In My Father's Eyes (11 page)

Oh, my God,
she thought, looking at the few dresses in her closet, I’m
a girl!

“Emily, there you are,” Mathew interrupted her thoughts breathily.

“What’s up?” Emily said, flicking her spent butt into the alley and standing.

“I have to leave early. Can you run the register receipts tonight…you know how dreadful Roland is with anything electronic.”

“Sure,” She agreed.

“Excellent. Just put them in with the deposits and drop them off at the deposit box on your way home, if you would.” Usually that was Harold’s job, but he’d been away again that day. His absences had become more frequent and he deflected Emily when she thought to question him about it.

Emily nodded and walked back into the store with him.

With just her and Roland left after Mathew’s departure, cleaning and straightening took more time than usual; coupled with a busy holiday evening, they weren’t able to lock up and leave until well after nine.

Waving good-bye to Roland as he climbed into his mini-Cooper, Emily walked across the parking lot to the bank branch at the entrance to the mall. It wasn’t far from the bus stop and with the lot lit up, she didn’t worry too much about the deposit bag she carried in her arms. Most of their sales were credit card anyway and there was little more than a couple of hundred dollars in the bag.

The night deposit slot was on the wall in the drive through lane, and Emily edged through the hedges surrounding the bank’s separate lot. Approaching the bank, she sensed rather than heard the presence appear on her left.

She turned just as something flashed toward her. Flinching, she managed to partially duck but the object slammed a glancing blow on the side of her skull. Hitting the ground in a heap, Emily was only distantly aware of her purse and the deposit bag being ripped from her hands.

Seconds later she heard the sound of footsteps speeding away across the macadam. Warm wetness seeped down her cheek and she reached up feeling the sticky moisture oozing from beneath her hairline.

Laying there for several minutes, Emily felt the buzzing in her head slowly fade only to be replaced by a throbbing pain. The sounds of cars passing on the street rumbled through her cheek on the gritty pavement. She felt sick. Struggling to her knees, she choked back her nausea only to have it erupt a second later as the contents of her stomach spewed on the ground. Her mouth tasted vile.

She found herself reaching for her purse and the napkins she kept there to wipe the spittle from her lips. It took her a moment to realize her purse was gone.

A burst of panic shot through her, adrenaline finally kicking in and giving her the strength to stand, staggering after her attacker and the deposit bag she’d been entrusted with. But the man was long gone.

Unable to think clearly with her head still spinning, Emily felt again for her purse thinking to call someone only to find the thief had made off with that as well.

Oddly, the thought of Mathew sprang to mind and she worried that he would blame himself for her having been robbed. Then she thought of the deposit bag and reached for her phone to call Harold.

Finding her purse gone, she looked on the ground hoping to find where it had fallen. She turned her head and a wave of dizziness overcame her and she stumbled to her knees. The wave of nausea that swept over her was less severe and she managed to keep what little remained in her stomach where it belonged.

The next time she looked up she realized she was laying on the bench at the bus stop. She had no recollection of how she got there. The wetness on her cheek had dried into thick flakes and she pulled herself upright with an effort.

Taking deep breaths of cool night air, Emily sought to calm the fluttering in her stomach. Her skin felt clammy, her knees weak when she tried to stand. Grabbing onto the bench for support, she reached for her purse again, cursing to still find it gone.

The street was nearly empty. The few cars passing ignored the strange girl on the bench, oblivious to her distress.

She looked up as the screech of the bus’ air brakes sounded and the red and white vehicle slid to a stop in front of her, its doors sliding open with a swoosh. Out of habit, Emily tottered onto the bus, using the guide rail for support.

“Are you all right, Miss,” the Hispanic man behind the wheel asked in concern.

Emily nodded, immediately regretting it as the motion set off another bout of nausea. “I’mshh…” Emily slurred. Licking her lips she tried again. “I’m…o…k…” Emily managed, reaching the last step and fumbling through her coat pockets for her bus pass. Her keys jangled musically as she dragged the pass through the slot and staggered toward the nearest seat. The bus driver eyed her through the mirror before closing the door and moving away from the curb.

Emily closed her eyes, her head immediately beginning to spin, the rocking motion of the bus making it worse. She opened her eyes quickly, finally beginning to take in her surroundings. Leaning back into the seat, she felt exhausted but, with a few more deep breaths, her head began to clear and she remembered the attack. Her hand going to her scalp and tentatively feeling the swelling wound above her brow where the blow had landed.

After a time she her senses came back to her and she was able to think clearly enough to notice her surroundings. Looking outside the bus’ window, she realized she was on the wrong bus to get home. The commercial district had given way to the outskirts of a suburban neighborhood. When the bus passed the huge Episcopal Church building with its towering spires, she recognized the area and realized she wasn’t far from Harold’s house.

Yanking on the pull cord, she fought the bus’ motion and used the steel support bar to get to her feet. She made it to the sidewalk without fainting and called that a victory.

The street she found herself on was dimly lit; streetlamps few and far between. The houses were modest but well kept in this older part of the city; lawns manicured and streets and walks in better repair than the ones near her home.

This close to the river, the night had grown damp and colder, seeping into her bones and chilling the sweat trickling down between her breasts. Her face was hot, her back and neck aching and sore. Tottering, Emily walked with purpose; intent on reaching Harold’s house.

A breeze blew against her face, the coolness welcome against her warm skin.

“Emily?” Harold exclaimed at the sight of the young girl leaning against the porch railing. “What are you doing here?”

Lurching from the railing, Emily tottered toward him.

“I need to stop taking the bus,” Emily groaned.

“Is that…what happened?” Harold rushed forward, grabbing Emily by the arms before she could fall.

“I’m…ow,” she yelped when her head hit his shoulder. “That hurts.”

“Come inside,” Harold helped her through the door and into the living room where Emily collapsed gratefully onto the overstuffed couch in the living room. “What happened?” Harold asked again.

“I’m sorry,” Emily moaned, leaning back and closing her eyes. Quickly she related the mugging and her confused journey to his doorstep, growing more distraught at her failure with each passing moment. “And…I just…I didn’t…I wanted to tell you,” she finished, rolling forward, her head buried in her hands. “I’m so stupid. I just wasn’t paying attention.”

“You should have called the police,” Harold advised. “Never mind that now,” he lifted her chin, “You’re safe now.”

“But your money? The receipts?” Emily cried, a new burst of tears springing forth.

“I don’t care about the money,” Harold said. “There’s always more money. There’s only one Emily.” He hugged her, his hand caressing her back. “We need to call your Mother. Let her know you’re okay. She’ll be worried when you’re not home.”

Emily snuffled, nodding into the fluffy softness of the bathrobe he wore.

Harold left her sitting on the couch as he disappeared. She heard a brief conversation and his assurances to her mother. A minute later he reappeared carrying an emergency medical kit. Sitting down again, he opened the kit and began cleaning her face of dried blood with a gauze pad damp with hydrogen peroxide.

“Oh, you’re going to have quite the shiner,” Harold advised, folding the gauze and dabbing at the tender spot over her brow.

“Ouch!” Emily yelped when he patted a little too hard at the lump on her head. “That’s just great.” Emily moaned. “Mom didn’t freak out did she?”

“Ummm…no,” Harold said. “I may not have told her the whole truth.”

Emily looked at him askance.

“Don’t tell me you lied…to my mother,” Emily replied in mock horror, wincing as Harold applied the pad to her head.

“Not exactly. I told her you got hurt at work, bumped your head a bit, and I’d bring you home in a while.”

“Tsk, tsk, tsk,” Emily clucked. “Bossman shading the truth. How will you ever live with yourself.”

Later, after Harold dressed and drove Emily home, her mother fussed over her as if she’d survived major surgery making Emily feel like she was a little kid again. Bringing her hot soup in a big mug and fluttering around, oohing and aahing over the purple and black bruise sprouting around her eye.

Carol had been so thankful for Harold’s solicitousness, she ended up badgering him into coming for Thanksgiving dinner; an invitation Tom was eager for him to accept, and, once they found out he had no plans, his fate was sealed.

Chapter Twelve

“Do you think you’ve made enough food?” Emily asked, looking at the sideboard loaded with bowls of mashed potatoes, homemade cranberry sauce and stuffing, baskets of fresh baked rolls, tins of pecan, apple and pumpkin pies, green bean casserole with mushroom soup and Durkee fried onions. Platters of holiday cookies took up space on the cooling rack.

The entire house smelled of cinnamon and roast turkey still cooking in the oven. Carol wore a red apron with a giant snowman on it over her ankle length flowered dress, her hair already drooping as the humidity in the kitchen relaxed her curls. Straightening up from leaning over the turkey she was basting yet again, Carol looked thoughtfully at all the food arrayed.

Emily laughed, and continued arranging the place settings using the good china Carol had pulled out for the occasion. The sound of a car passing outside had Emily darting to the window for the twelfth time that morning.

“You’re a nervous Nellie,” Carol said. Emily turned back from the window disappointed. “You’re young man will be here. I can’t wait to meet him.”

“He’s not
my
young man,” Emily huffed, twitching at the knee length skirt she’d put on and the distracting way it flounced around when she moved. “He’s just a guy. A friend. And don’t embarrass me.”

“Pft!” Carol replied. Carol smiled at her fidgety daughter. “Don’t worry. I’ll be good.”

Emily gave her a warning look that promised trouble if she weren’t and went back to adjusting the water glasses and napkins on the table.
He’s just a guy.
She repeated to herself vainly trying to settle the butterflies in her stomach.

The doorbell rang causing Emily to jump. She rushed to the door coming to a stop and taking a deep breath before opening it.

Colin stood on the doorstep, Sam on his leash by his side jerked forward.

“Hey, Sam,” Emily bent to ruffle Sam’s mane. “Hi.” She greeted Colin. “Come on in.”

“Sorry I’m late,” Colin said entering. “Oh, goodness. What happened to you?” He asked, catching site of the purple and yellow bruising around eye.

“Long story,” Emily answered, her hand flashing upward in an abortive attempt to cover the shiner. “Ready?” She asked, taking a deep breath.