Christine Deriso - Then I Met My Sister

I cry softly as Gibs squeezes my hand tighter.

“I think you’ve got to have a little faith in your sister,” he says.

I sniffle and rub my eyes. “Sometimes in her journal, she’s so great, you know? Funny and real and perceptive. Then other times, she’s this ridiculous, lovestruck little twit, the kind of girl I roll my eyes at in school. What if the twit came out on top at the end? What if she had some stupid drama-queen moment that she let define her life? That she killed herself over?” I lean my head against the headrest and gaze upward. “I just couldn’t take it. I’d be so friggin’ pissed at her. Then what would I do with all that frustration? Let it eat at me the rest of my life because she’s not here to bawl out?”

Gibs smooths my hair. “Everything you’re afraid of is what you’re dealing with right now. Could knowing the worst be tougher than assuming the worst?”

I consider his words for a moment, turning my head and peering vacantly out the window.

Then I turn to him and nod sharply. “I’m going to finish her journal.”

He smiles, his dark blue eyes incredibly kind and warm.

I inhale deeply, hold my breath for a second, then exhale. “Will you do it with me?”

He nods. “Let’s go for it.”

I pull the journal out of my purse and open it to her last entry.

Thirty-Four

Birds chirp and a nearby lawn mower whirs in the distance as I sit by Gibs in his car and read aloud: Friday, August 13, 1993

“She died on August 16th,” I tell Gibs somberly. “She wrote this three days before she died.”

I start reading again: I picked up my schedule today at school.

I glance at Gibs, alarmed. She goes from I want to die to I picked up my schedule today at school ? I keep reading. Everyone says junior year is the hardest, but I’ve got some killer courses coming up this year, all of them AP, which means projects, reports, essays—AARGH. It’s okay, though. I’ll take all the distractions I can get. No use hashing out the gory details. I’m sure everybody in town is already talking about it, and I have so totally moved on that I really have NOTHING to say on the subject, so … ONWARD! I’m going to carpool with Evie, but I’ve got an appointment with Dr. Deadhead right after school Monday, so we’ll drive separately the first day and meet up in homeroom.

I glance at Gibs again, but no words are necessary. If only Shannon had carpooled with Eve that day … if only she hadn’t had an appointment with the shrink … if only, if only, if only … I think I’ll wear my teal sweater to school Monday. It’s a little hot and itchy, but it’s my eat-your-heart-out sweater. Which is stupid, considering he won’t even be at school. But Jamie will.

My eyes skitter away as I try to process the words. Then they fall back on the journal. They say living well is the best revenge. But you know what? I don’t even want revenge. Okay, maybe a little. But what I really want is peace. I want my old life back, the one I had before I started hanging out with them. I wish I could turn back the clock. Or maybe I don’t. My heart is crushed in a million pieces, but I’m wiser than I used to be. I feel like I lived most of my life like a china doll under glass. It was safe but it was boring. That’s one thing I can say—I certainly haven’t been bored lately. Ha ha. Well, my tears are back for the fortieth time today, and I absolutely REFUSE to have another sobfest, so I’m going jogging. Mom doesn’t know what’s up, but she’s acting all worried and hover-y (is that a word?), so I think I can squeeze another shopping trip out of her. (Smiley face.) I don’t mean to sound bratty, but what can I say. Shopping always cheers me up.

I finger the paper and bite my bottom lip. A quiet moment hangs in the air, then I flip through the last few empty pages of the journal to let Gibs know what I can’t say out loud: that’s it. Those are the last words Shannon wrote in her journal. She’ll never again share another thought with me. I squeeze my eyes shut and press the journal against my chest.

“That’s it,” Gibs whispers, and I nod.

A neighbor’s cat scampers around our rose bushes. The nearby lawn mower is still whirring. The hum of car engines drifts in and out of my consciousness—people going to church, going to the park, going on with their lives …

“You know now that she didn’t commit suicide,” Gibs says softly.

I glance at him. “You think?”

He nods. “It’s obvious. She was all about the future. Whatever Chris and Jamie did to hurt her … she was moving on.”

I nod, my eyes glistening with fresh tears. “I hope. But you know, she was so fickle and moody. By Monday, she could have been back in a funk.”

Gibs shakes his head. “I don’t think so. I think she sounds really strong.”

My eyes soften. “She does, doesn’t she?”

He nods. “She reminds me of you.”

I smile at him as he takes my hand and presses it against his chest.

“Will you go with me on an errand?” I ask him. “I can’t do it today because Eve and her mother are coming over later. But soon …”

“Sure. What’s up?”

I take a deep breath. “I want to talk to Chris.”

Thirty-Five

“Wha …”

Mom’s baffled expression lasts only a nanosecond, then is replaced by her trademark Hostess Smile.

I was counting on this. I’d pondered whether to tell her that Eve and her mother were coming over. But that would have led to questions and fretting and coffee cake–making, so I’ve opted just to let them show up on our doorstep, knowing that any emotions Mom might have will be trumped by social niceties.

“Oh, dear!” Mrs. Brice stammers. “Summer didn’t tell you we were coming? Oh, Susanne, I’m so embarrassed!”

“No, no! Don’t be ridiculous! Come in, come in!”

Mom is in full hostess mode now.

“No, really, Susanne, we don’t need to stay. I just assumed that Summer would …” Mrs. Brice casts an annoyed eye on me, but then softens it with a smile.

Mom is shuttling Eve and her mother toward our living room, swooping her arm in the general direction. A manicured fingernail directs them to our sofa. “Sit, sit!”

Mom and I sit in chairs as they settle onto the sofa.

“Well!” Mom says. “Heavens! How long has it been?”

Mrs. Brice’s face falls. “Susanne, I just feel awful that I haven’t kept in touch.”

Eve nods, averting her pale blue eyes and pulling a strawberry-blond lock of hair behind her ear. Her lightly freckled face makes her look like a college kid.

“Nonsense!” Mom chirps. “Time just has a way of slipping away, doesn’t it? But we’re together now! That’s what counts.”

She claps her hands and turns toward Eve. “Evie! Tell me everything.”

An awkward pause lingers.

Mrs. Brice clears her throat. “Susanne, you clearly weren’t expecting us. I’m so sorry. I don’t know what I was thinking, not calling first. Really, we just wanted to say hello, but we need to be going …”

Mom’s smile stands at attention, like a drill sergeant has just blown a whistle. “You’ll stay right where you are!” She gives a sharp nod. “I’m so sorry if I seem a little … confused. Summer has a way of springing surprises on me. But what a wonderful surprise this is! Honestly, having you drop by—it just makes my day!”

“Where’s Mr. Stetson?” Eve asks.

“Where do you think?” Mom responds breezily. “Golf, of course! Some things never change. Evie, tell me how you’ve been doing. I know you’re married. Three children, right?”