She blushes. She begins to speak, but her voice catches and she starts over. “I feel terrible about that,” she says. “I did try to keep up with Susanne for a while after … after the accident … but I almost felt cruel being around her. Here was Eve, graduating from high school, moving on with her life … I would have felt like I was rubbing that in her face. Then, when you came along, I thought, ‘Perfect. Fresh start. Susanne gets to have all the joys of motherhood again.’ I didn’t want to intrude on that. I didn’t want to be a constant reminder of the past.”
She worries her necklace and looks out the window. “Like I said, I feel terrible.” She turns toward me. “How is your mother doing, Summer?”
“She’s okay … she’s fine. Did she and Shannon get along?”
Mrs. Brice’s eyes flash confusion. “Of course, Summer. They got along beautifully. Why wouldn’t they?”
It’s official—this woman is clueless.
“I guess every mother-daughter relationship has its challenges,” she continues. “But I never saw a problem in the world between those two. Oh, we had such fun together. We’d alternate houses for trick-or-treating, and we always made ornaments and cookies together at Christmas. Of course, we were always running the girls around to their various club meetings or fundraising projects. I think one was sleeping over at the other’s practically every weekend.”
I realize I have a faint smile. This is the Shannon my family keeps alive, the little girl making Christmas ornaments or having bake sales for cheerleading camp. But the thought of Shannon’s journal jolts me back to reality.
“So it must have been weird when Shannon and Eve stopped hanging out together.”
Now Mrs. Brice definitely looks annoyed. “They didn’t stop hanging out,” she says testily, using air quotes. “They were just getting older, staying busy. It was nothing. Why are you asking about this anyway, dear?”
My lashes flicker against the late-afternoon sunlight, which is getting harsher by the minute as it streams through the bay window. “She kept a journal the summer before she died.” I swallow hard. “I’m reading it.”
“Ah.” Mrs. Brice fingers her necklace again. “She wrote about her friendship with Eve?”
I nod. “Nothing bad,” I emphasize. “Eve’s great. I can tell by reading the journal.”
“Mmmmm,” Mrs. Brice says.
I pull a lock of hair behind my ear and sit up straighter. “Mrs. Brice, I’m sorry to pop up out of nowhere and ask you personal questions. I don’t mean to freak you out. I’m not implying there was some great mystery or something. I know friends can grow apart. I just …”
“Eve sang at her funeral,” Mrs. Brice says evenly, her chin jutting forward subtly. “They had not grown apart.”
My shoulders sink. “Right.”
A tense moment passes, then Mrs. Brice’s expression softens. She leans closer, her very pores smelling of mothballs. “Would you like to talk to Eve?”
Twenty
Friday, June 18, 1993
Oh. My. God.
I got home from my shift at the pool this afternoon and Mom told me to hurry and change, we were having guests for dinner.
Grandma and Grandpa? I asked.
Uh … yeah. And they were bringing some friends.
So I went upstairs, took a shower, changed into shorts and T-shirt and came back down, wondering which geriatric Knights of Columbus couple was showing up.
My first clue should have been when Mom shooed me back upstairs, telling me I wasn’t dressed nicely enough. She told me to put on a dress, or at least “some nice slacks.” And to comb my hair again. Oh, and not to forget the mouthwash.
The upshot: Yes, the guests were part of the Knights of Columbus clan, but they didn’t come empty-handed. They brought their GRANDSON. It was a fix-up!
MORTIFYING!!!
I had to choke down my mashed potatoes while Chad, a guy with (how to say this kindly) an unfortunate complexion and an even more unfortunate plaid shirt, yammered on for an hour about the senior cruise he just got back from.
A senior cruise with other high school seniors? No. A senior cruise with his grandparents.
The thought of Plaid Chad playing shuffleboard with a bunch of senior citizens with cataracts, fallen arches, and liver spots didn’t exactly whisk me away to Romance City.
I thought, what with him being on senior time, he might have to call it a night by seven and head on home for a good night’s sleep, but no, he stayed through three servings of peach cobbler, seven rounds of charades, and a hundred and forty-eight mentions of his almost-perfect score on the math section of his SAT.
When it was my turn for charades, he was the first to guess the movie I was acting out (“Better Off Dead”) but the last to catch my drift. I think even his grandparents were catching on that Plaid Chad’s best shot at romance had probably sailed away with the widows on the cruise. Mom kept tossing me stern be-nice-to-Chad looks, but by the time he was acting out The Love Boat in charades, I think she was ready to toss him overboard, too.
When Chad asked for my phone number as they were finally calling it a night, it was Mom who told him what a busy, busy summer I was having, that I really didn’t have time for socializing, that I had to spend the summer preparing for my own SAT, but gosh, what a lovely young man he was and what a pleasant evening we’d all enjoyed.
She shut the door behind them, then looked at me like I was a caged tiger that had just jumped the fence. Her expression was so intense, I couldn’t help laughing. Then Mom started laughing, too. Pretty soon we were holding our sides, we were laughing so hard.
That’s the first time we’ve laughed together in a long time.
I was still laughing when I called Chris to tell him about it. I figured he’d crack up too, but instead he got all moody and mad, like he was jealous of Plaid Chad. Isn’t that crazy? I reassure him all the time that I want to spend every second of the rest of my life with him, that he’s the ONLY man for me, but he’s still really insecure. Sometimes it feels really flattering, and sometimes it feels just kinda … I don’t know. Just kinda whatever.
Oh, well. I’ll make it up to Chris tomorrow when I make us a spectacular picnic lunch. Chad is not invited.
I tap my finger idly against the journal and smile into space.
I love the thought of Mom and Shannon laughing together. My bedroom door is open, so I glance from my bed into the hallway at her awards and certificates hanging on the wall. I’ve been so consumed lately with the bad-ass Shannon that it’s a relief to be reintroduced to the Shannon I knew before I started reading her journal—the one who smiled and laughed, even with Mom. Especially with Mom. My stomach tightens at the thought of how hard it must have been for Mom when Shannon started pushing her away.
But she had to push Mom away, to keep from suffocating.
And of course, once she pushed Mom away, idiot Chris was right there to pick up where Mom left off.
Brilliant, Shannon, way to bounce from one control freak to another, I think wryly. Why couldn’t she see what a loser Chris was?
I reach for my cell phone, then curse under my breath. Gibs has been out of town all week building houses for Habitat for Humanity. Whatever little rural corner of the state he’s in is a dead zone; none of my calls have gone through. Jeez, I’d love to talk to him right now.
Maybe now is a good time to call Eve. I programmed her number into my phone as soon as Mrs. Brice gave it to me, but I haven’t quite been able to make the call. Is it just the sheer awkwardness of talking to a total stranger? Maybe … but that’s not the only thing holding me back. The closer I get to Shannon as a real-live person, the farther I get from the dazzling persona I’ve lived with all my life. Maybe I’m not quite willing to let it go yet. But who am I kidding? Shannon’s dazzle gets dimmer with every journal entry. I sigh and keep reading:
Saturday, June 19, 1993
My dad did the most random thing tonight. He came into my room after I’d gone to bed and sat t
here staring at me until I opened my eyes. I gasped when I saw him; I’d already drifted off to sleep, and he scared me to death. But he squeezed my hand and told me it was okay; it was just Daddy.
Then he reached in his pocket and pulled out a box. He couldn’t look me in the eye when he handed it to me, but he mumbled that he wanted me to have it. I sat up, turned on my bedside lamp and opened the box.
It was a necklace. Topaz. Dad said it reminded him of the flecks in my eyes. I asked him what the occasion was, and he said no occasion, just a way to remind me that he loved me. I said thanks and he helped me fasten the clasp behind my neck.
Then Dad did something I’ve never seen him do before: he started crying. Not bawling or anything, just crying, really softly. I wanted to comfort him, but I was so freaked out, I couldn’t bring myself to give him a hug. I leaned back against my pillow while he dabbed his eyes.
He swallowed hard, then told me he was sorry he’d disappointed me. He wanted to be perfect for me. He wanted to be my hero. He was sorry he was such a failure.
I was clutching my topaz stone so tightly I thought it might crumble in my fingers. A zillion times, I’d cried myself to sleep wishing Dad and I could have a real conversation, but now that we were having one, I couldn’t handle it. I could barely even look at him.
All the questions I wanted to ask him got caught in my throat: “How could you hurt Mom that way?” “How could you be such a hypocrite, telling me how to live while you sneaked around behind our backs?” “Why weren’t Mom and I enough for you?”
All those years, I’d thought doing the right thing came naturally to Dad, that he was happy to be a good guy. But no, the right thing was a struggle, a hassle, a bother. I guess I was a bother, too.
He seemed to read my mind, because he told me that Mom and I had always made him happy, that we were more than he deserved.
Then why?
Because I’m an idiot, he said.
Was she the first one? I asked.
He nodded, but he couldn’t look me in the eye.
Then my eyes filled with tears and I squeezed my topaz so hard I must have accidentally yanked the chain. It broke. The stone slid off the chain and disappeared. We spent a couple of minutes looking for it, but it was gone.
Maybe it’ll turn up one day. Or maybe it’s gone forever.
My chin trembles as I close the journal. Dad did talk to Shannon.
Gibs is right: I’m the one who doesn’t want to talk about things. I’m the biggest coward in the family.
My gaze skims out the door, down the hall toward Shannon’s old bedroom. I feel a desperate urge to run into the room, get on my hands and knees, and scour every square inch of the carpet in search of that topaz stone.
But I’d never find it. Besides, it isn’t mine to find.
I push my face into my pillow and cry myself to sleep.
Twenty-One
Monday, June 21, 1993
Dr. Deadhead wants to meet Dad.
He thinks the fact that he finally got real with me indicates he’s ready to take our relationship to a new level, a genuine level, an authentic level where we can see each other as real people and quit playing roles.
I told Dr. Deadhead I’m afraid if I quit playing a role, I’ll disintegrate. I AM my role, I told him. He said he didn’t believe it, that he could tell I was finally finding my true self.
Like how I’m finally choosing real friendships with people like Jamie? I asked him.
“Now THAT’S a role,” he said with a laugh, and I asked him what the hell that meant.
I’m playing the bad girl, he said, overcompensating for the nauseating goody-goody I’ve always been. When Jamie and I sneak off to smoke pot, I’m not being my true self. I’m being Teen Rebel straight out of central casting. But that’s okay, he told me. I probably need to try on some different roles before I finally get comfortable in my own skin. Just as long as I don’t do anything too stupid.
Jamie’s a real person, I told him, not just a prop in my life.
But it isn’t the real Jamie I’m interested in, he told me. Just the part of Jamie I can use as a springboard to escape the suffocation of a fake-perfect life.
So I’m using Jamie?
Well … yeah, he said.
Except that I’m not. She’s a true friend.
You’re sure about that? Dr. Deadhead asked me.
YES!
And Chris? Dr. Deadhead said. You’re totally yourself in that relationship, too?
Uh, duh. I’m in love with Chris.
Mmmmmm, Dr. Deadhead said.
Okay, I said, I’ll humor you. Let’s assume I’m faking it with Chris. How will I know when I’m being real in a relationship?
When you don’t have to defend the person you love, he said. When you don’t need to sneak around.
It isn’t because our love’s not real that we sneak around, I told him. It’s because my mom is a judgmental, social-climbing control freak.
Which is when he said it was a good time to call Mom in to join us.
But I said no. Mom and I had actually laughed together the other day. It felt good. If she came in now, we’d both freak out.
Dr. Deadhead asked if I could bear a little tension if it meant I could feel closer to my mother.
I told him I don’t think I can get closer to her, that the better she knows me, the less she’ll love me.
He doesn’t believe it, but I do. Dr. Deadhead may be brilliant, but I know my mom better than he does.
I begged him not to call her in. Not this time. Not this day.
He stared at me a long time, then said okay.
Maybe next time.
“I met with Eve’s mother.”
Gibs gives me a blank look. “Eve,” he finally says. It’s a question, not a statement.
“Shannon’s best friend,” I snap.
“Oh, right.” He dips a tortilla chip into his salsa and bites off the tip.
“Oh, right? ” I say in a steely voice. “That’s all you have to say?”
Gibs considers my question as he chews. “How did it go?” he asks after he swallows.
I push my burrito around on the paper plate with my plastic fork. “It went … weird.”
Gibs eats another chip. “How so?”
I shrug sullenly.
Gibs returned from his Habitat trip after midnight last night, so grabbing burritos with him on my lunch break is the first chance I’ve had to talk to him in days. I have so much information built up—Shannon’s visits with her shrink, her heart-to-heart with Dad, my meeting with Mrs. Brice—but Gibs barely seems interested.
“You act like you don’t care,” I mutter, still picking at my burrito.
Gibs looks at me evenly. “I care.”
I peek at him. “Ya sure?”
He nods. “I guess I’m just tired.”
My feel my eyes soften. “Oh, right. Habitat.” I force a smile. “How did it go?”
He sips his soft drink. “Good. It counts toward my IB volunteer hours, you know. Plus it was actually a lot of fun. We built four houses in seven days.”
I give a low whistle. “That’s a lot of hammering.”
He shrugs. “It was a lot of work, but—”
“Do you want to hear about Mrs. Brice?”
Gibs sighs. “I don’t know. I’d rather talk about you than about Shannon.”
I frown. “What do you mean?”
“I don’t know. Nothing. Whatever.”
I huff impatiently. “What are you talking about?”
He stares at his fingers. “When you build houses with Habitat, you build them alongside of the people who will be living there. You know—people who are really down on their luck, out of options. It makes you attuned to how lucky we are.”
“Deep.”
Gibs glances at me, but he pushes past my sarcasm. “There are a lot of people out there who need help,” he says.
My shoulders tense. “Your point?”
His eyes ski
rt past me again. “Maybe we should live in the moment more. “You seem kinda … over the top with your sister’s journal.”
My eyes narrow. “Over the top.” It’s a question, not a statement.
He leans into his elbows. “Maybe just a little. I know it’s intense, learning new things about your sister, but …”
“Learning new things,” I repeat, my eyes narrowed to slits.
Gibs sighs in defeat.
I shake my head roughly. “I’m not learning new things. I’m meeting her, Gibs, for the first time. I’m getting to know my sister. You said it yourself: a sister isn’t like some random relative, or some long-dead ancestor. Jesus, you’re the one who encouraged me to read her journal! And to realize she struggled with some of the same crap I deal with …” And did I mention, my sister may have committed suicide?
Gibs glances anxiously around the restaurant, then locks eyes with mine. “I just … worry about you, you know?” he says in barely a whisper. “Maybe we could talk about the present sometimes. I mean, it’s summer. You should be having at least a little fun.”
I gaze at him evenly. “This coming from the guy who just spent a week installing drywall.”
A look of anger flashes in his dark blue eyes. “Excuse me for thinking about somebody besides myself,” he says in a clipped voice.
I gasp a little. I’ve never seen Gibs angry before.
My first instinct is to apologize, to acknowledge what a self-absorbed moron I’ve been. To say, Don’t you know that your opinion of me is the only one in the whole world that I care about, and by the way, why don’t you get how much I’m starting to like you?
But no, that would require being vulnerable, and I’ve learned from the Ice Queen herself that that will never do. So I set my jaw instead.
“Like I need a reminder of how perfect you are,” I say icily.
Gibs leans closer, holding my gaze steadily. “I never said I was perfect.”
“Oh, please.”
He tosses his hand in the air. “God, Summer, you give all this lip service to how much you hate labels, how you’re all about individuality, but you put people in boxes all the time.”
Then I Met My Sister Page 10
