“I don’t know.”
“Is she in heaven?”
“I think so.”
She falls quiet for several minutes as we walk, her fingers firmly clutching mine. When she finally speaks again, her words break my heart.
“Some babies aren’t meant to stay down here with their mommas. And their daddies. Some babies are angels. And angels are meant to be in heaven.”
She’s not asking me. She’s telling me, as though she’s the mature one trying to so delicately explain it to me. Like she’s helping me to understand.
“Maybe they are, sweetie.”
“Some of them are only ‘posed to be here for a little while and then go away.”
“Maybe they are.”
I wonder at her train of thought, at how she’s justifying the death of a child in her head. I don’t know at what age most kids are able to really understand death, but Emmy has enough issues to work out right now. I don’t want to add more stressors by over-explaining senseless tragedy.
Another long pause while Emmy examines the toes of her shoes as she walks. “Would you be sad like him if I went to heaven?”
My heart seizes in my chest. The mere thought…it steals my breath in the most painful way.
“I would never be the same again,” I tell her, trying to control the tremble of my voice.
“But I don’t want you to be sad. I want you to be happy, even if I’m not here to make you happy.”
“I could never be happy without you, Emmy. You’re my whole world. My sunshine.”
She digests this in silence and I immediately regret being so honest with her. I don’t want her to feel the burden of keeping her mother from falling apart. No child should carry that responsibility.
“Maybe I can stay until you have other happy things, then.”
I stop walking, squatting in front of my daughter, taking both her hands in mine. I blink back tears. I don’t want to scare her. “Emmy, you aren’t going anywhere. His little girl died in an accident. Sometimes that happens, but that doesn’t mean it will happen to you.”
“But I won’t always be around, Momma. And I don’t want you to be sad.” Her heart is in her eyes. She’s truly worried about this. About me. About what would happen to me if she weren’t here.
I stroke her smooth, cold cheek. “Don’t you worry about me, baby girl. It’s my job to worry about you. Not the other way around.”
She stares deep into my eyes, her young mind spinning with thoughts I’ll probably never understand. “Momma?”
“What, sweetpea?”
This whole conversation is terrifying me. I’m resisting the urge to drag her into my arms and hold her so tight that she becomes a part of me, the way she was when I carried her for almost nine months.
“Will you promise to try?”
“To try what?”
“To be happy when I’m in heaven.”
“Emmy–”
“Mom!” she snaps desperately.
“Emmy, what on earth is this about?”
“Promise!”
I swallow the lump in my throat. I’ve never outright lied to my daughter. Until today. I make a promise that I have no hope of ever being able to fulfill. “I promise.”
She pats the back of my hand with her own, a gesture far too old for someone so young.
“But that’s a promise neither of us has to worry about. You’re meant to be right here with me, Emmaline Sage. Don’t you think any different.”
Neither of us speaks on the way back to our cottage, but the air is heavy with enough emotion that we don’t have to.
EIGHT
Eden
EVIDENTLY IN MAINE, the weather can change overnight. While it was very chilly yesterday, that wind must’ve been blowing in winter, because today it’s downright cold.
Since I homeschool Emmy (mostly out of necessity because of her anxiety and our frequent moves), it’s vital that we find things to do outside of our house, wherever that might be located at the moment. Here in Miller’s Pond, I’ve used walks down the road or to the beach as our escape since the nearest town, Ashbrook, is thirty plus miles away. But now, with the weather turning, the beach is out of the question, so I find myself looking for reasons to venture to Bailey’s. Today, I decide to take Emmy out for lunch. And Bailey’s has a grill.
Jordan? the ever-present fixture at the everything-store, greets us from behind the cash register when we walk in.
“Well, hiya, ladies!” she says, her Northern accent shining in the way she says it. It might be even more pronounced if she weren’t slurring.
Drunk at noon?
I’m beginning to think Jordan might have a bit of a drinking problem.
“Hi, Jordan!”
Emmy, as always, hugs my legs.