“Stop,” she blurted.
Mrs. Fields hit the brakes. “What’s wrong?”
Emily’s heart was pounding so fast she was sure her mother could hear each valve flapping open and closed. This house had appeared in Emily’s dreams almost every night, but she’d vowed never to drive by it again. It seemed extra-creepy that the GPS had guided them here, almost like the computer knew this house held painful memories. Or maybe, she thought with a shiver, it was someone else who knew, someone else who’d somehow programmed the GPS.
A.
Either way, now that she was here, she couldn’t tear her gaze away. The dog bowl that said GOLDEN RETRIEVERS WELCOME was missing from the front porch, but the rocking chair was still there. The bushes in the front yard looked a little overgrown, like they hadn’t been pruned in a while. The windows were dark, and there were a bunch of wrapped newspapers on the lawn, a sure sign that the family was on vacation.
All kinds of memories flooded back to Emily, unbidden. She saw herself staggering off the plane from Jamaica, nauseated and dizzy and exhausted. She’d figured it was just because of something she’d eaten at the resort, but as time went on, the symptoms got worse. She could barely stay awake through class. She couldn’t keep food down. Certain things, like coffee, cheese, and flowers, smelled horrible.
Then, a week later, she’d been flipping through channels and caught the end of a True Life episode on MTV about kids who’d been pregnant in high school. A girl had felt sick for months but thought it was mono; by the time she’d taken a pregnancy test, she was already four months along. Watching it, a light had gone on in Emily’s brain. The next day, she’d driven to a drugstore a few towns away from Rosewood and bought an EPT test. Terrified her mom would find the evidence, she took the test in a dank, dark bathroom in the local park next door.
It was positive.
She’d spent the next few days in a horrified daze, feeling confused and lost. The father had to be Isaac, her one and only boyfriend of that year. But they’d only had sex once. She wasn’t even sure she liked guys. And what the hell were her parents going to say about this? They would never, ever forgive her.
When her head cleared, she’d begun to make plans: She would escape to Philly that summer and stay with her sister Carolyn, who was doing a summer program at Temple University. She’d wear baggy blazers and blouses to hide the weight gain until school was over. She’d see a doctor in the city and pay cash so her appointments wouldn’t show up on her parents’ insurance bill. She’d contact an adoption agency and make arrangements. And she had done all those things, which was how she’d met the Bakers, who lived in this very house.
After Emily called Rebecca, the adoption coordinator, and told her she’d made her choice, she took SEPTA to New Jersey to visit Derrick, her friend from Poseidon’s, the fish restaurant in Philly where she worked as a waitress. Derrick was the only friend she’d confided in all summer, his soft eyes and easy manner calming her down. He’d been her sounding board, her rock, and she’d told him almost everything about herself, from her ordeals with A to her crush on Maya St. Germain. Sometimes, Emily lamented that she was the one always dumping on him—she didn’t know much about him at all—but Derrick just shrugged and said his life was boring in comparison to hers.
Derrick was working as a gardener at a big house in Cherry Hill on the weekends and told Emily to meet him there. It was the kind of mansion with iron gates, a guest house in the back, and a long, winding driveway made of pretty blue paver stones instead of blacktop. Derrick said the owners wouldn’t mind if they talked in the gazebo, and that was where Emily told him her news. He’d listened patiently and hugged her tightly when she was done, which had brought tears to her eyes. Derrick was a godsend—he’d swooped in just when she needed him, listening to all of her problems.
As they were talking, the back door to the mansion, which looked out onto a lavish patio with a long, rectangular swimming pool, swung open, and a tall woman with short blond hair and a long, sloping nose stepped out. She noticed Emily immediately and looked her up and down, from her frizzy hair to her huge boobs to her enormous stomach. A small, tormented squeak escaped from her mouth. She crossed the patio and approached Emily, staring at her with such a sad expression it made Emily’s heart break.
“How far along are you?” she asked softly.
Emily flinched. Since she was a teenager, most people averted their eyes from her pregnancy like it was a huge tumor. It was strange to hear someone sound so genuinely interested. “Um, about seven-and-a-half months.”
The woman had tears in her eyes. “That’s so precious. Are you feeling well?”
“I guess.” Emily glanced cautiously at Derrick, but he just bit his lower lip.
The woman thrust out her hand. “I’m Gayle. This is my home.”
“I’m, uh, Heather,” Emily answered. It was the fake name she’d given everyone that summer, except for Derrick. Heather was even on her name tag at the restaurant. The skinny, pre-pregnant Emily was all over the Internet, connected to the Alison DiLaurentis story, and Emily could just picture an item about her illicit pregnancy on a local gossip blog, followed by a horrified call from her parents.
“You’re so lucky,” Gayle murmured, staring lovingly at Emily’s belly. She almost looked like she wanted to reach out and touch it. Then, Gayle’s smile suddenly wobbled into a frown, and tears rolled down her cheeks. “Oh, God,” she blurted, then turned around and ran crookedly into the house, slamming the door hard.
Emily and Derrick were silent for a while, listening to the sounds of a Weedwacker next door. “Did I do something to upset her?” Emily asked worriedly. The woman seemed so fragile.
Derrick rolled his eyes. “Whatever. Don’t worry about it.”
And so Emily hadn’t worried about it. Little did she know she would be promising her baby to Gayle only a few short weeks later . . . and then going back on her word.
The furious messages Gayle left the day Emily placed the baby on the Bakers’ doorstep flashed through her mind. I’ll hunt you down. I’ll find you. Luckily, Gayle never had.
“Emily, honey, are you okay?” Mrs. Fields asked, shattering Emily’s thoughts.
Emily clamped down hard on the inside of her cheek. “Uh, I know the girl who lives here,” she floundered, feeling her cheeks turn hot. “I thought I saw her at the window, but I guess not. We can go now.”
Mrs. Fields peered at the yard. “Goodness, their lawn looks terrible,” she murmured. “They’ll never sell this house with all those weeds.”
Emily squinted. “What do you mean, sell the house?”
“It’s for sale. See?”
She pointed at a sign in the front yard. FOR SALE, it said, with a picture of the realtor and a phone number. Starbursts at the top right-hand corner said QUICK TURNAROUND! and OWNERS RELOCATED! and BUY THIS NOW! There was also an announcement that an open house would be held the following Saturday from noon till four o’clock.
A sick feeling rushed through Emily’s body. Just knowing that this house was here, that her baby was nearby, had made her feel comforted and relieved—she could close her eyes and picture where her baby was at all times. But the Bakers weren’t on vacation—they’d moved.
Her baby was gone.
5
THE THINGS YOU DISCOVER IN THE PRODUCE SECTION . . .