chapter twenty-six

MEREDITH

Four days, two off-Broadway plays, one musical, and endless hours of wandering the city later, I can’t tell if I’m feeling a little better or much worse. I decide it’s closer to the latter when I get a call from Josie, gushing about how cute Harper looked in her butterfly costume. “Did you get my photos?”

“Yes. Didn’t I thank you?” I say, knowing that I did.

“Yes,” she says. “You did.”

“I’m really glad you stopped over to see her…because of course Nolan only took one shot. And it was dark and blurry.”

She laughs and says, “Typical guy.”

I murmur my agreement, and a long pause ensues before Josie brings up her visit to the cemetery.

“Yeah. I heard y’all went,” I say, tensing. “How was it?”

“It was nice,” she says. “Difficult, but nice…I feel a little better.”

“Well…good. Great…Does Mom know you went?” I ask, feeling certain that the answer is no.

“I don’t think so….Unless Nolan told her…I haven’t mentioned it to her yet.”

“Well, maybe you should tell her? You know—since she’s been wanting you to go for years,” I say.

“Yeah. I know. I will,” she says. “I actually need to talk to both of you….”

“Oh?” I say. “About?”

“About…some things,” she says. “When are you coming home?”

I lean back on Ellen’s sofa and stare at a large water mark on the ceiling as I tell her I don’t know.

“Soon?” she presses.

“I don’t know,” I say again, irritation creeping into my voice.

A long silence follows, but I am determined to outlast my sister. “Are you coming home?” she finally asks.

“Now, why would you ask that?” I bark, enraged by her insinuation that I would abandon my child.

“God. Sorry,” she says. “I didn’t mean to offend you….I’m just worried…about you and Nolan. And Harper.”

“Well, don’t be,” I say. “You have your hands full with your own life.”

I know my response is over-the-top bitchy, and I brace myself for a brawl, or at the very least, one of her signature hang-ups, but Josie floors me by taking the high ground.

“You’re right, Mere. I do,” she says. “But I’m really trying here.”

“Trying to do what, exactly?” I snap.

“Trying to get it together…and I just really, really want to see you in person. If you’re not coming home, do you think I could come up there?”

I shake my head and roll my eyes, getting the sudden feeling that Josie is using my crisis to justify a trip to New York and score a free place to stay. “Is it really that urgent?”

“Yes, Mere,” she says. “It kind of is, actually.”

I sigh, telling myself not to fall into Mom’s trap and start worrying that it’s something dire or health-related. “Can you at least tell me the topic?” I ask, betting that it involves Will, or her sperm donor guy and their half-assed birth plan, or maybe even some other new guy, Josie never going very long before some new male character emerges in her life.

A long pause follows—so long that I think we’ve been cut off. “Are you still there?” I say.

“Yes,” she says. “I’m here.”

“Okay? Well? What’s the topic?” I ask again.

“It’s about Daniel,” she says, her voice cracking. “I need to talk to you about Daniel.”

All of my instincts tell me to say no—that Josie is somehow manipulating me and my situation, or otherwise pulling some sort of attention-grabbing stunt. But of all the things my sister’s been dramatic about over the years, our brother has never been one of them. I think back to the days immediately following the accident, how she disappeared into her room for hours on end while the rest of us milled about the kitchen. I think about her demeanor at the funeral—how self-contained and withdrawn she was. I can’t recall her crying at the service at all, and have a vivid memory of her standing apart from our family at Daniel’s graveside until my grandmother pulled her over to the front row of folding chairs, practically forcing her to sit down.

So on the off chance this is all legitimate, I sigh and say yes, she is welcome to come to New York this weekend.

JOSIE’S FLIGHT LANDS around seven on Friday night, and she pulls up in a taxi less than an hour later, just as I’m arriving home from the corner bodega. She sees me first, calling out my name through her open cab window. She is wearing her hair wavy and natural around her unmade-up face, and my first thought is that she looks stunning—way prettier than when she spackles on the makeup and irons all the life out of her hair. I try to wave, but my grocery bags are weighing down my arms, so I simply smile and yell hello, waiting for her to get out of the car. It takes her an unusually long time to pay her fare and finish chatting with her driver, and I feel myself growing annoyed. She is the kind of person who will finish her phone call and touch up her lip gloss while someone waits for her spot in a packed parking lot. It makes me crazy.

I tell myself to stop my mental rant, then take a deep breath. I have enough on my plate right now. A few seconds later, her door swings open, and she plants a black suede platform boot onto the street, before heaving a giant roller bag out of the backseat.

“Perfect timing!” she declares as she gets out of the taxi, slams the door, and waves goodbye to her cabbie.

“Yeah, I just ran to the store.” I smile brightly while eyeing her suitcase. “That’s a lot of luggage for two nights,” I can’t resist saying.

“I know, I know….I’m a terrible packer. I just threw a bunch of stuff in before school this morning.” She steps toward me, then throws her arms around me. “It’s so good to see you, Mere.”

I lower my plastic bags to the sidewalk and hug her back, stiffly at first. Then I relax, as I realize that in spite of my cynicism, I’m genuinely happy to see her. We separate, and I watch her glance up, then down the block, as if to get her bearings. She then squints and points up at Ellen’s building. “That’s it, right?”

“Yes. Fourth floor. It’s a walk-up,” I say with a grimace. “No elevator.”

“That’s okay. I need the workout,” she says, making a muscle, then motioning toward my grocery bags and asking if we’re eating in tonight.

That hadn’t been my plan, but I say yes anyway, trying to gauge her reaction. “Would that be okay with you?”

“Sure,” she says, passing the test—at least for now. “Whatever you want to do is cool with me….”

I smile, then turn and lead her up the stone steps of Ellen’s building. We walk into the bare-bones lobby, past the small grid of mail slots, then enter the musty stairwell. All the while, Josie rambles about how tired she is, what a long week it’s been, how exhausting it is to be a teacher, especially with young children who have no self-control or respect for your personal space. After two flights, she’s completely winded, and by the third, she has to put her bag down to catch her breath.

“How many pairs of shoes did you bring? Tell the truth….” I say.

“Oh, I don’t know…four or five.” She flashes me a sheepish, yet somehow still proud smile.

“Including the pair you’re wearing?”

“Okay. So five or six,” she says.

“And yet…you’d be okay staying in?” I say as we climb the last flight.

“I said yes,” she says. “Why do you keep asking me that?”

“I’ve only asked you twice.”

“Right. But I already said yes….Whatever you want is fine, Mere.”

“Okay,” I say, rounding the corner, then unlocking Ellen’s door and pushing it open. Once inside, I put my groceries down and slowly remove my boots, lining them neatly up next to the doormat, her cue to do the same. But of course she does not, sauntering right past the entryway, her filthy airplane-airport-city-sidewalk boots clunking on the hardwood.

“Hey, Josie,” I say. “Your shoes?”

She rolls her eyes and says she was just about to take them off; would I please give her a chance?

“Okay. Sorry,” I say, though I don’t actually believe her. “You know it’s my thing….You overpack; I obsess about germs.”

“I know,” she says, retreating a few steps. “But still. Don’t you remember how Mom used to tell us to say ‘thank you’ before we had a chance to spit the words out?”

“Yeah,” I say with a laugh. “The cupcake wouldn’t yet be transferred to our hands before she was like, ‘Gir-ls! What do you saaay?’ ”

Josie sits on the floor, pulling off her boots. “Exactly. And don’t you remember how much it always annoyed us? Because we were totally going to say it? Only now…we no longer got the credit for having good manners? We just looked like a couple of dolts….” She stands and looks at me, her brows raised.

I smile, thinking, not for the first time, that although some of our worst sibling rivalry involves vying for our mother’s favor, some of our best bonding has come at her expense.

I carry the groceries into Ellen’s tiny galley kitchen, putting away the few perishable items before washing my hands. Josie does the same, this time without prompting, then turns and eagerly asks for a tour.

“Well, this is pretty much it,” I say, gesturing toward the living room. “Plus her bedroom in the back.”

“It’s nice,” she says, walking over to the windows and looking out to the street below. “Very cute…and cozy…What’s the rent run?”

“They bought it. And I have no idea what they paid for it,” I say, despising the way Josie talks about money.

“Must be nice,” she says under her breath, “having that kind of loot.”

“Better than being broke, I guess,” I say, refraining from my usual commentary about how money can’t buy you happiness.

“Yeah…that’s an understatement,” Josie says with a laugh, picking up a little bronze Buddha from an end table. “This is cute.”

I nod, thinking Ellen probably isn’t going for cute. “Yeah. She has good taste.”

“What would you call her style, anyway?” Josie asks, putting down the Buddha and running her hand up and down the base of a lamp made of cork.

“Oh, I don’t know…eclectic? The opposite of Andy’s?”

She nods, then inspects Ellen’s coffee table books, now in full-on nosy mode. She opens one on photography, reading the inscription from Andy, then flipping randomly to an edgy black-and-white portrait of Lenny Kravitz. “Cool shot,” she murmurs.

I nod.

“Did Ellen take any of these?” she asks, still flipping through the pages.

“I don’t think so…but maybe,” I say, thinking that Josie seems to have such love-hate feelings about Ellen, sort of the way I felt about Shawna in high school, both fascinated by and disdainful of her at once—which often boils down to jealousy. “She’s shot a few famous people.”

“Oh, I know. She’s told me,” Josie says, rolling her eyes, implying that Ellen brags—which couldn’t be further from the truth. “Does she know I’m here this weekend?”

I nod. “Uh-huh.”

“What did you tell her?”

“I don’t remember exactly. Just that you were coming for the weekend.”

“And?”

“And what?”

“Did you tell her why I was coming?”

I raise my eyebrows and stare at her pointedly. “Um. No…How could I do that?”

She gives me a blank look.

“I don’t know why. Remember?”

She glances away, crossing her arms over her chest as she sits on the far end of Ellen’s contemporary sofa. “God. This is so uncomfortable,” she says. At first I think she’s talking about the two of us, until she adds, “Why would she buy a sofa that’s this hard?”

“Maybe she likes it,” I say. “To each her own.”

“Not possible. It’s terrible.”

I shrug. “Well, I don’t think she sits around here very much….She really just works and sleeps when she’s in the city.”

“So…was she okay with me staying here?” Josie asks expectantly, almost as if she wants the answer to be no.

“Yeah. She was totally fine with it….” I say, sitting on the other end of the sofa. It is the truth, but I leave out the part about how Ellen and I analyzed the subject for nearly thirty minutes, unable to come up with any possible Daniel-related topic that would necessitate an urgent, face-to-face dialogue.

“I doubt that,” Josie mumbles.

Against my better judgment, I ask her why she always thinks the worst of Ellen.

“I don’t think the worst of her,” Josie says. “I like her fine….I just get the feeling she thinks the worst of me.”

I shake my head. “That’s not true,” I say, because it actually isn’t. “She often defends you….” My voice trails off.

She narrows her eyes and says, “Oh? Why would she need to do that?”

My mind races for a clever retort, but I come up empty-handed. “Because you drive me nuts,” I say, smirking at her. “That’s why.”

“Well, you drive me nuts, too,” she says, with a little pout that takes a few seconds to dissipate. “But I’m still really glad to see you.”

“Me, too,” I say, wondering how I can have such mixed feelings—and how they can shift so quickly and radically, even from one minute to the next. “So how long do you think we can go without arguing?”

“Jeez,” she says with a little laugh. “It’s like you want to fight with me.”

I tell her that’s silly, that I hate fighting with her.

“Me, too,” she says. “God. We’ve had some doozies, haven’t we?”

I nod, almost fondly.

“Remember Chick-fil-A?”

“Of course.” I laugh, conjuring the details of perhaps our most epic fight, occurring when she was sixteen and I was fourteen. Every morning, she drove me to school in our family’s ancient Volvo, dropping me off at Pace before she headed the couple of miles over to Lovett. The problem, of course, was that we could never agree on our departure time, and she was always running late. (She must still hold the record at Lovett for the most tardies in a school year.) On that particular morning, though, Josie had promised me, multiple times, that she would do her best to get me to school early, as I had left my math book in my locker and needed to finish my homework.

All was fine, until she pulled into the Chick-fil-A on Northside, announcing that it would only “take a sec” to get a chicken biscuit. Incredulous, particularly after I observed the long drive-thru line, I tried to talk her out of it, even resorting to begging.

“Too late,” she said as a car pulled up behind us, trapping us in line. “Sorry, Charlie.”

“God. Why do you have to be such a bitch,” I said.

“Why do you have to be such a nerd,” she replied, then went on to mock me for caring so much about my math homework.

Our arguing quickly escalated as we inched along, until I went too far, making a snide comment about how she really didn’t “need those extra calories.” As soon as the words were out, I regretted that particular brand of meanness, especially knowing how self-conscious she was about her weight, and how hard she’d been trying to drop a few pounds before prom. But before I could apologize, she hauled off and backhanded me as hard as she could in my left breast. It hurt so much that tears immediately filled my eyes, and I remember thinking that a blow to a guy’s balls couldn’t be any more painful. So of course I slapped her back, and within seconds, a wild hair-pulling, name-calling melee ensued in the middle of the Chick-fil-A drive-thru. Of course, I got to school late that morning, disheveled and miserable, and for days afterward, I worried that her blow to my boob might somehow cause breast cancer. A small part of me even hoped for some real damage, if only to reinforce to my parents that I was their nicer, better daughter, and that their middle child might be the most selfish person on the planet.

“God. That was so redneck,” Josie says now, laughing.

“I know,” I say. “Total white trash.”

She continues to smile, but informs me that I’ve just used “a racist expression.”

“How do you figure?” I say, weary of her political correctness, which I know she simply parrots from Gabe.

“Well, why specify ‘white’? Name another instance when you actually specify the majority….It just seems to imply that all other races are de facto trash,” she says.

I roll my eyes and say, “That’s a bit of a reach, but whatever….”

We stare at each other an awkward few beats, before she slaps her thighs and says, “You know what? I think we should go out, after all. Is there a low-key spot around here?”

“Of course,” I say. “We’re in the Village. It’s all low-key…but did you want to talk about Daniel first?”

“Nah,” she says, waving me off. “We have all weekend….That can wait.”

At Josie’s request for a burger, we decide on the Minetta Tavern for dinner. We have a nice, relaxed time, without so much as a fleeting undercurrent of tension, and an even better time once back at Ellen’s. Against all odds, we fall into one of our rare, lighthearted zones with lots of reminiscing, mostly about our childhood, before our adolescent friction set in.

Daniel’s name comes up here and there, but only in the context of family lore from before we lost him. As we get in bed and start to fall asleep, it really hits me how much Josie and I have shared over the years. I think of the expression from the cradle to the grave—and the fact that she is the only person in the world I can say that about.

The next morning is equally nice. After sleeping in, we get up, shower, and head to my favorite generic neighborhood diner for breakfast, then walk up Fifth Avenue, all the way to Bendel’s, where Josie spends a small fortune on makeup.

We leave the store, crossing Fifty-Seventh Street and passing Bergdorf’s and the Plaza, before winding our way into the park. The day is cold, but bright and sun-filled, and my heart feels lighter than it has in weeks, maybe months. I almost tell her this as we stop to sit on the bench, but get distracted as we both read the small silver plaque screwed to the back of it: FOR CAROLINE, WHO LOVED THE PARK, AND GEORGE, WHO WAS ALWAYS WITH HER.

Josie runs her hands across the words and says, “Wow. What a sweet dedication.”

I murmur my agreement as we sit, our backs to the inscription. “Do you think the kids did it for their parents?” I say, hoping that Josie and I are one day that unified, when Mom and Dad are gone and it truly is just the two of us.

“Probably,” she says, with a faint smile. “I picture a little old couple who sat right here, every morning, with their little dog and matching canes…until one night, they died in their sleep. Together…”

I nod and smile. “That’s about as happy an ending as you can get,” I say, thinking that even the happiest possible endings still ultimately end in death.

I share the observation aloud, and she looks at me and shakes her head. “God, Mere. What a downer.”

I shrug and say, “Well? It’s the truth.”

“I know, but jeez.”

We both laugh, then sit for a stretch of silence, before she shoots me a serious glance.

“So…do you want to talk about what’s going on?” she asks, her voice soft. “With Nolan?”

For the first time in a long time, I actually want to confide in my sister. So I go with it. “I don’t think I married the right person,” I say, squinting up at the cobalt, cloudless sky and wishing I’d worn my sunglasses.

I wait a beat, then meet her gaze. Her expression is more sad than judgmental, the opposite of what I expected.

“I know,” she says, nodding. “Nolan sort of told me….”

“He did?”

“Yes. Don’t be mad at him.”

I shake my head. “I’m not. What did he say?”

She swallows, staring down at her pearly pink manicure. “He’s scared you want to divorce him.”

I freeze. That word.

“Do you?” she asks, glancing up from her hands to look at me.

I slowly nod and say, “I think maybe it’s the right decision.”

“But…why?” she asks, sounding so innocently mournful. “He loves you so much.”

“First of all, I don’t know that that’s true—”

She cuts me off and says, “Oh, Mere, it is true. Don’t you see the way he looks at you? He adores you. He respects you. God…you’re so lucky.”

And just like that, I feel my sadness morph into defensiveness and resentment. “I’m not lucky,” I say. “I married someone I was never really in love with. I cried on my wedding day. That’s not lucky. That’s just…lame.” I look at my sister, unsure of whether I want her to argue or relent the point.

“But you have a good marriage,” she says. “Don’t you?”

“In some ways,” I reply. “Okay…in a lot of ways, maybe….But sometimes I want more…for both of us….I want both of us to have the real deal…what Daniel had with Sophie.”

“I know,” she says softly. “I use them as a benchmark, too.”

“You do?” I say. “I thought you used Will for that?”

She nods. “Yeah. For a while I did. I wanted Will to be my Sophie. On paper, he seemed to be….But looking back…he wasn’t.” She gives me a funny look, then says, “Speaking of…she actually wants to have dinner with us tonight.”

“Sophie?” I say, thinking I must be confused.

“Yeah. I got in touch with her the other day. On Facebook…I told her we were going to be in town and gave her my phone number. She texted last night and said she’d love to meet us for dinner….”

“She texted you last night?” I say, my voice rising. “And you’re just mentioning it to me now?”

“Yeah…I wasn’t sure I wanted to do it.”

I close my eyes, shake my head, and say her name under my breath.

“What? I thought you wanted to see her,” she says, her voice now raised and whiny. “How could you possibly be upset with me for arranging something that you and Mom wanted in the first place?”

“Well, for one,” I say, “Mom’s not here.”

“I know…but we can always see Sophie again in December…with Mom.”

“So we wait fifteen years and then see her twice in a matter of weeks?”

“Well? Why not?”

“Doesn’t that seem a bit…excessive?”

“Sorry, I didn’t check the etiquette guide on this topic….” She pulls her phone out of her purse and mumbles that she’ll just text her back that we can’t make it.

I exhale with disgust, then reach out and put my hand on her forearm. “Stop. Don’t text her that. That’s rude….I just need to think for a second….”

“About what?”

“About whether I’m up for seeing Sophie tonight, with absolutely no warning whatsoever.”

“Why do you need warning?” she says. “I mean, what’s the difference? Now or next month?”

“I just wish we had discussed it together.”

“That’s what we’re doing now,” she says. “Isn’t it?”

“Yes, but…”

“But what? Why does everything have to be exactly on your terms?”

“It doesn’t,” I say, thinking of how many times she’s called me a control freak for simply having an opinion that differs from hers. “I just—”

“You just what, Meredith? Why are you always so dissatisfied with me?” She stands and looks down at me, her hands shoved into her pockets.

“I’m not,” I lie.

“Yes, you are. And so are Mom and Dad….God. I’m sorry I’m not perfect like you and Daniel,” she says, stalking away from me.

I get up and quickly catch up to her. “Could you stop it with the pity party?”

She stops and glowers at me. “It’s not a pity party at all,” she says. “I’m just sick and tired of your constant judgment. I’m here this weekend to talk about Daniel….That’s why I reached out to Sophie. I’m trying to do the right thing here. Can’t you see that?”

I stare at her, fleetingly seeing things her way. But like Rubin’s famous optical illusion, I quickly return to my view, that white vase so much more obvious than the dual black profiles. “Okay,” I say, giving in. “Text her back. Tell her we’ll meet her for dinner.”

“Is that what you really want?” she asks, as it occurs to me that she could be calling my bluff. Hoping that I’m the one who will decide against seeing Sophie.

Instead, I give her a breezy shrug. “Sure,” I say. “Let’s do it.”