“Must be nice,” she says under her breath, “having that kind of loot.”
“Better than being broke, I guess,” I say, refraining from my usual commentary about how money can’t buy you happiness.
“Yeah…that’s an understatement,” Josie says with a laugh, picking up a little bronze Buddha from an end table. “This is cute.”
I nod, thinking Ellen probably isn’t going for cute. “Yeah. She has good taste.”
“What would you call her style, anyway?” Josie asks, putting down the Buddha and running her hand up and down the base of a lamp made of cork.
“Oh, I don’t know…eclectic? The opposite of Andy’s?”
She nods, then inspects Ellen’s coffee table books, now in full-on nosy mode. She opens one on photography, reading the inscription from Andy, then flipping randomly to an edgy black-and-white portrait of Lenny Kravitz. “Cool shot,” she murmurs.
I nod.
“Did Ellen take any of these?” she asks, still flipping through the pages.
“I don’t think so…but maybe,” I say, thinking that Josie seems to have such love-hate feelings about Ellen, sort of the way I felt about Shawna in high school, both fascinated by and disdainful of her at once—which often boils down to jealousy. “She’s shot a few famous people.”
“Oh, I know. She’s told me,” Josie says, rolling her eyes, implying that Ellen brags—which couldn’t be further from the truth. “Does she know I’m here this weekend?”
I nod. “Uh-huh.”
“What did you tell her?”
“I don’t remember exactly. Just that you were coming for the weekend.”
“And?”
“And what?”
“Did you tell her why I was coming?”
I raise my eyebrows and stare at her pointedly. “Um. No…How could I do that?”
She gives me a blank look.
“I don’t know why. Remember?”
She glances away, crossing her arms over her chest as she sits on the far end of Ellen’s contemporary sofa. “God. This is so uncomfortable,” she says. At first I think she’s talking about the two of us, until she adds, “Why would she buy a sofa that’s this hard?”
“Maybe she likes it,” I say. “To each her own.”
“Not possible. It’s terrible.”
I shrug. “Well, I don’t think she sits around here very much….She really just works and sleeps when she’s in the city.”
“So…was she okay with me staying here?” Josie asks expectantly, almost as if she wants the answer to be no.
“Yeah. She was totally fine with it….” I say, sitting on the other end of the sofa. It is the truth, but I leave out the part about how Ellen and I analyzed the subject for nearly thirty minutes, unable to come up with any possible Daniel-related topic that would necessitate an urgent, face-to-face dialogue.
“I doubt that,” Josie mumbles.
Against my better judgment, I ask her why she always thinks the worst of Ellen.
“I don’t think the worst of her,” Josie says. “I like her fine….I just get the feeling she thinks the worst of me.”
I shake my head. “That’s not true,” I say, because it actually isn’t. “She often defends you….” My voice trails off.
She narrows her eyes and says, “Oh? Why would she need to do that?”
My mind races for a clever retort, but I come up empty-handed. “Because you drive me nuts,” I say, smirking at her. “That’s why.”
“Well, you drive me nuts, too,” she says, with a little pout that takes a few seconds to dissipate. “But I’m still really glad to see you.”
“Me, too,” I say, wondering how I can have such mixed feelings—and how they can shift so quickly and radically, even from one minute to the next. “So how long do you think we can go without arguing?”
“Jeez,” she says with a little laugh. “It’s like you want to fight with me.”
I tell her that’s silly, that I hate fighting with her.
“Me, too,” she says. “God. We’ve had some doozies, haven’t we?”
I nod, almost fondly.
“Remember Chick-fil-A?”
“Of course.” I laugh, conjuring the details of perhaps our most epic fight, occurring when she was sixteen and I was fourteen. Every morning, she drove me to school in our family’s ancient Volvo, dropping me off at Pace before she headed the couple of miles over to Lovett. The problem, of course, was that we could never agree on our departure time, and she was always running late. (She must still hold the record at Lovett for the most tardies in a school year.) On that particular morning, though, Josie had promised me, multiple times, that she would do her best to get me to school early, as I had left my math book in my locker and needed to finish my homework.
All was fine, until she pulled into the Chick-fil-A on Northside, announcing that it would only “take a sec” to get a chicken biscuit. Incredulous, particularly after I observed the long drive-thru line, I tried to talk her out of it, even resorting to begging.
“Too late,” she said as a car pulled up behind us, trapping us in line. “Sorry, Charlie.”
“God. Why do you have to be such a bitch,” I said.
“Why do you have to be such a nerd,” she replied, then went on to mock me for caring so much about my math homework.
Our arguing quickly escalated as we inched along, until I went too far, making a snide comment about how she really didn’t “need those extra calories.” As soon as the words were out, I regretted that particular brand of meanness, especially knowing how self-conscious she was about her weight, and how hard she’d been trying to drop a few pounds before prom. But before I could apologize, she hauled off and backhanded me as hard as she could in my left breast. It hurt so much that tears immediately filled my eyes, and I remember thinking that a blow to a guy’s balls couldn’t be any more painful. So of course I slapped her back, and within seconds, a wild hair-pulling, name-calling melee ensued in the middle of the Chick-fil-A drive-thru. Of course, I got to school late that morning, disheveled and miserable, and for days afterward, I worried that her blow to my boob might somehow cause breast cancer. A small part of me even hoped for some real damage, if only to reinforce to my parents that I was their nicer, better daughter, and that their middle child might be the most selfish person on the planet.
“God. That was so redneck,” Josie says now, laughing.
“I know,” I say. “Total white trash.”
She continues to smile, but informs me that I’ve just used “a racist expression.”
“How do you figure?” I say, weary of her political correctness, which I know she simply parrots from Gabe.
“Well, why specify ‘white’? Name another instance when you actually specify the majority….It just seems to imply that all other races are de facto trash,” she says.
I roll my eyes and say, “That’s a bit of a reach, but whatever….”
We stare at each other an awkward few beats, before she slaps her thighs and says, “You know what? I think we should go out, after all. Is there a low-key spot around here?”
“Of course,” I say. “We’re in the Village. It’s all low-key…but did you want to talk about Daniel first?”
“Nah,” she says, waving me off. “We have all weekend….That can wait.”
At Josie’s request for a burger, we decide on the Minetta Tavern for dinner. We have a nice, relaxed time, without so much as a fleeting undercurrent of tension, and an even better time once back at Ellen’s. Against all odds, we fall into one of our rare, lighthearted zones with lots of reminiscing, mostly about our childhood, before our adolescent friction set in.
Daniel’s name comes up here and there, but only in the context of family lore from before we lost him. As we get in bed and start to fall asleep, it really hits me how much Josie and I have shared over the years. I think of the expression from the cradle to the grave—and the fact that she is the only person in the world I can say that abou
t.
The next morning is equally nice. After sleeping in, we get up, shower, and head to my favorite generic neighborhood diner for breakfast, then walk up Fifth Avenue, all the way to Bendel’s, where Josie spends a small fortune on makeup.
We leave the store, crossing Fifty-Seventh Street and passing Bergdorf’s and the Plaza, before winding our way into the park. The day is cold, but bright and sun-filled, and my heart feels lighter than it has in weeks, maybe months. I almost tell her this as we stop to sit on the bench, but get distracted as we both read the small silver plaque screwed to the back of it: FOR CAROLINE, WHO LOVED THE PARK, AND GEORGE, WHO WAS ALWAYS WITH HER.
Josie runs her hands across the words and says, “Wow. What a sweet dedication.”
I murmur my agreement as we sit, our backs to the inscription. “Do you think the kids did it for their parents?” I say, hoping that Josie and I are one day that unified, when Mom and Dad are gone and it truly is just the two of us.
“Probably,” she says, with a faint smile. “I picture a little old couple who sat right here, every morning, with their little dog and matching canes…until one night, they died in their sleep. Together…”
I nod and smile. “That’s about as happy an ending as you can get,” I say, thinking that even the happiest possible endings still ultimately end in death.
I share the observation aloud, and she looks at me and shakes her head. “God, Mere. What a downer.”
I shrug and say, “Well? It’s the truth.”
“I know, but jeez.”
We both laugh, then sit for a stretch of silence, before she shoots me a serious glance.
“So…do you want to talk about what’s going on?” she asks, her voice soft. “With Nolan?”
For the first time in a long time, I actually want to confide in my sister. So I go with it. “I don’t think I married the right person,” I say, squinting up at the cobalt, cloudless sky and wishing I’d worn my sunglasses.
I wait a beat, then meet her gaze. Her expression is more sad than judgmental, the opposite of what I expected.
“I know,” she says, nodding. “Nolan sort of told me….”
“He did?”
“Yes. Don’t be mad at him.”
I shake my head. “I’m not. What did he say?”
She swallows, staring down at her pearly pink manicure. “He’s scared you want to divorce him.”
I freeze. That word.
“Do you?” she asks, glancing up from her hands to look at me.
I slowly nod and say, “I think maybe it’s the right decision.”
“But…why?” she asks, sounding so innocently mournful. “He loves you so much.”
“First of all, I don’t know that that’s true—”
She cuts me off and says, “Oh, Mere, it is true. Don’t you see the way he looks at you? He adores you. He respects you. God…you’re so lucky.”
And just like that, I feel my sadness morph into defensiveness and resentment. “I’m not lucky,” I say. “I married someone I was never really in love with. I cried on my wedding day. That’s not lucky. That’s just…lame.” I look at my sister, unsure of whether I want her to argue or relent the point.
“But you have a good marriage,” she says. “Don’t you?”
“In some ways,” I reply. “Okay…in a lot of ways, maybe….But sometimes I want more…for both of us….I want both of us to have the real deal…what Daniel had with Sophie.”
“I know,” she says softly. “I use them as a benchmark, too.”
“You do?” I say. “I thought you used Will for that?”
She nods. “Yeah. For a while I did. I wanted Will to be my Sophie. On paper, he seemed to be….But looking back…he wasn’t.” She gives me a funny look, then says, “Speaking of…she actually wants to have dinner with us tonight.”
“Sophie?” I say, thinking I must be confused.
“Yeah. I got in touch with her the other day. On Facebook…I told her we were going to be in town and gave her my phone number. She texted last night and said she’d love to meet us for dinner….”
“She texted you last night?” I say, my voice rising. “And you’re just mentioning it to me now?”
“Yeah…I wasn’t sure I wanted to do it.”
I close my eyes, shake my head, and say her name under my breath.
“What? I thought you wanted to see her,” she says, her voice now raised and whiny. “How could you possibly be upset with me for arranging something that you and Mom wanted in the first place?”
“Well, for one,” I say, “Mom’s not here.”
“I know…but we can always see Sophie again in December…with Mom.”
“So we wait fifteen years and then see her twice in a matter of weeks?”
“Well? Why not?”
“Doesn’t that seem a bit…excessive?”
“Sorry, I didn’t check the etiquette guide on this topic….” She pulls her phone out of her purse and mumbles that she’ll just text her back that we can’t make it.
I exhale with disgust, then reach out and put my hand on her forearm. “Stop. Don’t text her that. That’s rude….I just need to think for a second….”
“About what?”
“About whether I’m up for seeing Sophie tonight, with absolutely no warning whatsoever.”
“Why do you need warning?” she says. “I mean, what’s the difference? Now or next month?”
“I just wish we had discussed it together.”
“That’s what we’re doing now,” she says. “Isn’t it?”
“Yes, but…”
“But what? Why does everything have to be exactly on your terms?”
“It doesn’t,” I say, thinking of how many times she’s called me a control freak for simply having an opinion that differs from hers. “I just—”
“You just what, Meredith? Why are you always so dissatisfied with me?” She stands and looks down at me, her hands shoved into her pockets.
“I’m not,” I lie.
“Yes, you are. And so are Mom and Dad….God. I’m sorry I’m not perfect like you and Daniel,” she says, stalking away from me.
I get up and quickly catch up to her. “Could you stop it with the pity party?”
She stops and glowers at me. “It’s not a pity party at all,” she says. “I’m just sick and tired of your constant judgment. I’m here this weekend to talk about Daniel….That’s why I reached out to Sophie. I’m trying to do the right thing here. Can’t you see that?”
I stare at her, fleetingly seeing things her way. But like Rubin’s famous optical illusion, I quickly return to my view, that white vase so much more obvious than the dual black profiles. “Okay,” I say, giving in. “Text her back. Tell her we’ll meet her for dinner.”
“Is that what you really want?” she asks, as it occurs to me that she could be calling my bluff. Hoping that I’m the one who will decide against seeing Sophie.
Instead, I give her a breezy shrug. “Sure,” I say. “Let’s do it.”
chapter twenty-seven
JOSIE
I should have known Meredith would find a way to be pissed off at me for contacting Sophie. It had actually crossed my mind to vet it with her first, but then I thought—no, I should just be proactive, handle something on my own for once. Besides, I really didn’t expect Sophie to reply so quickly. I thought there was a very good chance she wouldn’t respond until next week, which would mean I’d get credit with Mom and Mere for reaching out to her without actually having to endure yet another emotional encounter.
Then, last night, when I got Sophie’s response, I didn’t want to bring up anything heavy when Meredith and I were having such a good time, joking and laughing and bonding. It felt so nice and natural—the way I see so many other sisters getting along. I just wanted to savor it, especially given the dread I felt over my impending confession and the very real possibility that Meredith will never forgive me for my role in Daniel’s accident.
; But of course my strategy backfired, and as we walk through the park, I watch her do a complete one-eighty, her mood going from cheerful to dour in record time.
“All right,” she briskly announces. “I’m ready to head home.”
“Now?” I say, thinking that I wanted to shop a bit more on the way back.
“Yeah. But you don’t have to come with me,” she says, slipping into full-on passive-aggressiveness. “You know your way.”
I shake my head, knowing she will only hold that against me, too, and can practically script her rant. How can you go shopping at a time like this?
And really, she’d be right. That magical Manhattan feeling quickly dissipates as I process that I now have not one, but two big things to dread. “No, I’ll go back with you,” I insist.
She nods, quickening her pace as we head west through the park, the opposite direction from which we came.
“Why are we going this way?” I ask, practically jogging to keep up.
“This is the way to the subway.”
“Oh. You don’t want to walk back?”
“No. I want to take the subway.”
“Well, all righty, then,” I mumble.
A silent, sullen fifteen-minute journey later, we enter the subway station at Fifty-Seventh and Seventh, dipping underground, then standing in more silence on the dank platform.
“Look,” I finally say, mouth-breathing to avoid the stench of urine and garbage. “We really don’t have to see Sophie tonight. We can tell her we have plans. We can tell her we’ll do it another time….”
“No. It’s fine,” she says—which, with Meredith, means it’s not fine, but she’s going to play the martyr.
“So you want to go?” I confirm.
“I said yes. It’s fine.”
I look at her, frustration welling inside me. “I just don’t see why you’re so mad at me,” I say, as a train roars toward us.
“I’m not mad,” she shouts back at me over the vibrating clamor of metal on metal.
“Okay. What are you, then?” I ask, as the train screeches to a halt and we board a mostly empty car. She waits for me to sit, then chooses a seat diagonally across from me. “What are you then?” I repeat.