“No.” The frown got even deeper. “She rules with an iron hand, but it’s through manipulation, not violence. I was so mad when I first got back to my apartment, and I did really paint that picture. In our art class we were supposed to do something with kind of a sci-fi theme for our final grade. I don’t like that kind of thing, so I asked the professor if I could do a cloud like an angel. He must have agreed, because it was right there on the easel in my apartment. I had to have already showed it to him and gotten a grade on it, because that was the last thing I had to do before the semester ended,” Emma said. “When I slashed it all to pieces, I cut my hand on the knife. I couldn’t go back to the hospital or Mother would be angry with me. She was quick to send me away to one institution after another, but she never wanted to take me to the emergency room. If I got sick, she called a doctor to come to the house.”
“You said back to the hospital,” Sophie said. “Why were you at the hospital originally?”
Emma shook her head. “I don’t know. I don’t think I was injured, but I had a fear of going back, so I laid down on the floor and cried myself to sleep.”
Sophie covered the bottom of a platter with chips, poured nacho cheese over them, and added sliced jalapeño peppers to the top. Then she popped the whole platter into the microwave to warm the cheese and thought about what Emma had told her. That had to have been the night that something terrible had happened. She carried the platter of nachos out to the porch and set it on the plastic table between the two chairs.
Emma picked up a chip and popped it into her mouth. “Why would I be wearing scrubs in the dream, and why was I crying? I don’t think I hated the picture that much.”
“Maybe you’re mixing two different times into one memory or dream.” Sophie sat down and reached for her first chip. A wave of worry washed over her. Was she about to hear something that meant Emma needed more help than Sophie could provide?
“I don’t think so,” Emma said. “I’ve worn blue and pink scrubs in centers, but never gray. When a person is a depressive, gray isn’t a good color for them.”
“You picked up a lot of stuff not to have gotten much help in those facilities,” Sophie said.
“I guess I did. But until now”—Emma took a sip of her beer—“it’s hard to explain, but somewhere down deep inside, I know something had happened right before I slashed the picture, and it wasn’t right. The therapist who came to the house after I ran away that day told me that I had something like post-traumatic stress disorder and wanted to know if I’d been hurt or abused. Other than Mother’s constant need to control me, I couldn’t think of anything but those nightmares and the need to get away from a big house. I think that I’m afraid to remember because I know it’s going to be painful. Not hurt like when I felt like my chest and legs hurt, but that mental stuff that might put me into a place I can’t ever get out of. Right now, it’s in a box and locked away.”
“What changed your mind about wanting to get past all this and live an ordinary life?” Sophie didn’t care if Emma’s normal was more like Josh’s, as long as she was happy.
“You did.” Emma flashed a smile that reached her eyes. “You cared enough to march into that room and rescue me.”
“Why do you think you were so mad at the angels in the clouds?” Sophie hoped like hell she wasn’t pressing too much.
“Because painting was my salvation and my escape from Mother, and something took it away from me,” Emma said between bites. “I don’t know why she let me out on a leash rather than hiring more tutors for my college education, but it was wonderful to be free. And I even got to see you a few times. I wouldn’t have done anything to jeopardize that, so something must have happened that I couldn’t face.”
“Were you dating someone?” Sophie asked. “Did y’all break up or something?”
“I didn’t date in college,” she replied. “I was never sure