Why should I feel sorry for you? You never felt sorry for me, Emily answered.
In the final year of her mothers illness, the hospital became a second home. When her mother lay in beds, Emily stayed at the small flat with her stepfather, Uncle Mick.
Mick was always out early, leaving at seven and returning after dark. To Emily it felt as if she lived alone.
He slipped her a few pounds each week so she could buy a school lunch. With the rest she scraped together a pot of spaghetti, a sack of peas, potatoes, and, on rare occasions, a cheap sausage, then cooked a modest supper from the same handful of ingredients.
One bleak November afternoon Emily returned from school to find Mick sitting at the kitchen table, elbows rested on his knees, staring at the floor. He lifted his head as she entered and said in a flat voice:
Emily, weve lost our mother.
She said nothing, slipped into her bedroom. At thirteen she knew the disease that had taken her mother was relentless, yet a thin thread of hope clung inside herhope that her mother might somehow endure.
Together they had dreamed of Emily finishing the ninth year and entering a nursing college. Her mother had always told her, Youll make a wonderful nurse, darling. Children need the kind of love you have, especially the sick little ones.
Emily stared at the bare birch branches that grew outside her window, the silence of the empty room pressing in. A sudden wave of loneliness washed over her; there was no stepfather, no relatives, no school friendsonly a hollow that seemed to consume everything.
The following day the mother’s sisters arrived: Aunt Vera, Aunt Valerie, and Aunt Susan, all from the countryside. They moved through the flat, muttering, rummaging through the wardrobe, pulling out their sisters belongings, and spent the evening in the kitchen preparing a modest meal.
Emily sat on her bed. Aunt Vera placed a plate of mashed potatoes and a meatball in front of her, but Emily let it sit untouched.
At the funeral three other women and two men she had never seen before gathered. Immediately the conversation turned to Emilys future.
Mick spoke first:
We were never married to Kate, we just lived together. So Im not a father to her. The lease ends in two weeksI cant keep a twobedroom flat on my own. Ill find something smaller. Now, family, decide who will take Emily in.
A heavy silence fell. The three sisters of the deceased, and her two aunts, stared at each other, words caught in throats.
At last Aunt Vera said, What are we to do? Kate was your sister, Vera, so you must look after her daughter.
Does it matter that shes a sister? snapped Aunt Valerie. We barely spoke twice a yearbirthday and New Years. I dont even know who the father is. Besides, I have three boys of my own; I have no room for anyone else.
Maybe you, Susan? asked Aunt Valerie. Youre short on cash, but the state will pay a caregivers allowance plus a pension for the mothers death. Your own girl, Christabel, is twelve; you could look after both.
No! Susan snapped. Paul and I just moved in. I told Christabel to keep quiet as a mouse, and you want to dump a stranger on us.
No money for me either, Susan continued. Why dont you, Valerie, take Emily yourself?
Im disabled, Valerie muttered, they wont give me a place. Im older than you both; looking after a child would be too hard.
The relatives dispersed, their voices fading as Emily listened from the next room, the bargaining echoing in the cramped hallway.
She realized none of her mothers sisters cared for her. As they gathered their coats, Aunt Susan whispered, If this flat were ours, wed have more chances to help, but its rentedmore loss than gain, especially with all the inspections.
By the time the lease was due, Emilys fate was sealed: she was placed in the local childrens home.
Mick handed her over to the care workers, his voice tinged with regret. Dont hold a grudge, Emily. Our paths diverge here.
On her first day at the home a tall girl with a thick curl of dark hair approached. Youre new, arent you? Whats your name?
Emily, she replied.
Dont worry. The staff here are decent, some are worse, but none are truly cruel. The only bad thing is being alone. Ive been here a monthlets stick together, itll be easier. Im Lucy.
Are your parents dead too? Emily asked.
No, theyre alive, but I doubt theyll ever come back. Their parental rights were taken and weme and my three brotherswere brought here.
Lucky you have brothers, Emily said.
Thats all I can say. The youngest, Tommy, is harmless; the two older ones beat me, forced me to cook and wash while mum was on her deathbed.
How old are you? Emily asked.
Thirteen, three months ago. Lucy replied, surprised. I thought you were older.
Just because everyone in my family is tallgranddad, dad, brothersdoesnt mean were any older.
Emily and Lucy clung together until they both graduated ninth grade.
In that final year they often talked about the future.
I want to get into nursing college, Emily said one evening. Mom always dreamed that for us. Im not sure itll happen.
Why not? Lucy replied. Youve got As in chemistry and biology; youll probably have a couple of Bs on your certificate. And dont forget our benefitsthough youll get in even without them.
Did you decide to become a chef? Emily asked.
A pastry chef, Lucy said, eyes bright. I want to bake cakes as airy as clouds.
Remember when Mrs. Natalie took us to that vocal competition? We won, and it was on TV, Emily recalled.
Yes, then we stopped at a café and Mrs. Natalie bought us coffee and those light, fluffy pastries.
Emily earned a place at the nursing college and became one of the top students in her cohort. In her final year the council allocated her a small, plain flather own kitchen, bathroom, and a room she didnt have to share.
She was elated. She hung light curtains, placed a flowering geranium on the windowsill, laid a bright tablecloth over the kitchen table, bought two redspotted pots, and added a few more pieces of crockery. It was modest, but it was hers.
One afternoon, after finishing her shift as a hospital orderly, she walked toward the wardrobe to change for a visit to the childrens ward when a voice called her name.
It was Aunt Susan, her mothers cousin, the same woman who had refused to take her in.
Emily, hello! Do you remember me?
I do, Emily answered, her voice steady. Youre my mothers cousin.
I heard from Christabel that a girl named Emily Pomeroy won a competition at your college, Susan said, smiling. I thought Id come see if were truly relatives.
Im not a Pomeroy, Emily snapped. And Im not interested in your offers.
Susan pressed on, I heard you got a flat. I have a small favor: Christabel is only in her second year; she still has two years left, and the dorm mates are a nightmare. Could she stay with you until you finish? Wed split the rent and bring groceries.
No, Emily said firmly. I wont.
Youve always been the good girl! Dont you feel sorry for your sister?
Im not the sweet girl I once was. And I dont feel sorry for Christabel! Didnt you think it was cruel to send me to a childrens home?
Why should I pity you now? Ive survived the home, the dorm, everything. And so will Christabel.
At the bus stop they watched the bus pull away, its doors clanging shut. Susan lingered a moment, staring after it, then turned and walked away. Emily boarded, the weight of her past settling behind her as the vehicle rolled forward, the city lights blurring into the promise of a new tomorrow.
