First Comes Love (36 page)

I
stay on Ellen's sofa for a long time, nursing then refilling my whiskey, reeling, as I formulate a further plea for forgiveness. I know there is nothing that I can say or do that will change her mind about what I've done—and what I've left undone—for so long. She will only think me more selfish. It crosses my mind that maybe she is right, that this whole trip has been completely self-serving. But then I feel a flash of anger, realizing that there is so often a catch-22 with Meredith; damned if I do, damned if I don't.

I consider calling Nolan, if only to warn him, but worry that might make things worse—that we'll look even more conspiratorial. In fact, I have the feeling Meredith is more upset by the fact that we kept this secret than by what actually happened on that night. I try to imagine how I would feel if I suddenly learned that she and Gabe had been keeping a big secret from me. I can't deny how much it would hurt—and Gabe and I aren't even married.

Then again, what if they were only trying to protect me? Would I give them a pass if that were the case? I tell myself I absolutely would, and nearly awaken Meredith to make this point. After all, wasn't she the one who suggested we not share details of our Sophie dinner with Mom? And wasn't that because she believes the information would only upset her? Isn't that what you do when you love someone? I start to work up some righteous indignation, but can't fully sell myself on the idea. Deep down, I know there's a difference between withholding information about our time with Sophie tonight and lying, even by omission, about the night Daniel died. There is simply no denying that I'm in the wrong.

At some point I doze off. When I awaken, it's still dark outside, just after four o'clock. I decide I have to leave—that I can't face my sister in the morning. So I slip into Ellen's darkened bedroom, where Meredith is softly snoring, and I gather my things, shoving them haphazardly into my suitcase. As I turn to go, I remember the gift I brought for Meredith. Using the flashlight on my phone, I rifle through my bag and find the brand-new, bright-eyed Rabby replacement, its fur still pristine and fluffy. I put it next to her pillow, then whisper goodbye to my sister, somehow understanding that this fight is different from all the others we've had. Although I hope I'm wrong, this one feels final.

A few minutes later, I am in the back of a cab on the way to La Guardia. There is no traffic, and we get there in record time. I pay my fare, then walk into the empty airport. A friendly lady at the Delta check-in counter reassures me that there are plenty of open seats on the 6:00
A.M
. flight to Atlanta, and she feels sure I'll get one on standby. “Good luck, dear,” she says, giving me a look of pity, probably assuming that anyone who shows up at the airport hours before their scheduled flight is leaving under less than stellar circumstances.

After I make it through security, I head for the restroom, where I brush my teeth and wash my face. Calculating that I have over an hour until they start boarding that first flight to Atlanta, I head to the gate and curl up in a corner. My last thought as I pass out from exhaustion is how disgusting Meredith would think it to sit, let alone sleep, on the airport floor.

I wake up with a whiskey headache, burning eyes, and a stiff neck, but feel a rush of relief when my name is called for the very last standby seat. I take it as an omen, a sign that things can only get better from here.

T
hey say you should never go to bed mad, but when it came to my fights with Josie, Mom always enforced the opposite. She'd send us to our respective rooms, insisting that we “get some sleep” because “things always look better in the morning.” It was actually pretty sound advice, as we usually woke up and simply pretended that nothing had happened (before finding something new to argue about, of course). Occasionally, we'd even laugh it all off, aligning ourselves against Mom and painting her as an overreactor.

But around four-thirty in the morning, when I awaken and find that sad stuffed rabbit perched on my pillow, I do not feel even a tiny bit better. Instead, I feel considerably worse—just as angry and hurt, but also racked with guilt and worry, certain that my sister will be gone. Sure enough, I get up and look around the apartment, finding no trace of her other than her shampoo on the edge of the bathtub and one of her retro striped tube socks peeking out from under the bed. I search the place one more time, hoping to find a note, if only to get the last word, but there is nothing. I pick up the rabbit and begin to panic, wondering where she could have gone in the middle of the night, whether she could be lying in a ditch somewhere. And although I can't imagine Josie ever harming herself, Lewis's sister does flit through my mind.

So, despite my resolution never to speak to her again, I call her cell. It goes straight to voicemail. I hang up without leaving a message, then get back in bed, still clutching the rabbit. I fall asleep for another couple of hours, then wake up, sweaty and weepy, piecing together a dream about Daniel—the first I've had in a long time, at least the first I can recall. The two of us were waiting on a subway platform together, talking and laughing, and then suddenly he vanished.
Poof.
Gone. For days, Josie, Mom, Dad, and I hung placards, plastering his face all over the city, like the ones posted after September 11. But Daniel never turned up. Of course, it doesn't take an expert to decipher the nightmare, and I can clearly see that it stems from some combination of Josie leaving and Daniel dying, along with the grim thought of Lewis's sister plunging to her death on the subway tracks. I know it was just a dream, but I still start to worry that it is closer to a premonition than a nightmare—and ask myself what I would do if I never saw Josie again. Would I tell my mother about our fight, or would I keep it a secret, history repeating itself?

I get up, pacing frantically all over the apartment, searching for clues that don't exist, before calling Josie a second time. Straight to voicemail again. I then call Delta, thinking and hoping that she simply got on an earlier flight—but they refuse to give out her information. I hang up and call them back, this time pretending to
be
Josie. I get flustered, then busted, then reprimanded about confidentiality. I really start to lose it, then decide to call Gabe—what feels like a last resort.

“Hi,” I say, bracing myself when he answers.

“Is everything okay?” he asks, either clueless or in cahoots, both scenarios equally plausible.

I answer the question with a question, asking if he's heard from Josie, determined not to be outwitted by someone I've always viewed as a worthy adversary.

“No,” he says. “I thought she was with you this weekend?”

“She was,” I say, my hands turning clammy. “We had a fight last night. She left….I thought maybe she got on an earlier flight….”

“Not that I know of,” he says, his voice completely flat. “I haven't heard from her.”

“Okay,” I say. “Will you let me know if—
when
you do?”

He hesitates, and it only takes three seconds for me to be pissed. “So I guess that's a no,” I snap. “Never mind.”

“Jesus, Mere. Chill
out,
” he says.

“Chill out?” I yell into the phone. “She disappeared in the middle of the night, Gabe.”

“She's a big girl.”

“Yeah. Well, she told me about her big secret,” I say, feeling sure Gabe knows everything.

Silence.

“About the night Daniel died?” I press.

“Okay,” he says.

“O-
kay
? That's it? That's all you have to say about my sister's role in my brother's death?”

“I think that's a bullshit characterization, Meredith.”

“You think it was okay to keep that secret from me?”

“No,” he says. “And I'm glad she finally told you.”

“Fifteen years late, don't you think?”

“I don't think it's
ever
too late, actually,” Gabe says, sounding all sanctimonious and superior and infuriatingly calm. “But that's just me.”

“Easy for you to say,” I scoff. “Maybe you'd feel differently if it were
your
brother who was killed. And
your
sister had kept a secret from you about the night he died.”

“Maybe I would,” he says.

For one second, I'm nearly appeased, until he snidely adds, “Then again, Josie didn't keep the secret from
me,
now did she?”

“What is
that
supposed to mean?” I shout into the phone.

“It means exactly what I
said,
Meredith….She told me everything, years ago. She confided in
me
.
Not
you. And I think there's a pretty good reason for that.”

My mind races for a retort as he continues, “So maybe you should take a closer look at
yourself
and stop blaming Josie for everything.”

“You're a real asshole,” I say, my face on fire. “You know that?”

“Yeah,” he says. “But I'm the asshole who's always been there for Josie. Which is more than I can say for you.”

I hang up on him and throw the phone down, my hands shaking as I collapse onto the sofa and burst into tears. I cry as long and hard as I did when Daniel died, although the grief is obviously a different strain, more layered and complex. At some point, there are no more tears, but I stay put on the sofa, contemplating my life, how I got here. I think of Daniel's accident, of course. And my marriage to Nolan. And those years in between. I think of acting and law school and parental expectations and the home that has always been my home. I think of Josie, how fucked up our relationship is, and consider that maybe Gabe is right. Maybe it
is
my fault. Maybe I resent her because of my own choices. I think of Josie's theory that it's all interrelated, that it all goes back to that night in December, all of our decisions and dreams and mistakes from the past inextricably linked. I consider calling Nolan, then my mother, then Ellen, then Amy, even my father. But I really don't want to talk to any of them, for different reasons, and it strikes me that I've never been so alone.

And it is in this despondent, desperate moment that I think of the one person in the world whom I love without condition. The one part of this tragic story that is beautiful and perfect and untouched by regret or what-ifs.

“I am Harper's mother,”
I say aloud, feeling an incredible sense of peace wash over me. Then I stand and start to pack my things, finally ready to go home.