req·ui·em
noun
an act or token of remembrance.
"Are you sure about this?" Jonathan asked, his hand slipped into Emilia's as they sat in the car just outside of her small trailer. Only, it wasn't hers. For years it had been a roof over her head, but never a home. It was maintained only well enough that it held together, and while it was in a far better state than the Byers' house currently was, it still didn't have the feel of a home like Joyce's did. In the driveway, parked sideways, was her father's truck and she knew that he was going to be home. She hadn't seen him in over a week, in fact, he didn't even know that she had been in the hospital for a few days.
Emilia knew that he would ask questions, why her face was burned, what she had gotten herself into. All the questions a parent was supposed to ask, but he would receive no answers and he wouldn't mind either. She squeezed Jonathan's hand, "Yeah, it's one of the only things that makes sense right now."
He nodded and released her hand, then stayed seated as he watched her walk to her house. A smile seemed permanently on his lips since he had gotten them back, since everything smoothed over. Although he had learned that El, the young girl, had died fighting the monster, he hadn't known her enough to understand what the younger kids felt. She'd sacrificed herself to save her friends, to save Will. He'd never forget her, even if he had only known her briefly. Will was almost back to his old self, aside from a faint fear that lingered in his eyes, as if he was always questioning if this world was real or a part of his imagination.
Emilia opened the door and walked into her house. It was dark, and so she flickered on a light. Expecting her father to grumble and groan about the bright lights bothering his hungover state, she was surprised when all she heard was a shuffle of papers. Walking towards the living room, she saw her father sitting on the floor, legs sprawled out, with hundreds of pictures around him. Pictures of her mother.
"Dad?" She whispered.
He looked up and scrambled to his feet, "Emilia, hey."
"What... what is all this?" She gestured to the pictures that she never knew existed. There was one of her mother when she was younger, hardly older than Emilia was now. Her gorgeous black hair was waving in the wind, it was longer than Emilia had ever seen it. Her smile extended to her eyes, and Emilia knew that she was happy in that picture. In another lying quite close to that one was an image of her mothers naked back, staring out at the ocean. Emilia had never even seen the ocean, and she wondered when her mother had gone.
"Thought you might want them," he shrugged, "There's a lot."
"You had these the whole time?" Emilia wanted to feel angry, she wanted to feel the need to gather all the pictures and take them away from her destructive father. Instead she felt only serenity in this requiem.
Nodding, he told her, "just couldn't stand the thought of her after she died. I saw her in you and I hated it. Emilia, I was never meant to be a father. I think you know that as well as she did. She stayed with me because it was what was best for you, to keep you safe, well fed, a roof over your head. She wanted to leave me long before she died. I should have sent her away, with you, I should have... I was so mad at her when she left with you, and then she died. Anyways, what I'm trying to say, is you should leave before I bring you down too."
Emilia was shocked. "I... I'm living with Hopper."
"Figured as much."
"She didn't want me either, did she?" Emilia finally found the courage to ask. The day she got in the car with her mum and she told her that she was getting a divorce, Emilia knew something was wrong now. She understood back then that her mother was mad when it happened, fueled by a fight with her husband that led her to act irrationally. But remembering it now, remembering the words that were spoken between them, she realized what her mother was really doing that night. She was going to explain it all to Emilia, and then leave her behind with her father because no matter what, he'd keep a roof over her head. Arlene Roth wanted freedom, freedom from a partner, from a child, from a stagnant life, from social expectations. Emilia knew now that her mother was going to leave her behind either way, whether she died or not.
Her father shook his head, "I don't think she knew what she wanted. Never did."
"Do you still... are you still mad at her?"
He looked perplexed, and that's when Emilia realized he was sober. "No. No, I'm not."
"Do you miss her?"
"Part of me does," he admitted.
"I think I use to miss her," Emilia felt the words come out before she could even understand them. "But I think what she did hurt me more than she ever understood, and then she left me the way she did... I think maybe we're both better off without her, and better off without each other."
Her father nodded, "I never wanted to hurt you, Emilia, but I'm a terrible father and probably a worse person."
"I know," she did, too. "We all have something we're good at. And things we're not so good at."
A brief silence passed between them, and Emilia crouched down to get a better look at all the pictures. There were so many that her eyes could barely focus on any particular one, to take in all the vital information she could read upon her mother's expression. She noticed that the older her mother got in the images, the less her smile reached her eyes. There was a point where there were no more images of her, the most recent images had Emilia in them at about age ten. No one had taken her mother's photo, despite how beautiful she was, in years. This saddened Emilia only to an extent, because she didn't want to see the images of her mother without that smile. She didn't want to remember what she looked like, not like that. She picked up the first picture that caught her eye when she came in, the one with her hair wild and all over the place.
"What happened to your face?" Her father asked.
"Playing with fire," she admitted, "Don't worry, my rebellious streak fizzled out along with the skin on my face."
"Come visit sometimes, will you?"
"I will," she nodded, picture in hand. "I'm going to pack some things..."
"Want some help?"
"Okay," she smiled.
When she got back into the car with Jonathan, he could tell that something had changed. It was for the better, too. She tossed her bag into the backseat, the one that had all the stuff she wanted to take with her. Clothes, a few mementos, a few books. The rest her father could go throw, toss away, or keep like a shrine of the daughter he once had. She knew that he'd never look in that room, he'd never reminisce about having a family once upon a time. Maybe she'd come back one day and sit in that room, look at the pictures on the walls and remember all the good and bad times she had in that house. But probably not.
Emilia handed Jonathan the picture of her mother at the beach.
"What's this?" He asked.
"I want to do that."
"Do what?"
"Go there, wherever there is, and replicate this picture," she explained.
Jonathan knew that this was time to ask her, "Will you come to New York with me when we graduate?"
"Yes," she replied without hesitation.
We are so close to the finish! I feel like the previous chapter was the "bang" finale, but I still needed to tie up loose ends. So I don't feel as good about the last chapter, but oh well.
Question of the Day, do you think Emilia did the right thing making up with her father?