Christine Deriso - Then I Met My Sister

He pats my arm. “You’re a bright girl. As bright as your sister, I’m sure. If you’re reading her journal, then I guess you’re going to find out whatever was on her mind when she wrote it. But don’t live in the past. For your own sake. Okay?”

I hold his gaze a moment longer, then sigh. I don’t know whether I’m frustrated or relieved.

He smiles. “I’m here just about every Sunday at this time,” he says. “And, of course, I’ll be back in my classroom in the fall. If you need a sounding board, you’ll know where to find me.”

I nod, staring at my lap.

“If you need a sounding board about anything ,” he clarifies. “I’m sure your life is just as complicated as your sister’s was at your age.”

Except that Shannon’s is frozen in time. Do I dare thaw it out?

Oh, God. Tell me I didn’t just use ice as a metaphor.

I grab an apple from a bowl in the kitchen after Gibs drops me off from the library.

Mom walks in with a basket of laundry as I take a bite. Even doing laundry on a Sunday afternoon, Mom looks ready for her close-up—slacks pressed, blouse crisp, makeup flawless. Her silvery-blond hair is pulled back into a chic ponytail.

“How was the library?” Mom asks. I didn’t tell her why I was going, but her face had brightened at the mention of a library.

“It was okay. Hey, Mom?”

“Yes, dear?”

“You never did tell me why you stopped going to church.”

She shifts the laundry basket from one hip to the other. “Goodness, Summer, what’s up with all the questions today?”

I shrug. I’m still in intrepid-reporter mode. Mom’s dodges and weaves aren’t working today.

She grips the laundry basket tighter. An awkward moment hangs in the air. “So … you want to go to church?” she asks again.

“No. I mean, I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

I’ve really never thought much about it. We go to Mass with Grandma and Grandpa on Easter and Christmas, and Mom says “bless you” when someone sneezes and tells friends she’s praying for them when they’re going through hard times. That’s about the extent of my exposure to religious life. I’ve never stopped to consider whether I wish it was different or if I have any strong feelings one way or the other.

“I just want to know why you stopped going,” I tell Mom.

She puts the laundry basket on the kitchen table, plucks a hand towel from the top, and picks at it absently.

“I didn’t understand why God took Shannon from me,” she finally says in a small but steady voice. “I still don’t. Didn’t I do everything right? I tried .”

I gasp a little. This is probably the most real thing Mom has ever said to me about Shannon. Has she just been waiting for me to ask?

I shrug, aiming for casual to avoid freaking Mom out. “Shannon’s dying doesn’t mean you did something wrong. Sometimes things just happen.”

“Then what’s the point of prayer?” Mom asks in a surprisingly sharp tone.

I shrug again and swallow hard.

“But that’s not the main reason,” Mom says, staring at the towel. “Yes, I was mad at God—if there is a God. And I guess I still am. I never expected life to be perfect, but I didn’t count on a blow like that. Losing a child … it’s …”

She pauses, gripping the towel tighter.

“So, if there is a God, I’m pretty ticked off,” she continues in a stronger voice. Her eyes search mine. “What do you think of people who question whether there is a God? I mean, if there really is a God, do you think he would condemn someone to eternal suffering just for having enough courage to admit that no one can know for sure?”

“Um …” Who am I kidding? I’m too stunned to speak. Mom is not only telling me real things, she’s asking me real questions … seeking my opinion.

“I wouldn’t want to worship that kind of a God,” she says, not waiting for my answer. She loosens her grip on the hand towel and it falls back into the basket as she gazes into space. “Besides. Shannon was going through a … phase … when she died.”

Her eyes flicker toward mine as if she’s gauging my reaction. I don’t move a muscle.

Mom peers past me. “I’d rather be in hell with my children than in heaven without them.”

My throat tightens. I study her face as if I’ve never seen it before. She looks small and fragile. And sad. I want to reach out to her. Will she let me touch her?

But in the instant that I lean toward her, her eyes refocus, as if she’s coming out of a trance. “Well,” she says briskly, “better get my laundry done.”

She reaches for her basket.

“Hey, Mom,” I say abruptly.

“Yes?”

I pause. I don’t really have anything to say. I just don’t want her to go. So I ask, “Did you used to belong to a lot of clubs?”

Mom laughs at the sudden detour into more mundane territory. “Why would you ask that?”

I shift my weight. “Aunt Nic was mentioning some club you used to belong to. A book club, maybe?”

Confusion flickers in Mom’s eyes, but then she nods. “Guilty as charged,” she says. “I guess I was something of an extrovert when I was younger. I kind of outgrew that.”

“Why?” I press. “Why would you stop doing things that you enjoyed?”

She looks annoyed. “Honestly, Summer, life’s not about enjoying yourself all the time .”

Whatever mood I’d caught Mom in five minutes earlier has officially passed. She’s back.

My face flushes, and then Mom’s eyes soften. She reaches out and gently squeezes my arm. “I didn’t mean to snap,” she says, then takes a deep breath. “Okay. Why did I quit joining things. Let’s see. I got my realtor’s license when you started kindergarten, and that’s kept me plenty busy, as you know.”

I nod. Her eyes stay locked with mine. She’s not finished.

“You know,” she says softly, “I used to think I had it all figured out. If I do A , then I can count on B . But you can’t really count on anything. Control is just an illusion.”

God. It is possible to have a conversation with my mother. Have I just never really tried before?

Mom looks in my eyes and smiles wearily. “I don’t mean to bore you with my philosophizing, honey. Actually, I don’t do much of that anymore, either. Kind of like the book club, I guess. Some things just … fade away.”

She pats my arm, her fingers cool against my skin. Then she picks up her laundry basket. “Now, honey, please, I’ve got to get my laundry done.”

“Okay.” That’s all I say.

I don’t tell her what I’m thinking: Sorry, Mom, but I don’t believe you’ve changed as much as you think you have.

Eleven

“For you.”

I glance up from my history book and see Gibs standing in front of me holding a dandelion.

“For good luck on your history test,” he clarifies.

I smile, take the dandelion, blow the tendrils playfully in his face, then pat the space next to me on the picnic bench. He sits beside me.

“I’ll miss jock patrol,” I tell him wistfully.

I’ve long since blown off the cafeteria scene at school, preferring the solitude of the picnic table under a magnolia tree by the gym. I used to sit here alone reading a book during lunch, but Gibs has been joining me since we became friends. We observe sweaty athletes filing out of the gym in their basketball shorts and muscle shirts, or watch the drill team or cheerleaders practicing on the lawn, and feel infinitely above it all as we make corresponding snotty remarks.

Well, I should clarify. Gibs doesn’t feel infinitely above anybody (he’s the most humble guy I know), and he seldom makes snotty remarks. But he’s a good enough sport to laugh at mine. Jock patrol is the highlight of my day, thanks to Gibs.