Then I Met My Sister

by Christine Hurley Deriso

  I sit there mutely. I have a million questions, yet I can’t think of anything to say.

  “It meant nothing,” Dad repeats. “I was a stupid fool. I’ll never forgive myself for putting my family through that. And I’ll never do it again.”

  I swallow hard and blink away the tears that have suddenly formed in my eyes because … because I believe him. It feels so good to believe him.

  “I know Mom’s hard to live with … ” I say, my voice breaking.

  “Your mother is the strongest person I know,” Dad says firmly.

  I open my mouth to speak, but Dad’s not finished yet.

  “I know I haven’t done a good job of letting you know how I feel about your mother. I guess I put my energy into trying to do the right thing—making a living, being home for dinner every day, helping around the house. But I should say it out loud, how much I love her.” His eyes mist. “I should say that to both of you more often.”

  I try to talk, but my voice catches. I clear my throat and start again. “I know that, Dad. I love you, too.”

  Dad’s eyebrows weave together. “The irony is that adultery is what wrecked my childhood. I swore I would never do that to my family.”

  I eye him warily. I never knew his dad—he died before I was born—but I always assumed that he and Grandma Stetson were happily married.

  “Your grandfather had several affairs,” Dad says, loosening his tie as his face reddens. “It was awful for my mother. For all of us. I grew up feeling like I had to keep an eye on her every minute, make sure she was okay. She was depression-prone anyway, and the affairs … they really did a number on her.”

  Wow. All this information, right there at my fingertips. Why haven’t my parents ever told me before? Why haven’t I asked? My family never talks about anything that matters …

  “Grandma Stetson always seems great to me,” I say, picturing her playing bridge in Arizona and tooling around in a golf cart with her girlfriends.

  “She’s fine,” Dad emphasizes. “But when my father was living, particularly when I was a little boy, there was always a lot of … turmoil.”

  I gaze out Dad’s window, the afternoon glare just starting to pierce through his blinds. “Do all guys cheat?” I ask, my eyes tearing again.

  Dad leans closer. “No. No.”

  I start weeping, and he walks over and hugs me. It feels stiff and awkward at first—me burrowing deeper into the leather chair as his long arms reach toward me tentatively—but then I stand up and hug him back.

  His embrace is so tight, it takes my breath away. But after I hug him back, we both exhale and relax. We stand there for a long time, just holding each other.

  Thirty

  “You’re sure.”

  It’s a question, not a statement. I smile wanly at Aunt Nic. “Yes. I’m sure.”

  I’ve been pretty preoccupied since I got back from my lunch hour. It’s almost five, and this is the fifth time Aunt Nic has asked me if I’m okay. I guess subtlety isn’t my strong suit.

  “Why don’t you go on home? I’ll close up,” she says.

  “I don’t mind staying.” What else do I have to do?

  She places her hands on my shoulders. “I’ll close up. Go.”

  I smile appreciatively, go to the back of the store to get my purse, then wave as I walk out the front door, the bell jangling behind me.

  How stupid of me to have expected Gibs to come to the flower shop, daisies in hand …

  I get into my car and sit there for a second. I drop my head on the steering wheel and start to cry.

  God, I’m tired of crying. And let me make this perfectly clear—I used to go weeks at a time, months even, without crying. Shannon’s done such a number on me.

  I jump, startled, as I hear a tap on my window. I look out and see Gibs, his eyes so sweet and kind. I motion for him to come around to the passenger side.

  He climbs into the car, reaches over, and holds me tight.

  “I’m sorry,” he says in my ear.

  I shake my head vigorously. “I’m sorry. Oh, God, Gibs, we’ve been together for all of two weeks and I’ve turned into a psycho girlfriend.”

  He smiles at me as we pull away from our embrace.

  My eyebrows furrow. “I don’t want to be my mom. I don’t want to be an ice princess. And God knows I don’t want to be some ridiculous, clingy, insecure flake. You deserve better. Maybe I’m not ready for this.”

  Gibs presses a finger lightly against my lips. “No names, no labels, no psychoanalysis, okay? People argue. People piss each other off. Stop being so hard on yourself.”

  My eyes search his. “If it had been anybody other than Leah Rollins …”

  He laughs at my earnest expression, and I laugh back.

  “She, like, totally stole my boyfriend in ninth grade, you know,” I say, in my best Valley Girl impression.

  He smiles, but then turns somber. “I don’t care about Leah Rollins. I care about you.”

  I swallow hard, squinting through tear-stained eyes. “I’m sorry I’ve been so self-absorbed all summer. It’s just … some of the stuff I’ve found out, about my dad, all this secret-keeping …”

  “I won’t keep secrets from you,” Gibs says firmly. “I promise.”

  My fingers interlock with his. “Me too.”

  “Have faith in us, okay?” he says. “Let’s not run away when we hit a rough patch. Let’s work through it.”

  I nod. “That’s the trick?”

  He shakes his head. “No tricks. That’s the trick.”

  I bite my lip. “You want me to shut up about Shannon?”

  He shakes his head. “I want to share everything with you.”

  I take a deep breath. “I went to my dad’s office after I left the park. I told him I knew about the affair.”

  Gibs nods, prodding me along.

  “He told me that his dad cheated on his mother … that he hated him for it. He hates himself for doing the same thing to his family.”

  Gibs nods again. “Good,” he says softly. “I’m glad you had that talk with your dad.”

  “Me, too. It’s like Shannon is nudging us all out of our comfort zones. But I’m more comfortable outside my comfort zone than I thought I’d be.”

  Gibs smiles at me.

  “I’m almost done, you know,” I tell him. “With her journal, I mean. Then we can talk about … I don’t know … drywall or calluses or whatever.”

  He drops his head and laughs.

  “I’m interested. I really am,” I say.

  “You so are not,” he says, stifling a laugh.

  “Okay. I’m not. But I’ll fake it for you.”

  “No faking, remember? Come with me next time we build a house and you’ll see for yourself how cool it is.”

  “Will you bring me a pair of work gloves?”

  “Yes. I’ll bring the gloves.”

  “Well, then.” I offer him my hand and he shakes it. “It’s official.”

  I read another entry before I fall asleep.

  Monday, July 19, 1993

  I told Dr. Deadhead that I hated to tell him I told him so, but I told him so.

  He said yeah, my parents are pretty tough nuts to crack. But he expected that, and he was paying more attention to ME while they were in the room than he was to THEM.

  Why didn’t I cry, he wondered, when my dad started crying in his office? I mean, how often do I see my dad cry? Like, maybe once in a blue moon? So wasn’t it pretty intense to see my dad crying?

  Uh, duh. But am I suddenly some kind of uncaring freak because it didn’t make me cry to see him cry? And suddenly I realized, YES, that’s exactly what I am—and THAT made me cry. So here I was bawling my eyes out in Dr. Deadhead’s office because I DIDN’T cry when apparently I should have. It kills me to not do what I’m supposed to do. I guess I said that out loud to Dr. Deadhead, because he repeated it: It kills you?

  Yes, I told him, yes yes yes yes yes, I can’t bear letting people down. I’d r
ather die than let people down.

  I lay the journal down as my heart quickens. I want to kill myself.

  I swallow hard and pick it back up again.

  Then Dr. Deadhead stopped taking notes and looked at me really carefully. “Do you ever think about hurting yourself?” he asked.

  And I thought about that for a long time, because especially now that I know how closely he pays attention to me, I really want to give the right answer, and I guessed the right answer was the honest answer, and honestly, doesn’t everybody think about hurting themselves sometimes?

  So I said yes.

  Then he started scribbling notes, saying he needed to refer me to a psychiatrist, and I said, aren’t you a psychiatrist? And he said no, a psychologist, and I started freaking out thinking I’m so screwed up that a whole team is required to fix me.

  And the next thing I know, I’m crying about Jamie shoplifting and ditching me at the mall, and how I keep hearing rumors about Chris seeing other girls but I don’t believe the rumors because I totally trust Chris and I’ve never been happier in my life, and he and I just hung out at the lake last night and it was like magic.

  But if I’m so happy, Dr. Deadhead said, why was I crying?

  I said I didn’t know … maybe because he subtracted points from last week’s visit because I didn’t cry when I was supposed to.

  Then our hour was almost up and I told him I couldn’t see him next Monday because I’ll be on a Beta Club trip, then the week after that I’ll start cheerleading practice, plus Chris promised he’d take me camping (he’d better not break that promise for the fourth time, stinker!), then of course school starts back, and although I totally appreciate everything he’s done for me, maybe it’s time for me to stop talking about myself and just get on with my life.

  He looked all concerned and said he would talk to Mom, but he thought we were making great progress and should continue.

  Great progress? All I do during our sessions is cry (or get nailed for NOT crying when I’m supposed to), and what good has all this crying done anyhow? And now I’m supposed to squeeze a psychiatrist into my schedule, too?

  I told Mom after my appointment that I wanted to be done with counseling, that I just wanted to get back to my life. She said we’d talk about it later.

  But I suspect Mom is as ready to be done with Dr. Deadhead as I am.

  Please Shannon, I think as I tuck the journal under my mattress for the night, please don’t be done with Dr. Deadhead. Please let him help you.

  Then I pull the journal back out and open it back to the entry I just read. My eyes lock on the date: July 19, 1993. God, I get so caught up in Shannon’s journal that I almost forget her present is the past. I suspect Mom is as ready to be done with Dr. Deadhead as I am.

  But she is almost done with Dr. Deadhead. She’s almost done with everything.

  Thirty-One

  “I’m almost finished.”

  Aunt Nic glances up at me from the work table. “Almost finished with the receipts?” she asks casually, tucking sprigs of baby’s breath into a vase of red roses.

  I shake my head. “Almost finished with Shannon’s journal.”

  She catches my eye, puts down the baby’s breath, then takes my hand. “Are you okay?”

  I nod, my head dropping as my eyelashes flicker. “Just a few more pages to go. I guess I should just read it straight through at this point. But I don’t want to be done.” My throat catches.

  Aunt Nic hugs me. “I’m sorry, honey,” she says in a trembling voice. “I’m sorry this has been so hard for you. I really should never have given you that journal.”

  I shake my head as it rests on her shoulder. “I’m so glad you did. I feel like I know my sister now.”

  Aunt Nic pushes my shoulders back and looks at me squarely in the eye. “Just remember, honey. Like I told you before, the last summer of her life doesn’t tell the whole story.”

  I nod. “I know. I totally get her. You know what’s great? She’s starting to get herself. You can read it in the journal—she’s beginning to understand herself.”

  I squeeze my arms across my chest, shivering a little. “Everything I’m reading … it should be a beginning, not an end. I don’t want to get to the end. I don’t want her to get to the end.”

  Aunt Nic dabs her eyes. “I know, honey,” she whispers. “I know.”

  “Life sucks, doesn’t it?”

  Aunt Nic smiles through her tears. “Your life is going to be amazing, sweetie. That would make Shannon so happy, to know her baby sister has such a bright future ahead of her.”

  I smile back at her.

  Aunt Nic’s eyes brighten. “Are you going to lunch with Gibs today?”

  “Yeah. Just burgers.”

  “So when does your mom get to find out that you two are an item?” she asks mischievously.

  “We’re just friends,” I tell her, but I blush when she looks at me knowingly.

  “Just friends,” I repeat, laughing as I say it.

  Aunt Nic gives me a mock frown. “Well, if that’s your story, I guess I’m sticking to it. But I don’t know why you’re being so secretive. Your mom thinks he’s totally adorable, you know.”

  “Yeah, well, she’s too old for him.”

  She laughs. “Just promise me I can sing at your wedding.”

  “Whatever,” I mutter playfully. “As long as you throw in the flowers for free.”

  Thirty-Two

  I stretch my arms, inhale deeply, and squint against the bleached-yellow sunshine pouring through my bedroom blinds on this lazy Sunday morning.

  Eve texted me last night to remind me she’s in town for a few days and make sure it’s still okay for her and her mom to stop by later this afternoon. I said sure. I haven’t exactly broken the news to Mom yet, but I’ll cross this bridge when I come to it.

  I reach under my mattress, pull out Shannon’s journal once again, and open it to her next entry.

  Tuesday, August 3, 1993

  Can you say awkward?

  Mom and I went shopping today with Eve and her mother, the whole mall run and food court extravaganza that we do every year before school starts.

  I smile. That’s the shopping trip Eve mentioned on the phone. This entry is going to have a happy ending.

  Mom and Mrs. Brice go bananas over that disgusting sweet-and-sour chicken. Tastes like grease balls dunked in maple syrup that’s passed its expiration date.

  I remember how excited Eve and I used to get about these shopping trips. She’d spend the night before with me and we’d spend hours making a list. Jelly bracelets or toe rings? Doc Martens or tennis shoes? T-shirts or Polos? Power-shopping, we called it.

  So that was then. This is now. No sleepovers this year, no lists. Just Mom and me meeting Eve and her mom at the entrance of Macy’s, followed by a bunch of fake smiles and air kisses. Our moms dragged us through the stores, up and down the aisles, with Eve and me acting all fake-cheery but not even looking at each other.

  Anyhow, we shopped for a couple of hours, bought a few clothes, wolfed down some grease balls in the food court and I thought, Thank heaven we’re done. Our shopping trips used to go on all day, but every minute was dragging by like an hour. Even Mom and Mrs. Brice seemed ready for this funfest to be over.

  So … time to go, right?

  Wrong.

  Mom and Mrs. Brice suddenly announced they wanted to look at woks, or steamers, or something food-related. I said I’d come, too, but Mom said no, they’d just be a minute, Eve and I should just wait there in the food court.

  So there we sat for the next half-hour. For the first few minutes, we stuck to safe conversation—how much reading would be involved in AP English, whether we’d have to do projects in honors chemistry, that sort of thing. I told her I was sorry I hadn’t gotten to hang out with her much during the Beta Club trip, what with her being in Group A while I was in Group B.

  Then, the weirdest thing happened. It was like we both got totally gushy at
the same time.

  She said, “I miss you, Shannon,” and I said, “I miss you, too” and we were all sappy and blubbery, crying like babies.

  I told Eve I was sorry we’d drifted apart, but I’d felt so judged by her, and she said no no no, she never meant to judge me, she just didn’t want to see me get hurt. I told her that Chris and I are doing GREAT. She smiled and said she was glad to hear it, but she didn’t look convinced. Whatever.

  It just felt so good to feel close to her again. She and Chris will learn to love each other eventually. She’ll come around when she sees for herself what a great guy he is. And she’ll find a great guy of her own soon! I told her that would be our fall project.

  Senior year, HERE WE COME!

  P.S. I bit the bullet and kept my appointment with Dr. Deadhead yesterday. He said he was proud of me, that we’d come so far and that my future is so bright. And when I smiled, he said it was the first time he ever really saw me smile. A REAL smile. A GENUINE smile. A smile from the heart. I said, “What can I say? You bring it out in me.”

  I smile, thinking of Shannon and Eve hugging and crying in the food court at the mall.

  Mom and Mrs. Brice must have done some behind-the-scenes plotting to make sure Shannon and Eve would have some time alone to patch things up. I guess Mom’s micromanaging comes in handy once in a while. Once in a great while.

  I finger the last few pages of Shannon’s journal, the ones I have yet to read. After page upon page of angst and confusion, it’s beyond exhilarating to read that, for one moment at least, she’s excited about the future.

  Senior year, HERE WE COME!

  It occurs to me, just this instant, that my senior year is coming, too. I mean, of course I already knew that … but Shannon’s journal has kind of disoriented me. I’m following her story so closely that I’ve lost track of my own.

  I grin at her pep-squad verbiage and punctuation: Senior year, HERE WE COME!

  “Senior year, here I come,” I say aloud, feeling silly and wistful at the same time.