Chapter IV. 1953 #2
“My sister says I’m like a raven. Distracted by shiny things. But I can’t help it. Who wouldn’t want to surround themselves with beauty if they could?” Sharon’s eyes seemed to go darker—the color of a deep ocean—and Mary forced herself to look away.
“Your sister?”
“Older sister. She’s married. Two beautiful babies who I could just eat, they’re so delicious.
Big house in the country. The golden daughter who did everything right and is my parents’ pride and joy.
Not like their heathen daughter living alone in Atlanta.
” Her tone deepened. “They conveniently forget to mention me whenever company comes.” She lifted her glass to her lips and drained it.
“I’m sorry,” Mary said, even as her face burned from humiliation instead of the alcohol.
In describing her sister who never strayed from the straight-and-narrow expectations set for her, Sharon had inadvertently described Mary as well.
Maybe she’d deluded herself. Maybe Sharon didn’t see something special in her at all, but instead, a substitute for the sister who served as a guide for everything they were supposed to be. Mothers. Wives. Homemakers.
Sharon shook her head, her face lightening.
The shining girl once more. “Don’t be sorry.
I wouldn’t trade places with her for all the money in the world.
I quite like where I am. Especially right now.
” Sharon reached across what little space remained between them and stroked the back of Mary’s hand.
“You should only be lit in candlelight. You look like a goddess.” She reached up and tucked a wayward strand behind Mary’s ear, her touch lingering and then dipping to trace along her jaw, her neck, her bottom lip.
Mary’s head swam, her heart a living, frantic thing.
Untamable and wild. She was a married woman.
A good woman. A good mother. She repeated these things, but none of it mattered.
None of it had ever mattered. For so long, she’d hidden herself because there was always someone watching.
For once, no one was looking. She let herself lean in.
Let herself take one more breath before she pressed her mouth to Sharon’s, her hair falling over them like a veil.
Sharon’s mouth tasted of honey. Of rosemary.
Of a lovely thing Mary had not known she was thirsty for.
And oh, God, she wanted to drown in it. To let herself die and be reborn in the way baptism had never allowed.
She knew then what she was. What she’d denied for so long because of what it meant.
Of how she would suffer for the truth of it.
She thought of Robert. Of the baby. Of her mother’s tight, disapproving face. Of judgment and punishment and damnation.
With a gasp, she pulled herself away, the tears already hot on her cheeks.
“I can’t. It’s not…” Mary began, the words she wanted to say tangling impossibly inside her.
“Oh, Mary. I’m so sorry. I thought that we—”
“It’s not that. Not at all. It’s Robert. And the baby. And it’s all so confusing, and you’re so … so wonderful, but I can’t. Please understand.”
Sharon bit her lip and turned away, but Mary could see the tears glittering at the corners of her eyes. It broke her heart.
“I hoped I wasn’t fooling myself. That it wasn’t my imagination telling me we were … more.”
“It’s not,” Mary whispered. “But I have a duty. To my husband. To my daughter. My church.”
“And what about to yourself?”
Mary shook her head. Weighed out, was her soul worth such denial? How long could she bury herself before an unwilling resurrection?
“It’s a sin.” Even as she repeated the words she learned as a girl, she hated herself for them.
Sharon’s gaze sharpened. No longer saddened, but angry. Defiant. “Not to me it isn’t.”
“I can’t. I’m sorry.” Mary’s breath caught in her chest, and her voice broke as she said it again and again. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.
Sharon reached out once more and caught up Mary’s hand. Squeezed it and then brought it to her lips. A lovely, burning reminder of what Mary would lose. Sharon’s eyes had softened, but the anger was still there, glittering behind the regret.
“Want me to put a spell on them that will make them forget who you are?” She grinned, and it cut like a knife even as Mary burst into teary laughter.
“Can we still be friends?” Mary asked.
“You want to be friends with a broken-hearted sad sack like me?”
Mary could hear how forced her attempt at humor was. How her voice strained to find a lightness she didn’t feel. Hearing it hurt even more.
“Two peas in a pod.”
“I’ll try not to kiss you again. Cross my heart.” Sharon drew an x over her left breast, and Mary laughed again and dabbed at her face with a napkin.
“I’m a mess.”
“No. You’re not.” Sharon’s whisper shattered what remained of her heart. Mary bit down on her lip to keep from crying again.
They finished their drinks, and Mary knew ordering another would be dangerous. To stay any longer in this twilight world would be inviting temptation that would not be so easily shaken.
They left together, the space between them carrying the weight of everything Mary could not say, and when they stepped out into the early evening, she wished there were so many things she had done differently.
If only she’d been born somewhere else, to someone else.
In a different time period or place. Her life had amounted to a series of limitations specifically meant to keep her from existing as her truest self.
She could have screamed at the lack of fairness of it all.
“I—” Mary began, but Sharon drew her into a hug.
“Don’t. I’ll see you soon. I promise,” she said, and brushed her lips across the thin space between Mary’s mouth and cheek.
Before Mary could respond, Sharon turned and then was gone.
Mary’s eyes burned once more, and she held her fingers beneath them, counting her breaths until the threat of tears faded. She shook out her hair and pulled her compact from her purse. It wouldn’t do to walk back to her car looking as if she’d been to a funeral.
Thankfully her eyes had not swollen, but her lipstick was smudged in the corners, and she quickly wiped it away before snapping the compact closed with a sigh. If she hurried, she could make it home before the baby’s bedtime.
Across the street, a door opened to reveal the waiting room of a doctor’s office, and a woman stepped out, a small paper bag clutched at her side. She paused, her eyes adjusting to the dimmed light, and then her gaze settled on Mary with a shock of recognition.
Mary lifted her hand in a wave. “Vera!” she called, and then waved again.
She could certainly use a friend right now.
There was no need to tell Vera about Sharon, certainly not about what happened between them, but it would be nice to have a distraction.
If Vera asked, she would offer the same excuse she gave her mother-in-law—she stayed after hours to work on a project.
Vera did not acknowledge her even though Mary was certain she saw her. Strange to have such a late doctor’s appointment—she didn’t know of any private doctor who took patients in the evening—but Mary supposed it was a special after-hours visit. Perhaps Vera’s husband, Gerry, arranged for it.
“Do you need a ride back?” Mary asked, stepping out into the street to cross. Vera paused, her eyes still locked on Mary, and then, the paper bag still tucked to her side, hurried away from her best friend.
The truth of it all fell over Mary, and she almost collapsed.
She’d seen. Somehow, Vera had seen.