by Dianne Dixon
Only a short time ago, at Jessica’s party, Morgan had heard the sorrow in Ali when she said, “We have to sell the house. There’s no way we can afford to stay.” And then there was the grief in Ali’s eyes when she mentioned a problem she’d had, something that happened to her just before Christmas. Something Morgan still hadn’t figured out. And there was what Morgan had seen on the day after Ali’s December housewarming—Ali in a gray nightgown, deathly pale, with a ravaged, haunted look on her face.
For the first time, Morgan was seeing the amount of pain Ali had been given, and the grace with which Ali endured it.
Morgan was ashamed of how she’d gobbled up so much of Ali’s happiness, assuming happiness was all Ali ever experienced. She was ashamed of the decades she’d spent laying siege to Ali’s life, dragging behind her sister like a boat anchor. But most of all, Morgan was ashamed of having been too selfish to see it had been her job to take care of Ali, just as much as it was Ali’s job to take care of her.
Tears were pooling, and Morgan fought them. She didn’t want to think about what used to be. She wanted to stay right here, right now. Where she was a new person—and she and Ali were so good together.
Ali had picked up a storybook and a doll from the bedside table, Morgan’s latest gifts to Sofie. The book’s cover was a magnificent drawing of a doe-eyed Navajo girl, and the doll was a costumed replica of the girl. “I’ve never seen anything this beautiful. Morgan, where did you find these?”
“I don’t know. It’s sort of like they found me.” Morgan hastily wiped away a tear. “I had a copy of that book when you and I were little, and I hated it, because the Navajo girl got lost from her magic twin. I hated it so much I tore the pages out and burned them in the fireplace.”
“You hated this book, and now you’ve bought it for Sofie?”
“I should’ve finished it before I decided to tear it up. It turns out the girl has this awesome adventure while she’s searching for her twin. In the end, she finds her sister and rescues her, and discovers she has magic of her own.” Morgan’s smile was sheepish.
Ali was admiring the doll’s intricate costume. “This must have cost a fortune. You’re spoiling Sofie like crazy. You know that, don’t you?”
“Don’t worry, this stuff isn’t for now. It’s for when she’s older.” Morgan took the doll from Ali and put it next to the book. This was a new experience for Morgan, being the giver, spontaneously delivering a present to someone she loved, doing it just for the joy of doing it. She thought about the phone call with Sam when she’d said, “I want Sofie to see me as wonderful!” and Sam had told her, “Then be wonderful. Live with your arms wide open to the world.”
Suddenly, Morgan understood what Sam was trying to tell her. Love can’t be demanded. The only way it can exist is as a gift. Given from an unlocked heart.
Morgan was smiling as she headed back toward the closet, telling Ali, “It doesn’t matter how much the doll and the book cost. It’s my job to spoil Sofie. That’s what fabulously wonderful aunts do. And this fabulous aunt still needs a pair of sandals to wear to a very cool garden party.”
Morgan happily climbed onto the step stool and went back to her search. Ali was contentedly putting away the last of Sofie’s toys.
And then, out of nowhere, Ali’s mood changed. She seemed uncomfortable, worried.
Under a stack of shoe boxes, Morgan had found a file folder full of clippings and scribbled notes and printouts from the Internet.
As quickly as she could, Ali jerked the folder away from Morgan and whipped it closed. But not before Morgan had looked at several of the articles. She’d also seen that a note was paper-clipped to the folder’s inside cover. A sheet of expensive stationery with a handwritten message: Like I told you, the guy’s trademark was the name he called his victims, the name of a summer wildflower…and he always took their underwear. Here’s the info you asked for—the news stories on the rapes. Love, Jessica.
Morgan almost fell off the step stool.
She knew. She just knew. This had something to do with the ravaged look she’d seen on Ali’s face the day after the housewarming.
Morgan was shaking when she asked her sister, “Why are you keeping articles about rapes in your closet?”
Ali
“Why are you keeping articles about rapes in your closet?” The question hung in the air like a bomb waiting to explode.
Clutching the file folder Morgan had just found, Ali ducked her head—buying time to think.
When she’d asked Jessica for this folder, and Jessica had asked why she was borrowing it, Ali hadn’t told her the truth. Now that Morgan had uneartTached the folder after all these months, Ali still wasn’t prepared to tell the truth. She was still too frightened to talk about her rape.
Her attacker hadn’t been caught. It was like he was always lurking, just out of sight. Stalking Ali with fear. Every day. Every night.
She’d wanted him found and punished. She’d borrowed the folder believing she had the strength to search for him herself. But when she got the folder home, what was inside it—the catalog of violence and perversion—was more than she could deal with. Ali had shoved the folder onto her closet shelf. And never looked at it again.
“Did you hear what I said?” Morgan asked. “What’s the deal with this thing?”
Ali recognized the unspoken statement buried in Morgan’s question: I’m your twin. I already know it’s something big. The only thing I don’t know is what the “something” is. Ali was tempted to confess and lighten her burden by sharing it with her sister. But it wasn’t the right time. Not now, when she and Morgan were in such a good place, and Sofie was home from the hospital, and Peter Sebelius and his wife were coming for dinner. And life was coming back into Ali’s life.
She reached up and slipped the file folder back onto the closet shelf, deciding to give Morgan the same story she’d given Jessica. “I borrowed it for Matt. He was doing research for one of his scripts.”
Morgan seemed surprised. “Matt’s still writing scripts?”
“It’s…it was from a while ago. When he was working with Aidan.” Ali needed a way out of this conversation before she was tripped up by any more lies.
To Ali’s relief, Morgan appeared to accept her explanation. She’d gone back to looking for the sandals, excitedly announcing, “Here they are! I found them!”
Downstairs, the oven timer was buzzing in the kitchen. Ali hurried toward the door, calling over her shoulder, “Stay for dinner, okay?”
“I can’t,” Morgan said. “A friend, the stylist who’s been helping me with my clothes…the woman I met at the dog park where Ralph and I go. I asked her to come over.”
Ali looked at her sister in disbelief. Morgan had never, ever, cooked for anyone.
“It won’t be gourmet like yours. Just a takeout pizza, and I’m making a salad.” Morgan’s shrug was shy, uncertain. “But I am going to be the host. I’ve never been a host before. I’ve only been a guest. I’m excited.”
Ali was experiencing two very different emotions. Genuine happiness for her sister’s newfound independence. And a sense of betrayal, as if Morgan had abandoned her by pursuing a life of her own.
Ali suddenly wondered, How will I stay balanced without Morgan always being there, leaning on me?
• • •
Although dinner with Peter Sebelius and his wife was supposed to be a casual midweek get-together, Ali had wanted to make it a celebration.
And now she was putting the finishing touches on a menu that included burgundy-braised short ribs on creamy polenta, sautéed French beans sprinkled with lemon zest, and a flourless chocolate cake, which Ali would later top with whipped cream and homemade caramel sauce.
One of Seal’s old albums was on the sound system. A few minutes earlier, Ali had been drifting to the soulful lyrics of Sam Cooke: “It’s been a long, long tim
e comin’, but I know a change is gonna come…” Now she was dancing to the upbeat Curtis Mayfield: “…have a good time, ’cause it’s all right.”
Being in her kitchen, with good food and good music, always made Ali feel content.
When she heard Matt’s car pull into the garage, she wasn’t thinking about the bittersweet changes in Morgan, or Morgan’s discovery of the file folder in the closet. Ali was lost in the food and the music.
The garage and the house were connected, and Ali assumed Matt would be coming in almost immediately. It was only a few steps from where he parked his car to the back door. Yet several long minutes passed between what sounded like the opening and closing of the car door, the opening and closing of the car’s trunk, and Matt’s eventual arrival in the kitchen.
Ali was curious. “What took you so long? What were you doing?”
“Nothing. Shuffling some papers.” Matt gave her a quick peck on the cheek. “How’s Sofie?”
“Great. I put her to bed about half an hour ago. She had a terrific day.” Ali went back to the dinner preparations.
“I want to run up and kiss her good night,” Matt said. Then, just as he was asking, “How long before Peter and his wife get here?” the doorbell rang.
“About that long,” Ali told him. “Seems like the evening is underway.”
“Yeah, I guess it is.” Matt’s expression was hard to read. “It’ll be a night I’ll never forget.”
Ali wasn’t sure if Matt was talking to her or to himself.
• • •
It was a fabulous night. The conversation and the laughter were absolutely effortless. In spite of the fact it had been over two years since Peter was a neighbor, the only thing about him that seemed different was that he was a little less boisterous, and he didn’t drink anymore. It was easy for Ali and Matt to slip back into their friendship with him. And his wife, Quinn, only added to the enjoyment. She was a plump, pretty brunette with luminous, smoke-gray eyes, unassuming and fun to be with. Ali had liked her the minute they met.
As the evening was winding down, Quinn said, “I’ll need to improve my cooking skills before I have the courage to invite you guys to our house. I never tasted anything as good as this caramel sauce. Ali, you’ve got to tell me what you did to it.”
“I added a pinch of fleur de sel.”
Peter laughed. “Fleur de who? Help me out here, Matt. Does that or does that not sound like the name of a French hooker?”
“It’s a type of sea salt.” Quinn rolled her eyes. “My husband may win awards for his surgery, but he’s never going to take any prizes in the kitchen.”
“You’ve won awards?” Ali said. “I’m impressed.”
Peter waved her comment away. “Y’know what? It’s not that big a deal. It wasn’t an award. It was an article in a medical journal.”
“It was the lead article. In a very important journal.” Quinn winked at Peter. “And that’s all I’ll say, I swear. ’Cause I know I’m embarrassing you.”
“I’ll tell you what I do deserve a prize for.” Peter lifted Quinn’s fingers to his lips and kissed them. “I was smart enough to talk the most amazing woman on earth into marrying me.”
“Did he have to do a lot of talking?” Ali asked.
Quinn’s shrug suggested she was trying to be diplomatic. “The truth is, in the beginning, I didn’t like him very much.”
Peter leaned back in his chair and chuckled. “That’s an understatement. Want to hear her first words to me? I can give you the exact quote.” He sat up a little straighter, breaking into a girlish falsetto and announcing, “‘It’s because of idiotic, egotistical doctors like you that surgeons are perceived as arrogant jerks. I assure you, Dr. Sebelius, I’m speaking for every nurse in this hospital.’”
Ali and Matt burst out laughing as Peter added, “Hey, she was telling the truth.”
“He was drinking and partying way too much,” Quinn explained. “It really scared me.”
Peter cleared his throat. “Just for the record, let’s make it clear: I wasn’t a full-time drunk. I had a short-lived career as an asshole medical resident who was binge drinking and blacking out when I wasn’t on call. It lasted maybe eight or nine months.” Peter paused. “Then I got together with Quinn, and she saved me. She absolutely saved me.”
There was such love and gratitude in Peter’s voice that, for a moment, everyone was quiet.
Then Ali said, “Well, I always thought you were a great guy, and it sounds like in the last few years, you’ve gotten even more great.” Every word was heartfelt as she told him, “Peter Sebelius, you held our little girl’s shattered arm in your hands and made it whole. I’ll never stop honoring you for that.” Ali raised her wineglass. “What you are is a hero.”
And Peter said, “Ali, you have no idea how far that is from the truth.”
• • •
The toast to Peter Sebelius had been the perfect grace note, a natural place for the evening to end. Within minutes, Peter and Quinn said their good-byes and Matt went upstairs to check on Sofie.
Ali was in the kitchen, rinsing one of the dinner plates. It knocked against the edge of the sink. She quickly checked for damage. On the surface, where the pattern was, everything looked fine. It wasn’t until she turned the plate over that she saw the crack, no wider than a hair, running from edge to edge.
And at the sight of that fatal, hair-thin crack, Ali was grief-stricken.
The plate was the same pattern her Grandma MaryJoy had used—Blue Danube. Ali had bought the set of china right after she and Matt moved in. She’d pictured it always being here, in this house—part of every anniversary, every birthday, every graduation. It represented consistency, stability.
The crack in the dinner plate, the shattering waiting to happen, was a reminder. Ali’s house—where she dreamed of raising her child and growing old with Matt—was for sale. It would soon be gone.
Losing her home—and the heartache that brought—buckled Ali’s knees and crumpled her onto the kitchen floor.
• • •
A little bit later, when Ali pulled herself together and went into the garage looking for a new box of trash bags, she experienced a moment of panic. The same panic that grabbed her every time she entered a darkened room, her ongoing terror of her rapist.
Fighting the urge to turn and run, she slapped at the wall switch. The overhead fluorescents came on, flooding the garage with light.
Ali hurried down the concrete steps, near the place where Matt’s car was parked. And she suddenly understood what had caused the odd delay earlier in the evening when he came home from work.
She was looking at clear evidence of what Matt had done. The only thing that was unclear was why he’d done it.
A cardboard box had been placed on top of a large metal sign. The sign was lying flat on the garage floor. Matt had obviously taken the time to remove these two items from his car and put them on the ground near the back door before entering the house.
Ali quickly searched the box and found an assortment of things that included books, the photo of her that Matt always kept on his desk, a framed copy of his PhD, and a plastic nameplate with Matt’s name on it—the kind that would slide into a metal sleeve on an office door.
Her pulse pounding, she reached down, scooted the box aside, and picked up the sign it was sitting on. She recognized it instantly—the For Sale sign that had been hanging in the front yard. After uprooting it, Matt must have tossed it into the trunk and driven it into the garage.
Ali could hear him in the kitchen, walking around. She started to call out but didn’t know what to say. She was too bewildered by what she was looking at.
And now Matt was coming into the garage. His tone was deliberate and controlled. “I planned to tell you about this. Later tonight. After we were in bed.”
Ali lost her grip on the Fo
r Sale sign. While it clattered to the floor, she was saying a silent prayer. Whatever this is that’s about to happen…please don’t let it kill me.
Matt
Matt chose his words carefully—each one echoing off the metal and concrete of the garage. “I took the For Sale sign down because we won’t need it,” he told Ali. “And I brought the stuff home from the college because I don’t work there anymore.” There was a sense of apprehension in Matt, and triumph, and something that felt like death.
“I resigned,” he said. “We were only a few weeks into the fall term. There’s a line of qualified people who want my position.”
Ali had her hands over her mouth, staring at him in shock. “What’ve you done? You needed that job. You loved it. You were teaching again.”
He was determined not to let her know how much this was destroying him. “It doesn’t matter. My responsibility is to take care of you and Sofie. And that’s what’s happening. I’m going to Australia to do a film with Aidan—”
“When?”
“Right away. Production has started… Aidan offered me this thing a while ago. I’m already late getting on board.”
“But, Matt, what about—”
“After I get back, I’ll keep working for him. I signed on as one of the partners in his production company…movies, not television. I’ll have a job with him doing movies for as long as he’s around. He’s produced a lot of hits. He’ll be around for a long time.”
Ali sounded utterly confused. “But you said you hated working in show business.”
Matt wanted to get this done before he fell apart. “I’m focusing on the mountain of money I’m going to earn. Money that’ll keep you in this house. Where you need to be. Where you deserve to be. I’m focusing on taking care of you.”
A tremor shot through Matt, the same tremor that had shot through him in Sofie’s hospital room—when Ali’s mother said that everybody has a test life keeps giving them till they get it right. “I know it seems bizarre to walk away from teaching, a life I love, and lock into a career I can’t stand. But it’s part of my test, Al…the one that, up until this point, I’ve always failed.”