Christine Deriso - Then I Met My Sister

I try to talk, but my voice catches. I clear my throat and start again. “I know that, Dad. I love you, too.”

Dad’s eyebrows weave together. “The irony is that adultery is what wrecked my childhood. I swore I would never do that to my family.”

I eye him warily. I never knew his dad—he died before I was born—but I always assumed that he and Grandma Stetson were happily married.

“Your grandfather had several affairs,” Dad says, loosening his tie as his face reddens. “It was awful for my mother. For all of us. I grew up feeling like I had to keep an eye on her every minute, make sure she was okay. She was depression-prone anyway, and the affairs … they really did a number on her.”

Wow. All this information, right there at my fingertips. Why haven’t my parents ever told me before? Why haven’t I asked? My family never talks about anything that matters …

“Grandma Stetson always seems great to me,” I say, picturing her playing bridge in Arizona and tooling around in a golf cart with her girlfriends.

“She’s fine,” Dad emphasizes. “But when my father was living, particularly when I was a little boy, there was always a lot of … turmoil.”

I gaze out Dad’s window, the afternoon glare just starting to pierce through his blinds. “Do all guys cheat?” I ask, my eyes tearing again.

Dad leans closer. “No. No .”

I start weeping, and he walks over and hugs me. It feels stiff and awkward at first—me burrowing deeper into the leather chair as his long arms reach toward me tentatively—but then I stand up and hug him back.

His embrace is so tight, it takes my breath away. But after I hug him back, we both exhale and relax. We stand there for a long time, just holding each other.

Thirty

“You’re sure.”

It’s a question, not a statement. I smile wanly at Aunt Nic. “Yes. I’m sure.”

I’ve been pretty preoccupied since I got back from my lunch hour. It’s almost five, and this is the fifth time Aunt Nic has asked me if I’m okay. I guess subtlety isn’t my strong suit.

“Why don’t you go on home? I’ll close up,” she says.

“I don’t mind staying.” What else do I have to do?

She places her hands on my shoulders. “I’ll close up. Go.”

I smile appreciatively, go to the back of the store to get my purse, then wave as I walk out the front door, the bell jangling behind me.

How stupid of me to have expected Gibs to come to the flower shop, daisies in hand …

I get into my car and sit there for a second. I drop my head on the steering wheel and start to cry.

God, I’m tired of crying. And let me make this perfectly clear—I used to go weeks at a time, months even, without crying. Shannon’s done such a number on me.

I jump, startled, as I hear a tap on my window. I look out and see Gibs, his eyes so sweet and kind. I motion for him to come around to the passenger side.

He climbs into the car, reaches over, and holds me tight.

“I’m sorry,” he says in my ear.

I shake my head vigorously. “ I’m sorry. Oh, God, Gibs, we’ve been together for all of two weeks and I’ve turned into a psycho girlfriend.”

He smiles at me as we pull away from our embrace.

My eyebrows furrow. “I don’t want to be my mom. I don’t want to be an ice princess. And God knows I don’t want to be some ridiculous, clingy, insecure flake. You deserve better. Maybe I’m not ready for this.”

Gibs presses a finger lightly against my lips. “No names, no labels, no psychoanalysis, okay? People argue. People piss each other off. Stop being so hard on yourself.”

My eyes search his. “If it had been anybody other than Leah Rollins …”

He laughs at my earnest expression, and I laugh back.

“She, like, totally stole my boyfriend in ninth grade, you know,” I say, in my best Valley Girl impression.

He smiles, but then turns somber. “I don’t care about Leah Rollins. I care about you .”

I swallow hard, squinting through tear-stained eyes. “I’m sorry I’ve been so self-absorbed all summer. It’s just … some of the stuff I’ve found out, about my dad, all this secret-keeping …”

“I won’t keep secrets from you,” Gibs says firmly. “I promise.”

My fingers interlock with his. “Me too.”

“Have faith in us, okay?” he says. “Let’s not run away when we hit a rough patch. Let’s work through it.”

I nod. “That’s the trick?”

He shakes his head. “No tricks. That’s the trick.”

I bite my lip. “You want me to shut up about Shannon?”

He shakes his head. “I want to share everything with you.”

I take a deep breath. “I went to my dad’s office after I left the park. I told him I knew about the affair.”

Gibs nods, prodding me along.

“He told me that his dad cheated on his mother … that he hated him for it. He hates himself for doing the same thing to his family.”

Gibs nods again. “Good,” he says softly. “I’m glad you had that talk with your dad.”

“Me, too. It’s like Shannon is nudging us all out of our comfort zones. But I’m more comfortable outside my comfort zone than I thought I’d be.”

Gibs smiles at me.

“I’m almost done, you know,” I tell him. “With her journal, I mean. Then we can talk about … I don’t know … drywall or calluses or whatever.”

He drops his head and laughs.

“I’m interested. I really am,” I say.

“You so are not,” he says, stifling a laugh.

“Okay. I’m not. But I’ll fake it for you.”

“No faking, remember? Come with me next time we build a house and you’ll see for yourself how cool it is.”

“Will you bring me a pair of work gloves?”

“Yes. I’ll bring the gloves.”

“Well, then.” I offer him my hand and he shakes it. “It’s official.”

I read another entry before I fall asleep. Monday, July 19, 1993 I told Dr. Deadhead that I hated to tell him I told him so, but I told him so. He said yeah, my parents are pretty tough nuts to crack. But he expected that, and he was paying more attention to ME while they were in the room than he was to THEM. Why didn’t I cry, he wondered, when my dad started crying in his office? I mean, how often do I see my dad cry? Like, maybe once in a blue moon? So wasn’t it pretty intense to see my dad crying? Uh, duh. But am I suddenly some kind of uncaring freak because it didn’t make me cry to see him cry? And suddenly I realized, YES, that’s exactly what I am—and THAT made me cry. So here I was bawling my eyes out in Dr. Deadhead’s office because I DIDN’T cry when apparently I should have. It kills me to not do what I’m supposed to do. I guess I said that out loud to Dr. Deadhead, because he repeated it: It kills you? Yes, I told him, yes yes yes yes yes, I can’t bear letting people down. I’d rather die than let people down.

I lay the journal down as my heart quickens. I want to kill myself.

I swallow hard and pick it back up again. Then Dr. Deadhead stopped taking notes and looked at me really carefully. “Do you ever think about hurting yourself?” he asked. And I thought about that for a long time, because especially now that I know how closely he pays attention to me, I really want to give the right answer, and I guessed the right answer was the honest answer, and honestly, doesn’t everybody think about hurting themselves sometimes? So I said yes. Then he started scribbling notes, saying he needed to refer me to a psychiatrist, and I said, aren’t you a psychiatrist? And he said no, a psychologist, and I started freaking out thinking I’m so screwed up that a whole team is required to fix me. And the next thing I know, I’m crying about Jamie shoplifting and ditching me at the mall, and how I keep hearing rumors about Chris seeing other girls but I don’t believe the rumors because I totally trust Chris and I’ve never been happier in my life, and he and I just hung out at the lake last night and it was like magic. But if I’m so happy, Dr. Deadhead said, why was I crying? I said I didn’t know … maybe because he subtracted points from last week’s visit because I didn’t cry when I was supposed to. Then our hour was almost up and I told him I couldn’t see him next Monday because I’ll be on a Beta Club trip, then the week after that I’ll start cheerleading practice, plus Chris promised he’d take me camping (he’d better not break that promise for the fourth time, stinker!), then of course school starts back, and although I totally appreciate everything he’s done for me, maybe it’s time for me to stop talking about myself and just get on with my life. He looked all concerned and said he would talk to Mom, but he thought we were making great progress and should continue. Great progress? All I do during our sessions is cry (or get nailed for NOT crying when I’m supposed to), and what good has all this crying done anyhow? And now I’m supposed to squeeze a psychiatrist into my schedule, too? I told Mom after my appointment that I wanted to be done with counseling, that I just wanted to get back to my life. She said we’d talk about it later. But I suspect Mom is as ready to be done with Dr. Deadhead as I am.