15. Ellie #2
On the dresser stood a photograph of Molly and me in matching bridesmaid dresses.
I was eighteen.
She was fifteen.
Molly was pulling a face.
I was pretending not to know her.
The photographer had documented our relationship more accurately than intended.
Dad had left my suitcase at the foot of the bed with the handle extended.
Practical affection.
I unpacked enough to suggest commitment.
Jeans in the drawer.
Toiletries in the bathroom.
Annie’s T-shirt remained at the bottom.
I closed the suitcase.
Opened it again.
The shirt was still soft, expensive, and entirely too emotionally active for an item of clothing.
I put it over the desk chair.
That looked like an exhibit.
I moved it onto the dresser.
It landed beside Molly’s photograph.
No.
I put it on.
The hem reached the tops of my thighs.
In the mirror, I looked like someone who had lost control of both her wardrobe and the narrative.
A knock sounded.
Mom entered before I answered.
Her eyes went directly to the shirt.
“Is that hers?”
“It could belong to anyone.”
“You buy T-shirts in packs of three.”
“I value consistency.”
She sat on the edge of the bed and patted the space beside her.
“I’ve been sitting all day.”
“You inherited stubbornness from your father.”
“I assumed he inherited it from me.”
“You developed it independently.”
I sat.
For a while, we looked at Molly’s photograph.
“She hated that dress,” Mom said.
“We both did.”
“She said the sleeves made her look like a decorative lamp.”
“She was right.”
“She hid crackers in her bouquet.”
“I wondered where those came from.”
Mom smiled.
“She was always hungry.”
“She thought breakfast counted as a personality.”
“She got that from your father.”
From downstairs, Dad called, “I heard that.”
“You were supposed to,” Mom shouted.
The house settled again.
I looked at the photograph.
“I should have come home more.”
“Yes.”
I turned toward her.
“You could pretend to consider my feelings.”
“I am considering them. You should still have come home.”
Fair.
“I thought being here would make everything worse.”
“Did it?”
“At first.”
“And now?”
The room was full of Molly.
Her face.
Her scarf downstairs.
The old stories waiting in every drawer.
“It still hurts.”
“That wasn’t what I asked.”
My family had formed an alliance against evasive answers.
“No,” I said. “Being here doesn’t make it worse.”
Mom nodded.
“We miss her whether you visit or not.”
“I know.”
“We miss you too.”
“I call.”
“You call while driving to work or cleaning equipment. You visit for two nights and never unpack.”
“I unpacked jeans.”
“A significant breakthrough.”
She picked at a loose thread on the bedspread.
“We worried when you moved to Florida.”
“I know.”
“We worried less when you sounded happy.”
“I am happy.”
“I believe you.”
There was no accusation in her voice.
That made me listen.
“You built a good life,” she said. “You found people who love you. You found work that matters. You stopped living as if every email was a fire.”
“Yes.”
“But sometimes I wonder whether you chose peace or a life where nothing could surprise you.”
“That sounds like the same thing.”
“It isn’t.”
I looked toward Molly’s photograph.
“Are you asking whether I’ve moved on?”
“No.”
The answer came immediately.
“You do not move on from your sister. You carry her differently.”
I swallowed.
“Then what are you asking?”
“Whether you’ve learned to live with losing her, or spent three years arranging your life so you never risk losing anyone else.”
I stared at my hands.
“That’s unfair.”
“Possibly.”
“I have friends.”
“Yes.”
“Hank is family.”
“I know.”
“Rosa knows everything whether I tell her or not.”
“She sounds exhausting.”
“She is.”
Mom waited.
I hated when she did that.
“I don’t avoid people.”
“No. You avoid needing them.”
The shirt felt warmer against my skin.
“That’s not the same.”
“It may feel safer.”
I stood and went to the window.
The backyard looked smaller than it had when I was a child. The tree Molly once fell out of was still there, although Dad had removed the branch she used.
“I couldn’t do anything for her,” I said.
“No.”
“I know that.”
“I know you do.”
“I keep thinking about the call.”
“The one you missed.”
“She wanted dinner.”
“She probably wanted you to complain about work while she stole your fries.”
“I told her tomorrow.”
Mom’s voice softened.
“You thought there would be one.”
“I built an entire life around making sure I never say that again.”
“That isn’t a bad thing.”
“No.”
She stood and joined me beside the window.
“But every person who might disrupt your life cannot become another disaster you have to prevent.”
“Annie did disrupt my life.”
“She did.”
“She lied.”
“Yes.”
“She left.”
“So did you.”
The words landed cleanly.
“I came here.”
“Exactly.”
Mom touched my arm.
“You didn’t stay in Pelican Key pretending none of it mattered. You came home. You are talking to us. You are wearing a woman’s very expensive shirt.”
“You don’t know what it cost.”
“It has stitching on the inside.”
“That proves nothing.”
“It proves I wouldn’t put it in the dryer.”
I laughed quietly.
“I’m not telling you to forgive Annie,” she said.
“Good.”
“I’m not telling you to trust her again.”
“Also good.”
“But do not use Molly as evidence that caring about someone is a mistake.”
“I don’t.”
“Good.”
A pause.
“I use her as evidence that time is unreliable.”
“That sounds more like you.”
She moved toward the door.
“Breakfast at eight.”
“I’m an adult.”
“Nine, then.”
“I meant I can choose whether to attend.”
Mom looked at the shirt.
“You’re wearing another woman’s clothes in your childhood bedroom.”
“Eight is fine.”
She opened the door.
“At some point, you’ll need to decide whether Annie is dangerous to your peace or simply inconvenient to your control.”
“That sounded rehearsed.”
“I had the duration of your flight.”
She left.
I slept badly.
No nightmares.
No dramatic awakening.
I spent several hours learning that my childhood mattress had developed a hill in the middle and that Annie’s T-shirt smelled less like her than it had two days earlier.
At eight-fifteen, I found Mom making pancakes and Dad lying on the floor with his head inside the cabinet beneath the sink.
“What are you doing?”
“The drawer sticks.”
“It has stuck since 2004.”
“I have time.”
Mom placed a dark pancake on a separate plate.
I stopped.
She noticed.
“Molly always said the first one belonged to the pan.”
“The pan never appreciated it.”
“She ate it anyway.”
Dad’s voice came from beneath the counter.
“She said wasting pancakes offended the gods.”
For once, remembering Molly did not arrive like a door slamming.
It sat down with us.
Mom served the next pancake.
Dad emerged carrying a screwdriver.
“Do not put that on the table,” she said.
“I wasn’t going to.”
“You were considering it.”
He left it on the counter and joined us.
We ate quietly for a minute.
Then Dad asked, “Did Savannah contact you?”
Mom looked at him.
“What? It is current.”
“She texted after she landed,” I said.
“And since?”
“A few messages.”
“Any pressure?”
“No.”
“Public statement?”
“Nothing about me.”
Dad nodded.
“That was correct.”
“I’m glad she meets the committee’s standards.”
“The committee remains cautious.”
Mom poured coffee.
“She wore the bracelet onstage.”
“You noticed?”
“The whole internet noticed.”
I stared into my cup.
“She likes the stage.”
“You sound surprised,” Mom said.
“I thought Savannah might be something Annie endured.”
“But she isn’t.”
“No.”
That made everything more complicated.
It did not make it worse.
Dad spread butter across his pancake.
“You don’t have to decide everything before speaking to her.”
I looked at him.
This from a man who had produced a written assessment.
“You made a file about her.”
“Preparation and inflexibility are different things.”
Mom looked at him.
“That may be the wisest sentence you’ve ever said.”
“I have said many wise things.”
“Name two.”
Dad returned to his pancake.
After breakfast, Mom left to buy groceries despite the house containing enough food to survive a regional emergency.
Dad returned to the drawer.
I went upstairs.
My phone sat on the desk beside Molly’s photograph.
No new messages from Annie.
She was giving me the space I had asked for.
I appreciated it.
I also checked the screen every six minutes.
Both facts had to coexist.
I opened our conversation.
The last exchange was from the previous afternoon.
Annie: Tell the mayor I accept responsibility.
Me: She’ll form a committee.
I typed:
My father made a file about you.
I sent it before reconsidering.
Her reply arrived less than a minute later.
Annie: Legal or personal?
Me: Yellow legal pad. General observations.
Annie: That feels more dangerous.
I smiled.
Me: Your retirement planning remains unclear.
Three dots appeared.
Annie: Finally, a scandal I can address responsibly.
I sat on the edge of the bed.
The next message took longer.
Annie: How are you?
My fingers hovered above the screen.
Fine would be easy.
Mostly fine would be familiar.
Still angry was true.
Still wearing your shirt was not information she required yet.
I wrote:
I think we should talk.
The answer came quickly.
Annie: Okay.
A second message followed.
Annie: Whenever you’re ready.
I looked at Molly’s photograph.
At the open suitcase.
At the room I had avoided because I thought grief grew stronger when witnessed.
Me: Tomorrow?
Annie: Yes.
I frowned.
Me: You don’t know what time.
Annie: I’ll make myself available.
A laugh escaped me.
Downstairs, Dad called, “What happened?”
“Nothing.”
Mom’s voice came from the hallway.
“She’s texting Savannah.”
I looked toward the door.
“How do you know?”
“Motherhood.”
My phone buzzed.
Annie: Was that a good laugh?
I looked at Molly’s photograph again.
She grinned from inside a terrible dress, crackers hidden in her bouquet.
Me: Undetermined. We’ll discuss it tomorrow.
I placed the phone beside the photograph.
Tomorrow had once been the word I used to postpone everything.
This time, I had made an appointment.