But I stick to a more constructive point and one I’ve come to learn well in my own life. “It’s impossible to understand someone else’s relationship. They seemed very happy together…and maybe we need to focus on that…the fact that Daniel was happy when he died.”
“She would have broken his heart,” Josie says.
“Probably so,” I agree.
Josie sighs, a deep frown on her face. “So? Did you really tell Mom we were having dinner with her?”
I shake my head.
“I knew it,” she says. “Should we tell her?”
I shrug, having already asked myself this question several times since we left the restaurant. “We should probably tell her we saw her. But skip the details.”
Josie nods in agreement. “It would upset her more than us.”
“For sure…Sophie’s been a symbol to her. Or at least a comfort…Think about the stories she always tells about that visit…and her last talk with Daniel at the kitchen table. She loves knowing that Daniel was truly happy and deeply in love…that he experienced the sweetness of that….”
“Even if he loved her way more than she loved him?” Josie says.
“Even if,” I say, my mind drifting to Nolan again, wondering if that isn’t the happier place to be—the one loving more. “Do you want a cup of tea? Or a decaf?”
She shakes her head. “No. But I’ll take some bourbon or something….Is there any hard stuff here?”
“Yep. You’re in luck,” I say, standing on an acrylic stepladder to reach the cabinet where Ellen keeps her liquor. I pull down a bottle of Widow Jane whiskey, along with a rocks glass. Then, on second thought, I grab another glass for me, pour about two shots in each, then toss in some cubes of ice from the freezer.
“God, this is depressing,” I say, walking over to the sofa and handing her one of the glasses before I sit down beside her. “I mean—what are we doing here, anyway?”
“Well. You’re here on a sabbatical,” she says. “Remember?”
“Yeah, yeah,” I say. “You know what I mean….Look at us….Here we are…fifteen years later…all screwed up…and begrudging someone else her happiness. Maybe we just need to move on?”
Josie kicks her boots off, leaving them sprawled under the coffee table, then takes a long drink. She makes a face, puts down her glass, and nods. “Yeah. I know. We really do….That’s what I was sort of trying to say earlier, when I said that all of our problems seem related to Daniel….It just feels like we’ve never really gotten over the loss…the way Sophie did.”
I nod. “Yeah. But you can’t compare a short romance—even an intense one—to a relationship with a sibling.”
“True,” she says, her face twisting into an expression of deep, profound sadness. “You really can’t.”
A long moment of silence passes before she says my name, then turns to face me, leaning on one arm of the sofa.
“Yeah?” I say, looking at her.
“I need to tell you something….” She frowns, staring down at her hands clasped in her lap.
“Okay,” I say, turning to sit sideways, facing her.
“It’s the thing I came here to tell you…about Daniel,” she says, glancing up at me with a worried expression.
Feeling suddenly cold, I pull Ellen’s nubby throw blanket from the back of the sofa and drape it over our legs. “What is it?” I say.
Josie’s big blue eyes grow glassy, her lower lip quivering. It conjures a memory of how she used to cry on demand, just to get me in trouble. But this time, I can tell it’s sincere. She’s truly on the verge of tears, and I feel the sudden urge to protect her, reaching for her hands. She breathes, in and out, for what feels like a full minute, all the while holding my gaze and hands. Then she opens her mouth and starts to tell me a story. A story about the night Daniel died. Of her getting wasted at Five Paces. Of someone from the bar calling Daniel to come pick her up, take her home. There are more details, most of them trivial, but I have trouble following them all.
“No,” I finally say, letting go of her hands, shaking my head. “That isn’t what happened. He was going out to get a burger. That’s what he told Mom.”
“He lied to Mom. He was just covering for me,” Josie says, her face starting to contort in a valiant but unsuccessful attempt not to cry. Tears spill down her cheeks as she continues, “He was on his way to get me.”
“But that’s just a theory,” I say, my heart starting to race. “Right? I mean—how would you know that he was coming to get you? He died before he got there….He could have been going to get a burger. Right?”
She doesn’t reply or move a muscle, not even to wipe her tears.
“Josie?” I demand. “You don’t know that for sure, do you?”
“Yes,” she whispers. “I do, actually.”
“But how?” I say.
“I can’t tell you how,” she says.
“Why not?” I say, becoming more frantic and angry.
“Because. I promised someone I wouldn’t….”