Chapter 9 Dinah
Dinah
I chew on a second cookie as I climb the stairs to my mom’s second floor, ignoring the neat waterfall of framed photos that cover the stairwell wall.
As I climb higher, they transition from sepia photos of Mom and Dad’s wedding and our early years to more recent ones: Our graduations, marriages.
Baby photos of little Eric, Joleen Martha, Kaydence, Olivia, Maria, and Robert.
A burst of laughter comes from below, followed by a sharp remark from Sal, who was likely the brunt of the joke. I swallow the bite and pull my phone out of my pocket, rereading Freddie’s text.
It’s Freddie. Got a copy of the autopsy results. Can we talk?
What was there to talk about? I’d been at the autopsy, and it was clean and uneventful. No sign of trauma, nothing to point to anything other than an overdose.
I close Freddie’s text and call Joe, pinning the phone against my ear as I pass Mom’s bedroom, the tiny hall bath, and Sal and Steven’s old room. The door at the end of the hall is closed, and I quicken my pace, wanting privacy before my husband answers.
I turn the brass knob and slip inside the dark bedroom, quietly closing the door as Joe’s voicemail comes on.
I wait for his automation to end, then speak.
“Hey. I’m at my mom’s. Are you on the way?
Call me back.” I sound both irritated and needy, which is a mistake.
I’m not needy, and I know he’s busy. It’s my family that’s the problem.
The looks they give me when he is late. The repeated questions about where he is and when he will arrive.
Should we wait for Joe to eat? How often does he work late?
It’s a Saturday; why is he meeting with clients?
They don’t understand, and I refuse to discuss it with them. Joe’s work is often the difference between a client’s survival and death. The right psychiatrist can be a lifeline that turns their future in a new direction, assuming they are willing to listen.
Sometimes they aren’t, especially the patients who are committed against their will.
Those are the patients who scare me and attract him. Maybe they scare me because they attract him. I want him to love his job; I just don’t want him to love it more than me.
I sit on my bed and stare at Marci’s side.
Our room is a time capsule of the 2000s.
A poster of Freddie Prinze Jr. is tacked to the wall, surrounded by Polaroids of her and her friends.
They had invaded this room, sprawling over the space with no regard to Marci’s dorky big sister.
I’d put on my headphones and pretend not to hear the snide comments they’d make about me as they watched episodes of The Real World and painted their nails.
When they weren’t around, she was the perfect little sister. Just eighteen months my junior and a patient recipient of the advice and secrets I had to share. It’s embarrassing, looking back, how I craved her attention, even if it only came when none of the cool girls were watching.
I had loved having a little sister. I still remember how big her eyes got when I told her about my first kiss.
She was the one—the only one—I told about my first crush, and how he had given me his letterman jacket after the game and let me keep it for the weekend.
We had giggled over it together, each of us trying it on, and sniffed the dirty lining and convinced ourselves it smelled heavenly.
She was the only one I told about the night after Dad’s promotion, when he got too drunk at the bar around the corner, and Mom got pissed and made him sleep on the couch, and I babysat the Kellen kids and didn’t get back until almost midnight.
Maybe I shouldn’t have told her about that. Maybe she was too young. If I could rewind the clock, I wouldn’t have said a thing. I wouldn’t have given her that secret. Because now she has it, forever, and I have nothing to even out the scale. Nothing but hatred over what she did while I was gone.
We were supposed to be sisters. Supposed to fight for each other.
Supposed to be loyal to each other. That’s what families do—at least, that’s what I had always been told they do.
Then again, my mother didn’t fight for or protect me, so maybe the concept of family is bullshit and Joe is lucky he’s an only child.
In comparison to Marci’s colorful side of the room, mine is stark and boring.
It always has been, even before I was sent away.
Other than my bed, with its plain navy spread and gray-striped pillows, there’s just my desk, a shelf of books, and a tower of dusty CDs.
On the wall are my plaques from our school’s awards nights.
Valedictorian. Honors. Science Fair Finalist. Scholarship Recipient.
At one point, I was on track for UCLA or Stanford. But when I missed the summer before my senior year and the following fall semester, my GPA tanked, along with my college prospects. I lost my class rank, my spot in social standing, and my ability to wear a bikini without wincing in shame.
Marci’s friends termed it a mental breakdown; that’s what they whispered and laughed over, and she let them do it. She let them think whatever they wanted, because she was too busy with her new boyfriend to care. And maybe she wouldn’t have cared anyway.
When I was finally allowed to come back, I had a suitcase full of dirty clothes and big plans to put everything behind me and jump back into my old life. She killed that possibility as soon as I walked into our room.
I dropped my purse on the floor and spotted her homecoming dance photo, framed and on the dresser in plain sight, like it wasn’t a knife to my heart. His letterman jacket hung over the back of her desk chair.
I’d been gone six months, and she had swooped in on my first love and sucked him into her orbit. Goodbye, nerdy and innocent Dinah. Hello, popular and beautiful Marci.
Looking back, I never had a chance.
My phone buzzes with another text.
Where are you? Call me to discuss the autopsy.
I sigh and call Freddie, wondering how he got a copy of the report.