Chapter 5: Nine Days Prior
Nothing had felt right since Emma and her mother's arrival in London. For five weeks Emma felt as though she had stepped inside a glass bubble, alone and yet on display. But nothing could have prepared her for that final night… when the glass broke and her world came crashing in around her.
Emma adjusted the strap of her shoulder bag and intuitively matched her mother's steady stride, chin up and ears alert. They didn't speak, but that wasn't so unusual; the quiet allowed Emma to concentrate on the sounds and smells around her which meant she didn't have to carry around that stupid cane!
Emma deftly leaned to the right as a particularly fast-moving pedestrian hurried by; they barely grazed shoulders. Five weeks ago, Emma would have smiled to herself—she was getting better! But nothing had felt right since their arrival in London.
Moving across the globe on a whim was not entirely out of the ordinary, not since—Emma automatically shook the thought away.
Her mother, Dr. Claire Hughes, was among the world's foremost neuroscientists and exploited that reputation to further her research… and run from her past. Their hasty departure from Los Angeles and her mother's distracted dismissals left Emma feeling uneasy, but their sudden return to Great Britain—after six long years—
A hard elbow had Emma refocusing her attention on not getting trampled as they descended into the London Underground. Once on the train, she waited for her mother to mention her pending suspension at school.
St. Whatever's School for Girls in London had sounded like every other private ninny's academy Emma had attended. What she hadn't expected was the veritable army of security personnel lining the corridors, mumbling under their breath and making Emma feel less like a student and more like a convicted felon. Even less concerting was the realization that she was being followed, always by the same woman wearing the same perfume, and not always on school grounds.
Well, today she had had enough!
Emma had caught a whiff of the now-familiar fragrance, and with a low growl, had whirled around and walloped her pursuer with her book-heavy shoulder bag. Experiencing a momentary sense of triumph, Emma had smirked when she heard the tell-tale thud of a body hit the floor.
Unfortunately, her victim had not been Emma's scented stalker-woman, but the unsuspecting sixth-year maths professor, who had spent the remainder of the afternoon at hospital with a concussion.
Physical violence, in and of itself, was out-of-character for Emma, for obvious reasons. But she couldn't make herself regret her actions, nor could she say she was upset about a possible suspension. Expulsion would be preferable, but Emma would take what she could get.
Her mother, however, made no comment or reproach and the train hissed and wobbled its way to their usual evening destination.
Emma swallowed a sardonic remark.
Since their arrival in London, Emma and her mother had kept to a very specific, very monotonous schedule. On weekdays, Emma's mother would walk her to and from school, after which they would spend a few short hours at home, pushing their supper around on their plates before heading off to some biology lab downtown. There Emma was left to her own devices while her mother worked on… whatever had possessed her since Los Angeles. The weekends were only different in that Emma did not go to school.
Emma swore under her breath but it was lost in the hissing rumble of the train.
By the time they stepped into the lift that would take them up the thirty-some-odd floors to the laboratory they had come to call home, Emma had worked herself into a temper. When the lift doors slid open with an irritating ding, Emma marched out, bumped into a rolling desk chair and shoved it into a metal desk with a resounding bang!
"Emma," her mother scolded without feeling.
Scowling defiantly, Emma grabbed the chair, deliberately smashing it into the side of the desk.
BANG!
"Emma," her mother repeated, already on the other side of the lab.
"Noticed me, did you?" Emma growled.
Emma could hear her mother's footsteps on the cool linoleum slow and then stop. "What—"
"Remember you have a daughter and not a bloody lab rat?!"
"Emma, watch your—"
"What are you working on?!" Emma demanded furiously. "What's so bloody important?!"
"Emma, you know—"
"No!" she shouted. "No, I don't! We come here every night, every weekend! And we haven't once, not even once, gone to Cambridge!" Emma choked a bit at this.
"Emma—" her mother started softly.
"You are not going to fix me!" Emma screamed, six years of repressed frustration and grief and isolation exploding in a stream of hot tears and roiling emotion. "I am not broken and you are never going to find a cure! I don't need a cure! Dad said I could do anything, anything, but you—" she hiccupped around a sob, "you can't see past your papers and experiments and… research! You can't see me!"
"Emma—"
"Dad could see me," Emma whimpered, angrily swiping at her tears. "He believed."
"Emma—"
"I hate your research," Emma hissed darkly. "I hate you."
Silence swallowed those final, unforgiving words but Emma could still feel them ricochet in her chest, battering at her heart. Guilt clawed at her insides and she stumbled back to the lift, hammering on the bottom button.
"Emma—"
Sniffling and ashamed, Emma slipped through the lift doors and slapped the panel of buttons on her right.
"Emma!" her mother called after her more urgently, heels clicking faster against the linoleum. "Emma!"
The lift doors slid shut with a soft click. Emma dragged impatient fingertips along the braille beneath each button, pressing the one she wanted and then… she just stood there as the lift slowly descended. In the quiet.
Alone.
Tears streamed down her cheeks but Emma didn't cry. She wouldn't. Not again. Never again.
Emma turned her head slightly and tried to imagine the miles between her and Cambridge, between her and his grave. They were closer than they'd been in six years, close enough that for a moment Emma swore she could smell the grass and dirt, could feel the smooth wood of the casket.
She turned away.
They were both running, Emma and her mother. They were both lost.
The lift slid to an easy stop, the doors sliding open with a soft ding and Emma stepped out, wiping her eyes. She could hear the swish of the revolving doors as she slowly made her way across the bustling lobby.
Then she smelled it, that familiar perfume, and stopped, heart hammering against her ribcage.
"Emma!" her mother gasped, approaching quickly behind her.
"I want to go home," Emma told her mother.
"Emma—"
Shaking her head, Emma headed toward the exit again.
"All right," said her mother softly, linking their arms, her tone still irritatingly distracted and… nervous? "All right. We can go."
Emma was struggling to keep up with her mother's unusually hurried stride, her breaths coming in short gasps and she was clutching at Emma's arm as though she was afraid someone would grab her there on that busy London street.
Cars whirred and rumbled by, crunching over gravel and rubbish. People crowded the sidewalk, voices like insects buzzing close and then away again, bodies jostling in one direction or another. Emma hissed when a stray elbow clipped her on the ear.
But her mother still did not slow, even on the Underground she was restless, shuffling her feet and breathing hard.
The streets were quieter now as they made their way home, a brisk, January breeze blowing between the alleys and buildings.
A car slowed and pulled up along the curb and Emma hoped her mother had hailed a cab. A door opened and a man spoke, his voice nasal and masculine with the sharp intonation of an American businessman.
"Dr. Hughes."
It was all he said before Emma's mother pulled her into a run.
© Nickelodeon