Lonely Hearts

Chapter two: Emma

I hate Sunday dinners. It was the one time of the week when I couldn't avoid stilted conversation and uncomfortable silences.

I nibbled the bouillabaisse on my plate gingerly, pushing the mussels surreptitiously to one side as I ate.

"Are you up for our afternoon walk today, girls?" Amelié asked, even though it was something we always did "as a family". She was big on doing things "as a family". She wanted us to feel at home. Though we would never feel at home here. At least, I wouldn't. 

Lincoln wasn't here to make it feel like home.

"Oui, Maman." I replied, my sister copying me a beat later.

Amelié and Louis smiled at me, and I smiled back. Our usual routine once they realised I hated being touched or held by anyone other than my brother or my sister. I think a part of them still hopes that one day, I will come around, but to be honest, I'm not sure that will ever happen. 

My sister was much more adaptable than me. And so grown up too. When I started needing bras, I took her along with me instead of asking Amelié, even though I'm sure she would have been happy to help, instead, Max sat and told me what colour suited me best whilst the woman at the counter told me to tell her if it fitted right. It wasn't that I didn't like or trust Amelié and Louis, I just didn't feel comfortable about adults telling me what to do. 

Adults let you down. Always. 

Amelié had once told me that she would like to adopt me and Max. If I was ok with it. Only if I was ok with it.

I didn't know what to do.

It had been four years, maybe a little more. Four long years without my brother. The only adult I had ever trusted. Apart from Mummy. I missed Mummy.

We had lasted longer here than anywhere else. But I wasn't sure this was home. How could it be? Without Mummy or Lincoln here?

What was Linc doing now? Where was he? Was he still at the care home? He's only fifteen. Is that right? Maybe he's sixteen. I can't remember. Why can't I remember? Why couldn't he be here to tell me? I wished he was here.

He could tell me all the details about Mummy that were starting to fade. He could tell me what Daddy was like before he died. He could teach me maths and history and Spanish. Not French. I hate French. Not that I would ever tell Amelié or Louis that. They were just being nice after all.

I hate when people are nice. It makes it harder to be difficult. I have to appear nice. I always have to be so nice. So friendly. So sweet. It was exhausting being nice.

I wondered what Lincoln was like now. He used to be nice, most of the time. But he had a temper that used to flare out of control from time to time. But he was always nice to us, he was the best brother in the world.

He was a "handful". That was a word often used to describe him. The carers at the home would always say "Lincoln? He's a nice kid. Charming when he wants to be, but he can be a bit of a handful."

He wasn't a handful like some of them. The ones who used flick knives and did drugs and usually ended in police custody before they reached eighteen. But he was the kind that some labelled "trouble". But they didn't know him like I did. I was his sister. I knew him better than anyone. I knew all his fears. All his insecurities.

At least, I used to.

I had this dream sometimes, where Lincoln leaves the care home and gets a job and comes and gets us. He lets us live in a house of our own with a picket fence and a dog and big bedrooms and massive windows. He takes us to school and goes to work and when he picks us up, we go and do shopping together and we tell him about our day and he tells us about his. And we're a family. And we're happy.

That's all I wanted. All I secretly still wanted.

I wouldn't act like a bitch around him, and he wouldn't ask me if I felt at home because he would already know I did.

If Linc was here, things would be much easier. But he wasn't here. And he maybe wouldn't ever be here again. Maybe he had changed. Maybe he had forgotten about us. Maybe he was busy. Maybe he had a new family, friends, a significant other. Maybe he didn't need us anymore.

You're being silly. Stop it.

But tears still tracked down my cheeks as I walked behind Amelié, Louis and my sister, a strange family that I didn't quite fit in, would never fit in. Would never belong to.

Ironic, I had a family. I had Max. I had a school and friends. I wasn't in a children's home with lots of other troubled strangers. And yet I had never felt more alone.

I missed my brother. But I wasn't sure if I wanted to see him. It would hurt too much. A reminder of all we had lost. The childhood we should have had...together. I had to be strong for Max. She needed a real family. She needed me. She needed me to be strong for the both of us. Lincoln needed me to be strong too. He told me so.

No, I wasn't sure if I wanted to see him.

And I wasn't sure if he wanted to see me.

~*~

Later, whilst Amelié, Louis and Max watched a movie, I went upstairs and got out a clean sheet of paper.

I stared at the paper and wrote the children's home address at the top, wrote his name.

Dear Lincoln,

I stared at the page. Stared and stared. Wondering what to write. What to say. I should tell him that they want to adopt us. I should tell him I want him back. I should tell him to come and get us and take us far far away. I should tell him he's old enough now. I could help. We could get jobs. Finish school. Be that family I had always dreamed of.

I could tell him we're old enough. Convince him...convince both of us that we were adults. That we had been adults a long time.

I could get us out of this. I could try.

But I couldn't. It was selfish. It was lies. Lincoln wasn't an adult. And neither was I.

I stared at the paper until my eyes blurred with tears, scrunched the page up, threw it with the others. I couldn't keep pretending that I was fine.

I wasn't fine. I hadn't been fine for a long time.

And the only people who could make it right again were long gone and far away.

I was alone.

Sometimes, I think I have always been alone.