Mr. Mercer took Emma’s hand in his and squeezed. “That really wasn’t how I wanted you to meet your mother,” he said.
“Yeah,” she muttered, looking out the passenger window. She could just make out the hole Mr. Mercer had dug in the lawn before his accident. He’d been planning to plant something there, but in the dark it looked like a fresh grave.
“I’m so sorry,” Mr. Mercer went on. “It must have been hard to see her like that.”
Emma didn’t say anything. Her body felt bruised and weak. She’d always imagined she might look for her mother someday, track her down with a private investigator or maybe by herself, with her own research skills. Sometimes in her fantasies, she told Becky off for abandoning her. Sometimes she ran to her, threw her arms around her neck, and all was forgiven. But never in all her daydreams had she pictured it like this.
After a long pause, Mr. Mercer spoke again. “I’m going to visit her tomorrow. Hopefully they’ll have stabilized her a little and she’ll be more coherent. Do you want to come with me?”
Emma bit her lip. She had questions she wanted to ask Becky, but nothing she could ask in front of her grandfather. And what if Becky kept calling her Emma? Someone might start trying to figure out whom Becky was referring to. In her deluded state, Becky might say anything—even that Sutton had a twin named Emma. And then what?
Mr. Mercer gave her an understanding look and squeezed her hand. “You don’t have to decide right now.” He undid his seat belt. “We’d better go in. Mom’s probably worried.”
Emma squinted in the harsh bright light in the foyer. Down the hall, she saw Laurel perched on a stool at the kitchen island, wearing her favorite terrycloth robe. Mrs. Mercer was standing behind her, pouring tea into two pineapple-shaped mugs. She almost dropped the kettle when she saw them.
“Where have you been?” she demanded. “It’s after midnight. Why didn’t you call? I tried you a thousand times.”
Looking abashed, Mr. Mercer pulled his phone from his pocket, scrolling through the missed calls. Emma didn’t have to look at hers to know that there were probably a dozen calls from her mother on the screen. “I’m so sorry, honey,” he mumbled.
Laurel narrowed her eyes at Emma, giving her a long, scrutinizing look. She pointed to something on Emma’s jacket. “What’s that?”
Emma looked down. The hospital visitor badge was pinned to her lapel. She caught her breath. She’d been so tired on the way home that she hadn’t remembered to take it off. She tried to slide it into her pocket, but it was too late.
“You were at the hospital?” Mrs. Mercer demanded.
Mr. Mercer and Emma exchanged glances. He waited a beat too long before speaking. “Look, I didn’t want to bother you, but I was feeling a lot of pain in my knee. I went in to have it checked out and see if I could get some meds from the pharmacy. I’m so sorry we didn’t call, honey. The signal in the hospital is awful, and we lost track of time.”
The clock over the kitchen table ticked noisily. Drake, the family’s Great Dane, rose from his dog bed, shook out his coat, and then lay down again. Mrs. Mercer stood with her arms crossed over her chest. Emma wondered if this was how Mrs. Mercer had spent her evenings when she was raising Becky—up late, making tea she was too nervous to drink, waiting for bad news to come in the door. She felt a flare of guilt for making her grandmother worry.
Finally Mrs. Mercer sighed and turned to Emma. “Well, it was your night to walk Drake, Sutton. It’s too late for that, but the least you can do is to take him out to the yard.”
Emma nodded. “Come on, boy.”
The Great Dane lazily stood once more. Emma slid open the door to the backyard and followed him out into the night.
While he sniffed along the fence, Emma flopped into a wrought-iron chair and stared at the stars. As a little girl, she’d had a habit of naming the stars after things in her own life. There were the Teacher Star, a pretty twinkling one she’d named after Ms. Rodehaver, her beloved third-grade teacher. There were the Bully Star and the Brat Star, which she’d named for particularly awful classmates, stars consigned to the edges of the sky and washed out by light pollution. And then there was the Emma Star, and the Mom Star, and the Dad Star, three stars twinkling close to one another but not quite together. She had made up stories about why they had to exist apart from one another—one in Orion’s Belt, another just a little left of what Ethan had told her was Venus. In her stories, they were apart because they had to break a curse or solve a riddle or go on a pilgrimage in order to reunite. They always ended up together in the end.
After seeing her mother tonight, Emma was no longer so sure her story would have a happy ending.
“So what were you really doing tonight?”
Emma jumped and turned, catching a whiff of tuberose lotion. Laurel stood behind her, the porch light making a halo around her honey-blond head.
“Was Dad’s knee actually acting up?” Laurel asked. “Or was he covering for you, just like old times?”
Emma squinted, trying to read Laurel in the darkness. “There was nothing to cover up,” she said in a clear, firm voice. “Dad’s knee hurt, we went to the hospital. Why would I lie about something like that?”
Laurel shifted her weight. “Gee, I don’t know, Sutton. I don’t know why you lie about half the things you lie about. You only invented a whole, you know, game about it.”
“A game you begged to be in, if I remember correctly.”
“All right, all right, touché.” Laurel pulled her robe more tightly around her shoulders, then sat down in a chair next to Emma’s. A light breeze riffled through the wind chimes hanging over the patio. “You know you can trust me. What are these secrets about?”
In the porch light Emma could see Laurel’s face, earnest and hopeful, and for a minute Emma considered telling Laurel about Becky. Maybe not the whole truth—not about Becky calling her by her real name—but what would it hurt to tell Laurel that she’d met her birth mother? Sutton might have told her adopted sister, too, once she got over the initial shock.
But if Becky really was responsible for Sutton’s death, the less Laurel knew, the safer she’d be. Emma gazed out over the yard, where Drake was circling the birdbath.
“Okay. You’ve found me out,” she said. “We were rehearsing for the Father-Daughter Roller Derby. His derby name is Doctor Feelbad, but I’m torn between Paris Hellton and Nicole Bitchy. What do you think?”
“Liar!” Laurel punched her in the arm, but she was laughing. The tension dissipated.
“I’m not sure we have a shot with Dad’s leg in a brace, but we’re going to go for it. Reach for the stars, that’s what I always say,” Emma went on with a smile.
Laurel grabbed a cushion from the porch swing and hit at Emma with it. Emma ducked and squealed, grabbing a pillow of her own in retaliation. By the time Drake trotted up to the patio to investigate, they were both giggling and throwing cushions at each other from opposite sides of the deck chair.
“Girls?” Mrs. Mercer’s silhouette appeared in the doorway. “What are you doing? You’re going to wake up the neighborhood. Drake, get inside. Laurel, Sutton, go to bed.”
The door shut firmly. Emma and Laurel exchanged glances, and then collapsed into silent laughter.
I watched my sisters with a sad pang, wishing I were there between them. I marveled at my twin’s ability to defuse Laurel’s frustration. I’d never been able to do that.
“Sutton,” Laurel whispered, pushing her away so she could look into her eyes. “Whatever’s going on … just tell me if I can help, okay?”
Emma thought about denying that there was anything going on, but then she bit her lip. “Okay,” she said.
Then they stood and strode toward the brightly lit kitchen while I, their silent third sister, trailed unseen behind them.
10
TEA FOR TWO
The next day after school, Emma skipped tennis and drove straight home. The house was quiet when she arrived, the soft ticking of the grandfather clock echoing through the foyer. When her phone beeped, piercing the silence, she jumped. She had a new text from Ethan: I DIDN’T SEE YOU AT TENNIS PRACTICE. EVERYTHING OK?
YEAH, JUST TRYING TO GET SOME REST, Emma wrote back. She hadn’t gotten much sleep last night, haunted by nightmares of being strapped to a hospital bed.
HOW ARE YOU HOLDING UP?
Emma’s fingers hovered over the keyboard. She’d quickly told Ethan about Becky in the hallway that morning, not wanting to go into much detail because she wasn’t sure who might be listening—she doubted the story of Sutton Mercer’s crazy mother was something Sutton would have wanted to become common knowledge. Ethan had given her a huge hug. “I’m so sorry you had to deal with that,” he’d said, and she’d felt just a little better, knowing that he was there for her.
I’M FINE, she finally wrote. BUT I MISS YOU. I CAN’T WAIT FOR OUR PICNIC TONIGHT.
ME NEITHER, he responded. SEE YOU AT 8?
After Emma texted YES, she shut the door softly. Drake loped into the foyer, his long tail waving behind him. She stroked the smooth short fur around his ears. “Hey, buddy,” she whispered.
He raised his head to lick her face. When she started up the stairs to Sutton’s room, he followed, his nails clattering noisily on the hardwood.
The stairwell was hung with family pictures: images of the vacations the Mercers had taken over the years to Disneyland, Paris, Maui, mixed in with snapshots of Christmas mornings and school awards ceremonies. Emma stopped absently to straighten a school picture of a seven-year-old Sutton in pigtails. Even then Sutton’s smile looked mischievous, like she knew just how much she could get away with.
Emma was halfway up the stairs when Mrs. Mercer stepped into the hall with a basket of laundry in her arms. She had changed out of the sleek, tailored work suit she’d worn this morning into a pair of dark-wash jeans and a short-sleeved cashmere sweater. When she saw Emma on the stairs, she looked startled. “Sutton!” she exclaimed. “What are you doing home?”
Emma rested her hands on the banister. “I have a headache, so I skipped tennis.” It wasn’t too far from the truth. The episode with Becky had shaken her to her core.
Seeing Mrs. Mercer’s concerned frown, she added, “I’m okay. I took some aspirin and I’m already feeling better. Just not up to running around a hot tennis court.” Then she cocked her head. “What are you doing home?”
Mrs. Mercer smiled. “I cut out of work early today. There was a meeting on the books that I just couldn’t bring myself to sit through.”
“I guess we’re both playing hooky,” Emma joked.
Mrs. Mercer shifted the laundry basket to one arm. “Why don’t you join me for some tea? I was just about to sit down for a cup.”
Emma had actually come home to try to refocus—she needed to be able to think logically if she was going to find out what had really happened to Sutton. She’d been looking forward to some time alone, relaxing in Sutton’s bedroom, but she didn’t feel like she could turn down the offer. “Sure.”