“It took him a long time to tell me how unhappy he was, but once he did . . . ”
I hold up my hand. “I get it. ”
“So, I know about being lost, Joy,” she says instead. “Can you imagine how it feels to hurt the one person you love most in the world? To break your sister’s heart and know you can never apologize enough?”
This time when I look at my sister I see a woman I’ve never met, one who’s been through hard times—is still going through them, perhaps—and lives with the pain of her own bad choices. She knows about fading; maybe every woman of a certain age does, especially in quiet towns like this one where the sun can be so hot.
Not like the rainforest.
There, in that moist green and blue world, there is no drying up of a woman’s spirit.
I push that thought away. No good can come of it. I turn back to Stacey. This is what matters. Us. Whatever is unreal about who I met or where I’ve been, it’s all led me back to this moment with my sister. The beginning. “So,” I say softly, “how’s the pregnancy going?”
I hear her surprise; she takes a thin breath and battles a sudden smile. I can’t help wondering how long she’s been waiting for me to ask. “Good. The doctors say everything is normal. ”
“Do you know if it’s a boy or a girl?”
“They think it’s a girl. ”
A niece to shop for; dress up like a little doll . . . love. “Mom would have gone nuts. ”
“We thought we’d name her Elizabeth Sharon. ”
That hits me hard. “Yeah. She’d like that. ”
We fall silent again. I want to say more, make a sweet, innocuous comment about the baby, but I’ve lost my voice. Selfishly, I am caught in my own sense of loss; I take a deep breath and try to let it go, but it’s difficult. I keep remembering my dream, where I was frozen in this spot, the aging aunt, watching life pass her by.
“You’re losing it, aren’t you?” Stacey says after the pause.
I look at her, wondering if that’s accurate. Can you lose something you never really had? “I’m scared, Stace. It’s like . . . I don’t know what to hang on to. I feel like I’m going crazy. ”
She stares at me, frowning. Just when I expect an answer, she leaves the room. I hear her making a phone call in the kitchen. Then she returns and says, “Come on. I’m taking you somewhere. ”
“Where?”
“What do you care? It’s out of this house. Get your purse. ”
To be honest, I’m thankful for the distraction. I follow her out to the minivan.
Fifteen minutes later, we pull up to our destination.
The high school is bathed in lemony sunlight. Bright purple crocuses cover the dry brown ground around the flagpole, reminding me that spring is on its way.
“Are you okay?”
It is a question I’ve come to hate. To answer it requires either a lie or a truth that no one—me included—wants to hear
.
“Why are we here?”
“Because it’s where you belong. ”
“Is it?”
Stacey says something I can’t quite hear, then gets out of the van and slams the door.
I get out of the minivan and stand on the sidewalk, leaning heavily on my crutches. Gripping their padded handles, I step-swing-step-swing down the wide cement courtyard toward the administrative building.