Then I Met My Sister (17 page)

Thirty-Three

Gripping Shannon’s journal, I go downstairs in my flannel pajama pants and T-shirt to wait for Gibs.
I hover in the foyer for a minute, slipping the journal into my purse, then, too antsy to stand still, walk into the kitchen where Mom’s kneading bread on the island counter.

“Hi, honey,” she says without looking up.

I rush to the island and lean over the counter toward her, so close her that our noses almost touch. I have a sense of inevitability about whatever words are about to tumble from my mouth. There’s no turning back now.

“Mom, was Shannon happy?” I ask in a quavery voice. “I mean … toward the end. Was she happy?”

Mom freezes and looks at me accusingly.

“Why all this talk about Shannon lately? Why are you doing this to me, Summer?”

I fling my hands in the air, stymied. “Why does everything have to be about you? I’m asking about
Shannon
.”

Mom’s chin juts out. “How can it not be an indictment of me for you to insinuate Shannon wasn’t happy? I was her
mother
.” She puts a hand against her mouth. “I was a good mother,” she adds bitterly. “And I’m a good mother to you, too. That doesn’t mean I can make your life perfect. But it should be
enough
. It should be enough to give me some peace.”

Her lower lip trembles, and she suddenly looks so small and vulnerable that I instinctively reach across the island to touch her. She holds up floury palms as stop signs.

“I have been very patient with you,” she says through gritted teeth. “I realize you’re the same age Shannon was when she died, and that you’re bound to be curious about her. So, fine! Let’s dig out some old photo albums. Let’s watch some home movies. But don’t suggest I was a bad mother to her, Summer. That’s more than I can bear.”

She sets her jaw and digs back into the bread dough, pounding and twisting it insistently.

“That’s not what I meant, Mom. I never meant to …”

“I think this conversation is over,” Mom says in a tight voice, still working the dough.

I shake my head slowly, then, before walking out in defeat, pound the kitchen counter with my fist, creating a floury cloud that quickly dissipates.

Mom doesn’t seem to notice.

I run to Gibs’ car in my driveway before he’s even come to a stop.

He turns off the ignition as I climb into the passenger seat.

I exhale through an O in my mouth, staring straight ahead. “I think Shannon might have committed suicide.”

He pauses and I turn to face him. “She says it, Gibs. I’m almost finished with the journal, and she says,
I want to kill myself
.”

Gibs’ eyebrows widen.

“When I first got the journal?” I continue. “When I was thumbing through it? That’s the first page I read. I’ve known since I started that I might find out her death was a suicide. Now I’m back to that page. Her journal is almost over—her
life
is almost over—and she’s saying she wants to kill herself.”

I start to cry, and Gibs clutches my hand.

“I don’t want to keep reading,” I tell him. “I don’t want to know.”

He loosens his grip, but keeps his fingers laced around mine. “But not knowing … all this speculation … nothing could be worse than that,” he says. “Right?”

I shake my head. “Knowing would be worse. If I knew for sure that I could have had a sister in my life, but I don’t because she did some stupid, cowardly thing for some stupid, immature reason … that would be worse.”

The irony strikes me a beat too late. I would never have had a sister in my life. I remember what Gibs said when I first told him about Shannon:
If you were meant to be here, it’s like Shannon had to die to make that happen.

I cry softly as Gibs squeezes my hand tighter.

“I think you’ve got to have a little faith in your sister,” he says.

I sniffle and rub my eyes. “Sometimes in her journal, she’s so great, you know? Funny and real and perceptive. Then other times, she’s this ridiculous, lovestruck little twit, the kind of girl I roll my eyes at in school. What if the twit came out on top at the end? What if she had some stupid drama-queen moment that she let define her life? That she killed herself over?” I lean my head against the headrest and gaze upward. “I just couldn’t take it. I’d be so friggin’ pissed at her. Then what would I do with all that frustration? Let it eat at me the rest of my life because she’s not here to bawl out?”

Gibs smooths my hair. “Everything you’re afraid of is what you’re dealing with right now. Could knowing the worst be tougher than assuming the worst?”

I consider his words for a moment, turning my head and peering vacantly out the window.

Then I turn to him and nod sharply. “I’m going to finish her journal.”

He smiles, his dark blue eyes incredibly kind and warm.

I inhale deeply, hold my breath for a second, then exhale. “Will you do it with me?”

He nods. “Let’s go for it.”

I pull the journal out of my purse and open it to her last entry.

Thirty-Four

Birds chirp and a nearby lawn mower whirs in the distance as I sit by Gibs in his car and read aloud:

Friday, August 13, 1993

“She died on August 16th,” I tell Gibs somberly. “She wrote this three days before she died.”

I start reading again:

I picked up my schedule today at school.

I glance at Gibs, alarmed. She goes from
I want to die
to
I picked up my schedule today at school
? I keep reading.

Everyone says junior year is the hardest, but I’ve got some killer courses coming up this year, all of them AP, which means projects, reports, essays—AARGH.

It’s okay, though. I’ll take all the distractions I can get. No use hashing out the gory details. I’m sure everybody in town is already talking about it, and I have so totally moved on that I really have NOTHING to say on the subject, so …

ONWARD!

I’m going to carpool with Evie, but I’ve got an appointment with Dr. Deadhead right after school Monday, so we’ll drive separately the first day and meet up in homeroom.

I glance at Gibs again, but no words are necessary.
If only Shannon had carpooled with Eve that day … if only she hadn’t had an appointment with the shrink … if only, if only, if only …

I think I’ll wear my teal sweater to school Monday. It’s a little hot and itchy, but it’s my eat-your-heart-out sweater. Which is stupid, considering he won’t even be at school. But Jamie will.

My eyes skitter away as I try to process the words. Then they fall back on the journal.

They say living well is the best revenge.

But you know what? I don’t even want revenge. Okay, maybe a little. But what I really want is peace. I want my old life back, the one I had before I started hanging out with them. I wish I could turn back the clock.

Or maybe I don’t. My heart is crushed in a million pieces, but I’m wiser than I used to be. I feel like I lived most of my life like a china doll under glass. It was safe but it was boring.

That’s one thing I can say—I certainly haven’t been bored lately. Ha ha.

Well, my tears are back for the fortieth time today, and I absolutely REFUSE to have another sobfest, so I’m going jogging.

Mom doesn’t know what’s up, but she’s acting all worried and hover-y (is that a word?), so I think I can squeeze another shopping trip out of her. (Smiley face.)

I don’t mean to sound bratty, but what can I say. Shopping always cheers me up.

I finger the paper and bite my bottom lip. A quiet moment hangs in the air, then I flip through the last few empty pages of the journal to let Gibs know what I can’t say out loud: that’s it. Those are the last words Shannon wrote in her journal. She’ll never again share another thought with me. I squeeze my eyes shut and press the journal against my chest.

“That’s it,” Gibs whispers, and I nod.

A neighbor’s cat scampers around our rose bushes. The nearby lawn mower is still whirring. The hum of car engines drifts in and out of my consciousness—people going to church, going to the park, going on with their lives …

“You know now that she didn’t commit suicide,” Gibs says softly.

I glance at him. “You think?”

He nods. “It’s obvious. She was all about the future. Whatever Chris and Jamie did to hurt her … she was moving on.”

I nod, my eyes glistening with fresh tears. “I hope. But you know, she was so fickle and moody. By Monday, she could have been back in a funk.”

Gibs shakes his head. “I don’t think so. I think she sounds really strong.”

My eyes soften. “She does, doesn’t she?”

He nods. “She reminds me of you.”

I smile at him as he takes my hand and presses it against his chest.

“Will you go with me on an errand?” I ask him. “I can’t do it today because Eve and her mother are coming over later. But soon …”

“Sure. What’s up?”

I take a deep breath. “I want to talk to Chris.”

Thirty-Five

“Wha …”

Mom’s baffled expression lasts only a nanosecond, then is replaced by her trademark Hostess Smile.

I was counting on this. I’d pondered whether to tell her that Eve and her mother were coming over. But that would have led to questions and fretting and coffee cake–making, so I’ve opted just to let them show up on our doorstep, knowing that any emotions Mom might have will be trumped by social niceties.

“Oh, dear!” Mrs. Brice stammers. “Summer didn’t tell you we were coming? Oh, Susanne, I’m so embarrassed!”

“No, no! Don’t be ridiculous! Come in, come in!”

Mom is in full hostess mode now.

“No, really, Susanne, we don’t need to stay. I just assumed that Summer would …” Mrs. Brice casts an annoyed eye on me, but then softens it with a smile.

Mom is shuttling Eve and her mother toward our living room, swooping her arm in the general direction. A manicured fingernail directs them to our sofa. “Sit, sit!”

Mom and I sit in chairs as they settle onto the sofa.

“Well!” Mom says. “Heavens! How long has it been?”

Mrs. Brice’s face falls. “Susanne, I just feel awful that I haven’t kept in touch.”

Eve nods, averting her pale blue eyes and pulling a strawberry-blond lock of hair behind her ear. Her lightly freckled face makes her look like a college kid.

“Nonsense!” Mom chirps. “Time just has a way of slipping away, doesn’t it? But we’re together now! That’s what counts.”

She claps her hands and turns toward Eve. “Evie! Tell me everything.”

An awkward pause lingers.

Mrs. Brice clears her throat. “Susanne, you clearly weren’t expecting us. I’m so sorry. I don’t know what I was thinking, not calling first. Really, we just wanted to say hello, but we need to be going …”

Mom’s smile stands at attention, like a drill sergeant has just blown a whistle. “You’ll stay right where you are!” She gives a sharp nod. “I’m so sorry if I seem a little … confused. Summer has a way of springing surprises on me. But what a wonderful surprise this is! Honestly, having you drop by—it just makes my day!”

“Where’s Mr. Stetson?” Eve asks.

“Where do you think?” Mom responds breezily. “Golf, of course! Some things never change. Evie, tell me how you’ve been doing. I know you’re married. Three children, right?”

Eve looks like she wishes she could press an eject button, but she manages to smile back at Mom. “Uh … right. Two boys, eight and ten, and my baby girl. She’s two.” The smile is still pasted to her face, but her brows weave apologetically.

Mom fingers her pearls. “Little Evie, mother of three! And you’re living in Charlotte?”

The eyes still look fretful. “Yes. Charlotte. My husband is in computers.”

“Right!” Mom chirps. “You met him in college, right?”

Eve opens her mouth, but no words come. Her face crinkles like a leaf and her eyes flood with tears. “I should have invited you to the wedding.” She gasps out a sob, then stuns us all by running to Mom and hugging her.

Mom’s eyebrows arch, her smile still intact. She tries halfheartedly to stand, but Eve’s weight is pressing her down. Mom casts nervous glances at Mrs. Brice and me.

“Evie, darling!” Mom’s tone aims for sympathetic, but the edge is clear, as if a gunman is holding her hostage and she’s trying to bring him to his senses while cajoling her way to safety.

Eve’s sobs have turned into a freight train. Her whole body shakes as she clings tighter to Mom and weeps into her neck. Mom’s expression grows increasingly frantic.

“Eve, honey …” Mrs. Brice says gently.

“No!” Eve protests with alarming conviction, her face still burrowed into Mom’s neck. “I’ve wanted to hug you for so long, Mrs. Stetson! I’m sorry I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I was so afraid I would cause you more pain. I’m so sorry about Shannon. I miss her so much.”

Mom looks like she’s drowning.

“Eve!” Mrs. Brice says firmly. “I know you’re upset, honey, but poor Mrs. Stetson can’t even breathe.”

But Eve won’t loosen her grip. Her back rises and falls to the cadence of her heaving sobs.

“I’m sorry,” she weeps, sounding like a little girl. “I loved her, Mrs. Stetson. I love you, too.”

I have to admit, I’ve taken in the whole scene with an anthropologist’s sense of objectivity: Mom being swept up by a tsunami of emotion, Mom losing her grip on total control, Mom pinned to her seat, Mom’s social niceties tested by her starkest of discomfort zones. My fascination knows no bounds.

But Eve’s pain … it’s so raw, so intense. As she continues to cry on Mom’s shoulder and Mom begins to clumsily stroke her hair, I find my own eyes filling with tears. A sob lodges in my throat. I swallow hard, then notice that Mrs. Brice is crying, too. Her face is in her hands and her shoulders are trembling.

“Now, Eve, dear,” Mom says. I know she doesn’t intend to sound harsh, but her steady voice is so jarringly incongruous with our streams of tears that all eyes fall on her. She clears her throat and tries again. “I think what everyone needs is a nice cup of cocoa.”

Eve pulls away and stares into Mom’s eyes. Then … as if the past few moments haven’t been weird enough … she laughs.

Mom looks at her, startled. Eve laughs some more … hearty, cathartic chuckles.

“We used to joke about that,” Eve says, her face still so close she must feel Mom’s breath on her cheeks.

“Wha … ?”

“Shannon and I used to laugh about how you’d always try to make everything better with a nice cup of cocoa. No date to the prom? ‘What you need is a cup of cocoa!’ The dog devoured your science project? ‘A cup of cocoa will do just the trick!’ An asteroid destroys the Northern Hemisphere? ‘Well, I’ll just whip up a nice cup of cocoa!’”

Eve’s eyes glisten and she laughs some more. She reaches out as if she wants to touch Mom’s cheek, but she pulls back at the last moment.

Because now, Mom is crying.

I bite my lip. Confronting Mom with almost two decades’ worth of pain and grief doesn’t nudge her into vulnerability, but embarrassing her turns her to jelly.

“I didn’t realize you made fun of me,” she says in a brittle voice.

“Oh, Mrs. Stetson … no! No, Mrs. Stetson, that’s not what I meant! We weren’t making fun. We loved you for making everything better with your cocoa. Don’t you see what a source of comfort that was for us?”

Mom waves a hand dismissively.

“Oh, Mrs. Stetson … ” Eve continues plaintively.

Mom’s hand is still waving.
Whatever, whatever
…

Damn her. Why is it so much easier for her to be cold than sad?

“You know what we called you?” Eve soldiers on.

Mom looks up at Eve, dampening her lashes as she blinks them against her tears.

“We called you Sue-nami. Sue, as in Susanne. You were such a force of nature. We were in awe.”

We study Mom’s face closely. This could go badly.

But Eve’s sweet face is coaxing a smile from Mom’s.

“Sue-nami? Like the storm?” Mom asks.

Eve nods, giggling through tears.

Then Mom starts giggling, too. Crying and laughing at the same time. Eve’s fingers interlace with Mom’s. Their knuckles turn white, they’re squeezing so hard.

“You two weren’t the only ones to come up with nicknames,” Mom says, her teary eyes sparkling. “Remember when you and Shannon sprinkled bathroom bleach into the washing machine because we were out of laundry detergent?”

Laughter sputters from Eve’s lips. “Shannon was Spic and I was Span!”

Mom laughs harder. “Your mom and I had to buy new cheerleading uniforms so our Red Devils wouldn’t be pink!”

“Sixty bucks a pop!” Mrs. Brice interjects gleefully, laughing along with them.

“Oh, oh!” Eve says excitedly. “And don’t forget how we almost set your kitchen on fire when we baked our first cake.”

“‘Bake’ being the definitive word,” Mom says in a playful-scolding voice. She looks over at me to deliver the punch line. “They broiled it!”

Eve is laughing so hard, she’s teetering on her squatting feet.

“At least they didn’t paint your kitchen!” Eve’s mom says. “That was my Mother’s Day surprise one year. Surprise! Your kitchen is pink!”

“To match our cheerleading uniforms,” Eve says. Tears stream down their cheeks.

Dusk is settling in, and a gauzy peach ray of sun streams through the plantation shutters, making everyone’s cheeks rosy.

“I never heard about the uniforms or the cake,” I say softly.

Mom gazes at me warmly. “There were so many stories,” she says. “Where do you begin?”

I don’t know … at the beginning? In the middle? What the hell does it matter where you begin, just as long as you do? Oh, well. Maybe she’s beginning now.

Mom and I are washing dishes when we hear the front door open.

“Anybody home?” Aunt Nicole calls from the foyer.

Mom glances over her shoulder. “Oh, by all means, let yourself in,” she calls back. “Why stand on ceremony?” Mom pokes me playfully in the side as I dry a porcelain teacup.

Aunt Nic joins us in the kitchen. “Dinner dishes?” she surmises.

“High tea,” I correct her, curtsying. “We had guests.”

She pulls a chair from the kitchen table and settles in. “Who?”

I reach for a soapy teacup that Mom has just finished washing, but she pulls it away from my grasp. “Go sit with Aunt Nicole,” she tells me. “I’ll finish up.”

I sit next to Aunt Nic as Mom rubs a dishcloth against her china until it squeaks.

“Carole and Eve Brice came by,” Mom says, attempting an oh-by-the-way tone.

Aunt Nic blinks hard. “You’re kidding! Goodness, how many years has it been? How old is Eve now? She must be—what—in her mid-thirties?”

Silence.

Aunt Nic and I exchange puzzled glances, then look at Mom’s back at the kitchen sink.
Squeak, squeak, squeak
goes the china.

“Sue?” Aunt Nic says.

More silence.
Squeak, squeak, squeak
.

Aunt Nic’s eyes search mine for an explanation. I shrug.

“Mom, did you hear Aunt Nic?”

Squeak, squeak, squeak
.

But then the squeaking stops. Mom freezes in her spot until her shoulders convulse. Her head drops and a sob rumbles through her throat.

“Sue … !”

Mom turns toward us, her blue eyes glistening with tears. The teacup in her hands drops to the ceramic tile, breaking into a thousand jagged pieces. Aunt Nic and I gasp and jump to our feet. Mom holds out a hand to stop us from coming closer.

“Stay where you are!” she says through her sobs. “You’ll get cut.”

We ignore her, rushing over and enveloping her in our arms.

“The glass!” Mom wails. “You’ll cut yourself on the glass!”

“We don’t care about the glass!” Aunt Nic says, pressing Mom’s face into her neck.

“It’ll cut you!” Mom insists, but we’re not listening. We’re just hugging her, Aunt Nic’s fingers tangled with mine as we stroke Mom’s hair.

“I have to clean it up,” Mom says, but her voice is small now, defeated. She crumples into us, our muscles flexing to absorb her weight. Her sobs emanate from deep in her gut.

“It’s okay,” Aunt Nic whispers in her ear. “It’s okay, Su-Su.”

We stand there for a long time. Our faces turn sideways and rest on each other’s shoulders. Our arms caress each other’s backs.

“I miss my baby,” Mom moans, then shakes as more sobs churn through her chest.

“I know,” Aunt Nic coos. “I know.”

“It’s my fault,” I say. “I shouldn’t have called Eve. I didn’t mean to upset you, Mom.”

Mom’s back suddenly stiffens and she pulls away from us. “Why
did
you call her?” she asks. I try to read her expression. Angry? Accusing? Betrayed?

I hold a hand against my mouth, grasping for words. “I don’t know,” I say, staring at the shattered glass on the floor. “I need to know her, Mom. You never talk about Shannon, other than superficial stuff. I want to know my sister. But I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

She takes my cheeks in her hands, her palms cool against my skin. “I’m glad you called her.”

My face crumples. “But I made you cry.”

Mom shakes her head. “It’s okay to cry, sweet girl. My sweet baby girl,” she says, and our tear-stained eyes stay locked for a long moment.

Then Mom’s hand tugs self-consciously at the collar of her blouse. “I must look a fright,” she says. “Let me go wash my face.”

Broken glass crunches softly under her pumps as she starts to walk out of the room.

Aunt Nic suddenly smiles. “I can’t believe it,” she says. Mom turns around to see what she’s talking about.

“This is the first time I’ve ever see you walk away from a mess,” she tells her sister.

Mom blushes. “Oh, the glass!”