Shallows (Preview)

Secrets

"What did you say to Saria?" Emerson's mother asked again.

Emerson sighed. "Look, Mum— she's the one who told everybody about me being on the cliff. Saria started the rumor. And then she had the nerve to come here and rub it in my face and basically tell me if I just weren't so different, nobody would've teased me."

His mother closed her eyes and sighed. "And what did you say, Emerson?"

"Just that I didn't appreciate her acting concerned and then spreading rumors. And that while I might be less than the ideal young man in this village, I'm not a complete idiot." Emerson folded his arms.

He realized he probably looked defiant rather than self-protective. He didn't like being at odds with his mother, so he dropped his arms by his sides and waited.

After a moment, his mother sighed. "Emrie, I understand the feeling of frustration, I really do. People in this village have regarded you less than favorably."

Emerson could feel the "but" coming.

"But, son, you always have a choice about how to respond. Now, perhaps your point was a good one, if that's indeed what she did. But can't you think of any other way to have said it?"

Emerson studied the floor. Of course now that the whole thing was over, his mind flooded with other options. "Mum, does she really deserve having her feelings coddled after what she did?"

"After what you think she did. Being kind is never coddling someone. And, Emrie? This isn't about whether she deserved something or not. It's about you being the best person you can be regardless of whether anyone else is. That's all you can control after all."

Emerson gave his mother a half-smile and sighed. "You know how much I hate it that you make so much sense all the time."

She squeezed his shoulder and moved to begin working on supper. "Just think about it?"

He gave a nod.

"Oh, and Emrie? Mr. Hammer asked me if you'd be helping the men with the fencing of the shore again this year. There have been enough sightings already they plan to start tomorrow morning."

"I'll be there."

She laid out some potatoes and an onion. Emerson wiped the potatoes clean and set to chopping them with the large kitchen knife. His mother peeled the onion and then chopped it too when Emerson had finished with the knife. They worked in companionable silence punctuated by sniffles once the onion was cut.

Usually he teased her about feeling so sorry for cutting up a vegetable, but today his mind was elsewhere. He watched as she transferred the potato and onion pieces to a pot before filling it with fresh water from the jug in the corner. She set it to boil on the stove.

"Mum?"

"Yes?"

"When I was at the market—" he broke off and paused for a moment. Did he really want to ask the question that had just popped into his head? It seemed unlikely, but what if there was something to it? "Well," he continued, "one of the villagers muttered something that sounded like, 'that kid has always had a death wish.'"

He watched his mother closely. She merely stared at the spoon she was holding, rubbing something invisible off the handle.

"What did he mean?" Emerson asked. "Did something happen when I was little?"

His mother frowned ever so slightly. "I never asked: does soup sound good to you?" She gestured toward the nearly-boiling pot.

Emerson blinked at the sudden change of subject. "Um—yes—sure. But did something happen or... almost happen to me when I was little?"

She didn't answer.

Emerson felt a familiar panic crawling up from his chest.

"Mum— it's the nightmare, isn't it?"

She looked at him briefly, her eyes showing regret and something else. Maybe fear? "You can work on your pulley. I'll call you when supper is ready."

Words stuck in Emerson's throat, so he turned and walked into his workshop. Closing the door quietly behind him, he leaned against it while trying to slow his breathing. His hands were clenched. They'd begin shaking soon if he didn't get his breathing under control.

He crossed to the workbench and picked up one of his models, turning it around in the fading light coming through the window. He searched every inch of it for an area that he might be able to redesign and improve. After a few moments, his breathing slowed.

Setting the model down gently, he leaned both hands against the workbench.

She hadn't answered him.

It had to be the nightmare. Had he really almost drowned in the sea at some point in his life? When? Why couldn't he remember it?

He could tell the question and its answer disturbed his mother. She had been working so hard to keep her emotions in check. He ran a hand through his hair in exasperation. Didn't he have a right to know what had happened in his own past?

He could push her.

But would her face grow sad and drawn? Would it be worth upsetting her?

Better to throw myself into my work, he told himself. And help out with the fencing.

But why—why—wouldn't Mum answer him?

* * *

Next time: Emerson helps with the fencing, but something is not right...

* * *

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