Lab’s influence. Emma’s mom wouldn’t have bought a minute of it, if Bree wasn’t such a brilliant actress. Maybe Bree and Jason’s years in theater taught them how to spin the truth into something else, something acceptable.
And they managed to give Emma some time to begin the insane process of learning to live after death. After the formula and electrical charge, everything runs at full tilt, too awake, too hyper, too hungry. Em paced my room all night, carrying Renfield like he was a talisman to bring her back to a normal life. The cat never complained. I think he sensed something’s changed in her and she needs him.
Despite what she said in the cemetery, I can’t quite believe she wants me the way she wanted Daniel. That cry was instinctual, brimming with heartache. I haven’t mentioned it since. Neither has she. But it echoes behind my eyes, gouged in my memory.
Gran and Grandpa acted as though Em was supposed to be with us on Christmas morning. Not even a raised eyebrow from Grandpa. One big charade to cover up what I did, even if they don’t know. How would they feel if they knew their grandson had truly become the son of the man they hated?
On the way back to the Ransoms’ before dinner, Emma wears layers of clothes, and sits under a blanket that Gran sent back with her. Her gifts litter the back seat, the teddy bear and bath products cover her lap.
“I love your Gran,” she says. “I wish my mom would take some lessons from her.”
“And what kind of lessons are those?” The list is long, and I can bet what Em’s top picks will be – before her reanimation, at least. All bets should be off now.
“I don’t know.” Em weaves her fingers through the holes in the yarn blanket on her lap, “How to knit, how to make jam. How to treat someone like they have half a brain and know how to use it.”
“Your mom will come around, you’ll see.”
“Yeah. Maybe even this century.”
Her fingers unwind from the blanket, and she scoops up the bath stuff. Sharply floral perfume wafts through the car when she uncaps the body spray and inhales the scent. “This is really pretty,” Em says, screwing the cap back on. “I never pictured you in that store.”
“Might not see it again, either. All those scents and shiny things gave me a headache.”
She snorts a laugh, a stunted sound, lacking any humor. I get the feeling she’s going through the motions, trying to be the girl she thinks she should. Em won’t meet my eyes. Instead she opens the lotion, squirts some into her hand, then slathers her hands, her cheeks and throat. Her eyes close, and she breathes in the scent. One, two, three deep breaths.
“Are you ever mad at your dad,” she asks suddenly, tone grating and unkind, “for bringing you back?”
Where is this coming from? I know the adjustment after waking up was difficult for me, but this mood swing is completely out of the blue.
“No,” I answer honestly. “I’m mad as hell at how he did it, but not that he did.”
“It’s not natural,” Em’s tone has a hard edge, her eyes narrowed and mean. “Death is the end. Taking a serum every week? Getting shocks to stay alive? How can you not be angry at him for doing that to you?”
My father deserves every bit of hatred I can throw at him, but hating him for resurrecting me isn’t one of them. Yes, it is a constant struggle but I would never have seen my grandparents again, or thought of my mom and her foreign lullabies. Jason wouldn’t be my friend. I would never have loved Emma.
“Do you hate me?” I ask. “Do you hate me for reviving you?”
She doesn’t respond. Em pins me with a conflicted gaze. Anger and sadness and frustration cover her face, twisting her lips, dragging her eyebrows closer together.
I could never hate you, I think. Say it, Em. Please.
“It’s wrong,” she insists. “And I didn’t ask for it. What about the animals? They didn’t ask. They have no idea what’s going on. Can you imagine
And they managed to give Emma some time to begin the insane process of learning to live after death. After the formula and electrical charge, everything runs at full tilt, too awake, too hyper, too hungry. Em paced my room all night, carrying Renfield like he was a talisman to bring her back to a normal life. The cat never complained. I think he sensed something’s changed in her and she needs him.
Despite what she said in the cemetery, I can’t quite believe she wants me the way she wanted Daniel. That cry was instinctual, brimming with heartache. I haven’t mentioned it since. Neither has she. But it echoes behind my eyes, gouged in my memory.
Gran and Grandpa acted as though Em was supposed to be with us on Christmas morning. Not even a raised eyebrow from Grandpa. One big charade to cover up what I did, even if they don’t know. How would they feel if they knew their grandson had truly become the son of the man they hated?
On the way back to the Ransoms’ before dinner, Emma wears layers of clothes, and sits under a blanket that Gran sent back with her. Her gifts litter the back seat, the teddy bear and bath products cover her lap.
“I love your Gran,” she says. “I wish my mom would take some lessons from her.”
“And what kind of lessons are those?” The list is long, and I can bet what Em’s top picks will be – before her reanimation, at least. All bets should be off now.
“I don’t know.” Em weaves her fingers through the holes in the yarn blanket on her lap, “How to knit, how to make jam. How to treat someone like they have half a brain and know how to use it.”
“Your mom will come around, you’ll see.”
“Yeah. Maybe even this century.”
Her fingers unwind from the blanket, and she scoops up the bath stuff. Sharply floral perfume wafts through the car when she uncaps the body spray and inhales the scent. “This is really pretty,” Em says, screwing the cap back on. “I never pictured you in that store.”
“Might not see it again, either. All those scents and shiny things gave me a headache.”
She snorts a laugh, a stunted sound, lacking any humor. I get the feeling she’s going through the motions, trying to be the girl she thinks she should. Em won’t meet my eyes. Instead she opens the lotion, squirts some into her hand, then slathers her hands, her cheeks and throat. Her eyes close, and she breathes in the scent. One, two, three deep breaths.
“Are you ever mad at your dad,” she asks suddenly, tone grating and unkind, “for bringing you back?”
Where is this coming from? I know the adjustment after waking up was difficult for me, but this mood swing is completely out of the blue.
“No,” I answer honestly. “I’m mad as hell at how he did it, but not that he did.”
“It’s not natural,” Em’s tone has a hard edge, her eyes narrowed and mean. “Death is the end. Taking a serum every week? Getting shocks to stay alive? How can you not be angry at him for doing that to you?”
My father deserves every bit of hatred I can throw at him, but hating him for resurrecting me isn’t one of them. Yes, it is a constant struggle but I would never have seen my grandparents again, or thought of my mom and her foreign lullabies. Jason wouldn’t be my friend. I would never have loved Emma.
“Do you hate me?” I ask. “Do you hate me for reviving you?”
She doesn’t respond. Em pins me with a conflicted gaze. Anger and sadness and frustration cover her face, twisting her lips, dragging her eyebrows closer together.
I could never hate you, I think. Say it, Em. Please.
“It’s wrong,” she insists. “And I didn’t ask for it. What about the animals? They didn’t ask. They have no idea what’s going on. Can you imagine
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