According to Jane (25 page)

She threw a retrospective glance over
the whole of their acquaintance,
so full of contradictions and varieties...

--
Pride and Prejudice

J
ust a few weeks later, on August fifteenth, we celebrated my thirty-third birthday in the city of Bath, complete with high tea at the renowned Pump Room.

Rather indulgent of me, having a feast like this at a table for one, wouldn't you say?
I said to Jane, taking in the full view of the open dining area from our little corner. Curious tourists strolled along the edges of the room and peered through the windows at the legendary bathing area below.

Jane made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a snort, then muttered something unintelligible.

What was that?
I asked her. I raised my teacup in the air to toast myself and reached for a delicate chocolate petit four filled with custard. The jars of strawberry jam and clotted cream called to me from across the tiny table, and I was tempted to rush through my first treat so as to sample another.

I despise Bath
, Jane said, louder this time.
It is a noisy, dismal place, where purported gentlemen and ladies visit for the exercise of gossiping and gazing at strangers. My opinion of it has not improved with the centuries
.

I pointed to the pyramid of sweets in front of me.
But just look at these delicious
--

Ellie
, she said with a sigh.
Do you recall the emotions you experienced during your school dances? You described them as times when gentlemen and ladies stared at each other yet did not speak. And the feast items on the table did not appeal to you either. Do you remember why?

Yeah. They were usually dried-out, awful things we ate so we had something to do with our hands
.

Perhaps the desserts in my time had more flavour
, she said,
but our intention in consuming them was for much the same reason as yours. We relied on something else to divert our attention from the matter at hand
.

The "matter" being husband-or wife-shopping?

Indeed
, she said.

Okay. So you're saying spending time in Bath left a bad taste in your mouth
. I laughed at my own joke and nibbled on another teacake.

Jane ignored my attempts at lightening up the conversation.
When we were living here for five years and, later, in Southampton for three, I wished only to be someplace settled. Someplace that was home. It was dreadful being on display every day and forever in transit. A short seaside holiday was a welcome change, yes. But eight years of displacement and rooming with relatives was not. I wish to depart this room and this city, Ellie. I will leave you to enjoy your desserts in the peace of your own company and shall rejoin you at a later time
.

Jane?
I asked, but I received no answer. She'd left. Hidden herself in the dark unconscious of my mind, just beyond my grasp.

I popped a final pastry into my mouth and sipped on the last of my tea, mindful of my solitary state. I knew I had distant relations living in the area. Maybe I should've done some serious genealogy work before I came...or maybe it was better I hadn't.

Let's face it, people never knew what weird stuff they might uncover about their families when they began to dig. Truth was, I probably didn't want to know. But this left me, of course, with the downside of my reticence: There was no one I could really talk to here.

It was easy not to feel the sting of loneliness when Jane's acerbic and witty observations kept me company. In her absence, awareness of the reality flooded my mind unfiltered, and I became haunted by a homesickness I tried unsuccessfully to ignore. I, too, wanted to be back home. To be settled again in the place I belonged.

My flight back to Chicago departed in three days and, whether or not I'd gained greater maturity as a result of this six-week sojourn, the time had come for me to go back.

On a crowded 777 heading west into the sunset, I thought about my sister's soon-to-be-born baby. Di
would
need me, I reasoned. Maybe the two of us would end up like Jane and Cassandra, relying on each other when the hope of finding true love had gone.

I smiled thinking of this. Funny how life could change. Di was the one person I'd never imagined as a close friend and, yet, that was precisely what I now considered her to be. For sanity's sake, though, it would be best if we never shared a house again.

My American Airlines flight required a quick plane change at Boston's Logan Airport and, since we were an hour late departing London, "quick" meant "immediately."

"Attention passengers with connecting flights to Chicago, we are beginning to board Flight 509," I heard the gate attendant say over the loudspeaker as I wobbled my way down the plane ramp with my stuffed backpack, slogged into the airport proper and cleared the Customs line. "Flight 509 now boarding at Terminal B, Gate 17."

"Oh, damn." I was in Terminal E. "How do I get to Terminal B?" I asked the first person I could find wearing an airline uniform.

That person turned out to be a handsome, forty-something pilot (married, or so implied by his gold band) who pointed me in the direction of the shuttle bus, and off I raced. I made it to the gate just as a different attendant was saying, "Last call for Flight 509..."

But it wasn't until I was struggling up this new plane ramp and away from the airport proper, that I realized where I'd been. In Boston.

Sam's city.

And though I hadn't seen him there, hadn't seen anyone who looked remotely like him even, this was where he was. Somewhere nearby. As always, almost within reach, but not quite.

I grinned to myself, for no other reason than that I knew of his continued existence. He wasn't dead, like Jane's or Cassandra's young admirers had been when the sisters were my age. No. Sam lived and breathed and was a part of my history. A history that, despite our fumbles, we'd gotten a fair amount of closure on.

And, so, I could claim the happier memories as my own. The odd camaraderie he and I shared in high school. The one amazing night we'd spent together. A night that had greatly influenced my view of love and relationships ever since. I could embrace our infrequent path-crossings in the years that followed. Sure, the recollections still held their fair share of pain, but at least I wasn't left hanging, or wondering for eternity what might've happened between us if we'd had the chance. Right?

Because, hey, if I wanted to, I could
still
reach him. I could do a Yahoo People Search when I got home and look up Sam's e-mail or his home phone number or his street address in Boston. I would've heard through our suburban gossipy grapevine if he'd moved, so he must still be somewhere in this city.

If my life were a romantic comedy, I could run right back down this ramp and look him up here and now. Take a chance he'd want to see me again. No, better yet, believe he'd fallen in
love
with me. Or, exponentially better, that he'd
always
been in love with me!

I'd call him from an airport pay phone, still breathless from my sprint past all those other gates. In violation of the laws of physics, he'd materialize almost instantly, and the two of us would pounce on each other. We'd wrinkle our previously pristine clothes and lock lips with a voraciousness only B movie stars could replicate. The flight attendants would all cheer.

Yeah.

I collapsed into my seat, 15F, and giggled at this fantastical, whimsical vision, complete with Heart's Greatest Hits as the musical score.

As if something like that could ever happen--even if I wanted it to. Which I didn't. Because I was too realistic.

Nevertheless, I daydreamed variations of this fantasy for two straight hours, amusing myself with dialogue worthy of a Mexican soap opera. Until somewhere, just above O'Hare's sacred airspace, Jane reentered my mind with a
Hello, Ellie. Enough of this nonsense, please
.

Ah. Back to my real life.

Any lingering visions of Di and me forming a Jane-and-Cassandra-like, no-men-allowed-to-come-between-us-for-the-rest-of-our-naturallives sisterly bond were dashed the moment I spoke to Di in person.

"Alex and I are back together again," she informed me, rubbing her belly and looking large enough to be carrying twin baby Orcas. Not that I told her that.

"Really? Wow," I said, praying this was the right move for her. "And you're happy about this?"

She nodded. Happiness radiated off every part of her.

"How does he feel about the baby?"

"He, um...wants to assist me during the birth."

"Oh," I said, trying to mask my disappointment by sounding extra upbeat and supportive.

"I know you said you'd help me, Ellie, with the Lamaze stuff and everything. But this way you don't have to go to those classes and shit." She grimaced. "Alex took me to an information session at the hospital this week, to see what it was like and all. Man. Those leaders really try to scare the crap out of you."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." She looked worried. "I'm not so sure I wanna do it after all."

"The Lamaze method?"

"The birth," Di said.

I put my hand on her shoulder and squeezed lightly. "You'll get through it just fine. Especially with Alex by your side." I paused. "You must still really, really love him."

She gave me a long look. "I do. And, El, he loves me, too. Neither of us ever stopped."

So, it wasn't much of a surprise when, four weeks later, my sister gave birth to a nine-pound, two-ounce baby boy she named Clifton Barnett Evans (since Di had never changed back her last name after the divorce). And, just after Clifton's APGAR scores pronounced him to be in excellent health, Alex and Di got reengaged (which made that whole last-name thing really convenient). Wedding date to be announced soon.

And it was.

Three months after that, with the fresh chill of December blowing in the door, I entered Di's new condo to find Clifton flashing his first smile and his proud mother announcing that she and Alex would get remarried early the following November.

"I wanna do it right this time," Di said, bouncing my chubby, adorable nephew in her arms twice before holding him out to me. She knew I needed to have my baby fix when I came over.

I grabbed the little guy from her and buried my face in the softness of his rounded belly before cradling him tight and rocking him to my imaginary soundtrack of '80s tunes. "You'll have a lovely wedding," I assured her. "You've put Mom on the case. Who could be more thorough?"

"I'm not worried about those kinds of details," Di said. "I meant that I want to make sure I do the important things right. Like remembering to keep my vows with Alex--in sickness and in health and all that stuff. Like not drinking tequila from my shoe at the reception--that was stupid. And like--" She shot me a look. "Having my sister be my maid of honor."

A lump formed out of nothing in my throat. I couldn't get a response out.

"Will you?" she asked me, looking as though she were holding her breath.

Tears threatened to spill down my cheeks, and I was having a devil of a time speaking. I clamped my mouth shut and nodded.

Di's eyes looked suspiciously bright, too. She nodded back at me and then leaned in to give my cheek a quick kiss. "You're such a geek," she said, but the affection in her voice gave her away.

"I love you too, sis," I said.

"Jingle Bell Rock" flooded the airwaves all that week. I remember because that was the song playing on the radio the evening I opened Terrie's Christmas card.

There were other songs, too, of course, and other cards. Actually, I'd gotten so much pre-holiday mail I'd been joking with Jane about it. That, and the fact that the date was December sixteenth, her birthday, and I'd been alternating between humming Christmas carols and "Happy Birthday to You" all day long.

We'd just finished a rousing debate over mail delivery (Early nineteenth century British versus early twenty-first century American--which was more civilized? Discuss...) when I'd returned with the day's postal stack from my mailbox. I tossed the bills into the Boring pile and turned right to the Newsy pile. The cards.

I'd gotten quite the assortment of newsworthy items that week already:

Tim signed his name to the bottom of a picturesque card that said only "Merry Christmas from Sunny Antigua."

Mark and Seth crowed about their new puppy in their holiday letter. Named him Spider-Man because he kept climbing all over their polished Shaker furniture.

Kim, Tom and the kids claimed to be fine in their card, but Kim was getting antsy being a stay-at-home mom. Was thinking about going back to grad school. Maybe business. Maybe art therapy. She didn't care. She just wanted to get out of the house.

Angelique and Leo, who'd had their triplets a couple months back (one girl, two boys) in California, sent a photo of their newly expanded family. They were hanging in there despite the sleepless nights, and Lyssa had proven to be a terrific older sister. "Thank God for her!" Angelique wrote. "She can change diapers like a pro." They were seriously saving for her future Stanford tuition.

And, from my annual grad-school university alumni newsletter, came this shocker: Brent "Go Fish" Sullivan had departed this earth back in July. The victim of a fatal car crash. No reported surviving widow or children, but I figured there was probably a woman somewhere. No mention of substance-related causes but, considering he loved single-malt Scotch almost as much as he loved card games, that wouldn't have surprised me either.

Regardless, I was rendered speechless when I saw his name in black ink on the "In Memoriam" page. And, to be completely honest, I was sincerely saddened.

I guess I'd hoped he'd live long enough to be redeemed. That he'd find someone he could be true to, even if he hadn't yet married her. I wished for some kind of happy ending for him in part, I supposed, because I wished it for all of us. And, yes, for me especially.