Short Story: "It Takes Time"

It Takes Time by Abigail Hoffman

December: Year One

I take an unsteady breath and pick up my cell phone. My finger hovers above my screen for a split second between the dial of each number. Why does something that should be so easy feel so difficult? Deep inside, I know the answer. Time, distance, and wounds of the past create barriers. Even barriers between a girl and her only sister.

Her name shines up at me from the screen as my phone puts the call through. I wait impatiently, pacing my hardwood floor from my bed to my window. Please answer. Please do not answer. I bite my lip as the dueling thoughts pound in my head. However, I do not get the option to choose, because my phone stops ringing. Her voicemail sounds back at me instead. Hey, it’s Emma. I can’t get to the phone right now. Please leave me a message and I will get back to you as soon as I can. Her voice is so cheerful it takes me by surprise. It has been a long time since I have heard my older sister sound happy. I close my eyes and my mind takes me back six years to one of those happy times. She was twelve and I was ten. Our mom had taken us to go swimming at a lake near our grandparent’s house. We had floated on rafts, jumped off the pier, and played in the sand for hours. One of those idyllic childhood memories full of laughter and melting popsicles.

But that memory is far away now, I remind myself. So much has changed. My phone beeps, prompting me to speak at the tone. What can I say? I almost hang up. But I realize I have to try. For Mom’s sake. “Hey, um, I know it’s been awhile. A few months, I guess. But I just wondered how you were doing. I hope school is going well. Hey look, I know mom has not said anything since your fight and everything, but I know she would really appreciate if you came home for the holidays. I know it’s only a few days until Christmas, but just call me, please. It’s kind of quiet without you here this year." My voice falters, “Just come back okay?”

December: Year Two

“Mom!” I yell as I search the house for her.

“In here.” Her voice responds from the kitchen.

I walk straight into chaos. A combination of pots and pans litters the counters and the sink. I step around the overflowing trash can and the crumbs that dust the tile floor. The only handiwork of the mess is crowded on the counter— about half a dozen pies in every possible flavor. My mom is the center of the baking storm. I watch her move around the kitchen setting timers and moving bowls.

“Mom.” I say, stepping toward her and eying her up and down.

She rubs her flour dusted hands on her red apron and then turns to check on something in the oven.

She’s ignoring me. “Mom.” My voice is sharper, begging for attention. Listen to me.

Her eyes meet mine for a second and I see her desperation. Desperate for what? Maybe for what was. Maybe to have dad back again. Or maybe to have Emma here again. Maybe for anything. She is just desperate. I feel a lump form in my throat.

“What?” she says, forcing a smile on her face, the wrinkles around her eyes crinkling, “I am just getting a head start on all the Christmas baking. I thought we would give ourselves a few more options this year.”

“Mom, it’s just the two of us. We don’t need six pies,” I motion to the table. Pecan. Apple. Pumpkin. Cherry. Chocolate. What was she thinking?

She leans against the table, shaking her head. “No, it will be three of us,” But her eyes betray her uncertainty as they search mine, “Emma will be here this year, right?” she looks at me.

“I don’t think so.” I hate to say the words that I know are true. I know because I tried. I really tried.  I thought for sure this year would be different. I picture what must be flashing on Emma’s phone screen who knows how many miles away: seven missed calls and ten new texts. All from me.

My mom processes my words and her façade cracks. “What did we do? I know I hurt her, but I had no idea she would stay away this long.” She reaches for me and I accept her in my arms as she starts to cry.

We all look to someone to be our strength. I am hers. Emma was hers. But she used to be both of ours.

December: Year Three

Time is a thief. I think to myself as I look at the pictures on my windowsill. It takes but never gives. I touch the wooden pink picture frame I painted in third grade and gaze at the memory captured inside. It shows my mom, my dad, Emma, and I. We were together. Now I am here. Mom is downstairs. Emma is gone. And dad is gone forever. I wonder what it would be like to be the one who leaves for once. My clock ticks beside me, about to ring in a new year. I turn on my phone screen and hit a familiar contact. As expected, it sends straight to voicemail. “Emma, I can’t do this anymore. I need you. She needs you. We miss you,” I sigh into the phone, “Happy New Year.”

A few years ago, we celebrated the new year all together. It was before my dad died. It was before my mom went crazy. It was before Emma finally had enough. We got those party horns that make all the noise. We probably woke up the whole neighborhood if for some reason they were sleeping before midnight.

This year, I sink onto my bed all alone. I do not even wait until the clock hits twelve before drifting off asleep. As I fade into dreamland, my mind full of happier memories, my phone buzzes. This time, I am the one who has one missed call.

December: Year Four

The doorbell rings and I nearly fall as I bound down the stairs on my way to answer it. Finally! I try to control my excitement and nerves as I pull open our front door. Emma. She stands before me almost unchanged. Sure, her hair is darker, dyed a deep auburn and cut shoulder length. But her eyes are the same as always, full and deep brown. They hold my own in a hesitant gaze.

“Hey.” I pull her into my arms without even thinking about it. We stand there for what feels like forever. Ever since she agreed to finally visit, I have been waiting for this moment. I then take her hand and pull her into the dining room. Our mom is setting the table. I want to stay. I want to spend time in the presence of what I have missed out on for years. But instead, I leave. I let them have the space they need to offer overdue apologies. They need to make up for all the fights they had long ago after our dad passed. Back when my mom wanted Emma to be her everything, but Emma needed to just be herself, for herself.  They need time to heal.  

I walk back in later to find their faces tear stained but smiling. Smiling. Just like all those old family pictures. We sit down to Christmas dinner and everything almost seems like it once was. I feel some of my bitterness slide away. Our conversation is stilted at times, as broken up as we still are. But we are together. We will be okay in time. We eat the ham, pass the rolls around, and drink from the crystal goblets that have been in my family longer than I have. We enjoy each other’s company as only family can. We have four years’ worth of catching up ahead, I think to myself.

Later, I sneak up to my room. Sitting cross legged on my bed, I trace the floral patterns on my bed covers with my fingertip. I needed time alone. The thought that has bothered me since Emma first reached out earlier this year comes to mind again.  I have been trying to reach her for years, why did she respond this year? Why now? Why not earlier?

Emma pushes open my door, forcing herself into my own little world. “Knock knock.”

I keep staring at my bedspread.

She sits on my bed next to me and wraps her arms around my shoulders, “Thanks for making me do this.”

I shift my position to look her in the face and allow some of my pent-up frustration to finally rise to the surface, “But why? Why after all those calls. After all those texts? Why did you respond then? And why did it take so long?” I try to hold back the tears forming in my eyes.

“You had given up. Just like I did all those years ago.” her voice is barely a whisper.

I look up at her, trying to understand.

“I could not let you make my mistake. The mistake of thinking you can fix things on your own. I thought the years of hurt could go away after time apart. But time does not heal everything. It really helps. But it did not fix how empty I felt inside. I was happy to be away from the issues at home, but I was not happy to be away from you guys, you know?”

I think back to how it felt while Emma was gone. I think about how alone I felt having to be there for mom all the time. It could have easily been me who left instead. “Yes, I know.”