Educated

why Richard was pacing, or why he paused every few seconds to glance at
Dad, waiting for a word or gesture—any signal of what should be done.
I looked at Kami and felt a tightening in my chest. I resented her for
witnessing this. I imagined myself in Emily’s place, which was easy to do—I
couldn’t stop myself from doing it—and in a moment I was in a parking lot,
laughing my high-pitched cackle, trying to convince the world that my wrist
wasn’t breaking. Before I knew what I was doing I had crossed the room. I
grasped my brother’s arm and pulled him with me to the piano. Emily was
still sobbing, and I used her sobs to muffle my whispers. I told Kami that
what we were witnessing was private, and that Emily would be embarrassed
by it tomorrow. For Emily’s sake, I said, we should all go to our rooms and
leave it in Dad’s hands.
Kami stood. She had decided to trust me. Richard hesitated, giving Dad a
long look, then he followed her from the room.
I walked with them down the hallway then I doubled back. I sat at the
kitchen table and watched the clock. Five minutes passed, then ten. Come on,
Shawn, I chanted under my breath. Come now.
I’d convinced myself that if Shawn appeared in the next few minutes, it
would be to make sure Emily had made it to the house—that she hadn’t
slipped on the ice and broken a leg, wasn’t freezing to death in a field. But he
didn’t come.
Twenty minutes later, when Emily finally stopped shaking, Dad picked up
the phone. “Come get your wife!” he shouted into it. Mother was cradling
Emily’s head against her shoulder. Dad returned to the sofa and patted
Emily’s arm. As I stared at the three of them huddling together, I had the
impression that all of this had happened before, and that everyone’s part was
well rehearsed. Even mine.
It would be many years before I would understand what had happened that
night, and what my role in it had been. How I had opened my mouth when I
should have stayed silent, and shut it when I should have spoken out. What
was needed was a revolution, a reversal of the ancient, brittle roles we’d been
playing out since my childhood. What was needed—what Emily needed—
was a woman emancipated from pretense, a woman who could show herself
to be a man. Voice an opinion. Take action in scorn of deference. A father.
The French doors my father had installed squawked as they opened. Shawn
shuffled in wearing heavy boots and a thick winter coat. Peter emerged from
the folds of thick wool, where Shawn had been shielding him from the cold,