My Name Was Emily (7)

 Emily

I was now looking at myself again — or looking at Lizzie, I guess you could say. I didn't like the fact that I'd had surgery, but I couldn't hate the face that I saw in the mirror. I'd spoken to her memory often in private. Now I could actually see her again. It was almost like we were reunited.

I'd imagined Lizzie talking to me once: "I know what they did wasn't fair," she'd said, looking in my eyes as I stared in the glass, "but love them, Em. Love them for me. Heal their pain. Heal yours too."

Afterward, I'd let my eyes settle on the floor for a while. Maybe I needed to accept this life. Why was I clinging to the past anyway? Emily wasn't a happy girl. It seemed I had a couple of options here. I could keep stewing, and likely go nuts, or I could try embracing all the love in this home, just as Lizzie would probably want.

"Love them for me, " Lizzie repeated. "Heal all the pain."

Standing at the vertical, door-length glass, I'd shifted my gaze up to Lizzie again, then knelt right before her while I sported her gown. "I will," I'd vowed. Tears hit my cheeks.

Glancing aside, I'd noticed Mrs. Porter in the mirror as well, watching my oath from the bedroom door. I sensed she could tell what had taken place. Her pride was apparent as she moved toward me. She knelt at my rear, pulling me close. I wept quietly as I stared at the floor.

"Who are you?" she whispered, stroking my arms.

I'd taken slow breaths, then looked in the mirror, seeing the face that was mine forever, feeling the love in my mom's embrace. "Elizabeth Porter," I'd said in her hug.

And that was that. Our clash was done. I started to accept my path in life — committed myself to being someone new. I would live and breathe Lizzie Porter all day. I knew her habits. I knew her quirks.

When I sat down for a family meal, I flattened my hands right around the plate, then let a soft breath flutter out of my nose. Lizzie did that —all of the time. Mrs. Porter smiled as I did the same.

Later that night, me and Mr. Porter watched a bit of TV. Local politicians were engaged in a talk.

"I think it'd be good if he landed the job," I uttered while pointing to the man on the right. "I think it'd be a real sign of progress now."

He made a soft chuckle. "I'm not so sold on the guy yet, kid."

I was surprised. "Isn't progress a good thing for the world?" Lizzie believed that. I did too.

"As long as there's a logical reason for it. You shouldn't pick someone because of their race. You shouldn't choose a person for their gender either. You have to agree with their thoughts and goals." 

I shrugged and nodded, in Lizzie's style, adding her signature wink to the mix — her little way of saying that she'd liked what she'd heard.

Mr. Porter grinned, hugging my side.

The following day, I took a seat with Chloe on the bed in her room, both of us studying a magazine.

"You really like her songs better than Rachel's?" she asked with a tiny bit of awe in her gaze.

"I like Rachel's too," I uttered with warmth. I let my stare settle on her face for a moment. She had the same charm that I'd loved for years. I really did enjoy seeing Chloe again. I knew I enjoyed seeing all of them.

* * * *

I stood with Mrs. Porter at an elegant counter, helping her prepare her gingerbread mix. I liked the cool feeling of the floor on my soles, loved the sweet scent of the dough in the air. I'd watched her and Lizzie having moments like this, always wishing that I could offer a hand. There wasn't any need for three people, however.

"You having fun, sweetie?" She'd noticed my grin.

"Yes," I muttered, stirring again. I whipped too hard. Milk hit her face. "Oh!" I said. "Sorry for that."

"It's okay," she uttered, grabbing some dough. "I don't get angry, I get even." With both of her hands, she smeared the mixture right down my cheeks.

"Mom!" I giggled, tossing some back.

A food fight lasted for around twenty seconds. I laughed as I saw all the flour on her. Afterward, she hugged me a while, once again. Her arms were as tender as I'd always known. 

I had resisted her hugs at first, but now I was actually squeezing her back.

I cleaned myself up, then smiled in the mirror — smiled at the face that was staring there. By channeling some of Lizzie's thoughts and quirks, by seeing her face every single day, I truly did have her presence back in my life.

I knew I couldn't keep speaking to her, though. That would mean distinguishing Lizzie from me. It would mean that I was still Emily. 

That was an identity I'd vowed to release — which was getting easier day by day.

 * * * *

All of us gathered up to watch TV. I lifted my legs on the coffee table, placing my gaze on the flashing screen. 

I'd spent several months settling into the home, laughing with Mom, chatting with Dad, and bonding with my sister in various ways.

Lizzie's voice — my voice rather — came naturally when I opened my mouth. I didn't even have to make an effort now. I could hardly summon my original one. Feeling curious, I'd tried sometimes in a private spot, but only succeeded for an hour or so. Then the whole effort grew tiresome. It also felt strange speaking to myself. So I let it go. I let it fade. That simply wasn't my voice anymore.

"Lizzie," Mom said in our comfortable spot, "what about the sports film?"

"That sounds good."

She kissed my cheek.

On certain occasions, I was reminded of my previous life, of moments like this that I'd had back then. I never let myself focus on those, though. Emily was gone. I had to forget her. She wasn't who I saw when I looked in the mirror. She wasn't the person everybody embraced. That girl didn't exist anymore. I was Lizzie Porter, now and always.

Snuggling with Mom, I leaned backward and shifted my bare feet, crossing my legs as I watched the film.

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