As Close as Sisters

by Colleen Faulkner

  At first, when we started dating, I was plain scared. He was the first guy I’d ever dated. I mean ever. I’d never even kissed a guy before I kissed him at the bar the night we met. I was sure, that first time, that it was just too much Jack and some sort of midlife crisis thing. Even after we saw each other a couple times, I was still sure it was a fluke or a phase, or something. It was weeks before it occurred to me that I might be falling in love with him.

  Today, standing next to Chris’s car with him, we’d both laughed about it. He had a couple of psychobabble terms to label me, but basically, it was his personal opinion that we can’t help who we love. And sometimes, for some of us, that meant male or female.

  As I stood on the deck, looking over the dunes at two figures in big straw hats in chairs and a leggy blonde lying on one of my towels, the truth of that statement really hit me. You can’t help who you love.

  Who would have ever thought that our friendship—Aurora’s, Lilly’s, McKenzie’s, and mine—would survive Buddy? Would survive high school and college and ex-husbands and ex-boyfriends and ex-girlfriends and estranged children? We were so mismatched in so many ways and yet we fit together so well. We complemented each other. They make me a better person.

  I groaned, realizing my eyes were getting misty. Lilly was wearing off on me. I grabbed a towel from a basket inside next to the door. “Stay, boy,” I told Fritz.

  The sand was hot on my bare feet as I hurried over the dunes. Approaching the group, I debated where to lay my towel. Did I lie down next to Lilly? Aurora? Lilly would phrase her questions delicately. Aurora would come right out and ask me about Chris’s wang. Of course, the disadvantages could be the advantages. Aurora was good at ripping the Band-Aid right off. Lilly picked at it, fussing at the edges, prolonging the discomfort.

  I walked past Lilly’s chair and spread my towel out right in the middle of them, at McKenzie’s feet. I lay down on my back, pushed my sunglasses up on my head, and closed my eyes. The sun felt hot and good on my skin. I waited.

  “Anyone want a bottle of water?” Lilly asked after a few minutes. “I brought the minis.”

  “I’ll take one,” Aurora said.

  “Me too.” McKenzie.

  I heard Lilly pass out the water bottles.

  “Are we inviting the neighbors to the bonfire?” Lilly asked, sipping her water.

  I kept my eyes closed.

  “We might as well,” Aurora put in. “They’re going to come anyway.”

  “And if you invite them,” McKenzie said, “you can ask them to bring food to share and their own drinks.”

  “Right,” Lilly agreed. “Otherwise, we’re feeding everyone on the block. Anyone want pretzels? I know I had that huge breakfast, but I want something to munch.”

  I heard her rattle a snack bag. Her beach bag was this bottomless pit of snacks and beverages and lip balm and suntan lotion and baby wipes and anything a person could want on the beach.

  “Mia and Maura coming?” Aurora.

  “They wouldn’t miss it. I told them they could bring a couple of friends, but I expected everyone to be on their good behavior,” McKenzie said. “I’ll have a pretzel. I told them no drinking and nothing else illegal.”

  “Here,” Lilly said. The pretzel bag crackled again. “Pass them to Aurora.”

  “You have any Pringles?” Aurora asked. “I always feel like pretzels are a waste of carbs. If you’re going to eat crap, it might as well be greasy crap.”

  I heard what sounded distinctly like potato chips being shaken in a cardboard can.

  “Just a few left. Catch.”

  I propped myself up on my elbows, unable to stand it another second. “The three of you are funny. Hilarious.”

  “What?” Aurora pulled the top off the Pringles can Lilly had tossed her and looked inside. “Want a chip? Just crumbs.” She held out the canister.

  I looked at her, then McKenzie, then Lilly. “Go ahead. Ask.”

  “Ask what?” McKenzie took a loud bite of a pretzel.

  Aurora tipped the can, dumping chip crumbs into her mouth.

  “I was going to get hot dogs for the bonfire, because you can’t have a bonfire without roasting weenies on a stick,” Lilly directed to me, “but I was thinking about getting Italian sausages, too. What do you think?”

  “Personally, I like weenies,” McKenzie said.

  “I prefer Italian sausages,” Aurora replied.

  They were both snickering.

  “I’m sorry,” I said loudly. “I didn’t mean to keep it from you. It just . . . kind of happened and then I didn’t know what to say.”

  “What are we talking about?” Aurora asked.

  “Never mind. Never mind.” I dropped back down on my towel.

  “Wait, Janine, are we talking about you dating a dude?” Aurora asked.

  “I’m sorry,” I repeated.

  “You’re sorry you’re dating a dude?” Lilly asked. She sounded so funny saying dude. “Or you’re sorry you didn’t tell your best friends in the whole wide world that suddenly you’re playing . . . for the . . . original . . . team,” she said, obviously struggling to make the analogy fit.

  McKenzie and Aurora started laughing. Then Lilly.

  I closed my eyes, shaking my head. “I thought you guys were going to be mad at me.”

  “Because you kept something this important from us?” McKenzie asked. “Because we are.”

  I pushed up on my elbows again. They had stopped laughing. “You are?”

  “We’re angry because you didn’t tell us you’re in love.”

  I know I must have gotten the silliest look on my face. “I guess I am,” I said.

  35

  McKenzie

  Monday, things felt different at the beach house. I couldn’t tell if it was because Janine had had to return to work and the real world, because our month was more than half over, or just because things in life always change. Especially when you don’t want them to.

  Monday, I lay around and rested, as per Mother Lilly. My girls stopped by to say hi, to clean the refrigerator of leftovers, and to tell me a story about an employee getting locked in to the walk-in refrigerator at work. Lilly spent the whole day fussing over menus and plans for the bonfire, which included three calls to a local seafood shop to make sure the clams we had ordered would be available for pickup. Aurora lay low, talking on her cell phone, walking on the beach, and taking my car and disappearing for a few hours.

  Tuesday was more of the same, minus my girls, which made it duller. I read and napped and sat on the deck and listened to Lilly chatter on the phone with neighbors. Everyone got a personal invite from Lilly. Again, Aurora was absent for several hours. Neither Lilly nor I asked her where she had been, and she didn’t offer to tell us.

  Wednesday was a beautiful, sunny day. Hot, but not unbearable. Late in the afternoon, a friend of Janine’s, Bernie, arrived with a truckload of wood. The way Bernie told it, when she wasn’t running her furnishings store in Rehoboth Beach, she was acting as a professional bonfire . . . person.

  The four of us had learned years ago that while we were all pretty bright, building a beach bonfire was not in any of our skill sets. I was pleased to see that Janine had hired someone to do it, so we didn’t have to rely on our neighbors for help (which often led to heated discussions), but it felt weird to have someone out on our beach building our bonfire. It crossed my mind several times, as I watched Bernie tote wood across the beach, that this would likely be my last bonfire. Which made me sad. I guess I wouldn’t know what I was missing, though. Would I?

  That evening, I was still mulling over the question of whether or not we know we’re dead when we’re dead when Lilly started rounding up the troops. “Janine! Aurora! Mack!” she called from the living room. “Let’s go! Everyone will be arriving soon. Mia and Maura and their friends are already down there.”

  A few minutes later, Lilly and I walked over the dunes and across the beach, arm in arm. The sun was setting behind us,
and the moment seemed dreamlike. How many times had I come over these dunes to this very spot on the beach, this very place at the edge of the Atlantic Ocean? Where had all the years gone? I wanted them back.

  “It’s my turn to light it, isn’t it? Mom?” Maura came bounding toward me with Mia an arm’s length behind her. They were both in tank tops and shorts; I could see bikini straps on both of them. “Tell her it’s my turn.”

  “I got an A in chemistry,” Mia argued, out of breath.

  They kicked sand up as they came to a halt in front of us.

  “I think it’s only fair,” Mia said.

  I did the Mom-eyebrow-lift with my nicely drawn on eyebrows. “You think you should have your sister’s turn lighting the annual bonfire because you got an A in chemistry?”

  “Mom!” Maura protested.

  Mia crossed her arms over her chest. “I do. She got a C.”

  I looked at Maura. “You’re lighting the bonfire. Lilly’s got the lighter. Mia lights it next year.”

  “I’m writing it on the calendar,” Mia said, walking away. “And I’m sending everyone an e-mail, so there’s no question,” she called over her shoulder. “Next year I don’t want her trying to say I lit it this year when I didn’t.”

  “When have I ever done that?” Maura started after her sister, then turned back to us. “Can I have the lighter, Aunt Lilly?”

  “Not until Aurora and Janine get here.”

  “Aunt Janine! Aunt Aurora!” Maura shouted up to the beach house.

  I cringed. “A little loud,” I said, holding up my hand.

  “Oh, gosh!” Lilly let go of my arm to put both of her hands on her belly. “She heard that. Mack, she knows your voices.” She took my hand. “Feel.”

  “Does the baby know our voices or does she just think we’re loud?” I asked, resting my hand on Lilly’s belly.

  For a minute there was nothing, and then . . . I felt the motion beneath my hand. It’s a sensation unlike any, and it immediately brought a smile to my face. It felt like a roll more than a kick.

  “Feel it?” Lilly asked, tears springing in her eyes. “Feel that!”

  I don’t know what it was about standing there in the sand with my girls and Lilly, feeling the life inside her, but I had this sudden, overwhelming sense that everything was going to be okay. I mean, I knew everything is not going to be okay. I know there’s so much sadness yet to come: tears and pain and . . . I don’t even want to think about what it would be like in the end to say good-bye to Mia and Maura. To Lilly and Aurora and Janine. So maybe I was kidding myself because that was what we humans did to get through the moment, through the day, the week, the month, the years. But I was okay with that, at least tonight.

  “I think you’re right,” I whispered to Lilly. “I think it’s a girl.”

  She covered her hand with mine.

  “We set your chair up, Mom,” Mia said. “Come on.” She held out her hand for me, something my girls didn’t do often.

  “Is this like being queen of Mardi Gras?” I asked.

  “I have no idea what that means.” Mia clasped my hand. “Go get them,” she called to her sister. “Tell them to come on or we’re lighting it without them and we’re drinking all their beer.”

  I cut my eyes at Mia. That was something I expected Maura to say, but not her.

  “Kidding!”

  Later, I sat in my chair, snuggled in a sweatshirt, a towel around my shoulders, watching the fire lick up the side of an enormous piece of wood. It was a perfect bonfire night. The sky was clear, and it wasn’t too windy, so the smoke drifted upward instead of into our faces. A paper plate sat balanced on my knees: a half-eaten hot dog on a potato roll, steamed clams, Lilly’s vinegar coleslaw, and pretzel salad. All the things I loved.

  I could see Maura and Mia on the far side of the blaze, sitting in the sand, drinking soda, goofing around with their friends. They’d all been in the ocean for a dip, and Mia’s and Maura’s hair was wet and stuck to their heads, making them look, in the unsteady light, younger and more innocent than their years.

  Janine was sitting in her chair, a few feet to my right, just outside the brightest circle of firelight. Chris was standing behind her chair, leaning over, talking to her. She tipped her head back and laughed; the dancing light was kind to her, too. She looked young, happier than I could remember seeing her in a long time. Maybe ever.

  Next, I searched the crowd of twenty-five or thirty for Lilly. She was walking around with a cardboard box, passing out graham crackers, chocolate bars, and marshmallows, directing people where to find the sticks to roast their marshmallows. In her element.

  I didn’t see Aurora for a second, then realized she was standing behind me. She wore shorts and a Dewey Beach sweatshirt, her hair down and falling over one shoulder. I looked back and smiled at her, and she moved closer. She didn’t touch me; she just stood there behind me, staring into the fire.

  “What is it about man and fire?” I tucked my half-eaten plate under my chair and snuggled under the beach towel. “Why can we sit here for hours and stare and continue to be fascinated?”

  “I don’t know,” she mused. “Some psychologists say it’s only Westerners who are enthralled by fire. Those of us who didn’t learn to control it or conquer it as children. There are studies that show that in cultures where fire is still used as a tool, where children learn to control it at an early age, they have no more fascination with it than we would a screwdriver or a hairbrush.”

  “What do you think?” I asked, enjoying a moment with a side of Aurora I didn’t see often. The contemplative, not so cynical Aurora. “You use fire as a tool, a tool to create art.”

  I half expected a smart-ass reply. Aurora often made fun of what she did, of what people thought she did, and how much money they paid her to do it. She joked about the ignorance of those who displayed her work and called it brilliant. Or called it art at all.

  But she just stood there for a long time. “I used to think,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper, “that I did control my torch. That I was the master, and my torch was my brush, but sometimes . . .”

  She was quiet so long that I thought maybe she had lost her train of thought. “Sometimes,” she murmured finally, “I think it controls me. You know what I mean?”

  I didn’t. I have no artistic talent. I don’t even know how to fully appreciate what Aurora creates. I rely on art critics and other artists to tell me how amazing Aurora is. But there was something in her voice that made me think we weren’t talking about her torch, or art . . . but about our lives. What I thought she was saying was that sometimes we control our lives, but sometimes we’re just washed along, controlled by the tide of people and events around us.

  I reached over my shoulder for her hand and felt her take it.

  “You ready for tomorrow?” she asked. She leaned closer to keep our conversation private. “The ruse is in place. Janine will be at work. Lilly’s got a hot lunch date.”

  “I’m ready.” My voice sounded funny in my ears. “Not a big deal. It’s not like this is the first time I’m going to hear it. See it.”

  “Eww.” She let go of my hand and sat down in the sand next to me, facing the bonfire. She drew up her knees and wrapped her arms around them. “They show you pictures of your tumors?”

  “Yup,” I said. “I’ve got a big one in my throat.” I touched the scar on my neck. “And all these little ones in my lungs. They look like little starbursts on the scans.” I opened and closed my hand to demonstrate. “I could tell them I don’t want to see the scan results, I guess. Just go, have the scans so they can use them for their research, but just say I don’t want to see them.”

  “Or you could skip the whole appointment,” Aurora suggested. “Just not show up. Why do you need to be reminded that the cancer is going to kill you? That doesn’t sound like fun. You could go to lunch with me instead. It’s at some ritzy place that’s supposed to take weeks to get a reservation. Better yet, we could blo
w off lunch with the art director and do something fun.”

  “Something fun in Philadelphia in July?” I asked, realizing she was serious. “Do you know how hot it is in the city?”

  “Where’s your sense of adventure, Mack? We could go see the Liberty Bell or . . . or take one of those tours in one of those buses that looks like a duck and turns into a boat once you get to the river.”

  I laughed because that didn’t sound like something I would have ever guessed Aurora would want to do. “Sounds tempting,” I said. “But I feel like I should go. You know, play my part in the cure for cancer.”

  She leaned back against my legs. “I wouldn’t go.”

  “I know,” I mused.

  36

  Aurora

  I sat at a traffic light in downtown Philly trying to ignore the ass behind me who practically had his BMW in the backseat of McKenzie’s Toyota. When the light turned green, I hesitated before hitting the gas to give him enough time to lay on the horn. I thought about giving him the finger. Instead, I looked up into the rearview mirror and gave him the biggest, prettiest smile I could muster, Lilly-style.

  He slammed on the horn again. I laughed and ambled through the intersection. It had been a boring day. I’d met with the art director and had a lunch of three martinis and a salmon steak. I wasn’t even entirely sure what the point of the meeting had been; I just let her talk while I sipped my gin and twirled the toothpick shaped like a sword with olives on the end. My manager had called twice in the last two hours, wanting to know how the meeting went, I’m sure. I wasn’t in the mood to talk about my career.

  After lunch, I excused myself, telling the woman I had to meet my friend at the UPenn cancer center. Which was a lie. I just didn’t want to talk anymore about my work or what she and the art community thought about it.

  I was waiting for McKenzie to text me to pick her up, so I went to the Museum of Art. There were bigger museums in other cities in the US and in the world, better museums, but it had always been one of my favorites. Maybe because I had gone there as a child, on school field trips. Or maybe I liked it there because so many of the pieces were so familiar that they were like old friends. Alone there, without anyone from the art community watching me, I could enjoy a secret pleasure. I liked the American art gallery and had a thing for Charles Willson Peale portraits. I’d totally have hooked up with him, had I met him in the eighteenth century.