"a white baby gate, fixed in the hallway, stays haunting the house with the angel we made."
1989.
Everything about this moment was uncomfortably familiar.
Right down to the small, white box she'd bought at a store two towns over (and she still wasn't sure that was far enough). She wondered if the clerk looked at everyone who made this purchase that way, or if that level of judgement was reserved especially for nineteen year old girls on their own, their under eyes smudged with cried off mascara. The alone part was new, at least; last time, she'd had Matthew with her. For a heartbeat, she'd considered calling him, and had pushed the thought away as quickly as it had come. They'd barely spoken in the past few years, not since Emily had kicked the coke. At first, she'd thought they were just fooling around, but it quickly became obvious that Matthew wasn't looking for a buzz. He was trying to escape. When Elizabeth had moved them, again, the part of Emily that wasn't heartbroken was relieved. She checked in from time to time, but holding a light up to Matthew's condition was painful when she considered what had brought him so low. She knew that John was looking out for him, and he updated her from time to time. Matthew's condition was as much his fault as it was her's, anyway.
The sick, nervous feeling in her stomach was the same, too. She tapped her foot, anxiously, as she read through the instructions. The clear, bolded instructions. Some parts were even underlined, presumably to combat basic human incompetence. Two lines was bolded, underlined and italicised. You couldn't get it wrong if you tried, but Emily checked once, twice, three times, just to be sure. Yeah, positive. And there they were.
Two red lines.
The hand she lifted to her mouth shook, and her breath rattled as she tried to inhale slowly but her heart had begun to race.
Emily wasn't surprised, not really. Her symptoms were the same as before. The missed period, obviously. The sore boobs, the nausea and broken sleep. The insomnia had been the first clue, although really it had been nothing more than a fleeting thought. something she had put down to late night anxiety. Only when her monthly magazine subscription showed up, and her other monthly subscription didn't, did anxiety turn into genuine concern and fear. And even then she'd had to wait a few days to be able to make up an adequate excuse for disappearing for a few hours.
And there it was, the answer to her big question.
How was she going to tell him?
Immediately, she knew the answer. Aaron was set to start his new job as a prosecutor at the end of the summer, he was moving to D.C. Emily remembered the expression on his face when he showed her listings for apartments he was going to look at; for a poor boy from Nowhere, Virginia, the big city seemed very exciting, indeed. She'd kissed him, overwhelmed with affection, the sheer joy in his eyes irresistible to her. Aaron was starting a whole new chapter. A chapter they had known from the beginning would not include her. This would change everything, halt his progress entirely. She knew he couldn't help it; he was exactly the sort of man to throw away his entire future and pledge his life to the two of them, to Emily and their child. The sliver of life growing inside of her, the promise of an entirely different future.
She couldn't tell him, because she knew exactly what he would say. That they could do this, that they should try. The thought terrified her. Aaron might be ready for this, might be excited by the idea. What about her? Emily was a year into her degree, so close to carving out a life for herself that was entirely separate from her mother. Holding Aaron back was only half of her reasoning. Everything about this moment was familiar, including the fact that she still wasn't ready to be a mother.
The little white stick in her hand shook as she cried silent, weeping tears, on the beautiful, cold tiles of her ensuite.
The plan came to her quickly, so quickly in fact that one could be forgiven for assuming Emily was unfeeling about the whole affair. She wasn't. Just experienced.
The clinic was an hour away by car; far enough that there was little chance of bumping into anybody she knew, not that she knew many people here. Elizabeth had been stationed here for the summer, and Emily had only returned because she didn't have a place to rent. It was only supposed to be a week, while she sorted herself out. Then Aaron happened, and one week had turned into nine, had turned into this nightmare she was living, now. Still, regardless of what little danger there was, Emily couldn't risk it.
The hardest part would have been keeping it from Aaron, who would have questioned where she was going for the day, and she'd not lied to him once in the short time they'd known each other, a record for Emily Prentiss. Here was the joy of his plans; he'd taken leave to go and look at those apartments he'd showed her, wouldn't be back until Sunday morning, by which time she, too, would be back, and this blip would be behind her. Aaron need never know.
Still, she hesitated.
Elizabeth had given one thing to her daughter, and that was practicality.
Emily's earliest memory was her father's funeral. She was six years old, dressed in a black velvet dress with a starched white collar that scratched throat, and thick, white tights that made her sweat in the August sun. For a child of six, the discomfort was unbearable but Emily had known not to attend to those itches in public. Even then, she knew better than to embarrass her mother like that. But grief is not an emotion that a six year old can control.
Her memories came in broken flashes, and she knew they were far from reliable but here is what she remembered. Brilliant green grass beneath shining, patent leather shoes, a sparkling silver buckle she couldn't manage to fasten by herself. Psalm 23. The Lord is my Shepherd. She knew that one by heart, back then. Still knew it, now. The earthy scent of the white rose she clutched in her hand, and the bloom of blood as she pushed her thumb against its thorn. The smear that blood left on her tights.
She managed to keep it together through the viewing, and even through the service, if only because she, even then, knew how to switch off, how to go to a different place in her mind, leave her physical body and exist solely within her own head. It was only at the wake, when Elizabeth made her stand beside her and listen to everyone who passed through the doors tell her how sorry they were, how poor she was to have lost her father, how much he had loved her, that Emily's strength began to fade. Strength that, years later, she knew should never be required of a child that small.
Even before the tears had really started though, just as her lip began to wobble in the way that only a six year olds can, Elizabeth had grabbed for her wrist as Emily made to cover her face. Slim, bony fingers, stronger than they looked, grasped at Emily's bone, the pain making her wince, but Elizabeth held tight, marching her from the entryway where they were greeting mourners, hiding her in an adjoining room. It was dark, the curtains drawn tight, dust dancing in the air, and Elizabeth had turned to her with eyes that were sharp, clear, glistening only with impatience as they bore into her daughters. Back then, Emily had thought Elizabeth the most beautiful woman in the world, but in that moment, she was terrifying.
"Don't," Her mother, young, beautiful and terribly cold, hissed, "You are not to cry, not here, not in front of all of these people."
It was all that Emily could do not to burst into tears. She barely breathed, too aware of the pain in the wrist her mother still held to say much of anything in response. She remembered, too, the black and purple bruises that had remained for days afterwards. Elizabeth never touched her after that, but as she grew, if she looked hard enough, Emily thought she could still see the indents her mothers bones left behind on that day.
"You are my daughter," Elizabeth told her, as though she needed reminding, "And you have been raised better than this. We do not cry." Emily remembered the spittle that flew from her mothers mouth, landing on her cheek, that she dared not reach to wipe away, although she was disgusted.
Elizabeth taught Emily an important lesson that day. To hold her head up in the face of grief; that it could not tear her down if she didn't let it. So she didn't let it.
And she didn't hesitate for long.
It was different. In Italy, there was secrecy and shame and barely a word exchanged, between anybody but herself and Matthew. It all happened quickly, clinically. Even then, she knew it was because of the religious implications. If one was willing to go through with something so abhorrent, there must be no question, it must be necessary, and the fewer witnesses, the better. So the doctor had barely looked at her, only to register her youth, and, even in that briefest of glances, Emily had seen sympathy. But there were no words.
Her experience this time around could not have been more different. She had expected much of the same. To turn up, sign a few forms, and be on her way within the hour, with that same empty feeling that had haunted her the first time, that same pain between her legs.
She hadn't expected the crowd gathered outside the clinic, holding signs with awful images and phrases on them, branding her a murderer. It gave her pause, as she parked across the street, just out of their range. It was easy to see how one might be deterred by that crowd, by the abuse they hauled at locked doors and windows. They were effective, certainly, and anybody less sure than she would be forgiven for faltering. Suddenly, though, she wished more than anything that Aaron was here to hold her hand.
Emily made it past the protestors, but not without their words ringing in her ear. Murderer, future, soul, choice. It was a choice. Her choice.
When she entered the clinic, and they handed her the form, she checked through it all, swiftly, without hesitation, until one question made her halt.
Have both partners agreed upon this course of action?
Nothing had changed between her decision, and putting pen to this paper. She'd made all of the plans, the preparations, knowing she was going to do this without telling him. Hadn't she talked herself entirely into this? There was his job, his apartment, his future, her future. Emily resolved not to feel anything other than relieved by the time this was over. There would be no guilt, no wondering, nothing but trusting that this was what was best for everyone involved, the child included.
Emily would not subject her child to anything like Elizabeth's regime, and she didn't know how else to parent.
That night, she made it back to her mother's estate with an ache between her legs and a hollow feeling inside that had nothing to do with the awful instrument they'd used to scrape her out.
Under cover of darkness, she made it to her bedroom, without so much as sighting another person. Nobody questioned her; Elizabeth didn't even know she'd left the grounds that day. Aaron wasn't due back until the next morning, and he, too, would be none the wiser.
Everything was exactly as it should be, exactly as it had been before.
Emily cried herself to sleep.