Nine hours before she tells the 911 operator that her parents are dead, Emma sits in the sunroom, sketchbook balanced on her knees. The evening sun slants through the glass. The page in front of her is empty. Lorelei says one doesn’t wait for inspiration but hunts it down, lays a trap for it, lures it in, whatever is necessary. But Emma is mired, her mind’s eye producing only a faint gray haze.
She needs one more piece. Not another oil painting, she thinks, not charcoal, something else, something new to show her range.
Her applications are going out across the country, but she has her eyes and her heart set on UCLA. She’s never been to California. She doesn’t really care about California, actually, except that it is all the way on the other side of the country, and she can look at a map and imagine all that space between her and her parents. Lorelei tells her that their program is impressive, and that she is impressive enough for it. The distance and Lorelei’s words are all she needs.
Her parents can’t know that she is looking at schools beyond the one-hour radius permitted to the Palmer girls. She wants her applications completed and sent early, to avoid any chance that her guidance counselor or one of her teachers might slip up and mention the recommendation letters she’s asked for, her requests for help on writing essays.
Daphne steps into the room. Her expression is, as usual, focused and hard to read. She is twelve but looks younger, bird-boned. Emma has always enjoyed her company. She’s good at listening and she never talks about normal, boring things. Last month she became interested in poisons. She learned about something called a poison garden, where all the plants could kill you, and asked for one of Emma’s sketchbooks so that she could plan it out. Emma had listened to the descriptions of how each flower and root could kill, and imagined slipping them into her father’s glass of bourbon, her mother’s iced tea or evening wine.
Daphne says, “Mom and Dad want to talk to you. In the study,” and all the blood drains from Emma’s face. No girl is allowed inside the study unless invited, and this occurs in only two instances.
The first is when their father decides that it is time for them to be educated in some way. Then he will summon them in, sit them on a stool near his left hand as he sits back in his chair, and instruct them on some aspect of life. The last time it was about men. Boys. What they wanted from her. It somehow managed to simultaneously imply that she was a sheltered fool who had no idea what sex was and that she was selling herself to the whole school on the weekends.
But Mom is there, too, and that means it’s the second thing.
“Do you know…?” she whispers, but Daphne shakes her head. Delaying will only make things worse, so Emma walks quickly past her sister. She tries to think of what she has done that might merit this kind of punishment. Not the snap of Mom’s temper or one of Dad’s corrections but the both of them, together.
“Come in,” her father’s voice says. She pushes the door open and steps in, lingering just inside the door. Her father sits in his armchair, back to her. Her mother stands next to it, facing the door, one hand on the back of the chair. Without turning, her father crooks two fingers in a beckoning gesture.
Obediently, sick anticipation curdling in her gut, Emma makes her way around the chair to stand in front of him. He leans back in his chair, regarding her steadily. He is a plain man, with pale hair that was nearly colorless even before it turned gray. His eyes are deep-set, his nose hawkish. Emma inherited that nose from him, and he likes to point it out, laughing about how he’s spoiled her having any chance at being a beauty, but at least he knows she’s his.
“Do you know why you’re here?” her father asks.
Emma swallows. This is the first question, always. If you don’t answer, your punishment will be more severe. But if you guess wrong, you’re only inviting worse.
“I don’t know,” Emma says.
Her father’s hand moves slowly, almost absentmindedly, to the small table beside his chair. Only then does she notice the thick fold of printed pages there. She can only see a sliver of what is on the top page, but she recognizes it, and her stomach twists. It’s the UCLA application, which she printed out at school. Which she buried in her backpack in the back of her closet, where her parents wouldn’t check.
“You didn’t tell us that you were looking at out-of-state schools,” her father says. He says it lightly, like it’s a tidbit she has forgotten to share, like it doesn’t matter.
“My guidance counselor said I should apply widely,” Emma says with a shrug. “It doesn’t mean I’m actually going. I know you want me to stick with an in-state school.”
“It’s not a matter of what we want. It’s what’s right for you,” her mother says.
“Why do you even care?” Emma blurts out. She looks between them. “Why does it matter where I go to school?”
“You belong at home with your family,” her mother says sharply.
“But why?” Emma asks. “It’s not like you need me to work at the business or help around the house or anything. You don’t even like me.”
“That’s enough,” her father says. “Your mother and I decided—”
“Mom decided,” she says, interrupting him, and his eyes flare. She knows that she’s crossed a line. But it’s too late now; she presses on. “Mom decided that we all have to live here and go to school here so we turn out just the way she wants, except I’m already not what you want, so what’s the point?”
“You need guidance,” her mother says, but her father holds up his hand.
“Irene, that’s enough,” he says. “We are under no obligation to explain ourselves to you, Emma. Your parents have made a decision regarding your education; your job is simply to accept it.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Emma says. She knows she should shut up. She knows she’s making it worse for herself, but she can’t stop. “Why can’t I just go to school where I want and come home on the holidays like everyone else?”
“You need to speak to your elders with respect,” her father says.
“Respect? Why should I respect you?” she asks.
“Because I am your father,” he says, and his voice is dangerous, but for once she doesn’t heed the warning.
“Why should I respect a father who cheats on my mother?” she demands.
The slap is hard enough it sets her staggering, lights popping in front of her eyes. It isn’t her father who moved but her mother, hand still out in front of her, fury in her eyes. “Don’t you dare speak to your father that way,” she says.
Emma clutches her face, letting out a disbelieving laugh. “You’re mad at me? What about him? I’m telling the truth. He cheated on you. He cheats on you all the time. He—”
“My business is none of your concern,” her father says, rising from his chair.
She looks between them and realizes her mistake. “You already knew?” she asks.
Her mother’s face is still; there’s the smallest of tremors, starting at the edge of her pinky finger, stealing up the side of her hand. She notices, covers that hand with its opposite, as if to hide it. She takes in a small breath. A flutter of her eyelids, a tremble of her lip—and her voice steady as she says, “We’re done here.”
Emma laughs, because that’s the only thing left to do. The only sane thing in the face of the absurdity of it all. “You’re pathetic,” she says. “This is all so fucking pathetic. I can’t believe you’d just stand there knowing what he did.”
“Irene,” her father says, “Emma and I need to have a conversation in private.”
Irene stalks out of the room without a word, and Emma is alone with her father. Her father, who has been quiet and calm for too long.