Then I Met My Sister

by Christine Hurley Deriso

  A knot clutches in my throat.

  Oh, God, Shannon. I wish you’d had your senior year. I wish that so much.

  But at least you were happy.

  Except that she wasn’t. Not for long. My stomach muscles tighten as I slowly turn the page, knowing I’m closing in on the last days of her life:

  Saturday, August 7, 1993

  Guess what I did tonight?

  Go on … guess.

  Oh, forget it, you’d never figure it out.

  I scrapbooked with Grandma! Isn’t that the lamest thing you’ve ever heard?

  But we actually had fun.

  I was supposed to go to a party with Jamie, but I changed my mind at the last minute. The two of us hanging out always involves my car, my gas, my money, my jewelry for her to wear … blah, blah, blah, blah, blah.

  So when she asked if I wanted to go to some party and I said no, she was STUNNED. No? What would she do? How would she get there? Whose clothes would she “borrow” ? (and forget to give back). Whose house would she sneak into and crash at? (since her folks lock her out if she’s not home by her curfew, which she never is).

  Of course, she couldn’t say all those things, so instead, she tried to make me jealous. I’d better be there, she said, to keep an eye on my boyfriend.

  Except Chris isn’t even in town, I told her. He’s at a car show with his dad.

  That’s what you think, she told me.

  That’s what I know, I told her.

  But she kept trying to get me to change my mind. Why couldn’t I go? What was I doing instead, knitting booties for orphans with my prissy friend Eve?

  That didn’t work either (and God, I’m so ashamed to think of the times when it did), so then Jamie started crying. She said I’m her best friend, her only friend, and I’ve been such a good example for her, and why oh why am I blowing her off?

  The tears got to me. Okay, okay, I’ll go, I told her. At first, she was gushing all over me—Thank you, thank you, you’re my best friend ever!

  But a few minutes later, she was calling me back with the same old snotty attitude, telling me which of my clothes she needed to “borrow” and how much money I needed to “lend” her.

  So I told her I couldn’t go after all. She was so mad she slammed down the phone.

  And Grandma and I sat in the basement all evening, pasting family photos onto scrapbook paper and eating s’mores. Yes, she drove me crazy with her nitpicking, but what can I say? That’s Grandma. At least she doesn’t use me.

  I’ll never let myself be used again.

  Thank God Shannon is seeing the light about Jamie. I turn to the next entry.

  Tuesday, August 10, 1993

  Something’s up with Jamie.

  She called this morning practically hyperventilating, telling me she needed to see me NOW. I lied and told her I was busy all day with a “family function.” (Happy you taught me how to be such a good liar, Jamie?)

  Tonight, then, she said.

  Gee, sorry, I said. Busy tonight, too.

  So she started up the waterworks again. She sobbed and blubbered and told me she has to see me, she just has to. She’s got big news. HUGE. (Yawn.)

  She sounded so frantic that I almost felt a little sorry for her. But when I think of how long I’ve let her call all the shots, I can’t help but smile a little to see her squirm when the shoe’s on the other foot.

  I finally told her fine, I’d do my best to squeeze her in. So I guess I’ll see her tomorrow.

  Wonder what her big news is.

  Okay, now I’m wondering, too. I turn the page to the next journal entry. I suck in a breath. Here I am, back to where I started.

  Wednesday, August 11, 1993

  I want to kill myself.

  I take a deep breath. There are still a couple pages left. I’m not sure how this story will end—or whether Shannon will even tell me—but I know now that I don’t want to find out alone.

  I pick up my cell phone and call Gibs.

  Thirty-Three

  Gripping Shannon’s journal, I go downstairs in my flannel pajama pants and T-shirt to wait for Gibs.

  I hover in the foyer for a minute, slipping the journal into my purse, then, too antsy to stand still, walk into the kitchen where Mom’s kneading bread on the island counter.

  “Hi, honey,” she says without looking up.

  I rush to the island and lean over the counter toward her, so close her that our noses almost touch. I have a sense of inevitability about whatever words are about to tumble from my mouth. There’s no turning back now.

  “Mom, was Shannon happy?” I ask in a quavery voice. “I mean … toward the end. Was she happy?”

  Mom freezes and looks at me accusingly.

  “Why all this talk about Shannon lately? Why are you doing this to me, Summer?”

  I fling my hands in the air, stymied. “Why does everything have to be about you? I’m asking about Shannon.”

  Mom’s chin juts out. “How can it not be an indictment of me for you to insinuate Shannon wasn’t happy? I was her mother.” She puts a hand against her mouth. “I was a good mother,” she adds bitterly. “And I’m a good mother to you, too. That doesn’t mean I can make your life perfect. But it should be enough. It should be enough to give me some peace.”

  Her lower lip trembles, and she suddenly looks so small and vulnerable that I instinctively reach across the island to touch her. She holds up floury palms as stop signs.

  “I have been very patient with you,” she says through gritted teeth. “I realize you’re the same age Shannon was when she died, and that you’re bound to be curious about her. So, fine! Let’s dig out some old photo albums. Let’s watch some home movies. But don’t suggest I was a bad mother to her, Summer. That’s more than I can bear.”

  She sets her jaw and digs back into the bread dough, pounding and twisting it insistently.

  “That’s not what I meant, Mom. I never meant to …”

  “I think this conversation is over,” Mom says in a tight voice, still working the dough.

  I shake my head slowly, then, before walking out in defeat, pound the kitchen counter with my fist, creating a floury cloud that quickly dissipates.

  Mom doesn’t seem to notice.

  I run to Gibs’ car in my driveway before he’s even come to a stop.

  He turns off the ignition as I climb into the passenger seat.

  I exhale through an O in my mouth, staring straight ahead. “I think Shannon might have committed suicide.”

  He pauses and I turn to face him. “She says it, Gibs. I’m almost finished with the journal, and she says, I want to kill myself.”

  Gibs’ eyebrows widen.

  “When I first got the journal?” I continue. “When I was thumbing through it? That’s the first page I read. I’ve known since I started that I might find out her death was a suicide. Now I’m back to that page. Her journal is almost over—her life is almost over—and she’s saying she wants to kill herself.”

  I start to cry, and Gibs clutches my hand.

  “I don’t want to keep reading,” I tell him. “I don’t want to know.”

  He loosens his grip, but keeps his fingers laced around mine. “But not knowing … all this speculation … nothing could be worse than that,” he says. “Right?”

  I shake my head. “Knowing would be worse. If I knew for sure that I could have had a sister in my life, but I don’t because she did some stupid, cowardly thing for some stupid, immature reason … that would be worse.”

  The irony strikes me a beat too late. I would never have had a sister in my life. I remember what Gibs said when I first told him about Shannon: If you were meant to be here, it’s like Shannon had to die to make that happen.

  I cry softly as Gibs squeezes my hand tighter.

  “I think you’ve got to have a little faith in your sister,” he says.

  I sniffle and rub my eyes. “Sometimes in her journal, she’s so great, you know? Funny and real and percept
ive. Then other times, she’s this ridiculous, lovestruck little twit, the kind of girl I roll my eyes at in school. What if the twit came out on top at the end? What if she had some stupid drama-queen moment that she let define her life? That she killed herself over?” I lean my head against the headrest and gaze upward. “I just couldn’t take it. I’d be so friggin’ pissed at her. Then what would I do with all that frustration? Let it eat at me the rest of my life because she’s not here to bawl out?”

  Gibs smooths my hair. “Everything you’re afraid of is what you’re dealing with right now. Could knowing the worst be tougher than assuming the worst?”

  I consider his words for a moment, turning my head and peering vacantly out the window.

  Then I turn to him and nod sharply. “I’m going to finish her journal.”

  He smiles, his dark blue eyes incredibly kind and warm.

  I inhale deeply, hold my breath for a second, then exhale. “Will you do it with me?”

  He nods. “Let’s go for it.”

  I pull the journal out of my purse and open it to her last entry.

  Thirty-Four

  Birds chirp and a nearby lawn mower whirs in the distance as I sit by Gibs in his car and read aloud:

  Friday, August 13, 1993

  “She died on August 16th,” I tell Gibs somberly. “She wrote this three days before she died.”

  I start reading again:

  I picked up my schedule today at school.

  I glance at Gibs, alarmed. She goes from I want to die to I picked up my schedule today at school? I keep reading.

  Everyone says junior year is the hardest, but I’ve got some killer courses coming up this year, all of them AP, which means projects, reports, essays—AARGH.

  It’s okay, though. I’ll take all the distractions I can get. No use hashing out the gory details. I’m sure everybody in town is already talking about it, and I have so totally moved on that I really have NOTHING to say on the subject, so …

  ONWARD!

  I’m going to carpool with Evie, but I’ve got an appointment with Dr. Deadhead right after school Monday, so we’ll drive separately the first day and meet up in homeroom.

  I glance at Gibs again, but no words are necessary. If only Shannon had carpooled with Eve that day … if only she hadn’t had an appointment with the shrink … if only, if only, if only …

  I think I’ll wear my teal sweater to school Monday. It’s a little hot and itchy, but it’s my eat-your-heart-out sweater. Which is stupid, considering he won’t even be at school. But Jamie will.

  My eyes skitter away as I try to process the words. Then they fall back on the journal.

  They say living well is the best revenge.

  But you know what? I don’t even want revenge. Okay, maybe a little. But what I really want is peace. I want my old life back, the one I had before I started hanging out with them. I wish I could turn back the clock.

  Or maybe I don’t. My heart is crushed in a million pieces, but I’m wiser than I used to be. I feel like I lived most of my life like a china doll under glass. It was safe but it was boring.

  That’s one thing I can say—I certainly haven’t been bored lately. Ha ha.

  Well, my tears are back for the fortieth time today, and I absolutely REFUSE to have another sobfest, so I’m going jogging.

  Mom doesn’t know what’s up, but she’s acting all worried and hover-y (is that a word?), so I think I can squeeze another shopping trip out of her. (Smiley face.)

  I don’t mean to sound bratty, but what can I say. Shopping always cheers me up.

  I finger the paper and bite my bottom lip. A quiet moment hangs in the air, then I flip through the last few empty pages of the journal to let Gibs know what I can’t say out loud: that’s it. Those are the last words Shannon wrote in her journal. She’ll never again share another thought with me. I squeeze my eyes shut and press the journal against my chest.

  “That’s it,” Gibs whispers, and I nod.

  A neighbor’s cat scampers around our rose bushes. The nearby lawn mower is still whirring. The hum of car engines drifts in and out of my consciousness—people going to church, going to the park, going on with their lives …

  “You know now that she didn’t commit suicide,” Gibs says softly.

  I glance at him. “You think?”

  He nods. “It’s obvious. She was all about the future. Whatever Chris and Jamie did to hurt her … she was moving on.”

  I nod, my eyes glistening with fresh tears. “I hope. But you know, she was so fickle and moody. By Monday, she could have been back in a funk.”

  Gibs shakes his head. “I don’t think so. I think she sounds really strong.”

  My eyes soften. “She does, doesn’t she?”

  He nods. “She reminds me of you.”

  I smile at him as he takes my hand and presses it against his chest.

  “Will you go with me on an errand?” I ask him. “I can’t do it today because Eve and her mother are coming over later. But soon …”

  “Sure. What’s up?”

  I take a deep breath. “I want to talk to Chris.”

  Thirty-Five

  “Wha …”

  Mom’s baffled expression lasts only a nanosecond, then is replaced by her trademark Hostess Smile.

  I was counting on this. I’d pondered whether to tell her that Eve and her mother were coming over. But that would have led to questions and fretting and coffee cake–making, so I’ve opted just to let them show up on our doorstep, knowing that any emotions Mom might have will be trumped by social niceties.

  “Oh, dear!” Mrs. Brice stammers. “Summer didn’t tell you we were coming? Oh, Susanne, I’m so embarrassed!”

  “No, no! Don’t be ridiculous! Come in, come in!”

  Mom is in full hostess mode now.

  “No, really, Susanne, we don’t need to stay. I just assumed that Summer would …” Mrs. Brice casts an annoyed eye on me, but then softens it with a smile.

  Mom is shuttling Eve and her mother toward our living room, swooping her arm in the general direction. A manicured fingernail directs them to our sofa. “Sit, sit!”

  Mom and I sit in chairs as they settle onto the sofa.

  “Well!” Mom says. “Heavens! How long has it been?”

  Mrs. Brice’s face falls. “Susanne, I just feel awful that I haven’t kept in touch.”

  Eve nods, averting her pale blue eyes and pulling a strawberry-blond lock of hair behind her ear. Her lightly freckled face makes her look like a college kid.

  “Nonsense!” Mom chirps. “Time just has a way of slipping away, doesn’t it? But we’re together now! That’s what counts.”

  She claps her hands and turns toward Eve. “Evie! Tell me everything.”

  An awkward pause lingers.

  Mrs. Brice clears her throat. “Susanne, you clearly weren’t expecting us. I’m so sorry. I don’t know what I was thinking, not calling first. Really, we just wanted to say hello, but we need to be going …”

  Mom’s smile stands at attention, like a drill sergeant has just blown a whistle. “You’ll stay right where you are!” She gives a sharp nod. “I’m so sorry if I seem a little … confused. Summer has a way of springing surprises on me. But what a wonderful surprise this is! Honestly, having you drop by—it just makes my day!”

  “Where’s Mr. Stetson?” Eve asks.

  “Where do you think?” Mom responds breezily. “Golf, of course! Some things never change. Evie, tell me how you’ve been doing. I know you’re married. Three children, right?”

  Eve looks like she wishes she could press an eject button, but she manages to smile back at Mom. “Uh … right. Two boys, eight and ten, and my baby girl. She’s two.” The smile is still pasted to her face, but her brows weave apologetically.

  Mom fingers her pearls. “Little Evie, mother of three! And you’re living in Charlotte?”

  The eyes still look fretful. “Yes. Charlotte. My husband is in computers.”

  “
Right!” Mom chirps. “You met him in college, right?”

  Eve opens her mouth, but no words come. Her face crinkles like a leaf and her eyes flood with tears. “I should have invited you to the wedding.” She gasps out a sob, then stuns us all by running to Mom and hugging her.

  Mom’s eyebrows arch, her smile still intact. She tries halfheartedly to stand, but Eve’s weight is pressing her down. Mom casts nervous glances at Mrs. Brice and me.

  “Evie, darling!” Mom’s tone aims for sympathetic, but the edge is clear, as if a gunman is holding her hostage and she’s trying to bring him to his senses while cajoling her way to safety.

  Eve’s sobs have turned into a freight train. Her whole body shakes as she clings tighter to Mom and weeps into her neck. Mom’s expression grows increasingly frantic.

  “Eve, honey …” Mrs. Brice says gently.

  “No!” Eve protests with alarming conviction, her face still burrowed into Mom’s neck. “I’ve wanted to hug you for so long, Mrs. Stetson! I’m sorry I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I was so afraid I would cause you more pain. I’m so sorry about Shannon. I miss her so much.”

  Mom looks like she’s drowning.

  “Eve!” Mrs. Brice says firmly. “I know you’re upset, honey, but poor Mrs. Stetson can’t even breathe.”

  But Eve won’t loosen her grip. Her back rises and falls to the cadence of her heaving sobs.

  “I’m sorry,” she weeps, sounding like a little girl. “I loved her, Mrs. Stetson. I love you, too.”

  I have to admit, I’ve taken in the whole scene with an anthropologist’s sense of objectivity: Mom being swept up by a tsunami of emotion, Mom losing her grip on total control, Mom pinned to her seat, Mom’s social niceties tested by her starkest of discomfort zones. My fascination knows no bounds.

  But Eve’s pain … it’s so raw, so intense. As she continues to cry on Mom’s shoulder and Mom begins to clumsily stroke her hair, I find my own eyes filling with tears. A sob lodges in my throat. I swallow hard, then notice that Mrs. Brice is crying, too. Her face is in her hands and her shoulders are trembling.