Excerpt. Emma's Choice

Emma’s Choice
Wallinger-Reed, P.L.
ISBN 13: 978-0-9781257-5-2
Paperback; perfect bound; 5.5 x 8.5


Sample Excerpt, © Rain Publishing Inc.



I


The day was hot and humid, heavy with the promise of rain. Emma, however, was in no mood to appreciate the need for that moisture in this backwoods farming community. She already missed the hustle and bustle of the city, the people, the excitement, the constant movement and noise. Most of all, she missed the Pacific Ocean rolling onto a sandy expanse of open beach.
Los Angeles, California, was a long way from Wymore, Nebraska. A long, long way!
The real estate woman spoke with feigned cheerfulness. “It isn’t much, and rather small for four people.”

Understatement of the year, Emma thought as she curled her lip in disgust. She hated every moment of this farce. Being sixteen just plain sucked! Nobody asked your opinion. Nobody cared what you wanted. Nobody gave you a choice. It was just not fair!

The mobile home sat on a large, corner lot that was devoid of any trees or shrubs, at least in the front. It was a plain, dingy-white singlewide, with one step leading up to the front door. A glaring June sun beat down on them, not leaving even the tiniest of shadows to soften the look of the place.

Freshly mown grass testified to the fact that someone kept the property up, but there was nothing else to add visual appeal or temper the harshness of that setting. Directly to the east, bordering the gravel driveway, a huge hedge of lilac separated their property from the ranch-style house next door.

Emma inhaled deeply, letting her breath slip out between pursed lips as she followed her mother, sister, and brother into the dark interior of the…what? The place was—damn! Dump was the only descriptor that came to mind. A wall of hot, stifling air hit her as she moved inside, and she blinked to adjust to the sudden change of lighting. Well, it was definitely–a mobile home.
Her mother, Anne, followed closely on the real estate woman’s heels, obviously trying to keep her expression from reflecting dismay. Her smile looked like she had pasted it on, and there was a familiar nervous tic near her right eye—a sure sign, Emma knew, that her mother was under stress.

“Well,” Emma’s mother closed her eyes for the briefest of moments before continuing. “It has…possibilities.”

Emma found herself wondering just what possibilities her mother was seeing in this pathetic excuse for a home, that she could not. She knew they had to have somewhere to live—their own place. They’d been staying with her grandparents, Walt and Betty Smith, but the house was small. Despite the fact that she loved her grandparents dearly, Emma was ready to leave the cramped little house. Her mother had already explained that nothing else she had been able to find came remotely close to what she could afford.

The real estate woman was babbling on, her features frozen under a heavy layer of make-up that looked like well-oiled, flesh-colored paste. Emma wondered if the ostentatious diamond glittering on her left ring finger was real or synthetic. Then again, she asked herself derisively, why did she even care? Ms. Hoity-Toity could flaunt all the expensive glitz she wanted—big deal.

The woman was talking again. “The kitchen and dining room are to your right,” she said with cheerful enthusiasm, waving her jewel-bedecked hand.

Like what, Emma thought with unwarranted scorn, I could friggin’ miss it? She noted the factory issue pressed wood cabinets and cream-colored counters. They were old but clean.
Wrinkling her nose, she tried to decide what it was she smelled. A faint mustiness permeated the room, as if the place had been closed up for a long time without fresh air. Emma decided the staleness definitely competed with a pungent odor of ammonia. It was a toss up, in her mind, as to which was the more revolting.

The dining room took up the west end of the trailer. Large windows stretched from one edge of the room to the other, looking out onto a barren expanse of treeless grass, and a utility pole at the end of their road. The kitchen area was small but serviceable, and the counter extended out into a small bar with three stools pushed neatly under the overhang.

Ms. Hoity-Toity continued her monologue, motioning to the room they were standing in. “And, of course, this,” she waved her hand as if introducing them to the upper ballroom in a palace, “is the living room.”

Windows on the north and south walls made the room feel open, but even the sunlight streaming in did little to brighten Emma’s spirits. She felt herself groaning clear down to her toes, but she kept her mouth shut.

Her younger sister, Mary, acted as if the same optimism-infected organism that had nailed the Hoity-Toity, had bitten her as well. Considering the circumstances, her face and voice were entirely too cheerful. “The carpet’s nice,” Mary said with enthusiasm.

Emma grunted in disgust, wiping at a drop of perspiration that trickled down her cheek. Mary was always looking on the bright side of things. She seldom made waves or dared to complain. There had been so many times in the past, Emma had wished she could be more like Mary—the child everyone adored. Right now, however, she felt nothing but irritation with her sister.
The real estate woman was rambling on again. “There are two bedrooms and a bath down here,” she said, leading the way down a narrow hallway. Opening a pressed wood door, she smiled with feigned pleasure. “This is the second bedroom.” Her voice was sugar sweet. It grated on Emma’s nerves.

The room boasted two windows set next to each other that looked out to the back yard. The large expanse of glass let in enough light to brighten the melancholy darkness of the paneled walls, but Emma ached to open one of the windows. The stuffiness of the place made it hard to breathe.

Eyeing the room critically, she decided there would be plenty of room for twin beds, but not much else. Then again, she thought, it is not as if we actually HAVE much else. Emma knew she would share this room with Mary. Their mother had already told them Ian would have to sleep with her. He was barely four, so it would probably work. Besides, he usually managed to end up in their mom’s bed at night anyway.

Anne’s voice was unnaturally bright as she commented, “Well, this bedroom isn’t too bad.”
Emma noticed the underlying note of desperation in her mother’s tone and experienced a sudden surge of guilt. Mom had not asked for any of this, she reminded herself. Picking up stakes and moving halfway across the country was a frightening thing, especially with three kids in tow—and no money.

Catching her mother’s eye, she nodded reassurance, trying to discipline her expression to hide her true feelings. She smiled, hoping it didn’t look as bogus as the Hoity-Toity real estate woman’s did.

Emma would have given almost anything to be home—in L.A.—with everything the way it had been before. She wondered where her father was right now, at this very moment. What was he doing? Did he miss them? Her thoughts triggered the ever-present anger. Probably not, she told herself with acidity. After all, he had Erica now!

Next to the bedroom, Emma poked her head into a narrow bathroom. A tub ran the width of the room directly across from the doorway. To her right, nestled behind the door, was a closet with sliding doors. There was no shower curtain on the tub. She could only hope there was a shower attachment. The thought of being able to take only baths was—no way, it just wasn’t happening!..........