“How could I forget such a thing?” she says. “No offense. I mean—you and I are clearly very different.”
“Clearly,” I say, marveling that we actually share the same parents and upbringing. In the next instant, I think of the only other person in the world who shared our genes and childhood. I glance at the clock—5:50—an ingrained habit whenever I remember my brother. For a long time, Daniel was my very first thought of the day, even before my eyes opened or my head lifted from the pillow. Now, all these years later, I sometimes make it until midmorning—or even later in the day—though I’m never quite sure if this is a sign of progress or a source of guilt. To mitigate the latter, I clear my throat and say his name aloud. “I bet Daniel would have driven a minivan.”
Josie’s face clouds the way it always does when I mention our brother. Then she shakes her head and says, “Hell, no. Surgeons don’t drive minivans.”
“Practical ones with small children do,” I reply, thinking there are few things in life as satisfying as that little button that automatically opens a sliding door before you buckle or unbuckle your helpless offspring.
“Practical ones with small children and taste…do not,” she says.
“Thank you very little,” I say with a glare.
“You’re welcome,” she says with a smile, confirming my constant suspicion that on some level, she enjoys conflict, especially conflict with me.
I push my luck. “Speaking of Daniel, Mom called yesterday….”
“Daniel and Mom are interchangeable now?”
“Can I finish?”
She shrugs, then corrects me the way she would her students. “Yes, you may finish.”
“She was talking about the fifteen-year anniversary,” I begin, choosing my words carefully, and feeling resentful for having to do so. If I could change one thing about Josie—and there are many, many things I’d change—it would be the way she has handled our loss of Daniel. The impenetrable wall she’s built around him and his memory.
“Anniversary?” she says, picking up her beer, then putting it back on the counter without taking a sip. “I’d hardly call it an anniversary.”
“It actually is an anniversary.”
She shakes her head. “Anniversaries connote celebration. Years you’ve been married…good stuff…not accidents and death.”
It is the most she’s said about Daniel in ages, and in some sick way, the words accidents and death, spoken aloud, feel like a small victory to me. “An anniversary is the date on which something occurred in the past. Good or bad,” I say, keeping my voice soft. I almost stand up to put my arm around her, but we aren’t a hugging family. At least we haven’t been in years. So I stay put at my desk and watch her from a comfortable distance.
Josie swallows, staring down at her toes, painted a bright orange hue. I remember the time I told her that people with chubby toes should stick to neutral polish. It was a little rude, I guess, but I’d only been kidding. She still freaked, then stated for the record that she’d rather have chubby toes than stubby legs, and I swear her toes have been neon ever since.
When she doesn’t look back up, I say her name. “Josie? Did you hear what I said?”
She says yeah, she heard me.
“So Mom wants us to do something. The three of us. Maybe even invite Dad.”
“She’d have to talk to him first,” Josie snaps. “Besides, he has a new girlfriend.”
“He does?” I ask, feeling a stab of resentment, but also jealousy that she has a closer relationship with our father. “Since when?”
“Since…I don’t know…months ago.”
“Do I know her?” I ask, thinking they can’t be that serious—there was no sign of her on Facebook and it was something his girlfriends always did: post photos, often on trips or at his Lake Burton house, then tag him so they show up in his feed.
She shrugs and says, “Her name’s Marcia….She’s a court reporter.” She then proceeds to type on an imaginary keyboard as I picture a girl with a lot of cleavage and red acrylic nails.
“How old is she?”
“Why do you always ask that?”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know…mid-forties…divorced…two sons….So what does Mom have in mind for this awkward ‘anniversary,’ anyway? A fancy dinner? A little spin with the Ouija board?”
“Josie!” I cringe.
“What?” she asks. “You know Mom believes in that weird shit.”
“She doesn’t believe in Ouija boards….She believes in signs.”
“Well, it’s ridiculous. There are no signs. Daniel’s not making rainbows appear or dropping pennies on the sidewalk,” Josie says with a disdainful look on her face. “And you still haven’t answered my question. What does she have in mind to commemorate the anniversary of a tragic car accident?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “Maybe take a trip.”