Lisa Gardner - The Survivors Club

Meg looked at Carol for support. This was the problem with a three-member support group, Jillian had realized in the beginning. Two people could always gang up against one. In the beginning, it had been Jillian and Carol determining things for Meg. But lately…

Now, however, Carol merely shrugged. Apparently, she was more interested in chocolate cake than some male beefcake. Of course, Carol had little use for men these days. Not that any of them were doing great, but Carol, in particular, loathed any thought of sex.

“I'm serious about Sergeant Griffin,” Jillian said, trying to regain focus. “I know him from somewhere. I'd swear I could picture his face on TV. Maybe I'll look him up.”

“No wedding ring.” Meg waggled a brow.

“For heaven's sake, Meg. He's an investigating officer, not a contestant on The Dating Game .”

“Why not? You're very pretty, Jillian. And you can't punish yourself forever.”

That ground the conversation to a halt. Even Carol paused with her fork suspended in midair.

“I don't think we should talk about this now,” Jillian said quietly.

“I'm just saying-”

“And I don't want to talk about it now. It's been a big morning. Let's just drink our champagne and let it go at that.”

Carol resumed eating her chocolate cake. Meg, however, had gotten a faraway look in her eye. She was definitely drunk. Of course, even sober, she generally said more than Jillian or Carol dared. They were older, more wedded to their privacy and carefully erected walls. Not Meg. Never Meg.

Now she said suddenly, “I'm angry. Eddie Como's dead, but I'm still angry. Why is that?”

Jillian picked up her empty champagne flute, twirled it between her fingers. “It's too new,” she said softly. “You're going to need time to absorb, we're all going to need time to absorb, that he's truly gone.”

Meg shook her head. “No. I don't think that's it. I think that maybe it doesn't matter. No, I'm afraid that it doesn't matter. Eddie Como is dead. And so what? Are you going to magically move on with your life, Jillian? Will I magically remember my past? Will Carol finally turn off her TV? I don't think so.” Her voice picked up a notch. “Oh my God, it's the thing we've wanted most, and nothing's different! ”

“Meg…”

Jillian tried reaching out a hand. Meg, however, pulled away, hitting the nearly empty champagne bottle, knocking it over. Jillian grabbed the bottle. Carol grabbed a napkin. Meg kept talking.

“Think about it. We hated him. All of us. Even me. And he gave our anger a focus. Why did you form this group, Jillian? To catch Eddie Como. And why did we stay together? To fight Eddie Como. Everything, for the last twelve months, has been about him. And it's easier that way. When we wake up mad or disoriented or afraid, we know why: Eddie Como. When the police are invading our privacy by asking more questions, or our friends or family are looking at us funny, we know why: Eddie Como. But… but now…”

Her voice trailed off. Jillian and Carol didn't say anything. Couldn't say anything.

“I'm so angry,” Meg whispered. “I don't know who I am. I still have to take AIDS tests and sometimes late at night… I just lie there wondering. This man knows more about my body than I do. He did things, he invaded places. He took me away from me. And even if he's dead, I'm still mad about that.”

“I doubt I'll sleep tonight,” Carol said abruptly. “Meg's right. It's not really him. I mean, yes, I'm afraid of Eddie. But I'm also afraid of… everything. I'm afraid of the dark, I'm afraid of the quiet, I'm afraid of my house, I'm afraid of my bedroom window. I'm afraid of my husband, you know. We never talk about it, but he knows sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night, look at him and see only Eddie. I like the couch. Bedrooms aren't safe anymore. It's best to sleep on the sofa. Even, even now. It's better to be on the sofa.”

They both looked at Jillian. Her turn. That's the way the group worked. One shared, they all shared.

“At least we have some sense of closure now,” she tried.

Carol nodded immediately. “Closure. That's good.”

Meg, however, shook her head. “You're avoiding again.”

“I'm not avoiding,” Jillian protested, as she always protested. “I don't have an answer yet.”

Carol and Meg simply looked at her. Waited. Lately, they had grown tough.

“My loss is different,” Jillian said finally. “My sister is dead. No matter what happened to Eddie… nothing is going to bring Trisha back. I've always known that.”

“It's easier for you.” A trace of bitterness crept into Carol's voice. “You fended him off. You won.”

“I didn't win.”

“You did.”

“I got lucky, all right? You think I don't know that? I got lucky!”

“Well, I'm not picky, I would've taken luck!”

“And I would've preferred my sister's life!” Jillian's voice had risen sharply, catching other patrons' attention once more. She caught herself, pressing her lips into a thin line in an effort at control, although her breathing was harsh now, her face red, her nerves shockingly raw. She sat back. She picked up her flute of champagne. Set it down. Picked it up again.

“That was good,” Meg said, nodding. “Honest. I think you're making real progress.”

Jillian just barely repressed the urge to throttle the girl. Meg's intentions were good, of course. She should appreciate that. But Jillian was not an amnesic twenty-year-old. She was thirty-six, she had responsibilities and she remembered everything. Absolutely everything. Goddammit…

She picked up the flute, set it back down, picked it back up and fought the desire to send it smashing to the floor. One year later… Oh God, look at them.

Carol finally broke the silence. “It's still better, right? Life has been unbearable with Eddie Como alive. Surely it must be better with him dead.”

“Closure,” Jillian said crisply.

“Closure,” Meg repeated.

“Closure,” Carol echoed.

“Life will get better,” Jillian insisted.

Meg finally smiled. “Think of it this way. It can't get any worse.”

“WELL, THEY CERTAINLY HAVE THEIR ACT TOGETHER.”

“Jillian, Carol and Meg?” Fitz was once more navigating his battered Ford Taurus through narrow city streets. He glanced over at Griffin from behind the steering wheel. “Don't let them fool you. It's been a rough year. I've seen them all break down a time or two.”

“Even Jillian Hayes?”

“Well”-Fitz had to think about it-“maybe not Jillian.”

“The sister was quite a bit younger than her. Fifteen, sixteen years? Seems like they might have had less of a sibling relationship and more of a parent-child.”

“Possibly. The mother, Olivia, isn't well. Had a stroke several years back and has been wheelchair-bound ever since. Jillian takes care of her with the help of a live-in aide.”

“So Jillian's been the head of the family?”

Fitz shrugged. “She's thirty-six, you know. It's not that tragic.”

“No. I'm just thinking… It's hard enough to lose a sibling. But thanks to Eddie, Jillian lost both her sister and her surrogate child. That's gotta be hard.” Griffin thought about Cindy. “That's gotta make you mad,” he added gruffly. “Truly, royally pissed off.”

Fitz was looking at him strangely. “Guess I hadn't thought about that.”

“She was dressed nicely,” Griffin said, more neutrally. “What does she do?”

“She owns a small marketing firm. It's fairly successful, but she also has some other assets. You follow blues music at all? Her mom, Olivia Hayes, was a fairly well known singer in her day. She banked hundreds of thousands, and Jillian has turned it into millions.”