Dear Tara*Starr,

It's Wednesday night and I wanted a little time alone, time to myself, so Mom has taken Emma to Chuck E. Cheez for pizza and playtime. This was great of Mom, since she comes home from work so tired. But tomorrow is my night with Emma, and Mom can have time to herself.

I'm sorry it's taken me so long to write to you again. Your groundation is over by now (unless it got extended for some reason). I had visions of us furiously writing back and forth, back and forth to help you pass the time. What happened was that not long after I wrote you about the poetry workshop and all ... Dad called again. And he said he wanted to come visit Mom and Emma and me. I don't know why we believed him. I mean, the last time he said he was going to come by, he arranged to come when we wouldn't be here. But this sounded different. The last time, he hadn't said he wanted to visit us; he had just said he was going to pick up his things. But when he called over the weekend he specifically said he wanted to SEE us. And he was crying. He said he missed us and couldn't believe how long it had been and even apologized for coming by when we weren't home before.

So this time we expected him to show up. Mom invited him to dinner on Monday night. (I heard her whisper to him that he had better show up sober.) Then she made the mistake of telling Emma what was going to happen. I mean, it all sounded so ... real that Mom decided she ought to prepare Emma for the visit.

Emma, of course, was beside herself with excitement and wanted to help Mom plan the dinner menu. (Her suggestion: pasketti, ice cream, and Hawaiian Punch. Final menu: salmon steaks, asparagus, salad, and ice cream.) Dad was supposed to arrive at 6:00 on Monday night. At 6:30 he hadn't shown up and Emma abandoned her post at the window and watched a video instead. At 7:00 he hadn't shown up and Emma was starving so she ate her dinner. At 8:00 he hadn't shown up and Mom and I were starving so we ate our dinners, and Emma was crabby so Mom got her ready for bed. Finally, a little before 9:00, two things happened at once. Mom put Emma to be, screaming and kicking (literally) because she was disappointed and overtired, and the phone rang and I answered it. It was Dad.

Tara, I was SO angry at him. When I heard his voice all I said was, "Where ARE you? You ruined Emma's night."

Well, he was so drunk I couldn't understand his answer. I was just about to slam the phone down without saying good-bye when Mom rushed into the kitchen and took the phone from me and started YELLING at Dad. When she finally stopped there was this long pause, then she said very quietly. "Okay, fine," and hung up.

Neither Mom nor I know exactly what happened, why he didn't show up. Our guess is that he was afraid to, for some reason. Like, maybe he can't face us. He's still ashamed of all that happened. But nights like this aren't going to help things.

Anyway, this is why Mom and I are still sort of recovering and why we want time to ourselves. I told Howie and Susie what happened, of course, and we went out for ice cream last night, but tonight I just wanted to be alone. And to write and tell you what's going on.

Are you enjoying the Langston Hughes poetry? We're LOVING it and are thinking about staying with it for one more week before moving on to Robert Frost. Do you have a favorite Hughes poem yet?

About the baby — of course you can come visit us at Christmas (well, I suppose I should check with Mom, but I don't see why you couldn't come), but Tara, I really think you'll want to get to know your little sister or brother after the baby comes home from the hospital. What do I like about having a little sister? Almost everything. Emma has her bad times, but her tantrums and messes and endless questions are more than made up for by the wonderfulness of herself. Do you know what it's like to live with a little person who ADORES you? Who looks up to you and wants to be with you and be like you? I love reading to her and teaching her things and taking her places. And dressing her. Tara, you'll like dressing the baby. You love to dress people. Think of the baby as a sartorial playground.

All right, Mom and Emma will be back soon and I want to take a bath and read in the tub while I still have the chance, so I'll sign off now.

Love,
Elizabeth

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