First Comes Love (33 page)

“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.”

I
should have known Meredith would find a way to be pissed off at me for contacting Sophie. It had actually crossed my mind to vet it with her first, but then I thought—no, I should just be proactive, handle something on my own for once. Besides, I really didn't expect Sophie to reply so quickly. I thought there was a very good chance she wouldn't respond until next week, which would mean I'd get credit with Mom and Mere for reaching out to her without actually having to endure yet another emotional encounter.

Then, last night, when I got Sophie's response, I didn't want to bring up anything heavy when Meredith and I were having such a good time, joking and laughing and bonding. It felt so nice and natural—the way I see so many other sisters getting along. I just wanted to savor it, especially given the dread I felt over my impending confession and the very real possibility that Meredith will never forgive me for my role in Daniel's accident.

But of course my strategy backfired, and as we walk through the park, I watch her do a complete one-eighty, her mood going from cheerful to dour in record time.

“All right,” she briskly announces. “I'm ready to head home.”

“Now?” I say, thinking that I wanted to shop a bit more on the way back.

“Yeah. But you don't have to come with me,” she says, slipping into full-on passive-aggressiveness. “You know your way.”

I shake my head, knowing she will only hold that against me, too, and can practically script her rant.
How can you go shopping at a time like this?

And really, she'd be right. That magical Manhattan feeling quickly dissipates as I process that I now have not one, but
two
big things to dread. “No, I'll go back with you,” I insist.

She nods, quickening her pace as we head west through the park, the opposite direction from which we came.

“Why are we going this way?” I ask, practically jogging to keep up.

“This is the way to the subway.”

“Oh. You don't want to walk back?”

“No. I want to take the
subway.
”

“Well, all righty, then,” I mumble.

A silent, sullen fifteen-minute journey later, we enter the subway station at Fifty-Seventh and Seventh, dipping underground, then standing in more silence on the dank platform.

“Look,” I finally say, mouth-breathing to avoid the stench of urine and garbage. “We really don't have to see Sophie tonight. We can tell her we have plans. We can tell her we'll do it another time….”

“No. It's fine,” she says—which, with Meredith, means it's
not
fine, but she's going to play the martyr.

“So you want to go?” I confirm.

“I said yes. It's
fine.
”

I look at her, frustration welling inside me. “I just don't see why you're so mad at me,” I say, as a train roars toward us.

“I'm not mad,” she shouts back at me over the vibrating clamor of metal on metal.

“Okay. What are you, then?” I ask, as the train screeches to a halt and we board a mostly empty car. She waits for me to sit, then chooses a seat diagonally across from me. “What are you then?” I repeat.

When she still doesn't answer, I offer her a multiple choice. “Upset? Annoyed? Frustrated?”

“All of the above,” she says, crossing her arms tightly over her chest.

“Why?” I say, genuinely wanting to know. “I just don't see why.”

“Well, for starters, let's back up here….I've been trying to get you to go to the cemetery
forever
—Mom, too—and you finally go when I'm out of town and you don't even tell Mom you're going….”

“It was a last-minute thing,” I tell her.

“But that's even
worse,
” she says. “You go on a
whim
? Without us?”

I let out a weary sigh, then try to explain. “I was at
your
house, spending time with
your
daughter because
your
husband lost Rabby….”

“So?” she says. “And your point is…?”

“My point is…it just came up….Nolan asked me to go with him….I wanted to say no, but I felt sorry for him, you know, with everything going on….So I said yes….How can you be pissed at me for that?”

Meredith doesn't answer the question, just stares at me, then presses on to her next point. “Second of all, I
specifically
told you that Mom and I wanted to plan something for this December…for the fifteen-year anniversary.”

I once again wince at her use of
anniversary
in this context.

“And then you pull this stunt,” she says. “This was supposed to be about you and me and Mom doing something together. In Daniel's memory.”

“Well, we're together now,” I say.

“I know, but Mom's not here, and,
shit,
Josie,” she says, throwing her hands up, then letting them fall back onto her lap. “Don't you get my point? At all? That we always do things
your
way…on
your
terms?”

“Yes, I get that it might seem like that….But things change….Neither one of us thought you were going to take a leave from work and flee to New York and plan a divorce—”

“Can we please leave Nolan and my marriage out of this?”

“Fine,” I say, catching an older woman staring at us. I slide down a couple feet, so I'm directly across from Meredith, then lean forward, lowering my voice. “But I think it's all related.”

She shakes her head and says, “No, it's
not
all related.”

“Yes. It
is,
” I insist, my heart now racing. “It all goes back to Daniel. Don't you see that?…Nolan…your marriage…Sophie…” I nearly blurt out my confession right there on the subway, just to get it over with, and win the debate. Show her just how much it's all so
fucking
interrelated. But she is now glaring at me with such animosity that I back down, afraid. “My issues, too,” I simply say. “And I really want to sort those things out before I have a baby…before I become a mother.”

“Exactly!”
she says, raising her voice and pointing at me, just like the lawyer that she is. I stare back at her, wondering what point she thinks I've just made for her.

“What?” I say. “Is there something wrong with that?
God,
Mere. Why do you hate me so much?”

“I don't
hate
you,” she says, giving me a look like she does. “I'm just sick and tired of everything revolving around you.
Your
timing.
Your
plans. It's always about
you,
Josie.”

My cheeks on fire, I say, “That's so unfair….I came here to see you, Meredith—and to make sure you're okay. I was really hoping to work on our relationship—which is why I didn't want to spoil our good mood last night with anything serious.”

She starts to speak, but I hold my hand in the air, determined to make my last point. “And I also came here because I
need
to talk to you about Daniel.”

“Yeah. You keep saying that,” she says, shaking her head. “When's that conversation going to happen, anyway?”

“Tonight,” I say, knowing that things are about to get much,
much
worse between my sister and me.

W
HEN WE GET
back to Ellen's, I text Sophie, telling her that we would love to meet up with her tonight. She quickly writes back, suggesting we come to her place on the Upper West Side for a drink before dinner and she'll make a reservation somewhere casual.

In the hours that follow, Meredith and I both react to the stress of our plan in our typical ways: she changes into workout clothes and announces that she's going for a long run. I change into sweats, crawl back into bed, and fall into a deep sleep.

I awaken sometime later to my vibrating phone, feeling disoriented, and even more so when I see Pete's name. I suddenly remember where I am, as I answer with a groggy hello.

“Hi, you,” he says, his voice chipper. “Were you asleep?”

“No,” I fib, wondering why I always deny being asleep or drunk.

He asks me what's going on, and I tell him I'm in New York, visiting my sister. I haven't spoken to him in a few days, and have yet to tell him about my decision to use Gabe as my donor. I feel bad, having gone so far down this path with Pete, especially given his generosity throughout. I don't want to hurt his feelings or seem mercurial. But these factors just can't override the bigger picture. Contrary to what Meredith might think, I have no illusions about how serious this undertaking is, that we are talking about a child's life here. Anyway, Pete might even be relieved to be off the hook. Surely, he's had his share of doubts and second thoughts, too. But at the same time, I'm more than a little worried that it will extinguish any romantic possibility between us, and maybe even end our odd, fledgling friendship. And I have the sad, sinking feeling that I'm really going to miss him.

“Oh. Cool,” he says. “I didn't know you were going up there.”

“Yeah. It was kind of last minute….My sister and I really need to sort some things out….” I say, as it actually crosses my mind to tell him everything. As in,
everything
. Instead, I stick to the broad strokes about Sophie and our plan to see her this evening.

“It'll be the first time we've seen her since my brother's funeral,” I say.

Pete whistles. “Wow. That sounds intense.”

“Yeah. It's probably going to be pretty awkward….” My voice trails off.

“Is she married?”

I tell him I don't know, that her Facebook page is vague. She mostly posts articles or random, funny, Seinfeldesque observations. “It looks like she has a son,” I add. “There's one little boy on there a lot. But I guess it could be her nephew or a family friend…you know, like you and Fudge.”

“Right,” he says with a laugh. “Good ol' Fudge.”

“So anyway…what's going on with you?” I ask, mentally refuting Meredith's accusation that I'm self-absorbed.

“Not much,” Pete says. “I was just kinda missing you.”

I smile, pleasantly surprised by his answer. “Really?”

“Yeah,” Pete says. “I mean not a
lot
. But a
little
.”

“A little, huh?”

“Yeah. A smidge.”

“Well, I miss you a smidge, too,” I say, as I get an unexpected tingly feeling.

“Well, good,” he says. “So when're you coming home?”

“Tomorrow,” I say. “My flight lands around five, I think.”

“You need a lift home?” he asks. “I'd be happy to come get you.”

“Aw, thanks,” I say. “That's really sweet…but I drove.”

“Well, then…how about dinner? Monday night?”

“That'd be great. I actually wanted to talk to you about something….”

“Oh?” he says, his tone turning serious. “About?”

“Just…some things,” I say.

“You mean baby-daddy stuff? Or our kiss at Johnny's?”

I laugh, remembering the feel of his lips on mine. “Both, actually,” I say.

T
WO HOURS LATER,
Meredith and I are cabbing it to the Upper West Side. I feel queasy for the obvious reasons, but also a little intimidated by the idea of dining with an accomplished, sophisticated British doctor. I can tell Meredith is uneasy, too, as she keeps checking her makeup and fiddling with her hair.

“You look great,” I say, glancing at her sideways.

Looking sheepish for being caught primping, she snaps her compact closed and stows it back in her purse, murmuring a dismissive thanks.

“At least there're two of us. There's only one of her….I bet she's more nervous than we are,” I muse aloud.