The Girl You Thought I Was

by Rebecca Phillips

  I nudge her back and we both start laughing. It feels like old times, sisters sharing secrets, our voices low so we won’t be overheard. I always miss her, but it didn’t hit me exactly how much until right now.

  “Dad would kill us both, you know,” I say when we finally stop giggling.

  “I know. He probably thinks we should stay virgins until our wedding nights.” She lets out a snort. “Like I’m sure he and Mom were, right?”

  A cloud passes over the room at the mention of Mom. I was hoping we’d get through at least the first night without her name coming up.

  “Morgan,” Rachel says, her voice soft.

  I realize I’ve gone quiet. “What?”

  “If I ask you something, will you promise to tell me the truth and not shut me out like you did over the phone all summer?”

  I tip my head back and meet her eyes. The room is quiet except for Fergus, who’s giving himself a bedtime bath. “Yes,” I reply finally. I have a feeling I know what her question is going to be.

  “Are you still shoplifting?”

  Yep, I was right. “I haven’t done it in a while, Rach. That’s the truth.”

  “And you want to quit for good.” She says it like a statement, as if she doesn’t believe I could possibly want anything else.

  “Yes, I want to quit for good. And I’m going to get help. Dad’s been looking for a therapist for me.”

  “Good. That’s really good.” She yawns loudly, her long day of airports and travel catching up with her. “Does everyone know? About the shoplifting, I mean? Your friends?”

  I feel a twinge in my chest, remembering Alyssa’s and Sophie’s faces when I told them. “Yes,” I say past the tightness in my throat. I tell her about what happened at the mall last weekend, and the mixed reactions that followed.

  “That sucks,” she says when I’m finished. “I mean, I understand why they’d be mad or wary or whatever, but it still sucks.”

  I nod. I understand too.

  “Does Eli know?”

  The question seems to ring in my ears, tormenting me. “No.”

  “God, Morgan. How long do you think you can keep it from him? You said it’s his aunt who you did the community service work for, right? I mean, eventually the truth is going to—”

  “Rachel,” I cut in. “Can we not talk about this tonight?”

  “Sure. Sorry. Let’s talk about something else.” She picks up her pillow and holds it in her lap. “So, about Sunday. I’m leaving in the morning for Sutton and coming back later that night. In case you’ve changed your mind.”

  God, this topic is even worse. I look away so she can’t see my face. “I have to work Sunday, so I couldn’t go even if I wanted to.”

  “You could call in sick.”

  Annoyance prickles in my stomach, and I cross my legs, jostling Fergus. He hops down and moves to the chair, where it’s safe. “I don’t care if you go, okay? That’s your choice. I just don’t see the point.”

  “The point is she’s family, Morgan. We have one mom, and she’s it. She made a mistake—a huge one—but that doesn’t mean we’ve stopped loving her, right? And loving someone means giving them an opportunity to make up for their mistakes.” She taps my leg with the edge of her pillow. “Isn’t that what you want from your friends? A chance to apologize and be forgiven?”

  “Of course, but I also know forgiveness takes time and needs to be earned.”

  “Mom knows that too. She’s doesn’t expect everything to be peachy again right away. She’s just asking for a chance to try.”

  I think about lunch with Dad last Saturday, when I told him I’d consider going to see Mom. Well, I have considered it, and I just don’t see the benefit of looking her in the eye while she tries to reason away all the damage she caused. Maybe I’m just too scared to see the happy new life she’s made without me.

  “It’s okay to miss her, you know,” Rachel says when I don’t respond. “I do.”

  “Who says I miss her?” My throat tightens around the words. I swallow hard and quickly untangle myself from the blanket. “I think I’ll head to bed now. I’m really tired. Talk more tomorrow?”

  She looks at me for a long moment, then she sighs and says, “Sure. Tomorrow. Good night, sis.”

  “Good night.” I get up and leave the room, the in-person version of hanging up the phone before our conversation can veer back into a topic that hurts too much to discuss.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  WHEN MY ALARM WAKES ME AT SEVEN THIRTY, I smell the distinct aroma of coffee. Dad doesn’t drink coffee and I can take it or leave it, so Rachel must have dusted off the coffeemaker and dug out the can of Folgers from the cupboard above the stove, where it’s been since she was home for Christmas.

  “Good morning!” Rachel chirps when I shuffle into the kitchen, eyes still half closed.

  I look around, trying to make sense of everything. My sister is leaning against the counter, sipping coffee out of the World’s Greatest Dad mug that we gave Dad one Father’s Day when we were little. Dad is sitting at the table, eating scrambled eggs and reading the newspaper, something he still prefers over getting his news online. They’re both fully dressed and ready for the day.

  “Morning,” I mumble as I open the fridge and pull a carton of orange juice.

  Dad finishes with the paper and turns to Rachel. “What’s on the agenda for today?”

  The cheeriness in his voice hurts my ears. He’s clearly enjoying his time with Rachel, the daughter who doesn’t cause him any grief. I push down a stab of hurt.

  “I’m going food shopping this morning,” Rachel says, setting the mug on the counter beside her. “I want to make dinner for you guys tonight.”

  Dad gives an impressed hum. “Nice change from takeout.”

  Rachel looks at me. “Want to come shopping with me?”

  “I have a shift at the thrift shop.”

  “Oh, right, you’re still doing that. When’s your last shift?”

  “Next weekend.” I drain my glass and put it in the dishwasher. “I’ll be back around twelve thirty, though.”

  “Great. Maybe we’ll go for a walk downtown.”

  I nod and excuse myself to shower. By the time I emerge, my sister has already left and my father is now puttering around in his room. I leave without saying good-bye.

  I’m in the stockroom, sorting through a garbage bag of impossibly tiny baby clothes, when Eli slips in and closes the door gently behind him. I had no idea he could shut a door without slamming it.

  “Hi,” he says with a grin.

  “Hi.” The tips of my ears start burning. With all the busyness surrounding Rachel’s homecoming, we haven’t seen each other since he left my apartment Wednesday night, missing my dad’s arrival by a mere ten minutes. I blush even harder when I remember dashing into the living room to scoop my discarded shirt off the floor before Dad saw it.

  “Aunt Rita’s with some customers.”

  “Oh,” I reply stupidly. His presence has turned my brain to gelatin.

  He drags over the plastic chair I unearthed to use as a makeshift step stool and sits on it. I immediately drop the baby onesie I’m holding and go to him, perching myself on his lap. His arms circle my waist while mine slide around his neck.

  “You’re all I can think about,” he says, resting his forehead against mine.

  He’s said as much—and more—during our last two days of texting, but texts can’t compare to hearing it in person. “Same here,” I tell him.

  We kiss until a loud peal of laughter pierces through the closed door, reminding us where we are. I pull back and drop my arms without moving from his lap. Eli loosens his grip on my waist but doesn’t let go completely.

  “How’s your sister’s visit going so far?” he asks.

  That kills the mood. “Fine,” I say, peering down at my hands.

  “Are you sure?”

  I shrug. As much as I like having Rachel home, for some reason I’ve been on edge since ou
r conversation last night. Not only has she made our father smile more in the past fourteen hours than he has in the past fourteen months living with me, I feel like at any moment, she and Dad are going to start in on what a fuckup I’ve become. Like I need the reminder.

  Eli smooths a strand of hair off my face. “Does she still plan to visit your mom?”

  “Yeah. She’s hoping I’ll change my mind and go with her.”

  “Well . . . maybe you should go.”

  I tense on his lap. God, not him too. I thought out of everyone, he was on my side. “Eli,” I say, striving to keep my tone light. “I get enough of that from my dad and Rachel. I don’t need it from you.”

  “I just meant . . .” He shakes his head and sighs, then refocuses on me. “Okay,” he says, trying again. “What I’m trying to say is, I think seeing her might help bring some closure to everything, you know? I’m not saying you should forgive her, just . . . let her know how you feel.”

  I slide off his lap and return to sorting baby clothes on the floor. “Telling her how I feel isn’t going to fix anything or change what happened, Eli. I might think differently if she’d ever shown even the slightest hint of remorse, but she hasn’t.”

  “Maybe that’s why she wants you to visit—so she can tell you she’s sorry.”

  “Well, it’s kind of late for that.” I pick up a pair of tiny pink overalls. “There’s nothing she can say or do to make things like they used to be.”

  I can feel his gaze on me as I fold the clothes, my movements quick and jerky. Our relationship swerved off the light-and-fun track the moment I first told him about my mother, and I have no idea if I’ll ever get it back there. Sometimes I wish I could. It’s scary, opening your heart to someone when it’s still not fully healed from being crushed by someone else.

  “I’m sorry.” Eli gets off the chair and sits beside me, wincing on the way down. “Maybe I’m wrong. It’s just—I see this anger in you sometimes. You hide it really well, and you try to act like nothing fazes you, but I can see it. Probably because I used to feel the same way.”

  I stop folding and look at him. I’ve never seen that past version of him. It’s either carefully controlled or gone altogether. I need to find a way to do the same—expel this version of me and start all over again with something new.

  “This is good,” Dad says, spearing a piece of grilled salmon with his fork. The three of us are sitting around the kitchen table, using knives and forks like civilized people. Aside from the disastrous cooking phase Dad and I went through, we only seem to dine properly when Rachel’s around. She used to cook for us sometimes last summer, but nothing as fancy as this.

  “Mmm,” I agree. It is pretty tasty, though I’m not a fish fan. Neither is Dad, unless it’s battered, deep-fried, and comes with tartar sauce.

  “Thanks, guys.” Rachel says, beaming. “I guess I lucked out and got some of Mom’s cooking genes.”

  “Have you spoken to her since you got here?” Dad asks her.

  “Yeah, she called me this morning. She’s really excited about tomorrow.”

  Dad slices off another bite of salmon, his pleasant expression not faltering. “I’m sure she is. It’s been a long time since she’s seen you.”

  Rachel smiles and takes a sip of water. “She said they have a dog now,” she goes on. “A dachshund. Her name is Sadie.”

  A snort slips out before I can stop it. Of course she has a dog. She always wanted one, but Dad’s not a dog person and always refused to give in. When I was six, he brought home Fergus as a compromise, but Mom never bothered with him. He’s always been my cat.

  I pop a baby potato into my mouth and look up. They’re both watching me. Heat rushes to my face and I gulp down the half-chewed potato, almost choking. “Sorry,” I say, coughing a little. “It’s just . . .”

  Rachel’s eyes meet mine, and whatever derisive comment I was about to make dissolves on my tongue. There’s no point. We obviously differ now in our opinions of Mom. Even Dad seems to have come to some sort of peace with her. I drop my gaze back to my salmon. “Never mind.”

  Everyone’s quiet for a minute, the scrape of cutlery the only sound in the room, before Rachel mercifully changes the subject to something innocuous. I’m not really listening. I keep quiet for the rest of dinner, then wordlessly start clearing the table and carrying dishes to the sink. Dad gets up to help, waving Rachel out of the room. She steps outside onto our tiny balcony and closes the sliding glass door behind her.

  Dad and I clean in silence for a few moments, him wiping the stovetop and counters and me rinsing dishes for the dishwasher. I’m just starting to wonder if he’s going to speak at all when he joins me at the sink.

  “You were a little rude at dinner,” he says in a casual tone, like he’s talking about the weather.

  “Sorry,” I repeat, but this time it has an edge. “You can’t expect me to be happy about Mom’s perfect little life with Gary and her dog.”

  “No one expects anything from you, Morgan.” He runs his cloth under the tap and then wrings it out. “But I do wish you’d go a little easier on her.”

  “Like you went easy on her, Dad?” I shut off the tap and turn toward him. “You asked her for a divorce about a minute after you found out about Gary. Not that I blame you—like, at all—but I always find it amusing when you lecture me about forgiveness.”

  His eyes go round and he stares at me, red creeping up his neck. “I didn’t ask your mother for a divorce. In fact, I offered her a chance to stay and work on our marriage. But she didn’t want that. She chose to be with the man she loved, which wasn’t me and hadn’t been me for a long time. She wanted the divorce, so I gave it to her. Better than forcing her to stay in a marriage she didn’t want.”

  I stare back at him, dinner churning in my stomach. So instead of choosing him and trying to make things work for her family, she chose another man. Another life. We weren’t even worth trying for. Realizing this feels like an extra punch to the gut. “Well, she should have asked for a divorce before she hooked up with Gary. She didn’t have to cheat.”

  “You’re right, she didn’t. But life doesn’t always work that way. Sometimes people are selfish. Sometimes we do things without thinking about the consequences.”

  I lean back against the counter and cross my arms. “I still don’t know how you can defend her after what she did to you.”

  “It’s not all about her,” he says, his voice rising. “It’s about me too. I’m through wasting time feeling sorry for myself. At some point I need to accept the way things are and move on with my life. And yes, part of that is making an effort to forgive your mother.” He sighs and tosses the dish cloth in the sink. “That’s why I wish you’d go see her, Morgan. Not just for her sake, but for yours. She hurt you horribly—I get that. But I promise you, cutting her out of your life isn’t the answer.”

  I think about what happened after I got caught shoplifting. The disappointment on my father’s face. The shock in my friends’ eyes. The empathy in Rachel’s voice. Then I wonder how I’d feel if they all tried to erase me from their lives forever over one bad mistake. And how desperate I’d be for a chance to make it up to them.

  I look at my father, standing there in the faded red Budweiser T-shirt that he likes to wear on his days off. His stares back at me, his expression sad but hopeful. He wants so much for me to resolve this bitterness inside me, before it takes over and swallows me whole. I let out a long, resigned breath and close my eyes.

  “Okay,” I say, opening them again. “I still don’t think seeing her will change anything, but if it means that much to you . . . okay.”

  He smiles and lifts his arms toward me, but my body feels too rigid for a hug. Instead, I walk over to the balcony door, yank it open, and stick my head out. Rachel looks at me, expectant.

  “Change of plans.” I swallow, feeling my pulse thump in my neck. “I’m going with you tomorrow.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  “ARE YOU OKA
Y?”

  I tear my gaze from the house—a cozy white split-level with grayish-blue shutters and a tidy, bright green lawn—and look at Rachel. She’s sitting in the driver’s seat of my car, her upper body turned toward me. I was much too distracted to drive here, and now that we’re parked in my mother’s driveway, my focus has only deteriorated further.

  “I’m fine,” I say firmly. She asked me the same question two hours ago, before we left for Sutton. She asked me again when we stopped halfway at a gas station so I could pee, my nervousness constricting my bladder. And each time, I tell her I’m fine, even though I feel like throwing up.

  Get it together, I tell myself. All I have to do is get through the next hour or so, two at the most. I don’t even have to talk if I don’t want to. I’ll just sit there, mute, until it’s time to leave. Just the fact that I’m here is enough. Dad and Rachel can’t say I didn’t try.

  My phone chirps, and I slide it out of my purse.

  How you doing?

  A text from Eli. At least he didn’t ask me if I was okay.

  Just arrived, I type back, even though it wasn’t what he asked. But I’m sick of lying about being fine. Text you later.

  Did I mention I’m proud of you?

  Only about a half dozen times since last night, when I told him I planned to call in sick to work so I could visit my mother. I tuck my phone away without answering him. I appreciate the sentiment, but I can’t deal with his praise when I haven’t done anything to earn it. Not yet. I’m still sitting in my damn car.

  “Ready?” Rachel asks, taking off her sunglasses. She looks nervous too, which only succeeds in making me more nervous.

  I nod and we get out of the car. My legs feel wobbly as we walk up the stone path to the front door. A giant leafy tree towers overhead, draping us in shade. Everything about this place matches my mother’s taste perfectly. When I was little, she wanted a big yard with trees almost as much as she wanted a dog. Now she has both.

  The door swings open as we approach, and before I can prepare myself, I get my first look at my mother in over a year. She’s smiling wide, her eyes noticeably shiny even from a few feet away. She looks the same, like an older copy of Rachel, only her brown hair is a shade darker than Rachel’s and she’s three inches shorter, like me. In her arms is a small, floppy-eared black dog with patches of brown on her face and legs. The dog watches us warily, like the strangers we are.