Sorority Sisters

by Claudia Welch

  “I miss her, too. I’m grieving, too.”

  “I know that,” I say, stunned.

  I’m blowing it, and I don’t know how. Am I not grieving in the proper way? Is there a rule book for this, too? Of course there is. Don’t be an idiot, Ryan; get your mask back on and look at the camera like a good little girl. Don’t let anyone see the ugly stuff. People can’t stand looking at the ugly stuff, like naked grief, like shaking insecurity, like raw fear.

  But this is Laurie. Can’t I let the mask slip with Laurie?

  I look at Laurie in the bathroom mirror. She looks slightly stiff and very composed, even more pulled together than usual. She’s wearing a dark blue suit with a champagne-colored silk blouse, her dark blond hair pulled back into a low ponytail. She could be going to a deposition or a bank meeting, but she’s going to a funeral masquerading as a party.

  “Thanks for driving,” I say, watching for her reaction.

  She snorts a little bit, lifts an eyebrow, and turns on one of the faucets.

  “Hey, are you okay?” I say.

  “No. I’m not. Thanks for asking,” she says, looking at me in the mirror.

  “Well, go on. Spill it. If you think I’m a first-class bitch, go ahead and say so.”

  She wipes her hands on a towel and reaches in her purse for her lipstick, but she doesn’t use it; she just pulls the cap off and on, off and on. Considering that this is Laurie, it’s like watching a first-class nervous breakdown.

  “I loved her, too,” she says.

  “I know that.”

  She doesn’t say anything more, but I can feel that she wants to, that there’s this tidal wave of words just begging to be let loose.

  “Just say it, Laurie. Whatever it is, just say it,” I tell her. “If we can’t be honest with each other by now, what the hell’s been the point?”

  Laurie looks at me, her eyes sad, her mouth tipped up in a reluctant smile that lasts a millisecond.

  “Sometimes I feel like you get there first, that there’s . . . no room for anyone else.”

  This isn’t about Missy; this is about Doug. We’ve never talked about Doug, never said a word to each other to tie off the dripping vein of pain and humiliation he opened up ten years ago. I didn’t think we needed to talk about it; haven’t we shown each other that there’s nothing to say, that he did his thing and we made it and hooray for us? I guess that’s not enough, at least not for Laurie, and maybe even not for me. Maybe I need to tell her what I’ve wanted to say and she might have needed to hear. I’ve got to make myself say something, face it down and shut it off, once and for all.

  I’ve got to be brave enough to talk this out and bury it.

  I’m really, really horrible at confrontation. I guess when all’s said and done, I like life behind the mask, which is so damn pathetic that I’m suddenly disgusted with myself and with life in general.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, turning to face her, my hip resting against the counter. “I don’t mean to do that. I don’t want to get there first. Most times I don’t want to get wherever the hell I’m going at all.”

  Laurie looks at me, a brief glance, and then she looks at the pattern the lights are making on the ceiling. “Yes, you do. I’d want that. I’d want to be first, to have the first claim.”

  “Laurie, look, let’s not do subtle. We’re talking about Doug, aren’t we? Well, okay, I was in love with him and you were in love with him and he screwed us both over.”

  Laurie turns to look at me, her brows raised, looking a bit shocked.

  “Hey, I could have said fucked. I’m trying to be sophisticated because we’re in the Beverly Hills Hotel.” She smiles a little bit, but it fades almost before it begins. I smile back and try to make it stick. “I’m just trying to say that I wanted him to love me, and when he didn’t, and when I could see straight again, I wanted him to love you, and when he didn’t, when he blew it, then I wanted him to get thrown from a fast-moving train. That’s all. If I could have avoided being first for that Mexican hat dance, then I would have. But not,” I say, grabbing her hand, “if my being first sent up a warning flare that he was a total shit and you should run for your life. But it didn’t. And I was first. There’s nothing I can do about that except to say I’m sorry that you feel like you’re second to me in anything. You’re not. We both know you’re not.”

  I stop talking because I don’t think I’m making sense anymore, if I ever did.

  “You’re not mad?” she says. “That I went out with him after he . . .”

  “Kicked me out of bed? No, I’m not mad. I was never mad; I just didn’t want him to hurt me, and then I didn’t want him to hurt you.”

  Laurie smiles, and it holds. Then we’re hugging each other, messing up each other’s hair, and pushing our mascara to the edge, but it’s okay. It’s all okay. Missy’s gone, but Laurie is here and I’ve got her and she’s got me and we both know that. That’s all that matters, in the end. Hell, that’s all that matters in the beginning and the middle.

  “As long as he didn’t hurt us, then it’s okay,” she says. “Well, not okay, but . . . okay. I didn’t want to lose us, Diane. Especially after Missy . . . It just all overwhelmed me, all these thoughts and regrets. I don’t want to lose us, any of us,” she says.

  I smile. I know exactly what she means, and I think, really, for the first time, I understand what Missy had in mind when she commanded us to have this party when she died. She wanted us to remember that we are an us, and that we can’t lose us or we’ll lose everything.

  “Let’s go party. Let’s go be us. For Missy,” I say.

  And that’s exactly what we do.

  * * *

  Four hours into the party celebrating Missy, when most of the non-Exclusives have left and it’s only Missy’s extended family and us still taking up space at the Beverly Hill Hotel, Ellen sits down next to Laurie and grabs her hand.

  “I need to ask you something,” Ellen says. “I need to do something.”

  “How drunk are you?” Karen asks. “You sound drunk, not that Missy wouldn’t approve, but you can’t drive home like that. I’ll drive you. Is Megan with your parents? Are they okay with keeping her overnight? I’ll take you to my house and you can stay with me.”

  “God, will you shut up? I am not drunk,” Ellen says. “I have something to ask Laurie, and you are not invited into this conversation.”

  “Well. Thanks a lot,” Karen says, starting to laugh.

  “She’s more fun when she’s drunk. Have you noticed?” I say.

  “After a decade? Yeah. I’ve noticed,” Karen says.

  “Laurie, ignore them,” Ellen says. “I really need to ask you something. Something huge.”

  “I can do huge,” Laurie says.

  “Is this the beginning of a fat joke? ’Cause I’m out of here if it’s a fat joke,” I say. I went up a size. I’m feeling kind of hysterical about it.

  “Laurie,” Ellen says, ignoring me, “I really want to thank you again for buying Mike off.”

  “Is that what we’re calling it?” I say.

  “What else is it when you tell a guy that all he has to do is disappear forever, and that if he does, he’ll never have to pay a dime?” Karen says.

  “A payoff,” I say. “Without any money changing hands. Very tidy, Laurie. You sound really good at what you do. If I ever get married and divorced, you’ll be my first call.”

  “And,” Ellen continues, throwing me a dirty look, “Missy dying so young has made me think about Megan, about how, if I go before she’s of age, then she’ll have no one.”

  Karen and I share a look and keep our traps shut.

  “We’ve talked about this before,” Laurie says. “I’m glad you’re finally taking it seriously.”

  “It’s a serious day,” Ellen says. “In a
drunken-brawl kind of way.”

  We all smile a bit at that. It’s exactly the kind of day Missy wanted and, though she’s not here, I feel her in every conversation and every corner of the room. It was a party, a good old-fashioned wake.

  “We need to meet at my office because you need to talk to a lawyer who specializes in this kind of thing,” Laurie says, pulling out her pocket organizer. “Give me a call on Monday and I’ll see what Milt’s calendar looks like.”

  “Yeah, fine,” Ellen says, “but that’s not exactly it. It’s more than that. I’m about to ask you the biggest favor I’ve ever asked anyone. Are you ready?”

  Laurie

  – Winter 1988 –

  Am I ready?

  I know what she’s going to say before she says it. I can see it in her eyes, all the memories we share, all the small moments that become large memories, memories that fill a life and make it warm.

  “Remember the strawberry jam?” I say, leaning forward and taking Ellen’s hands in mine.

  “I wish I could forget it,” Ellen says with a grin.

  “What’s the deal with strawberry jam?” Diane asks.

  “Be glad you were gone,” Karen says with a shudder.

  “Okay, now I have to know. Just because I’m off serving my country—” Diane says.

  “God, okay. I’ll tell you the strawberry jam story,” Ellen says. “Megan was two, not even, and Laurie was over at my place; we were going to Paradise Cove to see my mom. So when Laurie got to my house, I jumped in the shower—”

  “Which sounds innocent enough, doesn’t it?” I say. “But Megan got into the pantry while I was washing the dishes, and she dropped a jar of strawberry jam, one of those huge jars—”

  “I don’t think the size of the jar was the problem,” Ellen says. “So I hear Laurie screaming for me to get out of the shower, and so I do, and there’s Megan, covered in red—blood, jam, who can tell?”

  “I thought she was bleeding to death, right in front of me,” I say. “The kitchen floor was covered, and then she was crying hysterically and waving her hands around, and blood is flying all over the white cupboards.”

  “I threw on a beach cover-up and flip-flops, my hair soaking wet, and we ran out the door, Laurie holding Megan while Megan is screaming like a banshee,” Ellen says.

  “Who can blame her?” Karen says.

  “So I’m driving like a bat out of hell,” Ellen says, “while Laurie’s in the backseat with Megan, holding her thumb with a dish towel—”

  “I didn’t know if she’d severed it completely or not,” I say. “There was so much blood, and her fingers were so tiny.” I can feel the tears building in my eyes, just like they were when it happened. “I kept telling her how sorry I was.”

  “Yeah, I’m driving, hitting every light, because, you know, that’s my karma, and all I can hear is Laurie whispering, ‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.’”

  “I’ll bet,” Diane says.

  “So I get to the pediatrician’s office, because it’s closer than any hospital, run her in there, Megan still crying her heart out, and the blood hasn’t even slowed down, and then they put her in one of those boards where the kid is tied down. That was fun. I just kept stroking her head, telling her that she was going to be all right,” Ellen says.

  “Four sutures in that tiny little thumb,” I say. “I stayed in the waiting room and filled out the paperwork.”

  “You could get a real nice career going, doing that,” Diane says.

  “I don’t know how I held the pen; I was just crushed with guilt. After about thirty minutes, Ellen came out holding Megan, who was still whimpering, her little beach outfit stiff with blood, Ellen’s hair still damp, and she said . . . she said . . .” I hesitate, my eyes overflowing and my throat tight.

  “I said, ‘Well, that’s it for me and strawberry jam. I assume that’s unanimous?’ Which seemed the only logical conclusion,” Ellen says. “That was three years ago. We’re still a grape-exclusive jelly household.”

  “Me, too,” I say.

  “Damn,” Diane says. “After that, me three.”

  “So, the strawberry jam story,” Karen says. “Is this going where I think it’s going?” Karen has tears in her eyes, but she’s smiling.

  I can’t smile. It’s too much and it’s too important, and though I’m the one who’s been urging Ellen to get the paperwork on this done, to get her legal house in order, I didn’t see this coming.

  “Laurie,” Ellen says to me, her blue eyes full of hope and trust.

  “Of course,” I say, smiling at her, cutting her off, not forcing her to say the words, words no mother should have to say. Will you be my child’s mother? Will you love my girl if for some reason I can’t? “You don’t even need to ask.”

  Diane

  – Summer 1988 –

  “Is it my imagination, or do we always move on the hottest day of the year?” Karen says.

  “It’s not your imagination,” I say. “God. Please tell me you have a pool.”

  “I have a pool,” Laurie says. “Hey. I have a pool!”

  “Yeah, heard you the first time,” Ellen says.

  “Is it anywhere near where I’m going to dump this box of pots and pans?” I say. “Because that would be muy necesito.”

  “Way to break out the Spanish lingo,” Ellen says, carrying in a huge bag of new bedding. “Which bedroom do you want this in?”

  “I’ve numbered the doors,” Laurie says.

  “Of course you have,” Ellen says on a sigh.

  “That’s . . . door number two.”

  “It’s so gorgeous, Laurie,” Karen says. “It’s like something out of a fairy tale. Hey! Did you guys ever see The Enchanted Cottage? It’s with Robert Young and Dorothy McGuire and it’s about—”

  “You mean Dr. Welby and the mom from Swiss Family Robinson?” Ellen says as she walks down the hall. “What the hell, Mitchell, those two don’t go together.”

  “Will you shut up and let me tell you this story? It’s so romantic, about how he’s disfigured in the war and she’s really ugly—”

  “Oh, my God!” I say. “What is wrong with you? That’s what you call romantic?”

  “Well, they do fall in love,” Karen says, “and this house reminds me of that. It’s dreamy, like that.”

  “I just want to know if Laurie’s the disfigured one or the ugly one,” I say. “That’s all I really want to know. Maybe we should vote on it.”

  “Like Rush,” Ellen says, coming back into the foyer.

  “Oh, shut up. That is not at all what I meant,” Karen says, laughing. “Laurie, I love your house.”

  I drop the box of kitchen stuff on the kitchen counter. The kitchen looks like it came straight from 1962 without stopping for gas, but it does have a great view of the front yard, which is crowded with old sycamore trees giving abundant shade, and the lot is gigantic. In Los Angeles, it really doesn’t get much better than that. And La Cañada is only a short ride from downtown LA, and it really doesn’t get any better than that.

  “Laurie, the movers are right behind me. Where do you want all the rest of your stuff?” I say.

  Laurie takes over directing the movers; Karen takes over unpacking and putting things away. Ellen and I look at each other, exhaustion seeping from our pores.

  “Where’s Megan?” I ask.

  “Jim’s got the kids.”

  “All of them?” I say, my eyes bulging. Megan and Ben are barely five, and David’s a toddler, Charlie a baby. “Where did she find Jim? And can he be cloned?”

  “Karen’s parents are with them, too, but they’re slowing down,” Ellen says. “The way I look at it, it’s like Jim is watching out for six people, not four.”

  “What about your parents? Do they watch Megan much
?”

  “Not much. I don’t want Megan around Ed too much. Too much danger of contamination.”

  Ellen and I move through the house, trying to stay out of the way of the movers, and the captain and XO of the venture: Laurie and Karen. We bypass the kitchen, just off the foyer at the front of the house, and move through the family room at the back, but that’s a busy room, Karen directing the placement of the lawyer’s bookcase against a wall. We finally find our way out the sliding glass doors to the backyard. There are pine trees and orange trees scattered on the lawn, all circling a rectangular pool holding center stage. Along the back wall of the property is a row of red hibiscus bushes. It’s like a tiny Eden.

  We look around at the yard, at the birds singing in the pine trees, at the cool blue appeal of the pool, at the long, low profile of the house, at the shake roof, at all the bustle seen through every window.

  “We’d better find a better place to hide. They’ll find us if they look,” Ellen says.

  “I’m too tired to move. If they come and get me, it’s going to be a fight to the death. I’ll hold this ground till my blood runs red, or out, or something equally gruesome,” I say.

  We sit on the edge of the pool, resting our feet on the steps in the shallow end.

  “It’s a nice house—gorgeous, in fact,” I say. “Now all she needs to do is learn how to pick men.”

  “Look who’s talking.”

  We both snort. It’s true. I can’t pick ’em. I don’t even try anymore.

  “Aren’t there plenty of guys in the navy?” Ellen says.

  “You know how that went. I don’t want to dance that dance again. Plus, I outrank most of the single ones. The pool’s closed, if you know what I mean.”

  “I feel no love for you was an aberration, like the plague,” Ellen says. “You can’t give up just because he got to you first.”

  “Sure I can,” I say. “You want to know a secret? I’ve never been all that great with guys. Oh, I can flirt with them, but I can’t get much beyond that. I’d like to think it was because I was a late bloomer, got such a late start at it, but I don’t think that excuse works anymore.”