Then I Met My Sister

by Christine Hurley Deriso

  It sounds so crazy—Mom “calling the shots” about the whole family’s religion—but then, Mom calls the shots about everything.

  “Why did you stop going?” I ask.

  Dad shifts his weight and rubs the back of his neck. “Do you want to go?” he asks wearily, seeming to hope against hope that the answer is no. I don’t think Dad is anti-religion. He’s just anti-changing-his-routine.

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

  His eyes flicker in my direction, then back toward his plate. He fiddles with his fork again. “I think you’d have to ask your mother about that.”

  I open my mouth, then shut it, resigned. Dad takes another bite.

  I watch as he chews and dabs his mouth with a napkin. He always looks a little rumpled first thing in the morning, but he’s still handsome with his square jaw and deep-set eyes. I rest my chin on my knuckles. “How’d you and Mom meet?” I blurt out, surprising even myself. I don’t remember forming that question in my head.

  Dad smoothes his T-shirt and clears his throat. “How did we meet?”

  “Yeah.”

  He crinkles his brow. “You know the answer to that, honey.”

  He’s burying his head in the paper again.

  I thump it again. “No. I don’t know.”

  He takes a deep breath and puts the paper aside. “Sure you do. Your mom talks about those kinds of things.”

  “No, she doesn’t.”

  Nobody in my family ever talks about anything that matters.

  Dad glances around the room like he’s looking for an escape hatch. “Of course she does,” he says, trying not to sound irritated. “School. We met in school.” He stabs a piece of chicken and pops it in his mouth.

  “College, right?”

  “Yes,” he says, sounding vindicated. “I told you that you already knew.”

  I absently finger a lock of hair. “When did you see her for the first time? In a class?”

  “Um … a party, I think.”

  I smile. “Did you like her right away? Did you think she was pretty?”

  He peers into space. “I believe my roommate introduced us.”

  “And you asked her out that night?”

  A hint of impatience flashes across Dad’s face, but then, unexpectedly, his eyes soften and he smiles.

  “What?” I ask him.

  He blushes. “It’s kind of embarrassing.”

  I bounce a little in my seat. “What?”

  He holds a hand loosely over his mouth. “I wanted to ask her out, but I was too shy. I had a part-time job in the comptroller’s office and I told her it was fortunate we’d happened to meet at the party, because I’d just been going through the files and there were some ‘discrepancies’ with her paperwork.”

  My jaw drops slightly. “You’re the only person I’ve ever known to use the word ‘discrepancies’ in a pickup line.”

  Dad scowls at me playfully. “Well, it worked. She dropped by the office a couple of days later. I told her I must have confused her file with someone else’s, that all of her paperwork was perfectly in order … and the rest is history.”

  Mom walks in the kitchen, tightening the sash of her terrycloth robe. She gives us a little nod and heads for the coffeemaker.

  “Mom,” I say, “did you know Dad tricked you into seeing him again after you first met by telling you something was wrong with your college paperwork?”

  “Of course,” she says matter-of-factly.

  “You never knew that,” Dad protests.

  Mom gives a little snort as she pours herself a cup of coffee.

  “You did know,” I say, more to myself than to Mom, “but it was okay, because you wanted to see him again, too?”

  Dad gazes at Mom, waiting for her response. He’s actually curious. I’ve never known him to be curious about anything other than golf before.

  “Well?” I press.

  Mom waves a hand dismissively through the air as she takes a sip of coffee. “This is ridiculous,” she says decisively. “Randall, the grass needs cutting. Better get it done this morning, before it gets too hot.”

  Dad buries his head back in the paper. “Mmmmmm,” he says.

  “Mom, why don’t you go to church anymore?” I ask her impulsively.

  Her shoulders stiffen as she searches my face for a clue about my sudden penchant for memory lane. “Do you want to go to church, Summer?”

  “I’m just wondering why we don’t,” I say. “I mean, Dad says we used to. Or you used to. I don’t remember ever going except for holidays.”

  “You know that you can go to church any time you’d like,” Mom says defensively. “I’ll take you this morning if you’d like to go.”

  “No, it’s not that I want to go. I just …”

  “The grass, Randall,” Mom interrupts, casting me an annoyed look. “Don’t forget to cut the grass this morning.”

  I sigh as Mom walks out of the kitchen with her coffee, her robe swooshing through the air. I stare for a second at the paper that hides Dad’s head, wishing I could keep him talking and wondering if I can pull him back into the conversation.

  But no. He’s more than filled his word quota for the day.

  The magic is gone.

  Ten

  “So this is a library, huh?”

  Gibs stops in his tracks and stares at me, jaw dropped and eyebrows arched.

  “I’m kidding,” I assure him.

  We walk through the foyer and a security turnstile, then into the brightly lit expanse of books, computer banks, tables, chairs, and grim faces of people who spend Sunday afternoons in libraries. (Okay, so they’re not all grim-faced. But they do seem awfully pale.)

  “This way,” Gibs says in a lowered voice, leading me past the reference desk toward a closed door. He squeaks the heavy oak door open and I follow him inside.

  “… so I guess you’d say the tundra—or, more specifically, the ice—serves as a metaphor,” a guy in a sports jacket and a dress shirt with an unbuttoned collar says into a microphone, leaning way too close to it. He sounds like a grocery store manager calling for cleanup in aisle six.

  Gibs and I slip into seats on the back row. “He’s been reading chapters of his novel at the last few meetings,” Gibs whispers to me, nodding toward the guy at the podium.

  About a dozen people are scattered in the other seats looking … oh, let’s just face it: grim. Who other than a person without a life would spend a Sunday listening to a guy talking in a monotone about climate-related metaphors?

  I shoot eye signals to Gibs to convey my concern about their loser status, but he knows me well enough not to take the bait. He stares straight ahead intently.

  Someone raises a hand and asks if the shoes in the novel are also metaphors, and Grocery Store Manager responds in endless droning. My shoulders slump. I try again, unsuccessfully, to make eye contact with Gibs. I start counting polka dots on the blouse of a plump lady in front of me. Thank heaven we came toward the end of the meeting.

  “You voluntarily come and listen to this stuff?” I whisper to Gibs, who shushes me with a stern expression.

  “The metaphor that runs throughout my short story is fire,” says Polka Dot Lady.

  People nod earnestly.

  “Maybe you can read your story at the next meeting,” Grocery Store Manager offers congenially, and Polka Dot Lady seems excited at the prospect, though she blushes and explains that it’s not quite finished yet.

  “This place is death,” I whisper to Gibs.

  He looks stern again, but thankfully, Grocery Store Manager seems to be wrapping things up.

  “As you know, we always like to adjourn with a tip of the day,” he says, and I’m so excited by the word adjourn that I almost burst into spontaneous applause. “Today’s tip concerns writers’ block. If you’re stuck—and who among us hasn’t been—stop what you’re doing, go turn the television on, watch it for fifteen minutes, then incorporate something from what you’ve se
en into your story. Even if you edit or delete it later, the challenge should get the creative juices flowing.”

  “Why not hurl your TV set through your neighbor’s window, watch his reaction, then incorporate that into your story?” I murmur to Gibs. He closes his eyes and shakes his head slowly.

  People rise from their seats, make small talk, and start filing out of the room.

  “That’s him,” Gibs says, nodding toward a trim guy in jeans who looks youthful despite his close-cropped gray hair.

  As Mr. Kibbits makes his way toward the door, he spots Gibs and smiles.

  “Ah, Gibson! Glad you could join us today.”

  He extends a hand and Gibs shakes it. “Thanks. Um … this is my friend, Summer.”

  Mr. Kibbits pivots toward me and shakes my hand.

  “Hi,” he says. “I’ve seen you around school. You’re a rising senior, like Gibson, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Are you taking AP English Comp next year?” he asks me.

  I glance away. “Honors courses aren’t really my thing.”

  His blue-gray eyes twinkle. “And what might your thing be?”

  “That’s what my mom wants to know,” I say gamely, tucking a lock of blond hair behind my ear. “Can I check back with the two of you after I’ve figured it out?”

  Mr. Kibbits chuckles as Gibs leans closer. “Can Summer have a minute of your time?” Gibs asks him.

  Mr. Kibbits spreads out his hands. “Does this qualify?” he asks cheerfully.

  “She wants to discuss something with you privately,” Gibs explains in a lowered voice.

  Mr. Kibbits smiles at me. “Care to have a seat?”

  He motions toward a chair. I sit down and he sits next to me. Gibs offers a quick wave. “I’ll be … checking out some books,” he says, then walks out of the room with his dark ponytail bouncing lightly behind him.

  I get right to the point. “I think you knew my sister. Shannon Stetson.”

  He smiles. “Correct.”

  I peer closer at him. “So you remember her?”

  He nods. “Very vividly. She was a memorable person.”

  “And you know she was my sister?”

  Mr. Kibbits nods again. “Chapel Heights is a pretty small town. Lots of people remember Shannon. Word circulated quickly when you started high school. The teachers who were there when Shannon was in school … we kind of compare and contrast.”

  “Right … ” I say. Damn. Shannon’s shadow follows me everywhere I go. At least the teachers are subtle about it. Most of them, anyway.

  “I don’t mean to make you self-conscious,” Mr. Kibbits says gently. “Everything I’ve ever said, or ever heard said, was highly complimentary of both of you.”

  I swallow hard. “My aunt just gave me a journal Shannon kept the summer before she died,” I say quickly. My eyes look away, then dart back to catch Mr. Kibbits’ reaction. He still has the same pleasant, placid expression pasted on his face.

  “I just started reading it,” I continue. “She mentions you in the second entry.”

  He touches an index finger against his chin. “Really.”

  “She mentions a couple of other people, too. Chris—that was her boyfriend, I think—and Jamie. Did you know them?”

  Mr. Kibbits nods. “Chris Ferguson. He still lives in town … works on cars at Phipps’ Auto Shop, I think. I’ve lost track of Jamie.”

  “Why didn’t my mom like them?”

  He isn’t surprised by the question. “They had nothing in common with Shannon,” he says, then thinks for a couple of seconds before clarifying. “As an AP teacher, I see lots of high achievers.”

  “And … ?”

  “Most of them have been high achievers all their lives,” he continues. “The kind of kid who runs for Student Council year after year and breaks records selling Girl Scout cookies. That sorta thing.”

  “Mmmmmm,” I say knowingly. That’s the Shannon who’s been rubbed in my face all my life.

  “Some of them are just naturally high-achieving,” Mr. Kibbits says, “and some are pushed by their parents to excel, excel, excel. Sometimes both.”

  Check and check, I say to myself.

  “By the time they get to my class—their junior or senior year—a lot of them are pretty burned out,” Mr. Kibbits says.

  I finger a lock of hair. “Burned out?”

  He nods. “Perfection is exhausting.”

  I never considered that. “So, Shannon was burned out?” I persist.

  He weighs his words carefully. “I think so. But just temporarily, in my opinion. She was so naturally driven that she was destined to do big things in a big way. But by the time I got to know her, she was starting to question whether all her hard work was worth the effort. She was starting to question lots of things. I think that’s why she started hanging with a different crowd—people like Chris and Jamie.”

  My eyes narrow. “Did she hate my mom?” I say it so fast I don’t have time to censor myself.

  He looks amused. “Don’t all teenage girls hate their mothers?”

  Not good enough. “Why did she hate her?” I suddenly feel fearless, like a reporter barking out questions at a press conference.

  He holds up the palm of his hand. “Whoa. I think I’m out of my depth here.”

  “She confided in you, right?”

  “Can I plead the fifth, Madame Prosecutor?” he jokes, but then turns serious. “Summer, I don’t think I’m in a position to …”

  “What about my dad?” I say, my words tumbling over each other. “She said she was going to tell you some secret about my dad.”

  Mr. Kibbits’ expression darkens.

  I lean closer. “Tell me.”

  His jaw hardens. “Summer,” he says firmly, “I don’t share information my students tell me in confidence. Keep that in mind, if you ever need someone to confide in.”

  My eyes stay locked with his. “Shannon’s dead,” I remind him. “You can tell me.”

  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.