Friendship Bread (10 page)

Livvy continues to burrow through the box, wading through key-chains, matchboxes, pressed pennies, old report cards. No negatives. There are a few more boxes in the closet and then they multiply as you look in the other rooms or go up in the attic. Livvy hits the side of the box in disgust—this is going to take forever.

Under a red handkerchief she spots something familiar. She pulls out a picture frame and turns it over, wiping the glass with the sleeve of her shirt.

The faded photograph shows Livvy and Julia, eight and thirteen respectively, sitting side by side in a bumper car. They’re grinning as they hold on to the steering wheel. It was 1979, the year Julia got to decide where they’d spend their family vacation. The choice was hers because she had not only officially become a teenager, but had ended the school year with a straight-A report card.

Livvy was used to the look of pride her parents would exchange when talking about Julia, a huge contrast to how they’d cast their eyes to the ceiling when talking about Livvy. Julia was their pride and joy while Livvy was their “handful.” She remembers Julia announcing her decision in their kitchen, the sudden realization that Livvy’s turn might never come, that she would never be as smart as Julia. They would never spend one week doing whatever Livvy wanted.

Julia chose Hershey Park in Pennsylvania. Their father had groaned about the drive, but finally agreed. Livvy felt a wave of panic once she realized what this meant
—her
dream place to go was Dutch Wonderland, not even an hour away from Hershey Park—her classmates said it was a million times more fun. But what were the chances her parents would take them back to Pennsylvania? Zero, that’s what.

The long car ride had been the worst—she got carsick and threw up twice. When they crossed the state line into Pennsylvania, Livvy saw a sign for Dutch Wonderland and felt the tears coming. She squeezed her eyes shut. One tear leaked out anyway and she quickly brushed it away with the back of her hand.
Don’t cry
, she told herself fiercely. So she didn’t.

That night at the EconoLodge, Julia suddenly announced, “If it’s not too late, I think I’d like to go to Dutch Wonderland instead.” Livvy held her breath as their father groaned and their mother gave in. Julia quickly shot Livvy a warning look and whispered, “I’m not doing this for you. I’m doing this for me.” She had looked her sister in the eye, serious, and Livvy had nodded, her lips obediently sealed tight, even though she knew better.

Because doing things for other people, for Livvy especially, is how Julia does things for herself. Despite their fights, their arguments, and their disagreements, Julia has Livvy’s back. Or used to. Every childhood memory includes Julia, which would make sense since Julia has been there since the beginning—Livvy’s beginning. It’s unfathomable to think of what her life would have been like without Julia. Julia was the one who took care of her, who thought of her, who included her. It was Julia who saved the day at Livvy’s wedding, when the photographer
failed to show up, her gown had ripped, and the flower girls were refusing to walk down the aisle. Julia could fix any problem, get total strangers to work together. Gazing at this picture sadly, Livvy feels the pang of a loss so deep she feels broken in two.

Anything
, she thinks desperately as she touches their faces in the picture.
I’ll do anything, Julia. Just ask me
.

The girls just stare back at her happily from that sunny day at Dutch Wonderland, unaware that a day will come when everything will end, when two sisters will cease to talk, unwilling to touch or see each other, unable to offer or accept a helping hand.

The
Avalon Gazette
is published on Tuesdays and Fridays. It’s a small paper with a circulation of 2,500, which means that the pay is essentially crap, but Edie isn’t in it for the money. Her boss, Patrick, wanted her to come on board as a full-time staff reporter, but Edie pushed to maintain her freelance status. She covers the community beat and pitches in as needed, which leaves her with enough flexibility to think about other writing projects.

What Edie is hoping for is an opportunity to string for some of the larger regional papers like the
Chicago Tribune
or the
Chicago Sun-Times
, writing special features from the small-town front. She’s overqualified for this tiny paper, but it’s the best she can do under the circumstances. Richard pointed out that Patrick might step down from his editorial responsibilities at some point, in which case Edie would be in a position to become editor.

But Edie has since realized that Patrick is the kind of guy—and this is the kind of town—that likes to be a part of everyone’s business. He’s not going anywhere anytime soon, and that’s fine by Edie. It’s one reason she chose journalism—she loves writing and interviewing people, hearing about their lives, about what works and what doesn’t. She doesn’t want to be a glad-hander like Patrick, someone who’s at ease with the politics of business, something Edie is terrible at. She prefers to be in the background, quietly going about her work, minding
her own business. Having coffee and doughnuts with the Avalon Chamber of Commerce or local Elks Club isn’t really up her alley.

When the opportunity came up for Richard to take over as the town’s GP, it seemed like the right thing to do. Having grown up in Springfield, gone to school in Chicago, and then traveled the world, Edie was curious to see what living in a small town would be like. When she and Richard traveled in Africa and Asia after their Peace Corps tour, they lived for weeks in small villages here and there, villages with a fraction of the population of Avalon. They fixed huts, carried water, helped with meals, offered rudimentary health care when asked. They spent hours listening to stories from the village elders or playing games with children who needed nothing more than rocks, sticks, and their imagination. A leaf was a bird, a pile of dirt a mountain. There was always something to do and they were always on the go. Edie could always find something to be intrigued by, which is why she finds herself a bit at a loss in Avalon. She hadn’t expected it to be so, well,
quiet
.

But now, as she peruses the past bound editions of the
Gazette
, she feels that familiar stirring of excitement, the small rush you get when you’ve had too much caffeine or stumbled onto something you know you shouldn’t have. Then again, it’s not as if this is a secret. Here it is in black-and-white. The papers for the last week of May in 2003.

There’s not a lot—the paper has always been a modest sixteen-page spread with a page for classified ads, and the story is only a few paragraphs. But it’s enough. As Edie reads the story, she knows now that Livvy is harboring a painful memory, a guilty secret she’s chosen not to share with Edie.

And Edie can’t say she blames her.

Mornings used to be Julia’s favorite time of day. She’s an early bird by nature, up with the sun, ready to tackle whatever’s ahead. The rest of the house was slower to move—it took a little more work to rouse them, one too many snooze buttons, feeble protests from beneath the blankets. They’d brush their teeth in a half daze, possibly still dreaming, not quite awake and back in the world as they knew it.

But now it’s Julia who stays buried under the covers, feigning sleep until Mark and Gracie have left the house. She’ll lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, not wanting to think about laundry or lunch, the inevitable drive in the afternoon to pick up Gracie from school. It seems so futile, so unimportant, these demands of the day. Is this really what they were put on the earth to do? To wipe down counters and sweep away stray crumbs?

She thinks back to conversations with her mother, who used to keep a constant vigil over Julia in the early days following Josh’s death. Her mother read every book on grief, compiled lists, talked
about stages, explained how the grief response for the sudden death of a child is vastly different from other sorts of loss. As if Julia hadn’t figured that out.

But—and there was always a but—she insisted that Julia would eventually find life worth living again. It wouldn’t be easy, her mother warned, but it would happen. Julia would be able to create a new reality, a new life. Not just for Gracie, but for Josh. In his spirit, his memory. When she heard this, Julia turned on her heel and went into her room, refusing to talk to her mother or anyone else for the rest of the day.

The sympathy cards had poured in, one after another, terrible Hallmark sentiments that missed the mark and sometimes made it worse. In one of them someone had written “You’re halfway there,” as if to console her. Her son had just died but she was halfway there, as if she were running a marathon. But that was five years ago and the finish line isn’t anywhere in sight.

Julia rolls over to stare at Mark’s side of the bed, the side he doesn’t sleep on anymore. She’s alone in this boat of a bed, a California king they splurged on after they bought the house. It had been almost as painstaking a decision as the house purchase itself—should we get it, should we not, should we wait, and so on—but in the end they decided to go for it even if it meant working extra hours to cover the additional expense. When they realized later they would need new sheets and blankets, too, they just laughed and agreed to buckle down and work a little harder. So they did.

Julia knows she has choices. Working again would help their income, though Mark’s business is starting to pick up and they still have some savings left. Julia used to love work, but she can’t see herself back at Bertram Berry, the small paint company in Freeport where she was an HR manager. She doesn’t want to have to dodge the tentative smiles, have to answer the never-ending, probing question masked with three simple yet ever intrusive words: “How
are
you?”

How is she? Let’s see. She has a child and yet she’s childless. She is married to a man who was her first and only love, someone who has
morphed into a stranger who passes her in the hallway of the home they share. Her parents have taken refuge and retirement in sunny Florida, where exuberant postcards arrive that have nothing to do with what they’ve left behind.
Canasta! Poetry readings! Visits to Butterfly World—Gracie would love it! Call! Visit! We miss you! How
are
you?

How is she. No longer a question, but a statement. Because there really is no point in asking—how would anybody be if they lost their son?

Julia wasn’t there when it happened. There’s Livvy’s account, and the coroner’s, but in her mind, this is what Julia sees.

It is May 26. Five years ago. Livvy is picking up ten-year-old Josh after school. He was supposed to have an hour and a half of baseball practice but the parent-coach called in sick. Julia and Mark are due at the doctor’s office for a five-month ultrasound so she calls on her younger sister to help as she has so many times before.

Livvy has a meeting so they agree she’ll drop Josh at the house to finish his homework. A teenage babysitter will meet them there, taking over for Livvy so she can get back to work.

Aunt and nephew are chatting amicably in the car as they pull up to Julia’s—no, Livvy’s—house. Livvy has forgotten to return a black skirt she borrowed from Julia, and has stopped by her place to get it before taking Josh home.

Livvy parks the car in the driveway, cuts the engine, then sprints across the lawn to the front door of her unnecessarily large 4,500-square-foot house. She notices that the dog bowl has dirt floating in it, leaves maybe, and asks Josh to please give the dog some fresh water. They’ll be back on the road in less than ten minutes, but Livvy automatically presses the button on her car remote before heading into the house. There’s a beep and flash of headlights as the doors lock.

Julia can picture her son strolling over to the water bowl on the porch and dumping the old water in the bushes nearby. He heads for
the garden hose on the side of the house. There’s no warning when an angry yellow jacket wasp stings him on his fingertip.

Josh must have known something was wrong. He probably called to his aunt, but Livvy was rummaging through her bedroom closet on the second floor, searching for a skirt she should have returned months ago. She can’t hear him. Josh stumbles a few feet, then collapses. A man driving by sees this odd behavior and pulls over to help, but it’s too late.

Livvy emerges from the house triumphant, clutching the skirt like a trophy. It takes her a moment to digest the scene in front of her. Josh is lying there with a man standing over him, his car stopped in the middle of the street, the driver’s side door still open. At first Livvy thinks Josh has been hit by the car.

A neighbor dials 911—it takes the EMTs five minutes to get there. They’re performing CPR and questioning Livvy when it hits her.

“He’s allergic to bees,” she says, turning to look at the locked Honda Pilot in the driveway. Josh’s knapsack is in the backseat, his EpiPen inside.

The EMTs immediately give him a shot of epinephrine, then take him to the emergency room where doctors administer thirty more minutes of treatment.