Snapshots

by Pamela Browning

  “Are you feeling well enough to join us?” he asked, keeping his voice low. He sat on the edge of the bed, so that I rolled slightly toward him. Idly, he picked up the tassel on the cord that closed the hood of my sweatshirt and fiddled with it for a moment while I prepared an excuse.

  “My stomach’s still upset,” I said. “Maybe it’s from swallowing all that saltwater.”

  “I’m sorry, sweetheart. Can I bring you anything?”

  I shook my head. “I’m going to get some sleep, since we’ll be leaving early tomorrow.”

  Graham accepted the excuse and left me alone with my head pillowed on my hands. There was no time for sleep before the phone call from my boss, Keisha Tyner, at WCIC. Graham handed me the phone through the door of my room, his forehead knotted in anxiety. I sat up on the bed cross-legged; Graham wandered off again, leaving the door open. I heard the others exclaiming over the Frogmore stew they’d made and Lindsay laughing her long throaty laugh.

  Keisha wasted no time on small talk. She understood that I was planning to go to graduate school, she said. But would I consider postponing my education and taking a job as her assistant at the station? For some time, the powers that be at WCIC had been casting around for ways to develop new on-screen talent, and she’d pointed out that I was right under their noses—photogenic, intelligent and above all eager. I had a good chance of eventually becoming a news anchor, and they were planning to groom me for the job.

  Keisha named a salary that was far beyond any expectations I might have had, and while she was talking, possible scenes from the near future—next year—zoomed through my consciousness on fast-forward. According to our present plan, Graham and I would be living in Raleigh, though not together, and Rick would be enrolled in law school in nearby Durham, by that time married to my sister. The four of us would be expected to mingle on weekends, to socialize with the same people, to attend football games together as a foursome. And new rules would apply.

  I have a reputation as the steadfast twin, the firm and determined one. But every once in a while—for instance, when I accepted that scholarship to Furman—I zig when people expect me to zag.

  “I’ll take the job,” I said in a rush. This statement was met with stunned silence on the other end of the line.

  “You will?” Keisha said, her voice rising to a shriek. She was incredulous.

  “I absolutely will.”

  Not one to dally, Keisha got straight to the point. “I’ll have the papers prepared, and we’ll get you on the payroll right after graduation,” she said, all but gushing.

  “Great,” I said. “That’s wonderful.” Then I went in the bathroom and threw up.

  And so that’s how I came to move back in with Mom and Dad after graduation while Graham went to Raleigh without me. I wrapped myself in a blanket of numbness, shielding myself against the pain that threatened to overwhelm my emotional life.

  Before they even graduated from USC, Martine and Rick began to plan their August wedding, and naturally, she invited me to be her maid of honor. We’d always eagerly anticipated being in each other’s weddings, but under the circumstances, I did not rejoice. No one suspected that I approached the task with hesitation, uncertainty and a marked lack of enthusiasm. With everyone focused on her choice of gown, whether she should wear her hair up or down, if she should have four bridesmaids or six, Martine was the center of attention. And that, for once, was okay with me.

  I quickly nixed the idea of a double wedding with the excuse that Graham and I first needed to figure out how to manage our careers with each of us living in a different city. Mom took my decision in stride, though she regretted the chance to mount an extravaganza the likes of which Columbia, South Carolina, had never seen. As for Dad, he liked to joke that it would have saved him a whole lot of money to marry off two daughters in one day, but he was only teasing. I wasn’t sure if he actually liked Graham much, but he was delighted that Rick was to be his son-in-law.

  Now that Graham and I lived so far apart, the way I related to him slowly began to change. When I visited him in Raleigh, little things started to annoy me, such as his reluctance to try new experiences. Once, on impulse, I suggested that we attend a state park lecture on the upcoming Perseid meteor shower, and he refused. Another time I was excited that we had a chance to participate in a progressive dinner with people from his firm, but he derided the idea, with the result that we sat home and watched something tedious on TV that night.

  As time wore on, I found it hard to imagine a life in which nothing new was allowed to be added to the mix; I suspected I’d be bored out of my mind. I must tell you that Graham had no idea that things were cooling off between us, and to me his obliviousness was indicative of the whole problem. I wanted—needed—him to be more aware of me, of what I expected from a life partner.

  On the night before Martine’s wedding, after the rehearsal dinner given by Rick’s parents at the Windsor Manor Country Club, I couldn’t sleep. Martine had fallen into bed, declaring that her feet hurt from all that standing around at the rehearsal, and wasn’t the minister, Dr. Stith, getting kind of deaf in his old age, and tomorrow she’d be Mrs. Rick McCulloch, could I believe it? I didn’t have much to say about that.

  Curry Anne Dawes and Tottie Newsome, Martine’s out-of-town bridesmaids, occupied the guest room next door, and I heard them murmuring and laughing long after Martine fell asleep. Despite the house’s central air-conditioning, our second-floor room seemed stifling, and I longed for the steady breeze given out by the ceiling fans at Sweetwater Cottage, where I’d spent an uneasy weekend with Martine and the McCullochs about a month before.

  After a while, I got out of bed and sat on the window seat overlooking the garage roof and the backyard, remembering all the times that Martine and I, unbeknownst to our parents, had climbed out that very window and slid down the slope of the roof to the lattice trellis, from which we could drop to the driveway below. Acting on a whim, I grabbed a couple of Little Debbie fudge rounds from the dresser where Martine had left them earlier after designating them emergency rations for the rigors of her wedding week. Then I yanked a pair of shorts over my nightshirt, pulled on a pair of laceless canvas sneakers and threw open the window.

  After baking all day in the hot sun, the roof shingles were warm to the touch. I scraped one knee in my progress toward the trellis and fought for a grip on the ivy before I tumbled too far. I noted that the trellis was a bit shakier these days, but then so was I. It had been awhile since I’d chosen this way to exit the house.

  The night was rife with sound; crickets sent up a raucous chorus from the shrubbery. There was no breeze, and the humid air enfolded me like a warm, damp quilt. I had no idea what I was going to do after escaping the house, but after a moment, I circled the extra cars in the driveway belonging to Curry Anne and Tottie, striking out toward the old tree house.

  I knew the way, could have found it blindfolded. I followed the twisting rabbit trail that was the path, and soon I was climbing up the rough, weather-beaten old ladder.

  As I reached the platform, I inhaled the delicious fragrance of pine straw, resin and a faint whiff of—Drakkar Noir? It was the aftershave scent that Rick always wore.

  “What took you so long?” From under the shelter of the roof, Rick’s white teeth gleamed in a shaft of moonlight, and soon the rest of him materialized like the Cheshire cat.

  I knew I should turn and run back home as fast as I could, but I was caught up in a web of memories. “What are you doing here?” I blurted. “You’re supposed to be home in bed resting up for the wedding.”

  He shrugged. “Couldn’t sleep. Same for you?”

  I nodded and sat down with my back against the tree trunk. Rick was dressed as I was—baggy shirt, shorts, sneakers. His hair was mussed, giving him an appealing little-boy look.

  “Curry Anne and Tottie are gossiping and giggling in the guest room, and even if I joined them, I’d be bored,” I said. The scaly tree bark bit into my back, and I ea
sed the discomfort by scooting forward a bit.

  “Those two annoy me, too. Don’t tell Martine I said that,” he added hastily.

  “I can’t tell Martine anything,” I replied. “You know that.” I handed him a fudge round and tore the cellophane from my own.

  “Are Lindsay and Peter here yet?” I asked. During the wedding festivities, they planned to stay with Rick’s family. They, also, would be married soon in a low-key ceremony at Kalmia Gardens in Hartsville, where Lindsay had grown up, after which they’d head out to their Peace Corps assignment.

  “They’re driving over first thing in the morning,” Rick said.

  “It’s neat that they can go to Uganda together,” I said. “Though I can’t quite imagine either of them living in a grass hut and helping people install toilets.”

  Rick laughed. “Peter said he prefers toilets to torts any day,” he said wryly.

  “Are you all set for law school?” I asked.

  “Martine told you about our apartment, I guess.”

  “One bedroom and a bath on the second floor of an old house with a sunporch facing east,” I said, repeating what Martine had said. “It sounds wonderful.”

  “Once we get our things moved in, it will be awesome. I’m grateful to your dad for helping Martine find a job in his ex-roommate’s law office in Durham. Her salary will be a big help.”

  “Dad thinks Martine will do well at that paralegals’ course.”

  “Three years, and I’ll be working for Barrineau, Dubose and Linder. That’s a long time.”

  “The law-school years pass very fast,” I said. “Everyone says so.”

  “I wish you were going with me, Trista, the way we always planned.”

  “Yeah, well,” and I made a vague gesture that I quickly realized wouldn’t be visible in the dark. “I like my job. My goal is to coanchor the noon news in two years.”

  “That’s what Martine said,” and I felt a twinge of sadness that communications between Rick and me were filtered through my sister these days. I’d better get used to it, I told myself. It would be that way for us from now on.

  We didn’t speak for a long time. Then, “It bothers me, too,” Rick said softly, and I wished I could see him clearly. “I’d never hurt Martine for the world. Never.”

  As always, Rick knew what I was thinking before I even voiced the words. I swallowed past the lump in my throat. “Neither would I.”

  “I value your friendship, Tris, just as I always have. Now that I’m going to marry Martine, I’ve had to adjust the two of you in my mind and in my heart.” He paused, and I sensed that he was trying to frame his next words as kindly as possible.

  “I love you both,” he said, and the breath stopped in my chest as he spoke. “I love Martine as my wife, you as my sister. It’s the way it’s worked out, the way it should have worked out, and I hope you understand it as I do.”

  He’d said he loved me. That had never happened before, though once I’d desperately longed to hear it. The night stilled around us, and I couldn’t speak past the lump in my throat.

  “Trista?”

  “Thanks for telling me that,” I whispered. Something twisted inside me, wrapped itself around my heart. I hugged my knees and willed the pain to go away.

  “I hope you and Graham will be very happy,” Rick said, sounding rather formal. “As happy as Martine and I will be.”

  Tears welled in my eyes. “I—”

  “I mean it, Tris. I hope you wish us well.”

  “Yes,” I said. I paused, unsuccessfully fighting for composure. “I’ve got to go now, Rick.” I lurched to my feet and made for the ladder, but before my shoe struck the first rung, Rick grabbed my arm.

  “Hey, you’re upset,” he said.

  I shook my head vigorously.

  “Oh, Tris,” he said. “If I’ve hurt you, please forgive me, but after you and Graham became engaged, I didn’t think there was any hope for us.”

  “Us?” I said unbelievingly. “You never let me think—you never allowed any indication that there was an us.”

  “I was so ashamed that I took advantage of you,” he said, the words tumbling out one after another. “Right here, in the tree house, on a night when you were the most vulnerable.”

  I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. I stared at him, the darkness all around us seeping into my soul. “I was crazy in love with you that summer, and you wouldn’t pay one bit of attention to me,” I blurted.

  “My God, Trista,” he said feelingly. “We were kids. The whole world was opening to us. Neither of us was ready for commitment, but I hoped that maybe later…” He trailed off into a shrug.

  “I can’t talk about this,” I said, wrenching away from the full blaze of his eyes upon me. My feet fumbled for the rungs, and I scrambled down the ladder as quickly as I could. I ran along the trail as fast as the topography would allow, my tears drying on my face. The old oaks crowded close, tendrils of the encroaching vines dragging at my clothes; the pungent scent of leaf mold stung my nostrils. I stumbled a couple of times but didn’t go sprawling, thank goodness, and soon I had reached our own driveway.

  Curry Anne’s car was unlocked, and I slipped into the back seat to collect myself for a few minutes. I didn’t want to encounter anyone in the house before I had a chance to mop my face and blow my nose. My chest heaved, and I felt dizzy.

  After I calmed down, I emerged from the car. The night was quiet and still. I dug in the wood box beside the back door for the spare key and let myself inside.

  I wished I hadn’t encountered Rick at the tree house, and yet our conversation had left me sure of something I’d been considering for over a month. I was going to break my engagement to Graham, the sooner, the better. That would be tomorrow after the wedding, and he would be heartbroken.

  My mind raced: What if I had told Rick tonight that I wasn’t going to marry Graham? Would that have made any difference?

  No. He loved Martine. He’d said so. He’d put me firmly in my place—sister, not lover, and certainly not wife.

  When I’d found Rick in the tree house, I briefly entertained the foolish hope that a talk would clear the air between us. Too late I realized that the words that we’d spoken had only stirred it into a whirlwind.

  On the morning of the wedding, Mom was in a tizzy and depending on me to iron out last-minute glitches with the caterer and the musicians. Curry Anne and Tottie were driving Martine crazy with suggestions about her makeup, so by the time Dad left for the airport to pick up Aunt Cynthia, I was the only sane female in the house, which wasn’t saying much.

  When Graham arrived late that morning, I met him at the car. Girlish laughter pealed from the house, and since it was August, the crepe myrtle trees were shedding all around, their blood-red blossoms littering the grass.

  “Hi,” I said as Graham offered his lips for our usual kiss.

  “You smell so good,” he said. I’d recently showered and was ready to dress in my maid-of-honor finery, a stiff taffeta nightmare that Martine had chosen over my objections.

  “I brought you some baklava,” he said, handing me a square white box tied with string.

  I was touched by Graham’s thoughtfulness. When I visited him in Raleigh, we often dined at a small Greek restaurant around the corner from his apartment. His gift made it even more difficult for me to steel myself for the inevitable speech I planned for later in the day—the one where I told him it was my fault that our relationship hadn’t worked, not his, and that I hoped we would always be friends. Standard Breakup Speech Number One, Martine and I always called it.

  While I was staring down at the little white box containing the pastries, Graham pulled me inside the garage through the open door to the utility area and kicked the door shut after us. Dad’s workbench occupied one wall, and a rusty wheelbarrow was propped against another. From the shelves at the end of the space came the distasteful smell of fertilizer and insecticide.

  He kissed me long and hard. We hadn’t seen each
other for two weeks due to my duties as maid of honor; I’d had to remain in Columbia for the bridesmaids’ shower last weekend and the final fitting of my maid-of-honor gown the week before that. My reluctance must have come across, and anyway, the baklava box was between us. He eased back, regarding me quizzically.

  “Hey, what’s the matter?” he asked.

  “Just prewedding jitters,” I said, trying to joke with him. Outside, I heard another car wheel into the driveway, and the driver got out and slammed the door even as Graham slid his hand under my T-shirt. His fingers closed around my breast.

  I jumped when Rick called out, “Is anyone home? Martine asked me to pick up her shoes from the department store, and here they are.”

  Curry Anne must have been stationed near the back door. She giggled. “Tottie, turn off that TV. You’re going to drive us all crazy with that awful jewelry channel.”

  “I’m shopping for my engagement ring,” Tottie retorted. “Now that Martine is getting married, we’re all going to have to follow suit. I’m hoping for a diamond as big as one of those gardenias on that bush in the front yard.” This statement was met by laughter from Curry Anne.

  The back door slammed, indicating that Rick had entered, and the laughter stopped.

  After that, all I heard was the girls’ high fluting voices superimposed over Rick’s deep one, their actual words lost to me because Graham was speaking close to my ear.

  “Set the date for our own wedding, Trista. It’s time,” he urged. “I’ll put in a formal request for a transfer to the firm’s Columbia office. How about it?”

  “Not now, Graham.” I pushed him away. Not ever, I was thinking. I was more attuned to the starting of Rick’s car engine than to what Graham was saying.

  “What could I do to change your mind?”

  “Graham,” I said, twisting out of his embrace. I inadvertently stepped on the business end of a rake and the handle jumped up, nearly swatting me in the eye.

  Impatiently, Graham shoved the rake aside and reached for me again.