Page 56 of Wicked Sins

“Hey, sis,” I say through a smile. I pause, waiting for her to answer.

We all took it hard when Emma was diagnosed with intellectual disability and hypertonia. As a baby, that shit isn’t as readily apparent as it is with a toddler. Emma just took longer than most kids her age to sit up, crawl, walk. Speaking, especially, she found hard to do. The doctors say she’ll reach a plateau one day—kind of like a mental peak—and that day isn’t far off. I can’t imagine being trapped in the mind of a ten-year-old the rest of my life but, luckily, Emma wouldn’t know any better.

“Jo?” She’s the only one that calls me that. Candy tried, once, and I’m sure she still regrets it to this day. “That you?”

“Who the fuck else would be calling your sorry ass?”

There’s a breathy sigh before Emma replies. “You’ve been gone long.”

“Too long. And I’m sorry about that.” I pause, but this time it’s not for her reply. And she senses that, little Emma, because she says nothing until I speak again. “You sounded unhappy the other day.”

“Yeah?”

“Like you’d been crying. Are you crying about something?”

Silence. A faint rustle, as if she’s moving around her room. Then, “Sometimes.”

“Why?”

“I miss you.”

“That all?”

Emma doesn’t reply.

“Sis, is that all? How’s Dad?”

“I can’t swim.”

I sit back in the office-style chair—beside the laminated desk, the only other piece of furniture in this cubbyhole of a room. “What do you mean?”

Emma’s not the kind of person to state the obvious. I mean, what she does when she’s splashing around in the pool can’t be considered an Olympic sport, but it’s about having fun, right?

“We tried to send you for lessons, do you remember?”

She breathes heavily for a second, and I can imagine her kind eyes drifting to the ceiling. “Not allowed.”

Now I get it. “Did you ask Dad to watch?”

More breathing. Rustling. “Yes.”

“So, what’s the problem, Em?”

“He’s busy.”

I shake my head. Why is she being so goddamn mysterious? Or is my agitation just making me less patient than usual? I cradle the phone between my shoulder and ear, and work my hands. Open, closed. Open, closed. I watch my knuckles whiten, flood with color, whiten.

“All the time? With what?”

She lets out a long sigh, like I’ve finally asked the right question.

“Fighting.”

I sit forward, taking the phone in one hand and placing the other flat on the table. “What?” My lips are curling up, but I’m not smiling. I’m fucking confused as all hell. “What do you mean?”

“Withher.”

Hercould only mean Diana. But why the fuck is Dad yelling at my stepmom? Has her drinking finally gotten past the point where my father can’t just pretend it’s not an issue? I can’t imagine what that must be like for Emma, witnessing my father losing his shit around her new mommy…although I’m not even sure if Emma even considers Diana her real mom’s maternal replacement. But instead of answering me on that, Emma changes the subject.

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