“It’s about Daniel,” she says, her voice cracking. “I need to talk to you about Daniel.”
All of my instincts tell me to say no—that Josie is somehow manipulating me and my situation, or otherwise pulling some sort of attention-grabbing stunt. But of all the things my sister’s been dramatic about over the years, our brother has never been one of them. I think back to the days immediately following the accident, how she disappeared into her room for hours on end while the rest of us milled about the kitchen. I think about her demeanor at the funeral—how self-contained and withdrawn she was. I can’t recall her crying at the service at all, and have a vivid memory of her standing apart from our family at Daniel’s graveside until my grandmother pulled her over to the front row of folding chairs, practically forcing her to sit down.
So on the off chance this is all legitimate, I sigh and say yes, she is welcome to come to New York this weekend.
—
JOSIE’S FLIGHT LANDS around seven on Friday night, and she pulls up in a taxi less than an hour later, just as I’m arriving home from the corner bodega. She sees me first, calling out my name through her open cab window. She is wearing her hair wavy and natural around her unmade-up face, and my first thought is that she looks stunning—way prettier than when she spackles on the makeup and irons all the life out of her hair. I try to wave, but my grocery bags are weighing down my arms, so I simply smile and yell hello, waiting for her to get out of the car. It takes her an unusually long time to pay her fare and finish chatting with her driver, and I feel myself growing annoyed. She is the kind of person who will finish her phone call and touch up her lip gloss while someone waits for her spot in a packed parking lot. It makes me crazy.
I tell myself to stop my mental rant, then take a deep breath. I have enough on my plate right now. A few seconds later, her door swings open, and she plants a black suede platform boot onto the street, before heaving a giant roller bag out of the backseat.
“Perfect timing!” she declares as she gets out of the taxi, slams the door, and waves goodbye to her cabbie.
“Yeah, I just ran to the store.” I smile brightly while eyeing her suitcase. “That’s a lot of luggage for two nights,” I can’t resist saying.
“I know, I know….I’m a terrible packer. I just threw a bunch of stuff in before school this morning.” She steps toward me, then throws her arms around me. “It’s so good to see you, Mere.”
I lower my plastic bags to the sidewalk and hug her back, stiffly at first. Then I relax, as I realize that in spite of my cynicism, I’m genuinely happy to see her. We separate, and I watch her glance up, then down the block, as if to get her bearings. She then squints and points up at Ellen’s building. “That’s it, right?”
“Yes. Fourth floor. It’s a walk-up,” I say with a grimace. “No elevator.”
“That’s okay. I need the workout,” she says, making a muscle, then motioning toward my grocery bags and asking if we’re eating in tonight.
That hadn’t been my plan, but I say yes anyway, trying to gauge her reaction. “Would that be okay with you?”
“Sure,” she says, passing the test—at least for now. “Whatever you want to do is cool with me….”
I smile, then turn and lead her up the stone steps of Ellen’s building. We walk into the bare-bones lobby, past the small grid of mail slots, then enter the musty stairwell. All the while, Josie rambles about how tired she is, what a long week it’s been, how exhausting it is to be a teacher, especially with young children who have no self-control or respect for your personal space. After two flights, she’s completely winded, and by the third, she has to put her bag down to catch her breath.
“How many pairs of shoes did you bring? Tell the truth….” I say.
“Oh, I don’t know…four or five.” She flashes me a sheepish, yet somehow still proud smile.
“Including the pair you’re wearing?”
“Okay. So five or six,” she says.
“And yet…you’d be okay staying in?” I say as we climb the last flight.
“I said yes,” she says. “Why do you keep asking me that?”
“I’ve only asked you twice.”
“Right. But I already said yes….Whatever you want is fine, Mere.”
“Okay,” I say, rounding the corner, then unlocking Ellen’s door and pushing it open. Once inside, I put my groceries down and slowly remove my boots, lining them neatly up next to the doormat, her cue to do the same. But of course she does not, sauntering right past the entryway, her filthy airplane-airport-city-sidewalk boots clunking on the hardwood.
“Hey, Josie,” I say. “Your shoes?”
She rolls her eyes and says she was just about to take them off; would I please give her a chance?