Free In My Father's Eyes by Kat McCarthy Page A

she twisted on the earth, hands ripping blades of cold, yellowing grass. “What do you want from me, Em?” She whispered, hoping for some response.
    Frustrated at herself, angry at how out of control her life felt, Emily groaned and pulled into a sitting position, wrapping her arms around her knees, her chin tucked on top she rocked back and forth.
    The conversation with Harold had played in her thoughts since that night. Not just the eerie drawing, but Harold’s words in the car and her denials. She’d known them to be false when she uttered them. Known that he knew they were false. Whatever else their relationship might be, Emily knew that even in the short time she’d known Harold, Mathew and Roland; she’d grown to have real affection for them. Mathew treated her like his favorite grandchild praising her for every little accomplishment and doing his best to spoil her rotten.
    Roland, on the other hand, acted as if she weren’t some wet-behind-the-ears teenager; expecting her to behave and perform like any other adult. Both of them showed a fondness for her difficult to accept. She’d always been on the outside before and this…whatever it was, left her feeling warm and almost giddy at times.
    Her relationship with Harold was more complicated. He listened. So few people ever really listened. Not to her. He was friend and mentor and father-figure all at once; she couldn’t bear the thought of disappointing him, of not having him in her life.
    It was a strange sensation for a girl who prided herself on not needing anyone; independent and self-reliant to a fault. She’d learned the hard way that depending on other people only led to heartache and grief.
    Reaching for her purse, she retrieved her cigarettes, sucking as the tobacco flared into a glowing ember. Flopping back, her left arm tucked behind her head for a cushion, she closed her eyes again and inhaled nicotine, letting the acrid smoke ease out her nostrils.
    What is Emma trying to tell me ? She thought.
    Rolling onto her side, she pressed her cheek to her sister’s grave. Emma? She sent out her plea. Emma?
    She didn’t really expect an answer. Didn’t really think the dead had nothing better to do than float around looking at the pathetic lives of the people they left behind. Nonetheless, she’d always come to this place, to lay here, to bare her thoughts to the big sister who gave her life for her. Didn’t that love carry over even after death? Wasn’t there still some part of Emma that would look after her?
    Love isn’t about feeling, Harold had said. It’s not about thinking or wanting or needing. Love is being willing to believe in the absence of all reason. Love is being open, vulnerable. And love requires faith…can only exist with faith at its core. Without faith, love is nothing more than a chemical reaction in the brain. It’s faith in the one you love and the ones who love you that make love possible.
    This was the one place Emily could admit to herself she was in trouble, had been in trouble and falling faster and faster ever since that day at the lake. Here in this silent repository of souls she could put voice to the fears that haunted her, the loneliness, and the desperate sadness that threatened to drown her as surely as the lake waters had taken Emma.
    Where is my faith? She thought.
    Quietly Emily’s tears ran from her eyes.
    I miss you . She cried silently. Wait for me.
    Emily sat there for a long time. She thought about her father and the years that separated them. Thought about Emma and what could have been. Thought about Harold’s words and the long struggle he had when Lydia died. Somehow he had found the strength to break free, to find his feet again and begin a new life.
    Things were shifting in her, she knew. She’d long tried to bury her guilt and shame, sought to feel nothing at all, only a numbness that allowed no other emotions to touch her. If should couldn’t be touched, then maybe she couldn’t be hurt.
    But