Her perkiness resurfaces. “Terrific! I can’t wait to get started.”
Prolific Yale prodigy though she may be, I decide it’s in my best interest to spell everything out for Ashley. With that in mind, I type up a detailed assignment e-mail, instructing her to hold off on the sidebar until she gathers the rest of the material and I’ve had a chance to think about the topic. Almost as an afterthought, I add a separate paragraph at the end:I know you’re juggling work for other editors, but I do expect this story to be a priority; it’s a very important project for me. If you fall behind or have trouble with the research or experts, let me know right away.
She e-mails back immediately:I wouldn’t dream of doing anything else.
Seventeen
I can’t believe how nice this place is,” Sarah says to me. We’re sitting on the couch at Dave’s new apartment. Correction: our apartment, as I am almost entirely moved in, although the majority of my boxes remain unpacked.
“And I still can’t believe you’re actually here!” I respond, referring to the fact that she called me last week to let me know she and Marcus decided to fly to New York for a last-minute weekend getaway. In the nine years I’ve been living here, Sarah has come to visit exactly twice. Her first trip, which was a few months after I moved to the city, went poorly, to say the least: I gave her the wrong directions to my apartment, she ended up in a scary section of the Bronx, and was so rattled by the experience that she didn’t come to New York again until two years ago for a mandatory work conference. On that visit, she refused to leave the Times Square vicinity. The only time I saw her was for dinner at Ruby Tuesday, where we were seated next to a group of teenage German tourists who were so loud we could barely hear ourselves chew, let alone talk to each other.
“The travel package was such a good deal, and when Marcus’s sister said she could watch Ella, we were sold. Plus, now that you and Dave are getting serious, we figured we should probably give him a good grilling,” she says, looking pointedly at the kitchen where Dave and Marcus are chatting.
“I don’t think we’re that serious,” I tell her, and glance over at Dave, who has somehow managed to make jeans and a polo look like the hottest thing I’ve ever seen on a man.
Sarah pokes me in the side. “Um, news flash, sis. Living together is usually considered serious.”
“Spoken like a true Midwesterner,” I tell her. “In New York, living together is practically a business deal. Besides, cohabitation is something you holy rollers frown upon, no?”
“Well, premarital sex is also out of the question, and you know how that turned out,” Sarah says, referring to the fact that she was pregnant with Ella when she and Marcus got married.
“Then there’s no point in telling you I’m contagious—you’ve already got the heathen fever.”
“You know it.”
“So . . . how are things with you and Marcus?” I ask in a low voice, so he can’t hear me.
Sarah tucks one foot under her thigh and shifts to face me. “Better, actually,” she says. “A lot better. I didn’t talk to him about the bimbo, but I did tell him that I need more attention, and he’s really stepped it up.”
“That’s good,” I tell her, and look at Marcus, who is gesturing animatedly as he bickers with Dave about Johnny Damon and the fate of the Red Sox. “But don’t you think you should say something about her?”
“Why would I?” Sarah asks, frowning. “I feel like he’ll just be paranoid and act uncomfortable around Tina—that’s her name—which will be weird for everyone. We’re in a small group with her and her husband now.”
“Small group?”
“It’s a Bible-study-type thing,” she explains. “It means that in addition to seeing her at church, I now see her every Thursday night, too.”
“Um, sis?” I say. “You know I love you, but did it ever occur to you to switch to another group? One without Tina the Temptress?”
“You always were the smart one in this family,” she says, pretending to look pensive, and we both giggle.
“So, there’s something I need to tell you,” Sarah tells me later that evening while we’re clearing the makeshift card table we ate dinner on.
“What?” I ask, slightly alarmed by the tone of her voice.
“Calm down—it’s nothing huge. It’s just that I ran into . . .”
“Julia?”
“Let me finish, motormouth.” Then she whispers, “Nathan.”
“Shut up! How do you remember what he even looks like?” I whisper back, glancing at Dave and Marcus, who are practically comatose on the couch watching television.
“I didn’t at first. I mean, keep in mind that I only saw him a handful of times while you guys were dating,” she says, and motions for me to follow her into the bedroom, where Dave and Marcus are out of earshot. “I ran into him while I was doing errands last week. He thought I was you for a minute—he called your name when he saw me.”
“ No.”
“Yes. He realized right away that I wasn’t you—”
“Obviously, as you’re thinner and prettier—”
“Please. Anyway, I asked if he meant Marissa Rogers, and when he said yes, I said I was your sister and introduced myself. Reintroduced myself, technically.”
“What happened?” I ask eagerly, unable to disguise my excitement. Ancient history or not, some stupid little part of me wants to know that the book he gave me wasn’t just a goodwill gesture. That, as ridiculous as I recognize this wish to be, he’s still attracted to me . . . and not Julia.
“Well, he wanted to know how you were doing.”
“And?”
“I said you were great. That you were working as an editor and living in New York, which he apparently already knew, and that you were dating a really terrific guy. He said he was happy to hear it, and asked if you were engaged.” This makes my heart skip a beat, but I try to look normal, and Sarah continues. “I told him you weren’t, but that it was only a matter of time,” she says protectively. As she recounts the encounter, it dawns on me that sometime over the past few months, my sister has gone from being a disinterested party in my life to being my friend. It’s an unexpected but welcome change.
“Did he say anything about us seeing each other in November? Or about Julia?”
“That’s the weird thing,” says Sarah. “Not that the entire scene wasn’t weird. But given what you told me about the last time you saw him, I couldn’t help but pry a little.”
“We’re obviously from the same gene pool.” I laugh.
“Just doing my sisterly duty,” Sarah says, and salutes me. “So I told him that you were holding up especially well given Julia’s accident. Then I said, ‘You know Julia, right? I think Marissa said you guys talk?’”
“Nooo.”
“You’re very welcome. So he says, ‘Oh, yeah, Julia. I heard she’s doing a lot better.’ Like he’s getting his news from someone other than her! I think he figured I’d end up telling you about it and wanted to make it seem like they weren’t in contact. He clearly has no idea that I know the whole sordid ordeal.”
“Wow. What does he have to hide?” I wonder out loud. Maybe my instincts weren’t entirely off—maybe there is something going on between them after all. “Well, regardless, thank you for telling me,” I tell Sarah, and give her a hug.
She laughs and hugs me back. “Don’t thank me. I didn’t want to say anything—as far as I’m concerned, this guy is not someone you should be your wasting mental energy on. He’s not good for your relationship with Dave, or for your relationship with Julia, for that matter. But I realized that I’d want to know if I were you. So there you have it.”
“There I have it.” I nod. “The question is, what do I do with it? I feel like I’m not going to have any peace until I know what’s going on with Nathan and Julia.”
“Are you sure you really want the truth?” Sarah asks.
“Pretty sure.”
“Get your answers, then forget the whole thin
g.”
Not an hour after I wave good-bye to Sarah and Marcus, I get a FedEx delivery from Julia. As I rip open the cardboard, I smile wistfully; I’m glad my sister and I are growing closer, but her visit made me realize just how much I’ve missed Julia lately.
The second the box’s contents fall onto my lap, my nostalgia is replaced with a feeling of dread, and I wish to God I’d left the package on the stoop.
Atop three framed photographs, I find a greeting card with a syrupy photo of a kitten sleeping in a basket, with a brief note from Julia scribbled inside:Marissa,
I was looking through my old stuff in Mom and Dad’s basement and found these. Of course, I had to send them to you! Look at how young and happy we were. I wish we could go back in time, before the accident. Sorry to sound depressing but it’s true. I miss you tons, my dear.
xoxo, Julia
If I hadn’t already seen the pictures, Julia’s letter would have had me in tears. Not a day goes by that I don’t wish we could rewind time and change what happened on that fated September evening. But as I stare down at the faded three-by-five images in their white wooden frames, there is no question that things will never, ever be the same again.
The first photograph is harmless enough: It’s Julia and me, arm in arm, just after our high school graduation. She looks shockingly similar to the way she would at thirty, which is to say, glowing and beautiful. Me, not so much—but I’m happy to see that at I look far better in the fourth decade of my life than I did in the second. Regardless, Julia’s right: The happiness on our faces is unmistakable.
The second picture is similar. Taken the summer between our freshman and sophomore years of college, Julia and I are washing her car in Jim and Grace’s driveway. Our T-shirts and shorts drenched, we’re laughing hysterically and threatening to turn the hose on whoever snapped the photo.
The third picture, however, sends my stomach lurching. It’s Julia, Nathan, and me, at the bar the night that started it all. I remember Julia, who loved to chronicle our outings, had her camera with her, although I don’t remember the photo being taken, nor who took it. As in the two other shots, Julia is happy, and Nathan is giving his best dimpled grin. I’m attempting to smile, but there’s an unmistakably sad, almost haunting, uncertainty in my eyes. How could Julia have missed the fact that I look miserable? And even if she didn’t notice, why would she think it was okay to send me this photo after seeing how upset I was when she orchestrated the Nathan meet-and-greet?
I look at the photos one last time before throwing them back in the box Julia mailed them in and stashing the whole mess in my closet. I don’t like the third photo one bit, but I hate what it stands for even more. Julia used to tell me what was on her mind, no matter what. Now she seems unable to communicate with me unless it’s through passive-aggressive messages. Well, I decide resolutely, I am not going to engage in her twisted games. She’s going to have to start operating under my rules.
I sit on my bed and dial Julia’s cell.
“It’s Marissa.”
“Oh, hi,” she says, out of breath.
“You have a minute?”
“Of course,” she says, panting into the phone. “Sorry, I just finished with a ballet class.”
“Really? I thought you couldn’t dance? That’s good, though,” I tell her, reminding myself not to let Julia veer the conversation so far off track that I can’t bring it back around to the photos.
“Yes. Too bad it made me want to drown myself in the river,” she says flatly and then, as though an afterthought, forces a laugh.
“Whoa, not so fast, Ophelia. What’s the deal?”
“I can’t remember anything.”
“Oh.”
We sit in silence for a minute, which should be comforting—although we’re known for our marathon chats, Julia is one of the few people with whom I can easily spend time with without speaking—but in this case, it just underscores the tension that I’m feeling.
Finally, she clears her throat and continues. “It’s bad enough that they won’t let me do any leaps because of my head,” she says. “Then I get to class and I can’t even remember stuff that a toddler should know. Like, positions were a challenge.”
“I’m really sorry,” I tell her. “Is this the first time you’ve danced since the accident?”
“Second.”
“Well, it’s going to take some time, no?” I say, recalling a study I came across last week. It said it could take a brain injury sufferer more than a dozen times of recalling something to have it finally click. Then again, given what I read about false memory, I wonder if the recalled memory is actually the real one—or if it’s just something the person eventually relearns. I file this question away as possible fodder for my story.
“Screw time,” says Julia angrily, her high pitch making her sound like a pubescent boy trying to act tough. “I’m trying to live my life right now. Not tomorrow. Not next week.”
“I know,” I tell her, and walk over to the window. It’s raining lightly, and the grass in the backyard looks spongy and gray.
“No, you don’t,” she says, now sounding more tired than anything.
“You’re right. I don’t,” I admit. “But I do know that this has got to be really difficult, and that makes me sad.”
“I don’t need your pity.”
I swallow hard, thinking about how to respond. Then I say, “Julia, I don’t pity you. But like you said in the card you just sent, it’s impossible not to wish the accident hadn’t happened. Particularly when it means that you have to go through things like not remembering how to dance.”
“So you got my package?” she says, sounding slightly more upbeat than she did a second ago.
I take a deep breath. “Yes, I got it this afternoon. I really appreciate you sending me something—that meant a lot to me. But, Jules, I have to ask: What the heck were you thinking, giving me a photo of us with Nathan? I know you know that things went badly in November. And you still haven’t answered my question about what exactly is going on between the two of you. Am I supposed to take that picture as a sign that you’re dating?”
Julia sighs audibly. “I told you, I’d never do anything to hurt you.”
Is that why you made me give up what might have been the love of my life? I wonder, but say nothing.
After a minute, Julia continues. “Mar, Nathan’s just a friend who helps me out sometimes.”
“Helps you out? How’s that?”
“Well, he’s been giving me apartment leads, and sometimes he makes me a meal if I stop by the restaurant.”
Now it’s my turn to sigh. I think about how Nathan used to whip up four-course meals for me in his tiny rental kitchen; food was always his idea of romance. Which means that my instincts about the two of them may be right, even if they haven’t actually started a relationship yet.
“That still doesn’t explain why you got in touch with him in the first place,” I tell Julia. “Or did he get in touch with you?”
Silence.
“Julia?”
“Marissa, I’m lonely. You’re not here for me. I don’t have any friends left in Ann Arbor. What am I supposed to do?”
“Jules, I’m lonely, too. And you know I’m doing all I can to support you. I’m sorry I can’t be in Michigan right now, but I’m going to visit as much as I can.”
“It’s not the same anymore,” she sniffs. “You and I, we were a team. And now I’m all alone.”
Brain injury or not, Julia still remembers exactly how to push all of my buttons. I don’t want to feel guilty—I didn’t shove her in front of the cab, nor did I decide that she needed to move back to Ann Arbor—but I do all the same. Because she’s right. She is all alone, in the middle of the Midwest, while I’m in New York living out the dream life that we’d conjured up together so many years ago.
“Okay,” I concede. “I’m sorry. Just please, please, no more Nathan references, okay?”
“Okay!” she says, obviously thrilled tha
t I’m not going to push the issue any further.
And once again, I let it go.
Eighteen
For exactly fifty-seven hours each week, I am not working, sleeping, or commuting. I take this precious, fleeting free time very seriously. So I’d be lying if I said I enjoyed spending a sunny weekend in February attending Take the Lead training. However, I promised Naomi I would help her, so I plastered a smile on my face and committed to mastering the fine art of communicating with nine- to eleven-year-old girls. Two full days of ice-breakers, seminars, group exercises, and educational videos later, I was deemed coach-worthy.
The minute I step in front of the dozen eager, quizzical faces staring at me from their semicircle, I wish to God coaching would have lasted three times as long. I am wholly and completely unprepared to help these little humans reach their full potential. In fact, I’m sure that the only guidance I should be offering them is how to get to the bathroom.
“Don’t be nervous,” Naomi whispers, then claps several times to get everyone’s attention. “Hi, girls! I’m really happy to see all of you. I’m Coach Naomi, this is Coach Alanna,” she says, nodding at the lanky brunette I just met a few minutes ago. “Those of you who were here last season might be surprised to see that we have a new third coach. Please welcome Coach Marissa.”
“Hi, Coach Marissa,” they say, their voices echoing off the walls of the gym where we will be meeting each Tuesday afternoon for the next four months.
“Hi, girls,” I say, as the butterflies in my stomach reveal themselves to be flesh-eating caterpillars.
A string bean wearing a SpongeBob T-shirt raises her hand. I glance at her name tag, smile, and say, “Yes, Lisa?” as I was instructed to do in training.
“Where is Coach Beverly?” she demands.
“Coach Beverly moved to Los Angeles for her job,” says Alanna, addressing Lisa in a slow, childish voice. I look over at Naomi, who seems nonplussed by the baby whisperer’s patronizing tone. “Coach Marissa was nice enough to take her place. Now, why don’t each of you introduce yourselves, and tell us one thing that most people probably don’t know about you?”
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