Relative Strangers

by Paula Garner

  I didn’t know how to reach out to him. I didn’t know how I’d survive it if he rejected me, if he never talked to me again. The way he cared about me . . . he would have loved me always, I was sure. If I hadn’t fucked it up.

  Another wrecking ball to my heart came when Eli found and sent Mima’s obituary to me. Even though it was stupid to imagine I might be included in the “survived by” list, it stung a little that I wasn’t. Mima was my mother almost and sort of. I felt so excluded from all of them. (Petty though it was, I was glad Makayla wasn’t mentioned. It would have been too much.) But did they even consider listing me? Would I ever know if Luke had told them what I did, what had happened between us? If he’d told both of them, and that was the final image Mima ever had of me . . . The thought made me want to crawl into a hole.

  I sometimes almost wished I’d never found him. The adage “better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all”? Not convinced. Not even a little. But part of me still clung to the hope that I hadn’t lost him, that we were just “taking some time,” though how much time I didn’t know. The limbo was almost worse than knowing for sure we were over. At least then, I could stop hoping, stop waiting for the shoe to fall. At least then, I could try to move on.

  That weekend, Daniel came home to celebrate his thirtieth birthday. I took a break from packing to join them.

  Leila didn’t come. She had a family thing, she said. I hoped that was the truth.

  As the Wassermans put up streamers, made Daniel’s favorite deviled eggs, and got an early start on the champagne, I couldn’t help watching Gab with a keen eye. She was so excited he was coming home. When he pulled up outside with a cheerful beep of his rental car horn, she rushed out the door. I stood watching at the dining-room window, a jumble of emotions crashing through me. He hugged her, grinning, lifting her off the ground, even though she was at least two inches taller than him. When he put her down, they fell into chatter immediately as he pulled his duffel bag out of the car. They walked back up to the house, his arm slung around her shoulders.

  It made my heart ache. But it was beautiful.

  I watched them throughout the party, feeling shy and very much on the outside. I studied them for cues, constructing a paradigm for how I might be, or might have been, with Luke. “This is my sister, Jules,” he might introduce me to people. “My brother, Luke, is a brilliant pianist,” I might say to friends in college. Maybe he’d even visit me. Maybe he’d hug me and pick me up and who knows — maybe other people would envy me.

  Those were the thoughts I tried to focus on. Not his mouth. Not how slow and dizzying his kisses were. Not how good he smelled. Not those.

  That night, envy still swirling in me over Gab and Daniel, I decided to take a chance and reach out to Luke. If he ignored me, it would just be more of the same. If he told me he really didn’t want to see me again, then I could move on. If he was receptive, then that would be good (really good), but it seemed like anything that might happen was no worse than the situation I was already in.

  It was almost eleven when I finally, after endlessly struggling for words, fired off a message: Hey, Luke. I hope it’s okay that I’m reaching out — I know you suggested we take some time, which I respect, but I’ve been thinking about you and hoping you’re doing okay.

  I lay in bed, holding the phone to my chest, praying for it to ding. Minutes passed, each one a deeper stab into my heart. I’d been foolish to think that his ignoring me wouldn’t be any worse than the status quo. I was already feeling devastated by the passage of four little minutes.

  But then my phone sounded, sending adrenaline surging through me. Let it be Luke, I prayed.

  And it was. But I set my phone down quickly, because what if it was bad? What if he asked me to not contact him again? My hands shook while I finally raised the screen to read his words.

  Your timing is impeccable. I was just thinking about you.

  Did I dare to hope it was for positive reasons? Before I could think of responding, another message came: How are you doing?

  It was such a simple question, but it seemed cause for hope. If he were going to banish me forever, he wouldn’t ask how I was doing. Right?

  I’m okay, I wrote. Sad about Mima, though. Worried about you. And so desperately sorry for what happened.

  I watched my screen, heart thumping, until his reply came: I’m sorry, too. I’m sorry I didn’t stop it right away, and I’m sorry for being so hard on you. Those were not my best moments.

  Tears welled in my eyes at his kindness. This was going somewhere. I wrote: Nothing was your fault, Luke. I don’t blame you for being jarred or upset. It was a dumb thing I did, and I wish I could turn back time and undo it. What I really want is the chance to be the sister you’ve missed.

  He wrote: Do you really feel that way? I’m not clear on what exactly your feelings are. I’m sorry — this is awkward.

  It was more than awkward; it was precarious, dangerous. If I told him the truth, he might not want to see me again. And I couldn’t bear that. I could get over the feelings I had for him. In time, surely I could. But to salvage our relationship, I had to convince him now.

  I had drafted countless messages that I never sent, and now I resurrected the best lines, the sentiments I felt had the best chance of actually making things better. I wrote:

  Luke. What happened was a mistake. I think it was the confusion of so much intense emotion — so many years apart, all that lost closeness. I think the longing to be close to you again caused me to take that mixed-up wrong turn. But we can move past that — I know we can. You’re the only brother I have. And I am the only sister you have. Without you, who will screen my boyfriends for approval? Who will help me through rough spots in college? Who will tease me about my appetite? And without me, who will teach you how to cook? And stop you from letting your future wife choose a dumb china pattern?

  He wrote, Those are good points.

  Hope rose in my chest.

  He added, I would love it if we could get things right again. I’ve missed you.

  His words warmed me to the marrow. I missed you, too.

  We messaged a little while longer. It felt like we were nearly us again — it felt good. And I knew for sure Luke felt the same way when he suggested getting together.

  We made a plan for me to visit the first weekend in May.

  The days passed in a flurry of activity — school, packing, and daydreaming about the kind of close, enduring relationship Luke and I would build.

  In the meantime, Gab and Leila chose their college. Yes, singular. In the end they both decided on University of Michigan. They joked about it, all “what are the odds,” but there was nothing surprising about it to me. The attachment between them ran deep, both ways. I don’t think Leila was any more capable of living without Gab than Gab was of living without Leila. They were a proton and a neutron, bonded together by nuclear force.

  For me, though, it was the end of an era, and nothing was certain. But certainty was often an illusion, I was beginning to understand. We had no choice but to live without it.

  But there were upsides to uncertainty, too. The massive financial aid package from Beloit was the best kind of surprise. We weighed it against U of I, which was still a little cheaper all told, but my mother wanted me to have my dream as much as I wanted her to have hers. We decided to let a visit to Beloit make the decision. It was barely a two-hour drive — even closer than U of I, to my mother’s delight. She took a day off work, and we hit the road.

  And I fell in love.

  The campus boasted expansive green lawns, winding walkways, Victorian Gothic architecture . . . it was the actual dream. It was the oldest continuously operated college in Wisconsin, founded when Wisconsin was still a territory. The oldest. And, as tiny as it was, it had two museums! One was a museum of anthropology, which I had begun to consider as a possible major. They even offered a minor in museum studies — and study-abroad opportunities in places so far from home they see
med impossible.

  It was while we were in the anthropological museum, looking at Japanese ceremonial prayer sticks, that my mother turned me to her and told me that I must, must, study abroad — that she’d work two jobs to pay for it if she had to. “I’ve never been more than a few hundred miles from home,” she told me, her tone urgent. “I want you to see more. I want you to have it all.”

  And immediately, I thought of the painting she’d done for my father. She’d wanted him to have it all, too. She had more generosity and goodness in her heart than I’d ever known — and if it weren’t for the rough year we’d had, I might never have figured that out. It was my anger at her and the damage to our relationship that had shown me we had the thing I’d always envied in my friends’ relationships with their families: permanence. Dependability. We would always be mother and daughter. She loved me; she was there for me — I knew that now. As we stood hugging in front of the Ainu exhibits, I was beginning to understand that in an increasing number of ways, she was the mother I’d always wanted.

  We stopped for lunch at a café on campus and enjoyed coffee, panini, and live guitar music (courtesy of an adorable guy whom I rather fervently hoped was not a graduating senior). After, we wandered around the campus. The building called Middle College — a Wisconsin historical landmark — was built in 1847. It seemed impossible that I would soon have the right to appropriate some of that history for myself, as a Beloit student.

  And it felt so good, the anticipation, the happiness, that I gave myself a pardon for my problem of wanting more. More, in this case, seemed like a fine thing.

  Moving day arrived with rain, which my mother claimed was auspicious. Around the neighborhood, daffodils receded as tulips advanced. At the new apartment, we’d be trading a magnolia for a couple of dogwoods and lilacs (and more windows to enjoy them from, not to mention the screened porch). Mom’s “friend” Casey rented a truck and corralled a couple of his friends to help us on moving day. My mother’s anti-hoarding sensibilities made for an easy move — I didn’t even take Gab and Leila up on their offer to cancel their scheduled activities to help us. Five of us and a truck was more than enough.

  As my mom and I looked around our dusty, emptied-out house for the last time, I said it felt like we should have some meaningful parting words. “Good riddance?” she’d quipped. She was in a good mood. The combination of her new work hours, the new place, and, I suspected, Casey were doing wonders for her. And maybe the incipient closeness between us didn’t hurt, either.

  By noon we were moved in, and by bedtime we were mostly unpacked. Things would be looking nice in no time. My bedroom already looked great, especially after I plugged in the lamp I’d found. It was a score from Tina’s, more treasure than thrift — a Tiffany-style desk lamp with dragonflies and flowers in a mosaic of colors. I loved its warm glow. It went perfectly with the small Oriental-style rug we’d nabbed at IKEA, along with some dark espresso-stained bookshelves that Casey and his friends assembled for me. Despite their modern source, if you looked at them just right, they almost had a vintage feel — my whole room was taking on the sensibility of another era. I filled the shelves with books — old editions of important novels, books about classic architecture, travel books I’d collected from places I dreamed of visiting.

  Casey hung my mom’s painting for me — the one she’d made for my dad when she was pregnant with me. He affixed a picture light to the top to illuminate it. It looked spectacular.

  After making my bed and placing my button pillow at the headboard, I was ready to call it a day. All I wanted was a hot soak in that deep Victorian tub before bed. But on my way to draw the bath, Gab called.

  “Hey, are you moved in?”

  “Yes,” I said. “I’m exhausted. About to climb into the tub. I might never come out.”

  “Oh, okay. Never mind, then.” She sounded disappointed.

  “What? What is it?”

  “I was just — I thought maybe I’d stop by to talk for a few minutes. But if it’s not a good time . . .”

  I thought longingly of my bed, but if Gab needed me, then there was no question. I told her to give me half an hour for a bath and then come on by.

  Soaking in hot water up to my chin was divine. I had dumped in some lavender Epsom salt my mom had already unpacked and put away under the gingham skirt attached to the pedestal sink, and I probably would’ve stayed submerged until I was a total prune if Gab weren’t about to show up. Reluctantly, I pulled the plug from the drain and was just drying off when I heard my mom let Gab in. I wrapped my towel around myself, then padded into my bedroom.

  “This place is awesome,” Gab said, coming into my room. “It’s so you. Do you love it?”

  She hugged me, and I hugged her back with one arm so I could hold on to my towel.

  “I do. I finally love my house, and it happens right as I’m moving out.” I smiled. “I’m hoping I can re-create some of this vibe in my dorm room, though.”

  Gab’s eye was caught by the painting on the wall. “Oh my God, this is amazing. This is the one you told me about?”

  “Yeah. I had no idea my mom could paint like that.” I crossed to my dresser and pulled open a drawer to get underwear and pajamas. “I’m going to change. Be right back.”

  She gave me a funny look as I slipped out to the bathroom to change. When I came back in, I asked her, “So what’s going on?” I dug through a box, looking for my hair stuff.

  She sat down on my bed, watching me. “How come you won’t change in front of me?”

  I blinked, caught off-guard. “Um, because I’m modest?” I could feel my face getting hot.

  “Do you change in front of Leila?”

  “No. I don’t undress in front of anyone. I have a whole ridiculous method of changing in the locker room, too. I know it’s stupid, but . . . why? Why is it a thing?” I sat in my desk chair, crossing my arms. Now I was self-conscious.

  “You started getting all private about it when we were, like, fourteen,” Gab pressed.

  “Well, yeah. I mean, isn’t that a normal age to start to feel shy about your body?”

  “That, or . . .”

  “Or what?”

  She pursed her lips and looked at the floor. “Leila really never told you what happened?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  She squirmed. “There was just — this thing happened. Once. With Leila.” She wouldn’t look at me. “For a while I sort of had . . . feelings for her.”

  “Feelings?” I said carefully. I came over and sat next to her on the bed. “Like, feelings feelings?” My brain scrambled to catch up. Gab was attracted to girls? And to Leila in particular?

  “Kind of.” She avoided my eyes. “I . . . I did something I shouldn’t have. And things have never really been the same since then.” Her eyes met mine, but they quickly flitted away. “And after that, you got funny about taking off your clothes in front of me. So I thought maybe she told you, and maybe you thought . . .”

  “Gab.” I laid a hand on her back. “I had no idea. The way I am has nothing to do with you. And Leila never said a word to me about — whatever happened between you.”

  She turned away, her lips trembling. “It was so stupid.”

  “What happened? Do you want to tell me?”

  She stared at her lap. “It was the summer after eighth grade. Remember how her family and mine sometimes went to Door County together?”

  I did remember, mostly because it made me so jealous. Jealous that I didn’t have a family that could fit in, jealous that we couldn’t afford even small vacations, jealous over the time they spent together without me.

  “We had spent the day on the lake, swimming and everything, and she was sunburned, and she was wearing this little white nightgown.” She covered her face. “And I’d been having all these ridiculous, like, thoughts about her . . .”

  I nodded, but she wasn’t looking at me.

  “She was lying on my bed, and we were talking, and I j
ust . . . I couldn’t stop looking at — oh, God, this is too embarrassing.” She continued to avoid my eyes. “Anyway, I . . . I tried to kiss her.”

  My mind spun. How could I not have known about this? How have we all been going along like this for years, after that? It hurt to realize that they shared even more things I was kept on the outside of, but it was a familiar ache and an increasingly dull one.

  “Well, you can imagine how she reacted. She jerked away and looked at me like I was sick.” She sat up and wiped her eyes. “God, it was such a fucking stupid thing to do.”

  I was struck with the similarities between what we’d done — Gab with Leila, and me with Luke. I realized that must have been behind Leila’s reaction to what happened between Luke and me — her remark: Think of it from Luke’s point of view. It was all so much to digest. “Were you . . . in love with her?”

  She shrugged. “I guess I was, a little. It felt like that.”

  I hesitated. “Are you in love with her now?”

  She shook her head. “No. But I just can’t get past it. Because I don’t think she can get past it. That’s why she never told me she was having sex with Brett. She doesn’t want to talk to me about anything having to do with sex.”

  “Did you never talk about it? About what happened?”

  She gestured helplessly. “At first, she was all, ‘How could you not tell me you like girls? How could you not tell me you had feelings . . . ?’ But I was so mortified by her response that I didn’t know how to talk about it. And really, they were feelings that meant something I hadn’t really found the language for yet, and it wasn’t all just about Leila. You know?”

  “So,” I said slowly, “are you . . .”

  She shook her head. “I’m not a lesbian. But I guess I might be a little . . . bi. I don’t know — none of those terms feels right. Blech. I hate words.” She turned to look at me. “Does it bother you? If I’m bi or whatever?”