Emma-Jean Lazarus Fell Out of a Tree Page 9

  “Emma-Jean, no!” Colleen shouted.

  Emma-Jean started climbing down, but in her haste her foot slipped. She fell back into the cold air—down, down, down. And then she was lying in the cold dirt, staring up at the bright winter sky.

  Chapter 21

  Emma-Jean lay on her back, her head turned so that her left ear was pressed to the ground. There was an entire world in the dirt, filled with dramatic scenes of birth, survival, and often violent death. When she was younger, before she began her close studies of her fellow students, she had spent most of her time studying the natural world around her. She would lie in the grass, often for hours at a time, studying ants and worms and bees and beetles, the movement of the blades of grass in the wind, the shadows cast by the robins and jays and doves that flew overhead. Every moment was unique, Emma-Jean discovered, and captivating. And yet it was true that most people, including her sensible mother, paid no attention to the natural world around them.

  Yet her father had paid attention. Often he had joined her in the grass, lying next to her, very still, alert. Emma-Jean tried to conjure the presence of her father next to her, the warmth of his shoulder touching hers, the feeling of their fingers intertwined, the sound of his voice whispering, his low, rumbling laugh. But she couldn’t. Her father had slipped away from her.

  “Emma-Jean! Are you okay? Oh gosh!”

  Colleen Pomerantz.

  Emma-Jean closed her eyes as Colleen knelt down next to her, so close that Emma-Jean felt warmed by Colleen’s body. She felt Colleen’s fingers softly brush against her hair. Colleen was sobbing still, but softer. “I’m so sorry!” she whispered. “I’m so sorry!”

  A car pulled up. A door slammed and footsteps shook the ground.

  “Oh my Lord! What’s happened!” yelled a loud, shrill voice. “Colleen! Who is that?”

  “Mommy!” Colleen screamed. “She fell out of the tree! It’s Emma-Jean Lazarus! Emma-Jean Lazarus fell out of a tree!”

  Chapter 22

  Colleen wasn’t a zombie anymore.

  She wanted to be a zombie. Because it was way easier being zombie Colleen than being nice, normal Colleen. Zombie Colleen didn’t care about anything or anyone. Nice, normal Colleen cared way too much about everything and everyone.

  But it turned out that nice, normal Colleen was stronger than zombie Colleen. The sight of Emma-Jean Lazarus lying in the grass had caused nice, normal Colleen to leap out of zombie Colleen. There had been a showdown. Colleen had felt the two parts of her duking it out for control, like in a video game her mother wouldn’t let her play. Nice, normal Colleen had kicked zombie Colleen’s butt.

  But now that Colleen was back to normal, she really couldn’t stop crying. Even after Emma-Jean opened her eyes and sat up. Even after Colleen’s mom helped Emma-Jean into the house. Even after Emma-Jean’s mother came, and took Emma-Jean to the doctor, and called Colleen’s mother to say Emma-Jean was okay.

  Colleen just sobbed and sobbed.

  And now that zombie Colleen was gone, Colleen couldn’t lie to her mother anymore. She couldn’t pretend to be sick. She told her mother everything, from the beginning: how Laura had tried to steal Kaitlin, how Emma-Jean had tried to help, even though Colleen hadn’t asked her to, not on purpose anyway. Emma-Jean had gotten the wrong idea, and written this letter to Laura, and Laura had figured it all out and blamed Colleen, and then . . .

  “I was so horrible!” Colleen wailed.

  "It’s okay,” her mother kept saying. “Everything’s fine now.”

  “No!” Colleen screamed. “It’s not fine! I said so many horrible things to Emma-Jean! It will never be okay!”

  “Please,” her mother said. “You must calm down. It was an accident! Nobody is mad at you. Oh Colleen, why do you always take everything so hard?”

  Colleen just shook her head.

  “I don’t know what to do for you,” her mother said.

  Colleen knew what her mother could do. Her mom could get up out of her chair and come close to Colleen. Her mom could kneel down on the floor and wipe away Colleen’s tears with her bare hands, and kiss her right in the middle of the forehead. Her mom could hug her and whisper, “Colleen! I understand! I’m right here! I love you no matter what!”

  Maybe then Colleen would stop crying.

  But her mother wasn’t the touchy, huggy, lovey type. She just wasn’t.

  Her mother did look worried. And once she patted Colleen’s hand. But that wasn’t enough. Colleen kept crying. She felt as if all the sadness she’d ever felt—all the sadness in the world—was pouring down her face.

  Chapter 23

  Emma-Jean and her mother had gone directly to the hospital. They waited for two hours for a doctor to examine Emma-Jean, and another hour for an X-ray to confirm what the doctor suspected: Emma-Jean had a cracked rib.

  “You are a lucky person,” said the young and competent doctor. He was about the same age as Vikram, and had a similarly soothing tone of voice. “A fall like that, I don’t want to scare you, but I’d say you’ve got someone looking out for you.”

  Emma-Jean didn’t tell the doctor or her mother what she almost remembered, and almost believed: that the branches of the magnolia tree had reached out to slow her fall. She recognized the absurdity of this notion, that she was likely feeling the clouding effects of the medication she’d been given for pain. But this dreamlike memory stayed with her, and she made no effort to clear it from her mind.

  “I promise you’ll heal quickly,” the doctor said, looking Emma-Jean in the eye. “You’ll be back to your old self in no time.”

  “Yes,” Emma-Jean said, as this was exactly her intention: to return to her old self, the person she was before she met Colleen Pomerantz in the girls’ room, before she developed the regrettable notion that she should get involved with her peers.

  She had not solved Colleen’s problem. On the contrary, she had created a new problem, a problem so large that it now seemed to occupy a separate universe, governed by mysterious laws and powerful forces. Emma-Jean couldn’t begin to understand this problem. Even Poincaré, she suspected, would throw up his hands in confusion.

  All Emma-Jean knew was this: Some irrational, emotional force had compelled her to enter the chaotic world of her peers, where the rules of logic did not apply.

  She would not allow this to happen again. In fact, Emma-Jean decided then and there that she would not return to William Gladstone Middle School at all. She would resume her studies on her own, without the distraction of her peers and their problems.

  Emma-Jean and her mother came home after eleven o’clock. The house was dark and silent and the floors creaked as they walked to the kitchen. Her mother helped Emma-Jean off with her coat and into a chair. Emma-Jean watched her mother prepare a can of tomato soup. Her mother seemed to intuit that Emma-Jean did not wish to further discuss the day’s dramatic events. She had told her mother only the basic facts—that she had gone to Colleen’s house after school, and she had fallen from the magnolia tree.

  Her mother sat quietly while Emma-Jean ate her soup. She rose several times to get Emma-Jean a glass of juice, and to cut her up an apple, which Emma-Jean did not touch. When Emma-Jean was ready, her mother led her up the stairs. “Should we go to my room?” her mother asked.

  Emma-Jean shook her head. “I am very tired,” she said.

  Her mother helped her undress and kissed her good night. Emma-Jean got into bed and closed her eyes. Her chest throbbed and her legs ached and her mind felt dim, as though it had been drained of power. She closed her eyes and was nearly asleep when she suddenly sat up. She struggled to get out of bed. Moving very slowly, she stood up and walked to Henri’s cage. The bird had been locked up all day. How could she have forgotten him?

  She opened the cage door. In the darkness she could see only the outlines of Henri’s tiny body as he hopped out and fluttered up onto her shoulder. Emma-Jean was too tired to whisper her usual greetings. She hoped Henri would understand. He leaned hi
s head against her cheek. Emma-Jean stood very still. She reached up and lightly scratched Henri’s neck. But she was so tired, and it hurt to stand. She went back to her bed and sat down. Henri fluttered up and settled on her head-board. He stood very straight, with his head up, like a sentry.

  Emma-Jean lay down and closed her eyes.

  It was not normal practice for Henri to spend the night outside of his cage. But this, after all, had not been a normal day.

  It was past noon when Emma-Jean woke up. Henri was perched on her desk, regarding an exceptionally bright and sunny day out the window. Emma-Jean’s mind was refreshed and filled immediately with scenes from the day before—Colleen’s flowered carpet, the open window, the magnolia tree. With great effort, Emma-Jean pushed those images from her mind. No amount of thought would enable her to understand the sequence of missteps that led her into the cold dirt under the Pomerantzes’ tree. And it made no sense to squander her intellectual energy on fruitless reflection.

  She resolved to spend the day on some of the hobbies that she had neglected these past weeks. She was eager to resume her old routines.

  Her mother, who had taken the day off from work, helped her dress and made her an egg for breakfast. She suggested that they go to a movie, or take a drive, but Emma-Jean declined. She went back up to her room, sat down at her desk, and looked out the window. She began reciting the names of all of the flora and fauna she could see. She started with just the trees: Bradford pear, possumshaw holly, river birch, dogwood, pine, ash. She recited the names out loud, followed by the Latin names—pyrus callerana, ilex desidua, betula nigra, cornis florida . . . Her mind started to drift. She thought of Colleen. She thought of Will Keeler, and what preparations he might be making for basketball camp. She thought of Vikram and his mother and the mango tree outside their home. She thought of Ms. Wright and the interesting insights she might have into the last chapters of To Kill a Mockingbird.

  Emma-Jean redoubled her efforts to remain focused on the flora and fauna, but now she wondered about the point of this activity. It had been enjoyable when she and her father had stood in the yard together, reciting the names like a song, faster and faster, until one of them began to laugh.

  But what was the point of reciting them over and over by herself?

  She sat at her desk and took out her sketchpad, paging through the drawings she’d made over the years. There were detailed studies of many tree species, including some exotic varieties. Some of the drawings had taken days to complete, days on which Emma-Jean had been so engrossed that she had barely eaten or even looked up from the paper. Now her drawings failed to inspire her. She could not imagine picking up a pencil and applying it to the paper.

  Worst of all was the sight of her father’s dogwood tree, which had always filled her with calm. Now looking at it made her angry. Her heart began to race.

  She did not want her father’s tree. She did not want her father’s photographs or his books or his briefcase.

  She wanted her father.

  And right then it hit her, the most outlandish, illogical notion of all: that her father was gone from this world, and that Emma-Jean had been left behind to live without him.

  Chapter 24

  Colleen’s mother had woken her up at 9:00 with a gentle pat on the head.

  Colleen’s eyes were so swollen, she could barely open them. Her pillow was damp.

  “Can you get dressed right now?” her mother said. “I made you an English muffin that you can eat in the car.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “To talk to someone.”

  Colleen figured they were going to see Emma-Jean, but she was wrong.

  “No!” Colleen cried as they pulled into the parking lot of St. Mary’s Church. “Not confession!”

  “You’re not going to confession,” her mother said. “You’re going to talk to Father William.”

  Colleen wailed. “I don’t want him to know!”

  “Colleen!” her mother said, unbuckling her seat belt. “Please! Father William can help you.”

  Colleen let her mother lead her through the church’s carved metal door, and down a small, creaking staircase that led to the rectory. Mrs. White, the ninety-four-year-old church secretary, smiled and loudly told them to just have a seat. Colleen sat down on one of the metal chairs, but her mother did not.

  “I want you to talk to him by yourself,” she said.

  Colleen grabbed her mother’s wrist. “But . . .”

  Her mother removed Colleen’s hand, holding it for a second before letting go.

  “It’s better this way, Colleen.” Her voice was gentle and her eyes were wide open. For the first time in her life Colleen realized that she and her mom had exactly the same hazel-colored eyes. “Talk to Father William, Colleen. Let him help you.”

  Her mom turned to leave, but then suddenly reached out and took Colleen by the shoulders and pulled her into her scratchy wool coat. “I’ll be right in the car waiting, if you need me,” she said, letting go and hurrying out the door.

  Colleen almost ran out after her, but then she heard a door open.

  “Colleen? How did you know I needed a little light in my day?” Father William stood smiling, his collar a little crooked, his thick gray hair not quite combed. Hanging from his neck were his reading glasses and also the carved wooden cross he’d gotten in Guatemala, where he’d been in the Peace Corps. At youth group meetings he’d take it off and let the kids try it on.

  Colleen held back her tears until they had stepped into the small office and Father William had closed the door. Then, for the millionth time, she started to sob.

  Father William did not try to stop her. He leaned close to her as she cried, patting her arm. Somehow, she sputtered out the whole story.

  “And that’s why Emma-Jean fell out of the tree,” she said finally.

  “But I understand from your mother that Emma-Jean is all right.”

  Colleen nodded.

  “But here’s the thing, what I’ve realized . . .” She took a deep, hiccupping breath. “I’m really not a good person, Father William. I try to be, but inside I’m really not.” She gulped hard and came out with the rest. “I don’t really care about other people. Mainly I think I care about myself.”

  She knew Father William would shake his head in disappointment, like he did during his sermons, when he spoke about people who were greedy and didn’t care about the environment.

  “I’m so, so sorry, Father William,” she said, dropping her head, afraid to see the look on his face. Probably he would ask her to leave the youth group.

  “Oh, it’s a struggle, isn’t it?” he said.

  “What is?”

  “To be kind. To do the right thing.”

  Here it comes, Colleen thought.

  “We’re all a little selfish, a little thoughtless and unkind,” Father William went on. “I know I am.”

  “You?”

  She looked at him. He did not look totally disappointed. He wasn’t exactly smiling, but he wasn’t not smiling either.

  “Some days I’m a little tired, or impatient, and when someone comes to me with a problem, I don’t give them the attention I should. I make them feel like their problem is silly.”

  “Really?” Colleen said.

  Father William nodded. “And sometimes, when that good woman Mrs. White doesn’t wear her hearing aid, and she can’t hear one thing I say, or the phone ringing, or that someone’s knocking on the door, I get impatient with her.”

  Colleen nodded. Mrs. White was so sweet. She hoped Father William never made Mrs. White feel embarrassed about being practically deaf.

  “But here’s what happens to me. Can I tell you?”

  Colleen nodded.

  “I realize I’ve behaved in a shabby way, and I feel lousy about it. I sit here, right in this chair, and think to myself, well, Bill, you blew it!”

  Colleen watched Father William closely. Her bangs were limp and soggy from all her crying, so she pus
hed them back.

  “I remember that I can make things right again. I call that person with the little problem. And I say, gee, Max—I’ll call him Max—I was thinking about your problem, and I’d like to talk about it a little more. And we have a good talk and by the time we’re ready to hang up, I can tell he feels better.”

  Colleen was sure that person felt better after talking to Father William, just like Colleen was starting to feel better now.

  “And when I’ve been a little short with Mrs. White, I sneak out and buy her some chocolates. And not the cheap kind. She loves those samplers, with the soft centers. Do you like those?”

  “I love those!”

  “Me too,” Father William said, taking a sip of water from the tall glass on his desk.

  Father William took the box of tissues from his bookshelf and held it out to Colleen. She took one and gave her nose a good blow.

  “I will apologize to Emma-Jean,” Colleen said, wiping her nose. “I mean, I already did, but I’ll make it up to her.”

  “I’m sure you will.”

  Colleen would! She would invite Emma-Jean over and they would make popcorn balls or bead necklaces or . . . they could sit and look at trees, if that’s what Emma-Jean wanted to do. Who knew? Maybe that was really fun! And Colleen would tell Kaitlin and Valerie and Michele how Emma-Jean had tried to help her, and that once they got to know Emma-Jean they’d see that she wasn’t so weird, not really, and even if she was a little weird, she was such a good person, it didn’t matter.

  Colleen’s mother was so smart to have brought her to talk to Father William!

  “I’ve known you your whole life, haven’t I?” Father William said.

  Of course he had. He had baptized Colleen when she was just a few weeks old.

  “And I’m looking at you now, and I can tell you, with great authority, that you are a very fine human being.”

  “Really?” Colleen said. She tried not to smile, but she couldn’t stop herself. “It is so nice of you to say that.”