Juliette blinked twice, slowly, then shrugged, looking more like the noncommittal Juliette they all knew. "I—I guess I was a little afraid to tell you because I had no idea how this would all turn out. And," she chewed her lip, then continued, her voice dropping to just above a whisper. "We've never really discussed Angela before, you guys. And…and I didn't want anyone trying to talk me out of writing to her."
"Well that's exactly what we would have done," Renata exclaimed. She stood up and crossed over to where her youngest sister sat on the floor, her head down on her knees, long red hair spilling around her like a veil. Renata dropped down to sit beside her. "You okay, Georgia?" Renata had a difficult time using the nickname she preferred, Gia. There was a part of her that wondered what was so wrong with the names they'd been given. Why change them? Juliette was Juliette, not Jules, not Juju like her best friend, Sharon, called her. Just Juliette. Phoebe was Phoebe. Not Phebes, but Phoebe. And Georgia was Georgia. 'Gia' sounded like the name of a Victoria Secret model, or something racier, and it bothered her calling her sweet baby sister by a name like that.
Gia lifted her head and nodded. "I'm fine."
An awkward silence settled over the group, and although she was no longer pacing, Phoebe didn't sit down. She stood with one shoulder against the wall, almost as though she were separating herself from the rest of them.
Finally, it was Gia who spoke. "Do you have her letter with you?"
"Of course. Would you like to read it? Or I can read it out loud."
"I want to know what you said to her first." Phoebe pushed away from the wall, and to everyone's surprise, crossed over to the two sisters on the floor and sat down on Gia's other side. Four against one, Renata thought; even the dog stayed curled up around Gia's feet.
Juliette must be dying inside, but Renata wouldn't look at her, not directly. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched her sitting all alone in her spot on the couch, not moving, not speaking, just studying them, sizing up the situation. Renata knew that if she were in Juliette's shoes, she would be on the verge of kicking everyone out. Juliette wasn't like that, though. Although she was stubborn and a little stand-offish when she was hurting, she would do everything in her power to make sure the rest of them were all right. Which is what made this whole situation so surreal.
"Well," Juliette began slowly, testing the weight of each word. "I told her I forgive her for what she did to me. I didn't speak for anyone else. And I asked her for forgiveness, too."
Another long silence, then Phoebe's husky voice asked the question the others longed to. "For what, Jules? What did you ever do to her?"
Juliette snorted softly, a sound so derisive that Renata did look at her now. "I think a better question would be 'What have I not done to her?'" She set aside the pillow and leaned forward. It was just a coffee table and a few feet of floor space between them, but it felt like a chasm to Renata, with Juliette on one side, the look on her face raw and ferocious, the three of them on the other, disbelieving, betrayed. "I have run her down, run her over, shoved her off the Golden Gate Bridge, thrown her into an abandoned well. I have left her stranded in the middle of the Mohave Desert. Naked." She clamped her mouth shut as though to put a halt to the litany of atrocities spilling out of her. Her nostrils pinched as she breathed in, then said, "I have spent the last fifteen years hating her, wishing she was dead, and coming up with a million ways to off her. That, my sisters, is what I've done to her."
Renata was shocked. She shouldn't be, because she'd struggled with her own feelings about Angela, but this was Juliette. Sweet Juliette, who wouldn't hurt a fly. Literally. The girl would rather shoo one out the back door than break out the flyswatter. Yet here she was admitting to contemplating all forms of murder for Angela Clinton.
"I have wasted so much of my life wishing her dead, you guys," Juliette's soft voice was loud in the stunned silence. "And it has kept us both trapped by that horrible night. Not just Angela, both of us! I've had her locked inside the jail in my heart, and every time I thought of her or heard the name Angela or Clinton, I'm back in that dark place, standing on the other side of those bars, hating her. Wanting to kill her was killing me."
Juliette's eyes were overflowing now, the tears falling freely as she reached for a tissue from the box on the coffee table. "It's as though my life stopped that night. I've just been walking around like the living dead, waiting for satisfaction so that I could go lie down and die for real."
Renata could feel her throat tightening as Juliette bared her soul to them, but she would not let herself cry. The others needed her strength; even Phoebe, although she'd never admit it. Renata cleaned up the messes and held the pieces together. It was her role in their little circle, and she did it well. They didn't always love her methods, but she was the go-to-girl when it came to getting things done. She was the backbone of this little family of orphans.
She looked around at her sisters. Juliette was the level-headed glue, the oldest, Gia, the peacemaker, the youngest. Phoebe, not quite two years younger than Renata, shared the middle sibling slot with her, so she resisted being categorized. If nothing else, she brought the entertainment, the fuel, the fire. Phoebe gave them a reason to kiss and make up.
It had been this way since they were children, even before Gia showed up, a bonus baby late into Maman's and Papa's parental careers. When it was just the three of them, it was always Phoebe who pushed first and hardest. Renata would rage and tattle and pout until Juliette stepped in the middle to sort it all out.
When Gia was born, Renata seemed to find her place in the family at last. She loved being a little mother and she doted heavily on the baby who responded with sweet coos and slobbery nuzzles. Gia was the kind of infant who smiled and chortled far more than she cried, who raised her arms to anyone who looked twice at her, and wanted desperately to be right in the middle of things. While Juliette was planning her future, and Phoebe was planning her evenings out, Renata was planning out a home and family of her own.
When she and John had their first baby, Reuben, she didn't care that he didn't have tiny red curls and no eyebrows like John's baby pictures, like Gia's. He still cooed and nuzzled and wanted to be nowhere more than tucked into the crook of her arm.
Simon arrived two years and two months later, solemn and scowling, mostly silent, his brow often furrowed even in slumber. Renata loved to stand over his bed while he slept and watch his constantly moving features. One day, she just knew, when he finally figured out all the things he really wanted to say, a torrent of amazing words would flow from his lips and he would change the world.
Then Levi was born, and Renata thought if there was ever such a thing as a perfect baby, Levi was it. He smiled for the sheer joy of it. His internal clock coincided perfectly with hers, and if she didn't put him to bed by 7:30, he'd fall asleep in his highchair, his swing, or curled up in a corner of the play area, usually underneath or behind something, throwing her and John into a momentary panic.
Judah made his entrance into the world roaring like a little lion cub, and he hadn't stopped since. He was the last to fall asleep, the first to wake up in the morning. His cries were the loudest of all the boys' and his belly laughs shook him so hard he often fell over. When he was angry, he did not want to be comforted with hugs and snuggles. He preferred to crawl into a corner and complain, sometimes in irritating whimpers, other times in endless yowls, until he either got tired of tormenting everyone around him, or fell into an exhausted sleep.
It was with the birth of Judah that Renata started to wonder if God was no longer listening to her. Every time she became pregnant, she begged for a baby girl, for their own John and Renata Dixon version of Gia, and every time another son was born, she fell in love with him and agreed to wait until the next time. But four years after Judah, it was still Renata and her family of boys.
Now, as she looked around Juliette's living room, she again felt that spiraling ache, that emptiness in the deepest part of her belly,
that longing for a baby girl to love, to cherish, to dress in pretty polka-dots and lacy socks.
And suddenly, an overwhelming sense of being rudderless and adrift washed over her, even as she sat with her hip and arm pressed against Gia, her feet tucked under the warm body of Juliette's dog. She felt alone on the outside, surrounded by her beloved sisters.
She wondered if Angela Clinton felt the same way in prison; lost, untethered, and alone.
CHAPTER THREE
Angela Clinton killed Maman and Papa. On the night that Angela and Juliette and the rest of their senior class were to walk the aisle and flip the tassels on their cardboard caps, Angela Clinton got plastered, then climbed behind the wheel of her classic 1970 El Camino, a sweet-sixteen present from her daddy. She drove full speed through a red light, plowing into the side of the Gustafsons' Buick Park Avenue Sedan, making Maman's head snap back so hard against the passenger door window that the impact killed her almost instantly. Papa, on the other hand, lasted nearly an hour, but not long enough for any of the girls to say good-bye. At least Grandpa had gotten there in time to hold Papa's hand as he slipped away to join Maman.
Renata attended the same high school, two years behind Juliette and Angela. The girls weren't friends, but they weren't enemies, either, because Angela was kind to everyone. In fact, Angela had few enemies, only those who couldn't tolerate kindness from someone as popular as she was. She was the brightest star in their school, and Renata could still remember the first time she'd seen the girl perform. The voice that flew out of her mouth was like nothing she'd ever heard before—or since—and Renata sometimes wondered if Angela still sang. What kind of opportunities did prison offer a girl who looked like a pixie with flaxen blond hair, dreamy eyes, a brilliant smile, who had a voice that brought people to the brink of euphoria?
Angela. Why, of all days, of all people, had Angela Clinton been drinking? Alone? She stated at her trial that she'd been at home in her room, drinking her bottle of whiskey all by herself. According to Grandpa and Granny G, Angela gave no real reason for her binge, only that the alcohol was available, so she took advantage of it. But what would cause a girl with so much promise to drink alone on the day of her high school graduation?
Angela had turned 18 three months earlier, so was tried as an adult. Her sentence required her to serve two consecutive sentences of 10 years each. It would be 15 years this coming June, and Renata wondered how the parole system worked, if Angela might be eligible. Did her family still live close by or did they move away to begin a brand new life where the visage of Angela wasn't hanging over their heads? And if they had stayed local, what would that mean for Angela when she was released?
What if Angela came back to Midtown? Renata shook her head briefly, not ready to think about what that meant.
But Juliette had opened a can of worms with Angela's name on it, and they were all being forced to stare at the grotesque contents against their will. Juliette sat waiting, holding a pale yellow sheet of stationery in her hands, offering to read the words Angela Clinton had written, words that would bring the girl back to life in a very real way.
Renata didn't want to know what the letter said. She didn't want to feel sorry for Angela. She didn't want to feel anything for the girl. And from the expression on her face, neither did Phoebe. For once, the two of them were in complete agreement.
"I don't know, Jules." Phoebe shrugged, feigning nonchalance, but not fooling anyone. "Honestly, I'm not really interested in what she has to say to us, to you. I'm more interested in the unbelievable fact that you took it upon yourself to contact that woman in the first place, especially without including us." She pushed herself up off the floor and brushed her long-fingered hands together, the bracelets on her wrists jingling prettily. "I need to get going. I don't think it's really fair to Brandon to leave him hanging after all. So," she turned around and held out her hands to Renata and Gia. "I don't know how you two feel about this, but I'm ready to call it a night. Come say good-bye to me."
Gia stood up, her pale skin mottled with color. She flushed in patches when she was upset and Renata could tell the girl was despairing over the way their meeting had completely unraveled. When Phoebe made up her mind, though, there wasn't any budging her, and this time, Renata didn't feel like arguing with her. This time, in fact, she agreed with her. She turned to Juliette who still sat curled into the couch, hands clasped over the letter folded in her lap.
"Phoebe's right, Juliette. You should have included us long before now. And I'm not going to let you put Gia on the spot about this. We're going to call it a night so we all have a chance to think things through a little. We can get back together over the weekend. Maybe Saturday night."
"That will work for me," Gia murmured.
"I'll have to check my calendar." Phoebe clearly wasn't ready to commit to anything yet.
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean for it to go like this." Juliette looked at each one of them, imploring, her eyes revealing the truth of her words.
Renata sighed deeply and shook her head. She couldn't imagine what had motivated Juliette to act independently of them, especially over something so pivotal in each of their lives. "I'll call all three of you tomorrow to set up a time. A good night's rest should clear the air a little." She stepped forward and reached for Juliette's hand, pulling her up to stand as well, the corner of the coffee table still between them. She still held tightly to Phoebe's hand, even though the younger woman tried to pull away. "Let's do this right, okay?"
As we go our separate ways
As we ponder what's been said
May we keep each other's secrets
Lest we all wind up dead.
It was a terribly morbid way to end this meeting in particular, in light of what had been discussed, but they brought their clasped hands toward the center of their circle then let go, lifting fluttering fingers high overhead.
"Oogie Boogie," they muttered in unison, voices flat.
"I'm outta here. Thanks for the coffee, Jules. We'll talk soon." Phoebe was never really angry with anyone except Renata, but she didn't fake her feelings, either. If she wasn't happy, you didn't have to guess why. She hugged Juliette quickly, bending over the top of the coffee table. "I just need time to process, okay? You threw me for a loop with this."
Juliette just nodded. Gia circled the table and hugged her, too, then quickly followed Phoebe without saying anything more. Renata stood with her arms crossed and watched them leave, waiting until the door closed behind them. Then she rounded on Juliette.
"What were you thinking, Juliette Gustafson? Why didn't you say anything? At least to me, so that I'd be prepared to support you." She pressed a hand to her chest. "I feel like you tried to manipulate me into backing you up. Like you thought I'd be okay with this because we'd talked about it once last summer."
Juliette didn't answer at first, and Renata momentarily regretted the harshness in her voice. But when she did speak, Renata stiffened defensively.
"I think the point of breaking up this G-FOURce prematurely was to not talk about this now."
"Excuse me?" Renata's eyebrows rose in astonishment. "Don't get all snippy with me. I'm not the one who stirred the pot, you know."
"No, you're not. And it isn't your job to clean up the pot, either." Juliette made quotation marks in the air as she used Renata's words. "It's your job to go home and think things through a little. Get a good night's sleep on it, remember? Those were your words." Juliette bent down and picked up the purse from the floor by the armchair Renata always sat in, and handed it to her. "I have to take a shower. Can you lock up behind you?"
Renata snatched her purse out of Juliette's hand and glared at her. "What on earth is your problem? You're acting like Ph—"
"If," Juliette interjected, crossing her arms, her eyes bright again. "If you tell me I'm acting like Phoebe, Renata, so help me, I will stop speaking to you altogether. I am acting like me. This is how I act when I'm not happy with how things ar
e going. I'm not angry. I'm trying not to be rude. I love you, but I don't really want to talk to you about this right now, especially since the others aren't here, okay? Just let it go for now."
Renata was livid. No one seemed to care how hard it was for her to always be the bad guy, the one to take the hits. Phoebe could just up and walk out of a room without so much as causing a ripple, her silky voice soothing any frayed nerves, her looks intimidating everyone into compliance. Georgia? Well, no one could be upset at the girl, not for more than a second or two. But her? It was as though people looked for reasons to be angry at her. And always found them, no matter how hard she tried to keep things from getting out of hand. She clamped her lips shut, slung her bag over her shoulder, and marched to the front door.
"Fine. Why don't you call everyone tomorrow then and arrange the next G-FOURce. I wouldn't want to interfere with your plans. I was just trying to help, you know."
Juliette nodded, her tears gone, her cheeks flushed. Renata was accustomed to her big sister's tears, but not this dry-eyed, slightly haughty version of her. Was this Officer Jarrett's doing?
"I'll call you tomorrow, Ren. And I'll call Phoebe and Gia, too. You shouldn't have to worry about always cleaning up the messes we make. We're all big girls now. Even Gia. She can make her own decisions, too." Juliette took a step toward her. "Sometimes messy is actually a good thing, you know."
Renata let out a derisive snort, then stepped out into the cold January air, pulling the door shut behind her a little more forcefully than she'd intended.
Don't worry about cleaning up after them? About fixing things? Well, who was going to take care of business if not her? It was what she did in this family. Nothing would get done if she, Renata Gustafson Dixon, didn't take the bull by the horns and deal with it. Phoebe would walk away, Georgia would dissolve into the floor-boards, and Juliette would curl into a fetal position, bawling her eyes out. Someone had to be responsible, and that left only her. They needed her. They just had no clue how badly they needed her.
Renata and the Fall from Grace Page 2
