OC: Emma

In Geek Addiction, Penny ended up at a rehab clinic harbouring a dark secret, but she wasn't the first one to go through that. Before Penny, there was Emma.

Emma is an unfinished story that was inspired by the infamous Satanic Panic, more precisely Satan's Silence by Debbie Nathan, which focuses not only on the lawsuits, but also on the psychological theories and new therapy techniques that became popular around that time. Oh, by the way, another good book on the subject is We Believe the Children by Richard Beck. The title is ironic since a good deal of that mess happened precisely because the investigators didn't believe what the children were saying and kept insisting until they said what they wanted to hear. I'd like to finish Emma's story someday, but in the meantime, we decided to use Emma's future character development on one of the characters from An Introduction to the Fine Art of Monster Slaying. So, here are the first two chapters of Emma:

CHAPTER 1 - THE BEGINNING

In a single day, Emma’s life changed completely. She was twenty years old and was one year away from finishing college. According to her parents, this meant that she was ready to begin preparing for the next phase of her life, real adulthood, which meant things like marriage and babies. That was the end goal of her existence. She had been allowed to study English because it was a nonthreatening subject, and it would help her handle her future children’s education. That she might do something else with it, something professional, had never entered her parents’ careful calculations. Still, her only prospects would be becoming a teacher and Emma didn’t believe she was suited for it at all.

Emma going to college had not been without its difficulties. Her parents hadn’t planned for it initially – after all, everyone knew what those college girls were like. They were feminists who believed they were as good as men, behaved like tramps, and thought they could just dump their children somewhere and go on about their business out of the family home. Grandmother often praised Emma for not being like those horrible women. She wasn’t the only one – many people praised her parents for having such a quiet daughter. The praising had intensified now that the little ones were paying for all those bad mothers’ mistakes. At least that was how Emma’s family – mother, father, and grandmother – interpreted the day care centers abuse scandals happening all over the country. Every day there was a new sordid revelation – how a female teacher who had been exposed as a lesbian had forced children to eat chocolate-covered feces, or how a gentle old woman had killed babies and ripped their hearts out in front of her young charges. All Emma’s parents and grandmother could talk about lately were devil-worshipping teachers.

In high school, Emma hadn’t messed around with boys like the other girls, she hadn’t worn too short skirts, she hadn’t smoked or drunk, she hadn’t worn makeup, she had never skipped school and forced her poor mother to have to go to the principal’s office to account for her wayward daughter’s behaviour. Emma was also pretty, but not in a 'showy way'. Those were her grandmother’s words, and she wasn’t quite sure what they meant. Emma was thin, of average height, had straight, shoulder-length blond hair, and light blue eyes. She spent her time mostly at home, studying or playing with the family cat, a six-year-old Siamese named Bartholomeus. Even though she was on good terms with all her female classmates in high school, Emma hadn’t had any real close friends. The boys had become a source of annoyance. They’d seen that quiet, discreetly dressed girl as a challenge and had been always trying to convince her to go out with them for a burger and a movie. Emma had repeatedly turned them down, but they had insisted she was just playing hard to get. This lack of interest in the boys had been a source of comfort for parents who had seen more than one teenager female neighbour saddled with a baby. It was one of the reasons why they had initially been against letting her go to college – they’d been afraid all that might change. Emma’s high school teachers had always praised her good grades and had told her parents that there was a good chance she might be accepted in one of the more prestigious universities. Of course, going to a prestigious university would require Emma to move out of her parents’ house and into a students’ residence. This was something her parents would never allow. So, parents and school had reached a compromise and a nearby college had been selected. The fact that Emma’s parents had concluded that having a college-educated daughter would increase their social standing in the neighbourhood and it would also help said daughter snatch a better husband had helped change their mind. So, Emma had been given a temporary reprieve on the whole getting married and having babies deal, and every day her mother drove her to New York and then back again. It was tiring for both of them, but she didn’t complain.

College wasn’t that different from high school. Emma had thought that she would be able to walk by unnoticed due to the greater number of students, but she had been wrong. College boys were as annoying as high school boys and college girls were even more eager to break rules than high school girls. Emma was glad she didn’t have to live in a dorm. More mindful of modern social conventions than her father, her mother took care to drop her off at a safe distance from the college building so that her classmates couldn’t see that she was being driven there by her mother. After turning down the thirty-second boy’s invitation to a party, Emma had begun to wish her mother would be less discreet and drop her off near the entrance. Maybe they’d stop pestering her if they thought she was an uncool weirdo.

Just like at home, the main topic currently being discussed between classes was the day care centers situations. Unlike her family, Emma had never believed there were networks of Satanists running amok in the United States and she’d hoped that people at college, being more educated, would think the same way. Instead, they had held vigils in support of the supposed victims and written petitions demanding a thorough investigation of the horrors that were taking place among teddy bears and crayons. One day, there was a conference featuring real psychotherapists and feminists about the repressed memory syndrome and how Freud had discovered it but then had abandoned his findings because he’d been too afraid to go against the patriarchy. The auditorium was full, and Emma sat through it as if she was at the movies watching some absurd comedy. One of the speakers was Dr Weston, who had his own clinic where he treated only female patients suffering from hysteria, neurosis, depression, and other typically feminine psychic ailments. The feminists didn’t protest those diagnosis but blamed it all on controlling males. Shockingly, not one of the silly boys who loved interrupting classes with some unfunny joke said anything while several speakers talked about geriatric day care teachers killing cows and drinking baby blood. Dr Weston mentioned none of that – perhaps he too realized how stupid it all sounded. All the questions from the audience were deeply respectful and she was able to see that some people were actually crying. When the conference ended, some people went to talk to the speakers individually. Emma hesitated – she wanted to ask Dr Weston’s opinion on McMartin and all the others, but she wasn’t sure if it was a good idea. What if someone took her scepticism as evidence that she was in league with the Satanists? She went down the stairs and waited as a young man she had never seen before approached the doctor.

‘Have you cured anyone?’ he asked.

That was an odd question. Judging by Dr Weston’s reaction, the two men knew each other. Emma watched them. They were the same height, but that was where the similarities ended. The young man had an athletic build, dark curly hair, and the tanned skin of someone who spent a lot of time at the beach. The doctor was lean, had grey hair, and the pale skin of someone who spent a lot of time indoors, probably reading, even though he was the only one of the speakers who didn’t wear glasses.

‘Let’s talk someplace else.’ said Dr Weston.

To Emma’s disappointment, the young man let himself be led away and they left. Worried someone might ask her opinion of a subject she secretly found ridiculous, she left, too. In the days following the conference, more vigils were held, and more petitions were circulated. She dutifully signed a few, knowing that refusal wasn’t an option.

Despite everything, Emma had got used to her college routine and even enjoyed it sometimes. She hadn’t really thought about what was going to happen once she finished her course. Her parents, on the other hand, had clearly been preparing for that. They wanted to be sure everything was already set before she even graduated. She soon began hearing about the Maguires’ younger son, Mark, who was studying economics in another state. Since he was older than her, Emma’s first question had been why he hadn’t finished college yet. Her mother had been quick to enumerate all of Mark’s qualities that had nothing to do with his gifts as a student. Apparently, Mark was a good boy who was eager to find a good girl whom to marry and have lots of babies with – he was the younger of four brothers. Emma had met Mark, but all she remembered was a pudgy boy with black hair and pasty skin. It was clear where all that was going to lead – her parents and his parents had already decided everything. As soon as she was handed her diploma, she would marry, have babies, and become the perfect little housewife. Emma really didn’t want to argue with her parents. Not because she loved them and was terrified of disappointing them, but because she didn’t like arguments in general – there was too much yelling and spitting. One day, her mother announced that the Maguires and their son Mark would be joining them for lunch. She made it clear what was expected of her daughter and presented no alternatives. Now it was time to make decisions because as soon as any sort of agreement, no matter how vague, was reached between the families, there would be no backing down. And Emma didn’t know how to stop it.

Later, she would say she had no memory of what had happened between the talk with her mother and waking up at the hospital, but that wasn’t quite true. She remembered yelling and falling and twisting and turning on the floor – she just didn’t remember why she had done it. It was as if something had temporarily taken over her body and made her react like that, some instinctive behaviour, like she’d seen in those wildlife TV shows she liked to watch with Bartholomeus. Or maybe it had been because of all those news stories about satanism and demon worshipping. Whatever it was, it had taken her first to the hospital and then to Dr Weston’s clinic. At first, her parents hadn't wanted to send their daughter there and destroy the image of the perfect family they had built over the years, but the doctors at the hospital and one of Dr Weston’s fellow psychotherapists, Dr Laura Brooks, had persuaded them that it would be better if they complied. If they didn’t, people might think they had something to hide, like Satan worshipping. So, Emma had said goodbye to her family and Bartholomeus – the only individual in that house she would truly miss – and had left to the clinic.

The neighbours’ main theory was that quiet Emma had been no better than all the other girls after all and had got herself entangled with some boy at college, and now was going somewhere far away for a few months until the baby was delivered and given away.

CHAPTER 2 - THE FIRST SESSION

Dr Weston’s clinic was located in an old mansion in Maine. The lovely gardens with their well-trimmed hedges and colourful flowerbeds helped to sooth the patients’ nerves. The interior had kept much of its original design so as not to look too much like a hospital. Still, the staff was all properly dressed in typical white nurses’ uniforms and doctors’ coats. The patients wore knee-length blue gowns that looked like long t-shirts and blue slippers. They could also add a blue sweater if they wanted – Emma did. They had individual rooms, but they mingled every day in the spacious common room, the group therapy room, or in one of the art therapy studios.

Emma had spoken to Dr Weston the day after she arrived. She hadn’t been sure what he expected her to say, but she had been fairly certain that sending her back home so soon would have made him and the clinic look like fools for misdiagnosing her in the first place. She had sat in a comfortable armchair that was so plush it had made her feel drowsy. Dr Weston had sat closer than she’d liked in a very doctorly looking black leather chair that emphasized his professionalism. He had looked very doctorly and professional himself, just like she remembered. She had noticed that he didn’t seem as old as his grey hair suggested. Still, he was old enough to be taken seriously but not so old that one might wonder about his mental faculties. Even though some people might consider the lack of glasses a fault, Emma knew of several boys who wore glasses and were as stupid as the rest. He had a well-trimmed beard and looked healthy, which instantly made any medical advice sound more credible than if it came from a fat doctor stinking of cigarettes.

‘Good morning, Emma.’

‘Good morning, Dr Weston.’ 

‘Do you know why you’re here?’

‘Because I acted funny on Sunday?’

‘Not quite. You’re here because of what made you act funny. Do you know what that is?’

‘Mother said Mark Maguire was coming over for lunch. They wanted us to marry. By 'they' I mean his parents and mine.’

‘Hah, but why did that make you act the way you did? Do you not like Mark?’

‘I barely know him. He’s three years old than me and a boy.’

‘So, you don’t spend time with boys?’

‘No. Well, I do, at college.’

‘I’m not talking about classes.’

‘Then no, I don’t.’

‘Why not?’

‘My parents wouldn’t like it. Also, boys can be annoying.’ she had been about to say 'are' instead of 'can be', but she had remembered that Dr Weston was a boy, too, even if an older one.

‘You don’t like boys?’

She had shrugged.

‘Your file says you’re twenty, is that right?’

‘Yes.’

‘Have you ever kissed a boy?’

‘No.’

‘Really? You can tell me, Emma. I won’t tell your parents. In fact, I won’t tell anything you tell me to your parents.’

‘I’ve never kissed a boy.’

‘Have you ever kissed a girl?’

‘No.’

‘Do you like girls?’

‘I suppose.’

‘Better than boys?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why?’

‘Because they don’t pester me to go with them to the movie theater or out for burgers after class.’

‘So, you don’t want to kiss girls?’

‘No.’

‘Is there any boy you like?’

‘No.’

‘Let me rephrase this. Is there any boy you think is cute?’

Emma had shrugged – she had never really thought about it. The other girls had liked to talk about which boy was better looking, but she had always classified them based on their annoyance. She had thought about her male classmates, their faces, their haircuts, their clothes. None of them was particularly alluring. They were either too loud and dirty, or too nervous and clumsy. Since she didn’t meet any other boys, it wasn’t as if she’d had many opportunities to kiss one. Anyway, kissing involved spit and being very close to someone, and she wasn’t interested in either.

‘They all have stupid hair and ridiculous clothes.’

‘Don’t you want to get married?’

Emma had hesitated. She knew the proper answer, but she hadn’t been sure if that was the answer Dr Weston wanted. Instead, she had shrugged again.

‘Don’t you want to have babies?’

‘No.’ Emma had surprised herself by answering.

‘No? But you’re a woman.’

Emma had decided she didn’t want any babies the moment she had learned how they came about. The process was too intrusive and the concept of having a being growing inside her sounded like something out of a horror movie. The only thing worse than the thought of having a baby inside her was the knowledge that it would have to come out. It made her think of an avalanche crushing everything in its way – and in this case, 'everything' was her body. Still, that wasn’t something she could tell people and she wished she hadn’t told Dr Weston.

‘I’m scared.’ she’d known she’d picked the right answer when she’d seen the look of sympathy on his face.

‘That’s okay, Emma, many women are scared before having their first baby.’

‘And then they’re not?’

‘It depends on why they’re scared.’

‘Is there more than one reason not to want babies?’

‘Some women had very bad childhoods and are afraid of being bad mothers.’

‘Oh. I had a good childhood.’

‘Many of them thought the same thing until they remembered.’

‘You’re talking about repressed memories. I heard you speak at a conference about the day care centers abuse scandal.’

‘Oh, did you? And you don’t think you could have repressed memories?’

‘I doubt that. All my teachers say I have a good memory.’

‘That’s what we’re going to find out.’

Later in her room, Emma had thought about her conversation with Dr Weston. She knew she hadn’t forgotten anything, but she also knew lots of people had suddenly remembered being taken to dark ceremonies where they had been made to worship Satan by their own parents. Unlike her family and her classmates, Emma thought the children had just made up the increasingly more ludicrous stories. Did Dr Weston expect her to start talking about dead animals and drinking baby blood? What would her parents say if she did? Obviously, the Maguires wouldn’t want her to marry their son. Was Dr Weston going to keep her at the clinic until she 'remembered'? What had the athletic young man meant when he had asked the doctor if he had ever cured anyone? He hadn’t sounded happy. Had any of his female relatives ended up there?

By Danforth