorette party. It never went much more beyond that, and I didn’t mind, because I was focused on success, and then I was focused on James, and then I was focused on getting pregnant.
And here I am, one already lost, one starting to slip away, one I might never have. A tremor of terror ripples through me as I realize I have to tell James about everything. If Mara can find out, if I’ve lost my job over this… I have to tell him. There are no more excuses.
As I leave the office, I reach for my phone. I see another two texts from Rachel, and my trepidation intensifies. Something must be going on. When I swipe to see what she’s written, I swear under my breath.
A local TV station just called me about Emily’s page—and how James doesn’t know?! What should I do??
I duck into a café, order an espresso and then load Emily’s page as I wait for the barista to make it. Twelve thousand views. Over a thousand in the last twenty minutes.
Shit.
I realize, in this moment, that I didn’t want this. That my ambivalence about it all was actually a dread, a fear that I would start something that would snowball and snowball and never stop. And it might cost me everything.
I check the Instagram account Rachel doesn’t even know about, and scroll through the comments on the last post, which was a more personal one about Emily. I’d written it recklessly on Friday night, after I’d promised myself not to check the page all weekend. There are now over six hundred comments. How did this happen?
And yet I know how it happened. This is what I do, what I’m good at, despite having just been fired. My gaze flicks over the comments—Poor Emily, God bless. People need to know about these conditions. What a sweetheart. Am donating now.
I let out a shuddery breath and the barista hands me my espresso. Then I call Rachel.
“Eva?” She sounds panicked.
“It’s all right,” I soothe even though I am feeling as on edge as she is, if not more. “This is a good thing. The publicity—”
“The publicity sucks,” Rachel cuts across me. “Some viper from a local news channel called me and wanted to know why my ex-husband didn’t know about any of this, and what did I think about the fact that he’s actually opposed to the treatment. That’s the angle she’s going for—”
“How did she know he didn’t know?”
“Because she called him. He’s spoken to her, Eva. She saw something on Instagram… I didn’t even know we had anything on Instagram… and from that she ferreted out his details. Eva, what am I supposed to do? I want to take it all down.”
“Don’t do that.” Even now, when everything in my life is at risk, I don’t want her to stop it all, not that it even could be. These things become juggernauts. “I know this feels overwhelming, Rachel, but this is good. The comments are all positive.” Except for a few horrible ones that I deleted so Rachel can’t see them. Hopefully she hasn’t already looked. “If one desperate journalist wants to make some story about James not knowing, that’s a small price to pay.” For her, not for me. It might be a much bigger price for me… although surely I can explain. Surely I can make James understand. “I’ll talk to him today. Make sure we’re all on the same page. Then there’s no story there, and she’ll drop it.”
“But what if we aren’t, Eva? What if he doesn’t agree to any of this?” Her voice is high and thin. “I should have told him. I’m so stupid…”
“I’ll tell him now.” I know I have to.
“I’m the one who needs to talk to him, Eva,” Rachel says, her voice hard all of a sudden. “You might have had the idea, but Emily is James’ and my child. This is about us, not you.” I am silent, winded, absorbing the hostility of that statement along with its truth. “I’m sorry,” Rachel says more quietly. “I’m not trying to hurt you. But you must know I’m right.” And then she hangs up.
I spend the afternoon being a domestic goddess, as if that is going to make any difference. I clean the kitchen even though it’s already pretty clean, since we hardly ever use it. I scrub the bathrooms, I pick up the dry-cleaning and sort the laundry, I blitz the living room with air freshener and dust and vacuum everything. It helps to keep busy, but I am still filled with dread, checking my phone constantly for updates from Rachel or something from James, but there is nothing.
And then he comes home, his shoulders stooped, weary lines of resignation etched on his face. I stand in the kitchen, holding a dish towel, filled with fear. Should I confess right away, or let him speak first? What is the right thing to do, never mind what feels easier? Safer?
“Sorry,” he says, apropos of nothing, as he puts his messenger bag on the floor. “It’s been a crap day.”
I hesitate, then ask in a voice that wobbles a little, “What happened?”
“Rachel…” He blows out a breath. “She’s gone and done something without telling me, and now it’s blown up.” He shakes his head. “I just wish she’d told me.”
I bite my lip. I have to say something, I have to confess, and yet somehow I can’t. “What has she done?”
James shrugs off his jacket. “Created this whole page online about Emily, asking for donations for her treatment. The treatment I have not agreed to,” he emphasizes, his voice rising. “I mean, what is she really trying to do?” Then he deflates again. “I know she’s desperate, and she really wants this treatment to happen, but…” Another weary shake of the head. “This morning I was contacted by some news reporter who wants to make it a thing, that I didn’t know. Because I didn’t know. I get this call out of the blue… well, you can imagine.”
Yes, I can. I open my mouth to say I don’t even know what, but then James smiles at me, and kisses my cheek. “I’m going to go change. You still want to head downtown for dinner? There’s a new Lebanese place I wanted to try.”
I see in his smile that I’m his oasis, his shelter from the storm with Rachel, and I can’t bear the thought of taking that from him. Do I have to tell him? If Rachel says she did it on her own…
My heart thuds as I murmur some agreement while James goes to change. I’ve got to tell him about my involvement, I know I do. I also need to tell him that I’ve been fired. Our world is about to be upended and it’s all my fault. I close my eyes.
“I know it will blow over,” he says as he comes back into the kitchen. “These things usually do. It’s just… well, it’s something neither Rachel nor I need right now. I don’t think she anticipated this, to be honest.”
“Have you spoken to her?” My voice sounds strange and mechanical.
“Only briefly. We’re going to meet up tomorrow. She apologized, said she didn’t realize this would happen. I think she’s a bit freaked out by it all, actually.”
“Mm.” I pointlessly wipe the kitchen counter as I don’t meet his eyes.
“Eva?” The sudden, serious tone in his voice makes me still. “Is something wrong?”
I force myself to meet his gaze. “What… what do you mean?”
James frowns and puts his hands flat on the kitchen island. “I don’t know. You just seem a bit… off. Is everything okay?”
The concern in his voice is the end of me. I can’t lie to him. And even though he’s given me the perfect opening to tell him about being fired, to make it only about that, I say something else instead. “James, I already know about Emily’s page. The internet stuff.” He stares at me, still frowning, not understanding. “I helped Rachel to make the page. It was actually all my idea, to set it up, to try and make it go viral.”
“What…” The word comes out of him like a breath and he shakes his head slowly, still not understanding. Not wanting to.
“I created the Instagram account,” I continue relentlessly, needing to say it all, a confessional. “And I posted on Facebook, and a bunch of other sites, and basically did it all to drum up interest.”
“Why…” He looks winded, shell-shocked.
“I… I wanted to help. I thought Emily deserved that chance. I still do.”
“Emily?” The disbelief in his voice hurts me, somehow, as if he doesn’t think she matters to me.
“Yes, Emily. I care about her—”
“You’ve never even met her.”
“And why is that?” I counter. “Besides, she’s just a child. She’s your daughter. If there is treatment that can help—”
“I told you about the treatment, Eva!” James rakes a hand through his hair, looking too stunned to be angry. Yet. “How experimental, how expensive, how hopeless it is—”
