Post by Emma “Emmz” Squalor on May 3, 2008 12:47:21 GMT -5
Title: A Child’s Love
Cast: Esmé Squalor; Jerome Squalor; Carmelita Spats; Emma Squalor.
Author’s Disclaimer: I do not own A Series of Unfortunate Events or any of the characters or places mentioned herein. They belong to Lemony Snicket a.k.a. Daniel Handler. The character of Emma Squalor belongs to me.
Rating: G
Genre: General
Story-Type: One-Shot
Summery: Inspired by a one-paragraph prompt that my best friend wrote for me. Emma walks in on a conversation between her parents at the worst possible moment, and it’s up to Esmé to set things right.
Author’s Note: This was originally supposed to be a Mother’s Day story, but it didn’t come out the way I had planned it to, which is why I am posting it now. I might do another one that is actually happy, but we’ll see.
As he poked his head through the doorway of the master bedroom, it was obvious to Jerome Squalor what he was being faced with. Esmé was tangled up in the sheets of their unmade bed, sobbing into handfuls of tissues. For the first time in a long time, she appeared to be completely and utterly inconsolable.
“Esmé,” Jerome said hesitantly as he stepped through the door. “What’s this all about? You’ve been like this ever since you came out of the bathroom.”
“I suggest looking in there for your answer!” Esmé screamed.
Jerome doubled back, too terrified to approach his wife when she was in this sort of mood. He absolutely hated being shouted at— it was too much like arguing. With his head lowered, he turned and walked slowly into the built-on bathroom.
Jerome had half-expected to see it in shambles (which was the usual result of one of his wife’s tantrums), but everything was as intact as it had been earlier that morning. There wasn’t even a crack in the mirror, and the wastepaper basket stood upright.
Of course, it would have been a little bit easier to spot whatever it was Jerome was looking for if he had only known what it was he was looking for. He was just about to ask Esmé about this when his eye caught sight of something sticking out of the wastepaper basket.
Normally, Jerome’s obsessive-compulsive behavior would have screamed to desist with what he was doing before it was too late. However, for once his curiosity managed to override his obsession with cleanliness, and he scooped up a small cardboard container from the wastepaper basket.
Jerome turned it over in his hand, and his eyes widened at what was written on the container: HOME PREGNANCY TEST. Unable to keep the smile from his face, he dropped the container back into the garbage. After washing his hands no more and no less than five times, he hurried back into the bedroom.
“Why, Esmé,” Jerome exclaimed, unable to contain his excitement for even a moment, “this is wonderful news, darling! I don’t understand how you can’t be pleased— unless you’re crying for joy.”
Esmé howled in anguish, and Jerome flopped down into the bed beside her. “’Joy’?!” she repeated, glaring through her tears at him. “What is there for me to be joyful about? Spending nine months being sick and getting fat when I still haven’t lost the belly I gained when I had Emma?”
Esmé stifled a sob, and Jerome threw his arms around her. She shoved him away and scooted as far as she could to the edge of the bed. She didn’t want her husband anywhere near her, not when he was clearly the one who had gotten her into this mess in the first place.
“I don’t want another child, Jerome!” Esmé sobbed. “I already made that mistake once! I refuse to do it again—”
“Mama?”
At the sound of the small voice, Esmé looked up and Jerome glanced over his shoulder. Standing in the doorway with her tiny fist pressed gently against her bottom lip was four-year-old Emma, her single eyebrow furrowed in confusion and her shiny, shiny eyes staring at her parents in disbelief.
“Emma… mistake?” Emma asked.
Esmé, who had never been faced with this type of situation before, looked to Jerome for assistance. He was frowning heavily, and she felt her heart sink. Turning back to her daughter, Esmé said, “Darling, I…”
“Mama hate Emma?”
Esmé felt fresh tears gather at the backs of her eyes. “Of course I don’t.”
“Mama wish Emma never born?”
“No, sweetheart,” Esmé replied softly, and she felt her voice begin to break just knowing that her words had wounded her child so deeply. “I don’t wish that at all…”
“Den why call Emma mistake?”
“Because I… what I meant to say was…” Esmé felt the rest of the words lodge in her throat and she threw her long-nailed hands over her face.
As her mother began to sob, Emma turned and fled down the hallway. She hadn’t gotten very far before she tripped on the flap of her nightgown and fell flat on her face, sliding across the carpet. The rug burned her elbows and knees, and she began to cry.
Carmelita, who had been working feverishly on her term paper for her junior English class, heard the cries of her younger sister coming from just outside her bedroom door. Getting up from her desk, Carmelita went to the door to see what all the fuss was about.
Emma was still lying on the carpet with her face buried in it when the door opened, as hysterical as her mother had been.
“Oh, Emma,” Carmelita said, bending down and helping Emma to stand up. “What’s wrong, sweetie? What are you doing out here crying like this?”
“Mama hate Emma,” Emma said. “Mama wish Emma never born.”
“Oh, Emma, I’m sure that isn’t what she meant at all.”
“Is, too. Emma hear Mama and Dada talkin’. She said she don’t wanna make ‘nother mistake again.”
Carmelita frowned. She knew there was no point in trying to get the full story of what Esmé and Jerome had said from a four-year-old. Carmelita would have to ask them herself if she ever expected to understand what had happened to make Emma so upset. Carmelita then scooped Emma into her arms and carried her back down the hallway to their parents’ bedroom.
They arrived to find a closed door. Carmelita set Emma down, keeping a firm hold on the little one’s hand to keep her from running on ahead. As Carmelita pressed her ear against the door, she could hear the familiar sounds of her adoptive mother’s weeping and the assurances of her adoptive father’s voice.
“Do you think she’ll ever forgive me?”
“Emma is four years old, Esmé. She’ll have forgotten all about it by tomorrow.”
“I didn’t mean any of what I said. Do you think she knows that?”
“Why don’t you ask her?”
The sound of footsteps approaching the door forced Carmelita to pull away, dragging Emma with her. Carmelita put her hands on Emma’s shoulders as the door opened and Jerome appeared.
“I found her sobbing outside my door,” Carmelita explained. “What happened?”
“Esmé is pregnant,” Jerome said. “And I’m afraid that her reaction to it was less than joyful.”
Carmelita’s azure orbs widened. “Really? What did she say?”
Jerome stepped aside. “I don’t want to repeat it in front of Emma.” Looking down at his goddaughter, he continued: “Sweetie, why don’t you come in? Mama would like to have a talk with you.”
Carmelita let go of Emma’s shoulders, and the little girl sprinted into her parents’ bedroom.
Esmé was sitting on the edge of the bed, drying the last of her tears with her husband’s handkerchief (she had already gone through all of the tissues). Her hand was resting on the soft curve of her belly. If she closed her eyes, she could almost feel something kick.
“Mama?”
At the sound of her youngest child’s voice, Esmé scooted up a little on the bed and turned to see Emma standing before her. Carmelita and Jerome were speaking in hushed voices outside the bedroom, but it was only Emma who Esmé had eyes for at the moment; for it had been Emma who Esmé had hurt most of all.
“Yes, darling?” Esmé asked.
“Emma so-wee you’re sad.”
“I’m not sad, darling. Not anymore.”
Emma crawled up onto the bed, and Esmé tugged the little girl into her lap. Emma reached up and curled her little arms around her mother’s neck.
“So… Emma not a mistake?” asked Emma.
“No, Emma,” Esmé replied. “You’re not a mistake.”
“Den what is Emma?”
Esmé didn’t even have to consider this question before she answered truthfully: “A surprise. The most wonderful, smashing surprise there ever was.”
“Mama have ‘nother baby?” Emma asked.
Esmé turned to see Jerome, who had entered the bedroom along with Carmelita and looked as though he wanted his wife to answer Emma’s question in whichever way she saw fit. Turning back to her small daughter, Esmé said, “Would you like that?”
“Emma be big sister? Like Carmy?”
Carmelita smiled.
“Yes,” Esmé replied. “You’d have a little brother or sister to play with.”
“Emma like that,” Emma said, her blue eyes shining even brighter than usual in her excitement. “Emma think that smashy idea!”
“You do?”
Emma reached down and gently laid her small hand on her mother’s stomach. “Emma wuv Mama,” Emma said. “And Emma wuv baby, too.”
Cast: Esmé Squalor; Jerome Squalor; Carmelita Spats; Emma Squalor.
Author’s Disclaimer: I do not own A Series of Unfortunate Events or any of the characters or places mentioned herein. They belong to Lemony Snicket a.k.a. Daniel Handler. The character of Emma Squalor belongs to me.
Rating: G
Genre: General
Story-Type: One-Shot
Summery: Inspired by a one-paragraph prompt that my best friend wrote for me. Emma walks in on a conversation between her parents at the worst possible moment, and it’s up to Esmé to set things right.
Author’s Note: This was originally supposed to be a Mother’s Day story, but it didn’t come out the way I had planned it to, which is why I am posting it now. I might do another one that is actually happy, but we’ll see.
************************************************************************************************************************
As he poked his head through the doorway of the master bedroom, it was obvious to Jerome Squalor what he was being faced with. Esmé was tangled up in the sheets of their unmade bed, sobbing into handfuls of tissues. For the first time in a long time, she appeared to be completely and utterly inconsolable.
“Esmé,” Jerome said hesitantly as he stepped through the door. “What’s this all about? You’ve been like this ever since you came out of the bathroom.”
“I suggest looking in there for your answer!” Esmé screamed.
Jerome doubled back, too terrified to approach his wife when she was in this sort of mood. He absolutely hated being shouted at— it was too much like arguing. With his head lowered, he turned and walked slowly into the built-on bathroom.
Jerome had half-expected to see it in shambles (which was the usual result of one of his wife’s tantrums), but everything was as intact as it had been earlier that morning. There wasn’t even a crack in the mirror, and the wastepaper basket stood upright.
Of course, it would have been a little bit easier to spot whatever it was Jerome was looking for if he had only known what it was he was looking for. He was just about to ask Esmé about this when his eye caught sight of something sticking out of the wastepaper basket.
Normally, Jerome’s obsessive-compulsive behavior would have screamed to desist with what he was doing before it was too late. However, for once his curiosity managed to override his obsession with cleanliness, and he scooped up a small cardboard container from the wastepaper basket.
Jerome turned it over in his hand, and his eyes widened at what was written on the container: HOME PREGNANCY TEST. Unable to keep the smile from his face, he dropped the container back into the garbage. After washing his hands no more and no less than five times, he hurried back into the bedroom.
“Why, Esmé,” Jerome exclaimed, unable to contain his excitement for even a moment, “this is wonderful news, darling! I don’t understand how you can’t be pleased— unless you’re crying for joy.”
Esmé howled in anguish, and Jerome flopped down into the bed beside her. “’Joy’?!” she repeated, glaring through her tears at him. “What is there for me to be joyful about? Spending nine months being sick and getting fat when I still haven’t lost the belly I gained when I had Emma?”
Esmé stifled a sob, and Jerome threw his arms around her. She shoved him away and scooted as far as she could to the edge of the bed. She didn’t want her husband anywhere near her, not when he was clearly the one who had gotten her into this mess in the first place.
“I don’t want another child, Jerome!” Esmé sobbed. “I already made that mistake once! I refuse to do it again—”
“Mama?”
At the sound of the small voice, Esmé looked up and Jerome glanced over his shoulder. Standing in the doorway with her tiny fist pressed gently against her bottom lip was four-year-old Emma, her single eyebrow furrowed in confusion and her shiny, shiny eyes staring at her parents in disbelief.
“Emma… mistake?” Emma asked.
Esmé, who had never been faced with this type of situation before, looked to Jerome for assistance. He was frowning heavily, and she felt her heart sink. Turning back to her daughter, Esmé said, “Darling, I…”
“Mama hate Emma?”
Esmé felt fresh tears gather at the backs of her eyes. “Of course I don’t.”
“Mama wish Emma never born?”
“No, sweetheart,” Esmé replied softly, and she felt her voice begin to break just knowing that her words had wounded her child so deeply. “I don’t wish that at all…”
“Den why call Emma mistake?”
“Because I… what I meant to say was…” Esmé felt the rest of the words lodge in her throat and she threw her long-nailed hands over her face.
As her mother began to sob, Emma turned and fled down the hallway. She hadn’t gotten very far before she tripped on the flap of her nightgown and fell flat on her face, sliding across the carpet. The rug burned her elbows and knees, and she began to cry.
Carmelita, who had been working feverishly on her term paper for her junior English class, heard the cries of her younger sister coming from just outside her bedroom door. Getting up from her desk, Carmelita went to the door to see what all the fuss was about.
Emma was still lying on the carpet with her face buried in it when the door opened, as hysterical as her mother had been.
“Oh, Emma,” Carmelita said, bending down and helping Emma to stand up. “What’s wrong, sweetie? What are you doing out here crying like this?”
“Mama hate Emma,” Emma said. “Mama wish Emma never born.”
“Oh, Emma, I’m sure that isn’t what she meant at all.”
“Is, too. Emma hear Mama and Dada talkin’. She said she don’t wanna make ‘nother mistake again.”
Carmelita frowned. She knew there was no point in trying to get the full story of what Esmé and Jerome had said from a four-year-old. Carmelita would have to ask them herself if she ever expected to understand what had happened to make Emma so upset. Carmelita then scooped Emma into her arms and carried her back down the hallway to their parents’ bedroom.
They arrived to find a closed door. Carmelita set Emma down, keeping a firm hold on the little one’s hand to keep her from running on ahead. As Carmelita pressed her ear against the door, she could hear the familiar sounds of her adoptive mother’s weeping and the assurances of her adoptive father’s voice.
“Do you think she’ll ever forgive me?”
“Emma is four years old, Esmé. She’ll have forgotten all about it by tomorrow.”
“I didn’t mean any of what I said. Do you think she knows that?”
“Why don’t you ask her?”
The sound of footsteps approaching the door forced Carmelita to pull away, dragging Emma with her. Carmelita put her hands on Emma’s shoulders as the door opened and Jerome appeared.
“I found her sobbing outside my door,” Carmelita explained. “What happened?”
“Esmé is pregnant,” Jerome said. “And I’m afraid that her reaction to it was less than joyful.”
Carmelita’s azure orbs widened. “Really? What did she say?”
Jerome stepped aside. “I don’t want to repeat it in front of Emma.” Looking down at his goddaughter, he continued: “Sweetie, why don’t you come in? Mama would like to have a talk with you.”
Carmelita let go of Emma’s shoulders, and the little girl sprinted into her parents’ bedroom.
Esmé was sitting on the edge of the bed, drying the last of her tears with her husband’s handkerchief (she had already gone through all of the tissues). Her hand was resting on the soft curve of her belly. If she closed her eyes, she could almost feel something kick.
“Mama?”
At the sound of her youngest child’s voice, Esmé scooted up a little on the bed and turned to see Emma standing before her. Carmelita and Jerome were speaking in hushed voices outside the bedroom, but it was only Emma who Esmé had eyes for at the moment; for it had been Emma who Esmé had hurt most of all.
“Yes, darling?” Esmé asked.
“Emma so-wee you’re sad.”
“I’m not sad, darling. Not anymore.”
Emma crawled up onto the bed, and Esmé tugged the little girl into her lap. Emma reached up and curled her little arms around her mother’s neck.
“So… Emma not a mistake?” asked Emma.
“No, Emma,” Esmé replied. “You’re not a mistake.”
“Den what is Emma?”
Esmé didn’t even have to consider this question before she answered truthfully: “A surprise. The most wonderful, smashing surprise there ever was.”
“Mama have ‘nother baby?” Emma asked.
Esmé turned to see Jerome, who had entered the bedroom along with Carmelita and looked as though he wanted his wife to answer Emma’s question in whichever way she saw fit. Turning back to her small daughter, Esmé said, “Would you like that?”
“Emma be big sister? Like Carmy?”
Carmelita smiled.
“Yes,” Esmé replied. “You’d have a little brother or sister to play with.”
“Emma like that,” Emma said, her blue eyes shining even brighter than usual in her excitement. “Emma think that smashy idea!”
“You do?”
Emma reached down and gently laid her small hand on her mother’s stomach. “Emma wuv Mama,” Emma said. “And Emma wuv baby, too.”
The End