Free Reinventing Emma by Emma Gee Page A

I will be asleep. Whether I wake or not, I’ll be free from this time bomb that’s haunted me over the last few months.
    6.20am …
    Dear Diary, I feel like I’m waiting for a death sentence. But I’m going to live. I am going to turn frowns into smiles. I am determined to help people like I never have. I am going to get the chance to reciprocate all my family and friends’ amazing support.
    I closed my diary and put it on my bedside table then sandwiched myself between the stale sheets. I lay like a corpse, stiff and cold. I closed my eyes, reminding myself that today’s the day that I have been waiting for.
    I didn’t hear my family enter the room. Normally I could hear Mum’s voice a block away, but even she was speechless. They entered slowly, the quiet before the storm. We were all dreading that day.
    My body was frozen cold. Stiff with fear. I turned to face them and opened my eyes, finally letting my tears escape. Bec entered first. Mum, Dad and Kate followed close behind.
    â€œHey Em,” Bec said, unusually softly, tears rising but her pitch remaining flat. Mum saw my expression and quickened her pace. “Oh Em, how did you sleep?” She gave me a tight hug, folding my posture upright.
    Initially, I didn’t return her hug, scared that if I did I wouldn’t be able to let go. In no time every limb of mine is grasped by my family – my feet, my hands, my head. My dad holds my shoulder. I can no longer not reciprocate. I squeeze my hands, wriggle my toes and return Mum’s hug.
    Dad’s the first to break free from this family embrace. He pats my left shoulder and sits down in the green vinyl chair at the end of my bed. He crosses his arms, tight.
    Kate perches on the end of my bed, she clasps her hands tightly around both my ankles. Mum holds my hands; her warmness engulfs my frozen limbs. In fact, she hasn’t let go since entering the room, her handbag is still over her shoulder.
    Bec gravitates from sitting to pacing to the door and back. Each time she gets up the plastic hospital sheets rustle. That and the tick of the clock and the distant buzzes of nurses’ bells are the only sounds that enter the dread bubble we seem to all be in. It’s almost like if we stay still and silent, we will delay time.
    8.30 passes. Dad leaves to buy everyone coffees. Everyone but me. I am only allowed the little white tablets. I need something to fill my belly, there is too much room, the butterflies have become gigantic bats and are rapidly breeding and colliding.
    By 9.30 Mum starts pacing the tiny room, “This is crazy,” she says, looking out the door to her left and right like she is crossing a busy road.
    â€œIt’s OK, Lyn; he’ll come when he’s ready,” Dad says calmly from a visitor chair at the end of my bed. I wish Dad’s calmness was contagious. We make small talk about the weather, the traffic, if the washing will dry, but the conversation is eventually exhausted. Eerie silence prevails.
    â€œWhat’s the time now?” I eventually ask, my voice shaky and high pitched with escalating fear.
    Dad responds immediately, almost too quickly. He uncrosses his arms and glances at his silver wrist watch and gently puts his hand on my foot and says, “Close to 10am Em.”
    Out of everyone in the room Dad had looked quite relaxed. But his fast response proves that this seemingly calm posture is just a façade. I know he is being strong for all of us; that has always been his role in this family. But now his position is being tested. I nod and gulp, guilty for making him feel so awkward.
    We all resume our positions in the room. Bec now moves up to sit near my torso and Kate and Mum’s grip seems to only tighten. I need to go to the bathroom but I choose to hold on. I don’t want to spend a second away from these people I love. Separation anxiety is peaking.
    When the clock reads 10.30 I know that any minute