“Thank you,” I say. “I’m really excited.”
“You should be,” she says, and as we segue into a lively conversation about pregnancy, childbirth, and motherhood, I wonder how long it will be before one of us finally brings up Daniel.
—
NEARLY AN HOUR later, we are seated in a cozy corner booth at Cafe Luxembourg, a bustling bistro where Sophie seems to be a regular. She orders another bottle of wine, which I hope will facilitate a deeper conversation. But by the time our entrées arrive at the table, Daniel’s name still has yet to be uttered. I decide that I can’t wait another moment. Searching for my opening, I find it when Meredith compliments Sophie’s wine selection.
“I’m glad you like it,” she replies. “I actually don’t know much about wine, but I’ve been to this particular vineyard.”
“You don’t know much about wine? That’s surprising….Daniel used to brag about how worldly you were….” I say, thinking that wine selection seems to fall squarely into that purview.
She smiles, then says, “I think he confused my accent with worldliness. I was actually quite green when I met Daniel.”
“Yeah, right,” I say, feeling oddly jubilant that I finally got her to say his name.
“I was,” she insists.
I roll my eyes and laugh, but not unkindly. “C’mon, Sophie. You were a Yale medical student…and didn’t you go to Oxford and some fancy boarding school before that?”
“Yes,” she says, pushing a carrot with a tine of her fork. “But I was only a day student….”
“Oh, a day student.” I smile. “Well, that changes everything.”
Sophie laughs at herself, but then grows earnest. “Truly. I grew up in much the same way that you did. Very comfortably, but not lavishly…” She hesitates, then adds, “I loved your family home…and Atlanta is such a beautiful city. Urban in some ways, yet so green and lush…You really had an idyllic life—” She stops abruptly, looking slightly mortified. “I mean, that’s what I remember thinking when I was there….You know, with Daniel…” Her voice trails off as her face reddens and she looks down at her plate. In other words—when she visited the first time, not when she came back for the funeral.
It is so awkward that I can’t help feeling sorry for her, and reach out to touch her arm. “We know what you meant,” I say, speaking for my sister, too, as I wonder, for really the first time, about how it all unfolded for her.
“Where were you when you found out?” I say, chasing the question with a gulp of wine.
Sophie takes a measured breath, then another. “I was on my way to Royal Albert Hall with my grandmother. We were going to the Carols by Candlelight. Our little tradition…” She pauses and bites her lip, a faraway look in her eye. “My mobile rang. I saw Daniel’s name—and was so excited to hear from him….I’d been gushing about him to Gran—and had been trying to call him since I landed that morning….But it wasn’t Daniel, of course,” she says. “It was his friend…Nolan.”
My eyes still on Sophie, I nod and point to my sister. “That’s Meredith’s husband….”
Sophie looks surprised. “Is it?” she asks.
“My mom didn’t tell you that?” I ask, knowing that she must’ve, and wanting to call Sophie out on forgetting.
“Maybe she did, come to think of it,” she says, now looking at Meredith. “That’s so nice. For your family.”
I watch Meredith tense up, her eyes becoming expressionless, almost steely. “Yes. We got married and moved into our family home….” Her voice trails off.
“It really is a beautiful home,” Sophie says. “And I just love Atlanta.”
“Do you think you would have lived there?” I ask. “If you had married Daniel?”
Sophie gazes back at me, blinking. She opens her mouth, starts to answer, then stops, as if the thought has never really occurred to her, one way or the other. “I don’t know,” she says, blinking back at me.
“Well,” I press. “Do you think you would have married Daniel?”
A painful silence follows, but I refuse to speak first, unwilling to offer her an out. I am relieved that Meredith doesn’t, either.
“Oh, Josie,” Sophie finally says, her voice and expression laden with guilt. “I just don’t know the answer to that….There are so many variables.”
“Such as?” I ask.
“Such as our residencies. Whether we would have matched at the same place…then our fellowships…We were so young—and those were grueling years.”
“But did you love him?” I ask, thinking there’s really only one variable that should matter.
“Yes, I loved him, but…I just don’t know….”
Her answer, along with the uneasy look on her face, confirms my hunch. Although I appreciate her honesty, I can’t help feeling betrayed on Daniel’s behalf, and part of me is tempted to shout, How dare you not tell us that our brother was the love of your life, the best person you’ve ever known, and that you’ve never gotten over the loss?!
I glance at Meredith, and can tell in an instant that she feels the same, which is somehow reassuring. It occurs to me that as different as we are in our behavior and decisions, our most basic, knee-jerk emotional reactions to really big things are often remarkably similar. And it is in these moments that I am most grateful for my sister.
Meredith clears her throat, then picks up my interrogation where I left off, her feelings of decorum apparently having dissipated. “The night you flew back to London…right before the accident…Daniel sat in the kitchen and talked to Mom about you. Did she ever tell you about that conversation?”
Sophie shakes her head and gives a terrible answer, once again. “Maybe. I don’t recall for certain….”
My sister raises her chin and continues, her voice strong and clear. “Well, I’ll tell you what he said….He said you were the most incredible person he’d ever met—and that he wanted to marry you for a lot of reasons, including that he knew you’d be a fabulous mother.”
“Goodness. That’s so incredibly sweet,” Sophie says, finally looking mournful.
“Yes,” Meredith says. “And I think that’s why you have remained so important to our mother….You’re a connection to him….” Her voice cracks, so I finish where she left off.
“I guess we just want to know if you really and truly loved him?” I say, giving her one last chance. “That it wasn’t just some passing romance?”
Sophie shivers, pulling her cashmere wrap more tightly around her shoulders, taking her time answering. “Yes, I did love him….It’s just hard….It’s hard for me to really remember that time….So much life has happened since….”
“Yes. For everyone but Daniel,” I say, wanting to shame her.
It seems to work as she nods and adjusts her wrap again. Deep down, I know I’m not being fair. It’s not Sophie’s fault that Daniel died and she lived. I can also tell that she is trying her best. It just so happens that her best sort of sucks. So I attempt one last angle. “Was your ex-husband much like Daniel?” I ask.
It feels like a softball, given that the marriage ended. An easy way for her to tell us how much better Daniel was.
“In some ways,” she says. “But not really.”
“Is he American? A doctor?” Meredith asks.
“Yes. And yes,” Sophie says. “But he’s not a surgeon like Daniel wanted to be.”
“What is he?”
“A dermatologist,” she says. “And the stereotypes of those specialties really fit. He’s much less intense than Daniel was…more outgoing….Daniel was smarter….”
I nod, thinking, Damn right he was.
She shrugs, then finishes. “I don’t know….They’re very different people.”
“Was he jealous of Daniel?” I ask, instantly realizing how ridiculous the question sounds. “I mean, of your relationship?”
“No. Todd’s not wired like that. He doesn’t really get jealous….He’s not the sensitive type. Hence…our divorce, perhaps.” She laughs
nervously. “My boyfriend before Todd was more jealous, I think….”
“Of how much you loved Daniel?”
“Yes,” she says.
Finally, I think, a satisfying answer.
“Are you dating anyone now?” Meredith asks.
I take a final bite of my filet, only mildly curious about Sophie’s answer, and for some reason fully expecting it to be no. But when I look up, I watch her face come to life, even more so than when we asked about Calvin. She tells us yes, there is someone.
“Is he a doctor, too?” Meredith says.
“She,” Sophie says. “And no, she’s a writer.”
She goes on to eagerly explain how they met—at some yoga retreat in Arizona—but I mostly tune her out, exchanging a glance with Meredith. It is a fleeting one, but I am now positive we feel the same. That we’re totally over this evening and Sophie, and especially her love for someone who isn’t our brother, whether a man or a woman.
Sure enough, during the next pause in the conversation, Meredith cranes her neck to signal the waitress for our bill, then presses her palm to her lips in what I can tell is a completely fake yawn.
“Oh, listen to me,” Sophie says, still smiling. “I’m so sorry for prattling on like this.”
“It’s fine,” Meredith says. “We’re really happy for you. Right, Josie?”
“Yes. Of course,” I say. “Very happy for you.”
“But it is getting late…and Josie has an early flight,” Mere lies.
“Yes. A very early flight,” I say, locking eyes with my sister, unable to think of a single time I have loved her more.
chapter twenty-eight
MEREDITH
“Well. I didn’t see that one coming,” I say after a virtually silent cab ride home. I carefully remove my shoes and hang up my coat as I make the decision not to mention Josie’s boots. Hell, she can sleep in them tonight, for all I care at the moment.
“Yeah. Me either…I mean, I knew she had moved on…but damn….” Looking glum, Josie strides over to the sofa and collapses onto it. “It was like he meant nothing to her.”
“That’s not necessarily true,” I say as I wash my hands at the kitchen sink. “We don’t know that she didn’t love him deeply….She could have been as committed as he was at the time….”
“Okay…but did you get that feeling?” Josie asks. “Because I didn’t. I mean—she didn’t even mention his name until we got to the restaurant….It just felt like she moved on, like, a couple months later.”
“Yeah. But she just gave us the CliffsNotes version of her life….She did say that one ex was jealous of Daniel….I mean, she could have been heartbroken for years.”
“Well, it would have been nice to hear that,” Josie says.
I nod again, silently noting that irony—that it would have been nice to hear a lot of things from my own sister over the years, too. It would have been nice to discuss our feelings. Or visit the cemetery together. Or acknowledge Daniel’s birthdays—and all the painful anniversaries of his death.
But I stick to a more constructive point and one I’ve come to learn well in my own life. “It’s impossible to understand someone else’s relationship. They seemed very happy together…and maybe we need to focus on that…the fact that Daniel was happy when he died.”
“She would have broken his heart,” Josie says.
“Probably so,” I agree.
Josie sighs, a deep frown on her face. “So? Did you really tell Mom we were having dinner with her?”
I shake my head.
“I knew it,” she says. “Should we tell her?”
I shrug, having already asked myself this question several times since we left the restaurant. “We should probably tell her we saw her. But skip the details.”
Josie nods in agreement. “It would upset her more than us.”
“For sure…Sophie’s been a symbol to her. Or at least a comfort…Think about the stories she always tells about that visit…and her last talk with Daniel at the kitchen table. She loves knowing that Daniel was truly happy and deeply in love…that he experienced the sweetness of that….”
“Even if he loved her way more than she loved him?” Josie says.
“Even if,” I say, my mind drifting to Nolan again, wondering if that isn’t the happier place to be—the one loving more. “Do you want a cup of tea? Or a decaf?”
She shakes her head. “No. But I’ll take some bourbon or something….Is there any hard stuff here?”
“Yep. You’re in luck,” I say, standing on an acrylic stepladder to reach the cabinet where Ellen keeps her liquor. I pull down a bottle of Widow Jane whiskey, along with a rocks glass. Then, on second thought, I grab another glass for me, pour about two shots in each, then toss in some cubes of ice from the freezer.
“God, this is depressing,” I say, walking over to the sofa and handing her one of the glasses before I sit down beside her. “I mean—what are we doing here, anyway?”
“Well. You’re here on a sabbatical,” she says. “Remember?”
“Yeah, yeah,” I say. “You know what I mean….Look at us….Here we are…fifteen years later…all screwed up…and begrudging someone else her happiness. Maybe we just need to move on?”
Josie kicks her boots off, leaving them sprawled under the coffee table, then takes a long drink. She makes a face, puts down her glass, and nods. “Yeah. I know. We really do….That’s what I was sort of trying to say earlier, when I said that all of our problems seem related to Daniel….It just feels like we’ve never really gotten over the loss…the way Sophie did.”
I nod. “Yeah. But you can’t compare a short romance—even an intense one—to a relationship with a sibling.”
“True,” she says, her face twisting into an expression of deep, profound sadness. “You really can’t.”
A long moment of silence passes before she says my name, then turns to face me, leaning on one arm of the sofa.
“Yeah?” I say, looking at her.
“I need to tell you something….” She frowns, staring down at her hands clasped in her lap.
“Okay,” I say, turning to sit sideways, facing her.
“It’s the thing I came here to tell you…about Daniel,” she says, glancing up at me with a worried expression.
Feeling suddenly cold, I pull Ellen’s nubby throw blanket from the back of the sofa and drape it over our legs. “What is it?” I say.
Josie’s big blue eyes grow glassy, her lower lip quivering. It conjures a memory of how she used to cry on demand, just to get me in trouble. But this time, I can tell it’s sincere. She’s truly on the verge of tears, and I feel the sudden urge to protect her, reaching for her hands. She breathes, in and out, for what feels like a full minute, all the while holding my gaze and hands. Then she opens her mouth and starts to tell me a story. A story about the night Daniel died. Of her getting wasted at Five Paces. Of someone from the bar calling Daniel to come pick her up, take her home. There are more details, most of them trivial, but I have trouble following them all.
“No,” I finally say, letting go of her hands, shaking my head. “That isn’t what happened. He was going out to get a burger. That’s what he told Mom.”
“He lied to Mom. He was just covering for me,” Josie says, her face starting to contort in a valiant but unsuccessful attempt not to cry. Tears spill down her cheeks as she continues, “He was on his way to get me.”
“But that’s just a theory,” I say, my heart starting to race. “Right? I mean—how would you know that he was coming to get you? He died before he got there….He could have been going to get a burger. Right?”
She doesn’t reply or move a muscle, not even to wipe her tears.
“Josie?” I demand. “You don’t know that for sure, do you?”
“Yes,” she whispers. “I do, actually.”
“But how?” I say.
“I can’t tell you how,” she says.
“Why not?” I say, becoming more frantic and angry.
“Because. I promised someone I wouldn’t….”
I kick the blanket off my legs, then stand, pacing in front of the coffee table. “What do you mean you can’t tell me how you know that? You drop a bomb like this and then pull some…some Woodward and Bernstein bullshit?”
Josie covers her face with her hands, mumbling again that she can’t, that she promised.
“He was our brother, Josie,” I say, wishing I hadn’t used the past tense, when he will always be our brother. “You’re telling me crucial details about the night our brother died, and you’re worried about a promise you made to someone else? Who was it? Shawna?” I shout.
“No,” she says through sobs. “It wasn’t Shawna.”
“Then who?”
She shakes her head, looking pained and panicked and desperate. And suddenly, just like that, I know who she’s protecting.
“Nolan,” I whisper, my heart racing, my head spinning. “Nolan called Daniel that night. To come get you.”
It is a statement, not a question—and she doesn’t deny it.
“So,” I say, my voice calm and restrained—the opposite of the way I feel inside, “what you’re telling me is that my sister…and my husband…have been keeping this secret from me for fifteen fucking years?”
“I didn’t know for sure,” Josie says, wiping away tears. “Until last weekend.”
“I don’t believe you. And besides, clearly Nolan did,” I say. “Nolan must have known that he called Daniel to come get you….”
“Please don’t tell him I told you,” she says. “I think he wanted to tell you himself….”
“Fuck. Him.” I spit out the words with as much venom as possible, my disbelief morphing into rage. “And fuck you, too.”
“Meredith,” she says. “Please…”
“Talk about a betrayal,” I say as Josie begins to bawl and beg. The sound of her gurgling sobs, the sight of her face glistening with snot and tears, only makes me hate her. I pick up one of her boots and throw it as hard as I can. It hits the wall, the heel leaving a black mark. “And what part of ‘take off your fucking shoes when you’re in the fucking house’ don’t you get, Josie?”