I ran up the stairs.
“How do you do that?” Eva asked, giving me a confused look.
“Do what?”
“Run.”
“I exercise.”
She shuddered, headed down the denuded hall into my room and flopped on my bed, which was still made up with the satiny lavender bedspread I’d bought after college. “Mom’s mad at you,” she said.
“Great. Why is that?”
“Because you haven’t been over.”
“We had lunch at the Eveready last week. And we saw another medium, who said Frankie is bathed in light and love and watches over us.”
She groaned. “Why do you go to those things?”
“Why don’t you? I’m not the only daughter, you know.”
“Because I don’t believe in that stuff. Also, I work.”
“Don’t start, Eva. I also work.”
I looked at the stuff on my bookshelves and my old desk. Books, sure, I’d take the books, even if most of them were for kids. A high school cheerleading trophy for Most Positive Attitude; my diplomas from high school and college; a Mickey Mouse mug from a long-ago trip to Disney—oh, that Captain Cook’s Tonga Toast! The Sand Pail Sundae! Forget the rides . . . it was always about the food.
“Speaking of your job, my doctor says I have to lose some weight,” Eva said, picking up on the food vibe. “Got any tricks?”
“There are no tricks,” I said, running my finger across the painted-on-velvet picture of a cat. “Eat better. Use Salt & Pepper. There could be a family discount if you’re nice to me.” I turned to her. “Seriously, Eva. I’d love to cook for you. Good stuff. You won’t even know you’re on a diet. It’ll just be a lifestyle change.”
“Fine. But don’t give me a discount. Charge me extra, because I plan on whining a lot.”
“I will.” I paused. “Eva, does it bother you, being fat?” I asked.
She gave me a confused look. “No. Why? Does it bother you?”
“Yeah. Sometimes. We live in a skinny world.”
“Really? Because I live in America, and we are not a skinny nation, hon. And from where I sit, you’re one of the happiest people on the planet. You know. Aside from Frankie.” She flopped back on the bed, staring at my ceiling. “I remember coming in here when you guys were little on Christmas morning. Dragging you out of your cribs so we could see what Santa brought.”
“Really?” I’d never heard that story. “Tell me about it.”
“I just did.” She glanced at me and sighed. “You wore these fuzzy little sleeper things. You both had poopy diapers, but I didn’t bother changing you, because I was, like, five.”
I sat down next to her and scoured my memory banks. Nothing.
“I’m gonna miss this house,” Eva said unexpectedly.
“You sure you’re okay with the move?” I asked.
“What am I going to do? Throw myself on a pyre? Of course I’m okay. I’m glad, even. They’ve been stuck here for way too long.”
“It’s not a Siberian gulag, Eva. But why now? It seems so sudden.”
“Let them fly, mama bird,” she said. “The little fledglings have to leave the nest sometime.”
“I haven’t been keeping them here.”
“Right.”
“Spit it out, Eva, or shut it up.”
She shifted her left boob to a more central position. “I want to say something,” she said. “Don’t interrupt, just let me get it out.”
“I—”
“Shush! Just listen.” She glanced at me, then back at the ceiling. “I’m sorry I wasn’t a better sister. I’m still not a great sister, and I know it.”
“Are you dying?”
“I don’t think so.”
I crossed myself. “Well, save the apology. You’re fine.”
“There’s a reason you and Georgia glommed on to each other, isn’t there?”
“I believe it’s called friendship,” I said.
“You two are more like sisters than we are.” There was an unexpected hint of jealousy in her voice.
She was right. Eva was always around, more or less, but she never let me in. Georgia . . . I knew Georgia.
“The thing is,” my sister said now, her voice a little rough, “when Frankie died, I hated seeing you without her. You were like an open wound.”
My chest tightened with grief. “I don’t have a lot of clear memories of her.” No. Only that heavy, dark emptiness. The Frankie-shaped space.
“Yeah, well, you were fucking tragic.”
“Thanks.”
“Just trying to explain. One of the reasons I think Mom and Dad stayed here was because of you. They didn’t want you to . . . I don’t know. Lose something familiar, on top of losing her.”
Thirty years, and we were finally talking about something real. I lay down next to her, both of us on our backs, side by side. “What do you remember about her?” I asked. “You were, what? Eight when she died?”
“Seven and a half.” There was a long pause, and when she spoke, her voice was husky. “She was happy. She was so sweet and cuddly.” My entire soul seemed to reach out for Eva’s words, wanting to have something, anything of Frankie. “You, on the other hand,” she went on, “were always running and breaking things, but Frankie . . . she was . . . ah, fuck it. She just sat there and smiled. At least that’s how I remember her. But she was tired a lot. She was never healthy. All those food allergies, all that asthma. She caught every bug, every cold, every virus.”
“Why did she die?” The words were a whisper.
Eva covered my hand with hers, a rare gesture of affection. “I don’t think there was a big event. I think she just . . . wound down.”
The lump in my throat was a boulder. A few tears slipped out of my eyes and into my hair.
“So let Mom and Dad move, Marley, and stop with the guilt-tripping, okay? Go shopping with Mom and buy some shit for the new place. You love that anyway, don’t you?”
“I do,” I said. “The guilt trips . . . they’re not deliberate.”
“I know. It’s in our genetic makeup. Okay, if this is my last day of eating like an Italian, I’m gonna make the most of it. Ma! Is dinner ready?” With that, she lumbered off the bed and out of the room.
“Good talk,” I called.
She was already thudding down the stairs.
I sat up and looked around. This would be the last time my room had furniture.
The lump in my throat came back with a vengeance.
Once, it had been our room, Frankie’s and mine. Once, it had been painted pale blue; I didn’t remember when it had been repainted yellow. The early photos showed two cribs, though I’d outgrown mine by age two. Frankie had never left hers. So tiny, and Mom was afraid she’d fall out of bed and break. All family legend, nothing I remembered.
“Marley! We’re dying down here! Come and eat!” Mom bellowed.
I got up, and for a second, I stood where Frankie’s crib had been.
Nothing. No memories.
I went downstairs and took my place at the loaded table, next to Georgia. Her presence (and Louis’s) made today seem less morose, a little like a party, rather than the Last Supper. But it was weird—the picture of Pope Francis was gone (Dante and Louis had hung it in their kitchen), Nonny’s silver tray brought from Italy (Eva), also gone. The good china was packed, and we were eating off the Pyrex.
It was good to see Georgia eating after her night in the ER. Tragically, that night had not gotten her and Rafe back together, despite my Insta-Rosary the second I saw him getting out of the cab.
But she told me she’d finally apologized to him, something she said was years in the making, and he’d been a prince. It wasn’t “Tell off the people who judged us when we were fat,” but it was something, anyway. An honest conversation about w
eight and its effects.
I couldn’t help wishing they’d try again.
“So why are you guys moving after all these years?” Georgia asked, innocently.
“Oh, well, the winters,” Mom said. “Mr. DeFelice and shoveling and the ice, you know. He could have a heart attack.” We all made the sign of the cross, even Georgia, and Eva knocked dutifully on the table. “Just time for a change, I guess.”
“It’ll be beautiful down there,” I said. Eva looked at me and smiled. “Mom, Dad,” I added, “do you think I could have Ebbers?”
Mom jerked back. “No! That was Frankie’s.”
We were all quiet for a minute, until I said, “I know.” Eva was scowling at me. But how was this a guilt trip? This was a reasonable request.
“Give it to her if she wants it,” Dad said, topping off Georgia’s wineglass.
“I will not!” Mom exclaimed. “We’re taking Ebbers with us. He’s like one of the family.” She pulled her head back like an offended turtle.
“Okay,” I said. “Fine. That’s fine. It’s just that Frankie was my twin, and I’d like to have something of hers.”
“I’m aware she was your twin, Marlena Apollonia. Since you both grew in my womb.”
“Can we not say ‘womb’ at the table?” Dante asked. “There are two gay men here who don’t want to think about girl parts.”
“You also grew in my womb, Dante Christopher, and were fed off my placenta. Fed very well, as a matter of fact. Ten pounds, two ounces, fourth-degree tearing.”
Dante gave a dry heave while Louis laughed.
The subject of Ebbers seemed to be closed. I let it drop and scooped more spinach salad on my plate to offset the yearning for a second helping of lasagna.
“So guess what, Marles?” Dante said. “Camden and Amber? Camber, we were calling them? They broke up.”
My chest squeezed. “Good,” I said, just a hint of bitterness in my voice. “He didn’t deserve her.”
“Exactly what I said,” Louis murmured. “The man has the IQ of a box of hair.” He cocked an eyebrow at me, the look clearly saying, You could do better.
“I always thought he was nice,” Mom said. “So handsome. I thought you and he would make a very nice couple, Marley.”
Well, I slept with him a few times, Mom, but he didn’t want to be seen with me in public.
“Camden’s gross,” Dante said. “A total whore. If Amber doesn’t have an STD, it’s a miracle.”
Great.
“Don’t talk like that at the table, son,” Dad said.
“Dante, can’t you find anyone for your sisters?” Mom asked.
I sighed. Loudly.
“Do not draw me into this conversation,” Eva said. “I love being a childless spinster. Pass the meatballs, Georgia.” Georgia obeyed. Everyone obeyed Eva.
“Fine, fine. At least you’ll take care of us in our senility,” Mom said.
“As long as you’re happy, Eva,” Dad said.
“I’m great, Daddy.”
“Well, I hoped to live to see my other daughter married,” Mom continued. “Poor little Frankie didn’t get a chance, Eva doesn’t want any, but Marley, the clock is ticking, sweetheart. Can’t you—”
“I’m seeing someone,” I blurted. “Okay? I have a boyfriend.”
There was a moment of stunned silence. Georgia raised her eyebrows, and yeah, yeah, I knew these were treacherous waters.
“Who? What? When?” Mom sputtered. “Why didn’t you bring him?”
“I figured I’d let the dust settle over the move,” I lied.
“What’s his name?” Dad asked. “I can use the Google on him. Is he good enough for my little girl?”
“I think so. His name is Will. Will Harding,” I said. I’d Googled him, too, and all that came up was his name on a list of children’s video games. He was on LinkedIn. Not on Twitter, Snapchat, Facebook or Instagram, the freak.
“He can come to your birthday dinner!” Mom said. “So we can meet this mystery man you’ve been keeping a secret.”
“Sure.” It was the week after next, and the day before my parents moved to Maryland. “I’ll tell him.”
“You didn’t mention him to me,” Dante said in the voice that said, and I would be told, being the perfect little brother, so the fact that you haven’t told me is an indication that something’s terribly wrong.
“It’s still new. He’s shy. But sure, he’ll come. Maybe not to the cemetery, though.” Because of course we always visited the cemetery on my—and Frankie’s—birthday. “Where are we eating again?”
“Roberto’s,” Mom said. “We’ll come back here for cheesecake, of course.” She glanced at the shrine, and her eyes filled with tears.
Our last birthday in this house. My heart wobbled dangerously.
Now all I had to do was convince Will to get out of his house.
* * *
• • •
Georgia and I decided to stop at Hudson’s for a drink on our way home. She wanted to tell me what my mom had spilled while Eva and I were upstairs, and I wanted alcohol. She also said it was the kind of intel that needed a drink.
Hudson’s was noisy and cheerful. Alice, the server, came right over, and we ordered a glass of wine apiece.
“Okay,” Georgia said once the drinks had arrived. She settled back in the booth. “It’s the fortieth anniversary of them moving in, the thirty-first of your sister dying, and your mom just can’t deal with the big house anymore, according to your father. He wanted a change, thought it might do her good, and he’s been working on getting your mom to move for the past five years. Before it’s too late, he says, and they’re senile and have hollow bones—his words—and will die falling down the stairs. Then . . . okay, now, don’t freak out about this, promise?”
“Sure,” I lied, my heart already thudding,
“He had a very minor heart thing in July.”
“What?” I screeched. “He had what?”
“Inside voice,” she said as heads whipped around to look at me. “It wasn’t a heart attack. Just a little A-fib. Fast heart rate.”
“And no one told me? My mother told you and not me?”
“Well, I’m a lawyer, hon. I have interrogation skills. And they didn’t want to upset you. He’s fine. It was just too much caffeine, they think, but it got them thinking.”
“My father was in the ER, and neither parent said boo to their kids?”
Georgia tipped her head. “Eva knew. Not Dante, though.”
“That damn Eva. Why her and not me?”
Georgia took a sip of her wine. “That, I can’t answer. Maybe because she’s terrifying and impressive.”
I admitted that she was. “You know what she said to me upstairs? She apologized for being a crap sister.”
“Is she?”
“No. But she’s not the typical sister, either. I mean, she’d give me a kidney, but she wouldn’t go to the movies with me.”
“Speaking of, want to go see the Tom Hardy movie next week?”
“Hell’s yes.” I swallowed some wine, forcing myself to relax a little. “Thanks for coming with me, by the way.”
“Better than dinner at Big Kitty’s, that’s for sure.”
“Your mother does have great taste in vodka,” I said.
“True. There is that.”
We sat back in comfortable silence for a minute, looking around at the other diners. One of my clients, a Wall Street badass, saw me and waved, and I waved back. And speaking of clients . . .
“So I guess I have to make Will come out of his cave,” I said. “Since I outed him as my honey.”
She waited, her expression kind and patient. Some people had resting bitch face. Georgia had resting kind face.
“He’s making me dinner this weekend.”
“That’s very thoughtful. Cooking for a chef.” I nodded. “Do you guys talk?” she asked.
“We do. About my family, mostly. You. Emerson.”
Georgia’s face was a little too nice, bordering on sympathetic, and I didn’t want to ask why.
“You’re looking very spiffy these days,” I said.
She grimaced. “Mother took me shopping.”
“You know, she may be a cold bitch, but she has killer taste in clothes.” I smiled. “Your color is better, and you seem more . . . relaxed.”
“It was that yoga class.”
I snorted. “It was one class, Georgia.”
“Hey. I have my own membership now. And I feel better, too. The meds are doing their thing, and Mason seems solid, school’s good . . . and I guess talking to Rafe . . . well. The wound is scabbing over.”
“That’s great.” I leaned forward and clinked my glass against hers. “To us. You, and me, and Emerson. That list hasn’t been all that bad. I’m closing in on the finish line, I think. Just have to get Will to hold my hand and take me home to his parents and all that good stuff.”
“I think I may be finished, too.” She hesitated. “One of my clients at the FFE? She’s a therapist, and I filed some paperwork for her with the state. I asked her if she’d start seeing me. As a client.”
“Really?”
She nodded. “I think I need to figure out how to be a little nicer to myself.”
“Thank you, Jesus! Georgia! I’m proud of you!” I clinked my glass against hers again. “I think this will be great.”
“Thanks. Oh, shit,” Georgia murmured, her expression not changing. “Camden just came in. Don’t turn around.”
I whipped around. For a second, all that remembered love—or what I’d thought was love—flared in my heart . . . then withered, then turned to ash.
Camden saw me, his perfect face brightening, his blue eyes glowing, and headed to our table. “Marley!” he said. “How are you? Man, it’s good to see you!”
“Hi,” I said with all the enthusiasm of dirt. Georgia gave him one of those icy WASP death stares I was convinced they taught at boarding school.
Good Luck with That Page 37
