Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter
Twenty-Nine
Dylan was still fast asleep, arms splayed above her head like a little kid, when Ramona heard Olive come home.
It was morning, light streaming through the blinds, and Ramona had been awake for a good half hour, her brain too busy to sleep any more. As carefully as she could, she worked her way out of the covers, then scooted to the end of the bed so as not to wake Dylan. She grabbed her robe from the back of her door, tied the terry cloth sash around her waist, then sneaked down the hall to Olive’s room.
She knocked.
Waited.
Knocked again.
“Fine,” Olive said.
While not the warm greeting she was hoping for, Ramona took what she could get, cracking open the door to find her sister sitting on her bed, scrolling through her phone.
“Hi,” Ramona said.
“Hi,” Olive said, deadpan.
“Did you have fun?”
“Sure.”
Ramona sighed, stepped farther in, and closed the door. “Ollie.”
“Look, it’s fine,” Olive said. “I don’t tell you everything either.”
Ramona wasn’t sure how to process that. She’d always assumed Olive did in fact tell her everything, because that’s the way she and Olive had always been. They were Lorelai and Rory from Gilmore Girls , complicated parental issues and all, granted without the teen pregnancy and Lorelai’s constant horrible decisions.
Ramona had spent the last twelve years trying to be the best big sister, best mother, and best friend Olive could possibly want, but she knew she’d failed. Because she couldn’t be all of that to one person, all the time. Sometimes, she’d had to get angry with Olive. She’d had to back up their dad when he grounded her. She’d had to fuss at her about homework, pick up her gross softball socks from the living room floor, and she’d had to show Olive how to use a condom, just in case. But Ramona didn’t know if Olive had ever actually used a condom. Olive had never told her either way, but that didn’t mean no, because Ramona was the mom.
The mom figure , at least.
Something in her heart ached, a sort of mourning for the sisterhood they’d missed out on. The friendship. All the things that had to recede while Ramona tried to be everything to Olive.
Ramona walked over to the bed. “Can I sit?”
“I guess.”
Olive was in jeans and a tee, her knees pulled tight to her chest. She clicked her phone dark and stuffed it under her butt.
Ramona settled next to Olive, her back against the headboard. “I didn’t tell you about meeting Dylan when I was younger because…” She trailed off. Sighed. “Because it was mine.”
Olive frowned at her. “What do you mean?”
Ramona rubbed her forehead. She wanted to be honest, but she didn’t want to hurt Olive either.
“When Mom left,” Ramona started, “my whole life changed.”
Olive looked down. “I know.”
“I know you know. But I never want you to feel the weight of that, Ollie. It wasn’t your fault, it wasn’t mine. It was hers . And I wouldn’t give up our life together—mine and yours—for anything. Okay?”
Olive nodded, her lower lip trembling a little.
“But that night I met Dylan,” Ramona went on, “Mom had just left. Dad was wrecked, you were a baby. And I couldn’t fix any of it.”
“You were just a kid.”
“Who had to grow up really fast,” Ramona said. “And that memory about Dylan was like this little pocket of time where I was just a girl.”
“Standing in front of the daughter of really famous rock icons?”
Ramona laughed, slung her arm around Olive’s shoulder. “Yes. Exactly. Though I didn’t know it was her at the time.”
“Really?”
Ramona shook her head. “I’m not sure I would’ve even recognized her name then, though I did know her dad’s band. But we didn’t share names.”
Olive’s eyes popped. “You didn’t?”
“Nope. Fake names.”
“Okay, I have to know this story now. Will you tell me? Please?”
Ramona smiled, leaned her head against her sister’s, and told her the tale of two lonely girls on a moonlit beach in July.
“That’s a pretty great story,” Olive said when Ramona was done.
“I think it might be,” Ramona said.
“And…she’s in your room right now, right?”
Ramona stiffened, but then sighed. Not like she could deny it. “Maybe.”
“Definitely.”
Ramona laughed.
“Dad would be scandalized,” Olive said. “Sex under his roof!”
“Who said anything about sex?”
“Please. I’m eighteen.”
“No,” Ramona said. “You’re eight. You’re eight and you want a She-Ra party for your next birthday.”
“Hey, I might actually want a She-Ra party for my next birthday.”
“Mermista,” Ramona said, knowing she was Olive’s favorite from the show.
Olive laughed. “God, she’s so hot and mean.”
Ramona laughed too, wondering not for the first time just how straight her sister was…or just how queer. But Olive would figure that out in her own time. She’d realize sooner or later that Marley was totally in love with her, if she didn’t know already, and she’d have to decide for herself what to do about it.
She’d have to decide everything for herself come August.
“Hey, can I ask you a question?” Olive asked.
“Always.”
Olive waited a few seconds before speaking again, fiddling with the end of Ramona’s robe sash.
“Do you…ever…”
She trailed off, and Ramona felt herself tense, knowing exactly the direction this question was going before it went there, like a scent on the wind.
“Do you ever think about Mom?” Olive finally asked.
Ramona exhaled as quietly as she could.
“Of course I do,” she said just as quietly. A whisper.
“And?” Olive asked, sitting up a little to look at her sister.
“And what?”
“And…don’t you wonder? Where she is? How she’s doing?”
Ramona sat up too, pulled her robe tight around her throat. “No.”
“No?” Olive asked.
“No,” Ramona said, her tone even firmer. “I wonder about her, sure, but not specifics. She doesn’t deserve that, Olive. She hasn’t earned it.”
Olive flinched, her mouth opening, but closing again without a sound.
“It’s normal to wonder,” Ramona said, trying to soften her tone this time, but it was hard. Her mother brought up so many feelings, reactions, instincts. It was nearly impossible to control, this tightness in her chest, this anger and sadness and resentment and, somewhere under there, gratitude.
That she left.
Because if her mother hadn’t wanted them, Ramona was glad she hadn’t stuck around to remind them every single day. And at the same time, she felt hot with rage that her mother had left, that she hadn’t considered anyone worth more than her own comfort, hadn’t tried to make things better, gone to therapy, couples counseling, family therapy. Hell, anything.
Anything but leaving, thereby indelibly marking her daughters as unwanted.
Forgettable.
At the mention of Rebecca Riley, Ramona was always a riot of emotion, her pulse in her throat, her ears, her temples, tears right at the surface. But she had to hold it together. Had to be strong for her sister, who was eighteen and young and vulnerable.
“But it’s useless to wonder too long,” Ramona said. “Too hard.”
“Why?” Olive asked. She’d taken her phone out from under her legs, flipped it around in her hand. “She’s our mother.”
“Who left.”
“It doesn’t change who she is.”
“Yes, it does.” Ramona’s voice was loud. Louder than she meant it to be, but she needed to put this to rest.
An unbearable sadness fell over her. An emptiness.
“Yes, it does,” she said again, quieter this time. “She left. She gave up. She gave us up. I’m here, Olive. I’m the one who…”
But she stopped herself, not sure how to even finish that sentence. She didn’t want credit. She didn’t want praise or acknowledgment. She didn’t even want a fucking thank-you for all she’d given up.
She just wanted to protect Olive.
And she wanted to protect herself.
She felt on edge now, her chest tight, her throat aching. “I need to go check on Dylan.”
Olive just nodded, her eyes glazed, focused on nothing in front of her.
Ramona stood up and kissed her sister’s forehead, then left the room before she lost it completely. But when she got to her room and crawled back into bed next to a sleeping Dylan, who roused when Ramona burrowed under her arms, she pressed her face against Dylan’s neck and let everything go.
Because she could here.
She was safe.
“Baby,” Dylan said, her voice muzzy with sleep. But she didn’t say anything else. Didn’t ask what was wrong. Didn’t pry. She just held Ramona and kissed the top of her head, whispering, “It’ll be okay,” as Ramona cried.
And goddammit, Ramona believed her.