Disclaimer: Well, I do disclaim.
A/N: Post-series. Poor Emma got the roughest deal of everyone, I feel.
A Mournful Rustling in the Dark
© Scribbler, January 2008.
The leaves of memory seemed to make
A mournful rustling in the dark.
- Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
It was hardest for Emma.
She spent the morning after Christmas in a state of anxiety. Kate wasn't the type to sneak out. Kate was responsible. Kate was mature – far more mature than Emma had been at her age. While Emma blagged a lot of classes and cruised through high school on wit and charm, only picking up her act as a senior, Kate was a conscientious student who had not only managed to gain access to the elusive Grace, but also pleased their parents. Kate was neutral colours and knee-length skirts to Emma's wannabe punk and dismal poet friends. Having Kate around reminded Emma why she got up every morning – Kate and Emilio.
She felt guiltier than sin, but she was thinking of Emilio when the phone rang. Kate was missing, but the part of Emma that still curled weeping under the blankets pictured Emilio's strong fingers wrapped around his cell. She grappled for the receiver, even though he hadn't called in weeks. His apartment was deserted and his phone-line disconnected. Even his workmates didn't know where he was. She'd lodged a missing person report with the police, wondering why they didn't tell her there was no need because his family had already lodged one.
"Hello?"
"Miss Ashley?"
"Yes."
"Miss Emma Ashley?"
"Yes, who is this?"
"This is Detective Weaver with the NYPD."
The world cracked like a mirror around Emma, reflecting her past, her present, and an assortment of futures in which this Detective Weaver never called her. Random thoughts ricocheted around inside her head, unrelated but compelling: one moment she was thinking No! another How about a June wedding? and then No more empty beds!
She wore a business suit to the hospital. It made her feel more together. Fewer parts of her could ooze out the edges in a suit – unlike casual clothes, in which you could lose bits of yourself from simple things like phone calls and lack of them.
The girl sitting on the bed smiled blankly. There's a crumpled note in her hands – the same one the hospital used to contact Emma. Apparently Kate grew quite distressed when they took it away. All four girls found on Roosevelt Island had one, though not one of them could explain who had written them, why they were on the island or what had caused the widespread destruction that would cost the city millions to fix. Kate's simply listed their home address and number with the sentence 'Sister – Emma (elder)'. Emma didn't recognise the handwriting, nor the girl staring up at her through her sister's eyes.
"Hello. Do I know you?"
Inside, Emma crumpled in ways even her most expensive suit couldn't stop.
Fin.