The Promise Girls

by Marie Bostwick

  It occurred to Joanie that another word for precision, the quality she had always admired, was control. Before, Meg was controlled. Reined in. Not anymore.

  These paintings were almost shockingly joyous, unabashed and unashamed, free. Yes, that was the word. Whatever it was that had been holding Meg back before had been released.

  Joanie took her time, looking at each and every canvas, turning in a slow circle. When she reached the place where she’d begun, she looked down at the dress she was holding, an inconsequential pouf of satin, tulle, and rhinestones.

  “Good for you, Meg,” she said to the empty room. “Good for you.”

  Now it was time to find the artist. Joanie walked across the yard to the big house. Asher’s truck was in the garage and the back door was unlocked. “Hey, guys!” Joanie shouted as she sat down on the mudroom bench to slip off her shoes.

  A strange, low sound was coming from the living room. She paused, tilted her head to one side, listening. There it was again, a little louder, a little sharper, higher pitched, a human sound, as if the person making it might be in pain. Joanie jumped up. Wearing only one shoe, she limped quickly through the kitchen like a race walker with a leg cramp, following the sounds, which grew in volume and intensity the closer she got to the living room.

  “Meg? Asher? Are you okay? Did something hap—Ack!” Joanie screamed.

  So did Meg. So did Asher.

  “Holy . . . ! I didn’t realize you were—” She clamped her hands over her eyes. “I’m so, so sorry!”

  Joanie heard movement, the sound of feet, Asher gruffly mumbling something as he pushed past her in the doorway, and laughter. Her sister’s laughter.

  “It’s okay, Joanie. You can look now. He’s gone.”

  Joanie lowered her hands from her eyes, but slowly. Meg was grinning, wrapped in a blue and green crocheted afghan.

  “I’m so sorry,” Joanie said again, her tone and bright pink cheeks making her mortification obvious. “I should have yelled louder.”

  Meg laughed again. “Don’t worry about it. You could have fired a cannon and I doubt we’d have heard you. We were pretty involved.”

  Joanie’s cheeks went from pink to crimson.

  “Well . . . I’m really, really sorry,” she repeated. “I don’t know what to—”

  “Joanie, it’s okay. Awkward, but okay. We’re married, remember?”

  “Right. Still.”

  Meg was walking toward the bathroom, retrieving a trail of abandoned clothing along the way.

  “So, what are you doing today?” Meg asked, her voice casual, as if this wasn’t the most awkward situation in the world. “Want to go to lunch? Maybe do a little shopping? I need to go to the art supply store.”

  “Uh . . . sure. Sounds good.”

  “Great. Wait while I get dressed. Won’t be ten minutes.”

  Joanie started inching toward the front door. “Oh, that’s okay. Take your time. I’ll just, you know . . . wait in the car.”

  “Suit yourself,” Meg said, and closed the bathroom door.

  * * *

  They stopped at the art supply store, fabric shop, and consignment shop. By the time they stopped for lunch, Joanie was over her embarrassment and laughing about catching Meg and Asher in flagrante delicto. They were also laughing about the hat Meg bought in the consignment shop, a frothy creation with a tall tangerine-colored crown and hot pink, extra-wide organza brim, decorated with huge pink lilies.

  “Where are you ever going to wear that thing?”

  “I’m wearing it now,” Meg said primly, touching her fingertips to the brim.

  “Okay, but where else?”

  “To picnics. And royal weddings. Possibly to my box at Ascot,” she said, lifting her nose to a haughty angle. “If you play your cards right, I might let you borrow it.”

  “I don’t have a box at Ascot. Maybe I could wear it during filming. Nobody would be able to see my eyes. It’d make Hal crazy.”

  “I could loan it to Asher,” Meg added. “So he’ll have something to hide under next time he sees you.”

  Joanie choked on her iced tea, sputtering with laughter, and Meg joined in.

  “Poor Asher,” Joanie said after they calmed down. “Will he ever be able to look me in the eye again?”

  “Oh, he’ll be fine. But I bet he locks the door from now on.”

  Joanie chuckled. “When did you move back into the house?”

  Meg speared some chicken and a lettuce leaf with her fork. “I didn’t. We’re just dating.”

  “Dating?”

  “It was Asher’s idea. To give me time to feel comfortable with him and to remember.”

  “Oh. That makes sense, I guess. And it seems to be working. You’re obviously feeling more comfortable with him.” Joanie smiled. “Are you remembering him too?”

  “Some things. I remember that we rented a canoe on Lake Washington and it tipped over. You were there too.”

  “I remember that! Just a few weeks after the wedding. Our picnic went right to the bottom of the lake—”

  “So we went out for pizza instead,” Meg said, finishing for her. “We were absolutely soaked, left a big puddle of water next to the booth. Asher found a mop and wiped it up so the waitress wouldn’t have to. He’s a sweet man.”

  “He is,” Joanie agreed. “What else do you remember?”

  “A lot of things. More every day. I remember sitting at a kitchen table covered with butcher paper and finger painting with vanilla, chocolate, pistachio, and butterscotch pudding.”

  Joanie nodded. “You were three and I was five. One of Minerva’s early attempts at artistic indoctrination. Sometimes it was actually fun.”

  “I also remember getting off the bus in Seattle and you being there to meet me, and bringing Trina home from the hospital, and signing the loan papers on our house, and making a cake for Asher’s thirtieth birthday, and cheering when Trina won first place at the science fair. Seems like every morning when I wake, there’s a new crop of memories there, like they sprouted in my brain while I was sleeping.”

  “Do you remember the fire? Or anything about the accident?”

  Meg shook her head. “No, I don’t remember the big blowup on the talk show either. Hal showed me the video.”

  Joanie dropped her fork. “What! Why?”

  “Calm down,” Meg replied evenly. “I asked him to. Everybody talks about that day like it was this pivotal moment in my life . . . in our lives, so I wanted to see it. But I don’t remember it, even after watching the tape.

  “It was so awful. People were shouting and Avery was crying and so was I. But I didn’t recognize me as me. But I felt sorry for that little girl. And for you and Avery. It was terrible for everybody. I even felt sorry for Minerva.”

  “Oh, please,” Joanie huffed.

  “I’m not kidding. Have you watched that tape?”

  “Everyone in America did, twenty-four seven, for two straight weeks.”

  “But I mean recently, now that you’re a mother. The look on Minerva’s face as those security guys step in to separate her from her kids is heartbreaking.

  “When they hand you off to the guy in the black shirt, the one with the headphones around his neck, and you turn away as they take you off on the opposite side of the stage, Minerva was watching you. Right at that moment, you can see she’s doubting every decision she’s ever made, that she wishes she could roll back the tape, and time, and do it all differently. But she knows it’s too late. And as she watches you being taken away, she wants to tell you she’s sorry, for everything.”

  Joanie rolled her eyes. “Somehow I doubt that. You don’t know her like I do, remember?”

  “Well, maybe that’s why you can’t see it. Don’t you think it’s possible to know someone too well? So well that we can’t make space in our brain for the fact that people change, or that we might not have the whole picture?”

  Meg’s philosophical tone, as if she was discussing some rhetorical question, removed fr
om reality, was getting on Joanie’s nerves. Minerva’s personality and motives were not abstract concepts to Joanie; she knew their mother. She hadn’t enjoyed the luxury of forgetting.

  Joanie pierced a cherry tomato with her fork.

  “One of the fascinating things is the way my memories are returning,” Meg said, reaching for a second roll and spreading it with butter, “not as consecutive events but more like snippets of history. When you live life day to day, and year to year, the people, situations, and feelings around you change so gradually that you’re not so aware of it.”

  Joanie frowned. “What do you mean? How have things changed for you?”

  “Now, I’m happy. Before, I wasn’t.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “Because every memory that’s come back to me is a happy one. And because I don’t have a single memory of anything that happened for a year and a half before the accident. Not one. That seems like a pretty good clue that, for the last eighteen months or so, I didn’t have any happy memories. Another clue is the sex.”

  Joanie swallowed fast, almost choking on her tomato. “Yeah?”

  Meg leaned closer, lowering her voice. “Joanie, it’s incredible! Completely amazing. And constant. He’s voracious, can’t get enough. Which leads me to believe he’s been doing without for a very long time.”

  “Leads you to believe?” Joanie frowned. “You haven’t asked him?”

  Meg shook her head. “It’s too soon to be delving into all the personal stuff.”

  Joanie put down her fork. “Hang on. You know him well enough to have sex, but not well enough to talk to him about not having sex? Meg, that makes no sense. Zero.”

  “You don’t understand. Everything is going great right now. I have my own life, time to paint, to think my own thoughts and do my own thing, but I also get to spend time with my family whenever I feel like it. I get to have all the benefits of marriage and family without any of the burden.

  “Plus, I’m having the greatest sex of my life,” Meg said, then stopped her fork midway to her mouth and frowned. “I think it is. I don’t remember that either. But it’s hard to imagine it could be any better. This morning, he actually—”

  Joanie held her hand out flat. “Okay, sis. Stop. Too much information. Plus, you’re making me jealous. You do remember how long I’ve been single, right? Always.”

  The waiter came to refill their glasses. Joanie and Meg sat in silence, working to suppress their mutual grins, until he finished and left.

  “Listen, Meg, I’m happy for you. Jealous but happy. But I’m still not convinced things are as good as you think they are. Don’t you want your life to get back to normal? Don’t you want to have a relationship with your daughter?”

  “I do have a relationship with her. Trina comes over to see me every day after school. She is so, so smart,” Meg said, her voice simultaneously amazed and amused. “One big bundle of hormones—but also absolutely brilliant. Yesterday, in the space of half an hour, we discussed why the lacrosse players make bad boyfriends and hedgehogs make bad pets—pretty much the same reasons, by the way—the proper use of emoticons in text messages, wave particle duality, the theory of quantum consciousness, and why Sleeping With Sirens is the most overrated band in America.”

  “It is? Don’t tell Avery. She’ll be crushed,” Joanie deadpanned. “But seriously, it’s terrific you and Trina are getting along now.”

  “Aha,” Meg said, raising a finger. “You said we’re getting along now. Which implies that we weren’t getting along so well before. Am I right?”

  Joanie shrugged in assent.

  “See? That’s what I am talking about. Before the accident, I wasn’t happy and neither was Trina. Or Asher. Maybe we were taking each other for granted, getting so wrapped up in the day-to-day garbage that we couldn’t appreciate each other. Who knows? Now we’re starting from scratch. No agendas. No baggage. We enjoy each other’s company.

  “Last night Asher made eggplant parmesan for dinner and we sat around the table playing Settlers of Catan. And as soon as Trina went to bed, he jumped me. He does that every night. Never says a word. Just grabs me and . . .” Meg looked away for a moment and put her hand over her mouth, briefly covering her smile.

  “It’s fun, Joanie! It’s fun, and sexy, and passionate. And,” she said, letting out a little laugh, “it feels just a tiny bit wicked. But it isn’t because I barely know him—we’re married! How great is that? Why would I want to risk messing up something this good by talking to him about why things weren’t working before?”

  “But . . . Meg, you can’t go on like this forever. At some point you’re going to have to talk to him, really talk to him. You can’t just go around pretending that nothing bad has ever happened and that life is one big party.”

  Meg’s smile flattened. She removed her hat and laid it on a chair, as if sensing the festive flowers and carnival colors didn’t match the look on her face.

  “Why not? I mean it, Joanie. Why do I have to remember everything, the good and the bad? Life is good for me now, for Asher too. If we weren’t happy before and we are now, why would we want to go back to that?”

  “Because it’s not real. Because you’d be ignoring half of your life, an important half. The hard times shape us just as much as the happy ones, maybe more. You can’t just wake up one day and decide to be somebody else.”

  “You did.”

  “I did?” Joanie’s hand went to her chest. “What are you talking about?”

  “About you. You were a budding concert pianist with a brilliant career in front of her and one day you woke up and decided you’d had enough. And now you’re here,” Meg said, spreading her hands. “You didn’t like the reality you had so you made a new reality. Simple.”

  “It wasn’t like that.” An argumentative edge was creeping into her voice. “First off, I didn’t have a brilliant career in front of me. That was all Minerva. Don’t you get it? She invented me. I didn’t come up here to escape my life, but to find it. And, believe me, nothing about that was simple. But I’m here now and this is my life. It’s not exciting, but it’s good. And I’m happy.”

  “Then why can’t you let me be happy? Why do you have to keep pushing?”

  “What? Meg, I’m not . . .”

  Joanie was startled by the vehemence of her sister’s tone. Meg turned her face away, clamping her lips tight together and screwing her eyes shut.

  “Meg?”

  “I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” she murmured, leaving her eyes closed for a moment longer. “I don’t want to argue with you, Joanie. I really don’t. You’ve been incredible. The hospital bills? They were astronomical!” She shook her head in amazement. “I don’t know what we’d have done without you. Or how we can ever repay you. I know how much you hate doing this movie.”

  “Stop. What are you talking about?” Joanie waved her hand dismissively and smiled, relieved that Meg had regained her composure. “It’s not me. We’re all in this together. It’s not like any of us were excited about the movie. Well . . . except for Avery. But even she’s kind of over it now. Anyway, there’s nothing to repay. I’m just glad your memories are coming back.”

  “Yeah, I’m especially happy I remembered that you’re my sister. And that I love you.”

  Meg reached across the table for Joanie’s hand and gave it a squeeze. Joanie blinked, feeling her eyes fill.

  “You know what we need?” Meg asked, laughing and swiping at her own eyes. “Dessert! I saw the daily special when we were ordering—peach cobbler with cinnamon ice cream.”

  “Oh, I can’t,” Joanie protested. “I was going to start my diet today.”

  “We’ll split it. You can diet next week.” Joanie said nothing. Meg waved at the waiter, who was delivering orders to another table.

  “Listen, I had an idea for something fun we could do together. Kind of a sisters’ night thing. Have you heard of painting parties? Apparently it’s a thing now. Trina was telling me about it. Fri
ends go to these art studios and paint together. Simple things—a landscape, a vase of flowers, whatever. They use the same image for inspiration, but everybody’s painting comes out a little different.”

  Joanie winced. “I’m not sure I want to expose myself to that kind of ridicule. I can barely draw stick people.”

  “Oh, come on! It’ll be fun! I’ll help you. And you won’t be in public. We’ll do it at my place. And the other thing about painting parties? They serve wine.”

  “How much? Because I think I’d need a lot.”

  Meg looked at her, waiting.

  “Oh, all right. I’m in. I guess. Where’s our server?” Joanie asked, craning her neck. “I’ve been sitting here so long that I’m hungry again. You know, that was a pretty small salad. Maybe we’d better get two cobblers.”

  Meg lifted her brows. “With two scoops of ice cream? Each?”

  “Definitely. I’m starving.”

  Chapter 26

  Hal and the crew were standing outside the clothing boutique where Avery had promised to meet them. It was starting to rain.

  “If she’s not coming, I should get the equipment in out of the wet,” Brian said.

  “Yeah,” Hal answered irritably, looking up at the gray sky. “You and Simone go sit in the van. I’ll try to track her down.”

  He took out his cell phone. “Avery? Hey, it’s Hal. You said we should meet you on the corner outside of the boutique. Did I get the wrong one?”

  “Oh, crap. I forgot. Sorry. I’ll be right there.”

  Hal frowned. Something about her voice didn’t sound right. And Avery wasn’t the sort of person who blew off appointments.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Spending my last four dollars on a cupcake,” she muttered. “Hang on a sec.”

  Hal heard a rustling sound, as if Avery had put down the phone. Though her voice was fainter, he could still hear what she was saying. He also heard a clattering sound, like somebody was pouring coins onto a table or countertop.

  “Three dollars and fifty-six cents. That’s all I’ve got,” Avery said.

  “Sorry,” said another voice.

  Hal raised his voice, almost shouting into his cell, trying to get her attention. “Avery? Avery, pick up.” A moment later, she did.