“That’s true.” Sylvie appeared to consider this. “But I don’t usually tell them about my dreams and visions. I’ll keep this one to myself, for a little while. Will you tell Alice that you came here?”
“God, no.” Sylvie didn’t know about the lie Julia had told, and Julia didn’t feel inclined to explain. She remembered, with her sister in front of her, that part of the reason she’d killed William off was that she’d been scared that Alice would leave Julia to live in Chicago, because Alice would love Sylvie more than her own mother. That had been a ridiculous concern; Julia knew that now. But the younger Julia had felt like it was possible, because she had always loved Sylvie more than she loved everyone else. Julia loved her now, across the wooden table. She had closed a door on Sylvie long ago and triple-locked it, and that had worked until William’s phone call. Now, with her sister in the same room, Julia was aware of how badly she’d missed her.
This wasn’t a hallucination, Julia thought, but at the same time, no one in her life knew she was in Chicago. This wasn’t on her calendar, which meant this moment could exist as a barnacle on the outside of her real life. She was here and yet not here, in a state of quantum uncertainty. “Look,” she said, “I’m glad you feel bad about what happened. But you probably did me a favor by visiting William in the hospital. I wondered why his doctor didn’t ask for more from me than a single phone call, but that was because you were there. If you’d left him alone like I wanted you to, eventually I would have had to help him. Mama would have made me. Or someone would have needed to sign some paperwork. But you stepped in, and that let me leave. I’m grateful for that.”
Sylvie looked at her, and Julia could see the years of their separation on her face. Julia could no longer read Sylvie perfectly. She didn’t know what her sister was thinking right now. Julia remembered how frantic she’d felt the last time she saw Sylvie. Her husband had left her, then tried to kill himself, then left her again, and Julia had accepted a job far away from her sisters and home. That collection of weeks had pulled her life out from under her like a rug. Julia had devoted herself to not losing control of her circumstances like that ever again, and she hadn’t, until recently.
“Tell me about New York,” Sylvie said. “Tell me about Alice.”
“Alice,” she said, and paused.
Her sister was beaming at her from across the table. Julia remembered Sylvie holding baby Alice in her arms. There was a photograph of the two of them together, in Julia’s bedside drawer. Julia could see now, on Sylvie’s face, a truth she had overlooked. Sylvie had loved Alice with all her heart. Somehow it hadn’t occurred to Julia that she’d separated the two of them when she left Chicago. She’d worried about the possibility of Alice loving Sylvie, but only as a future risk, not as something that had already happened. But Sylvie was lit up and longing to hear news about the baby girl to whom she’d whispered, I love you, every time she saw her.
“She’s great,” Julia said. “Well, not great, maybe, but good. She graduated cum laude from college, which was fantastic. She has a decent job as a copy editor. Let’s see. She’s a runner; she runs in Prospect Park every morning.” Julia felt Sylvie’s quizzical gaze and remembered lying next to her sister in the dark, in the bedroom where they never told each other anything but the truth. They might twist words for other people, but not for each other. Julia said, “I’m afraid I messed her up, though.” She told her sister about how careful her daughter’s smile was, how deliberately engineered her carefree demeanor was, how uneventful Alice’s life was. Julia told her something Rose had said recently: that Alice lived like a cat who refused to leave its cardboard box.
Sylvie smiled at this. “She’s still a baby,” she said. “Do you remember how young we were when we were twenty-five? If there’s something wrong, you have time to fix it.”
Fix it, Julia thought. Could she fix it? In her sister’s company, she felt brave enough to consider this possibility. She had a sense of what it would take. Julia would have to leap off a cliff, without knowing if she could survive the fall.
“We haven’t touched each other,” Sylvie said. “You and I. Do you realize that? We haven’t hugged. Which makes sense if this isn’t real. Ghosts don’t hug, because they would pass through each other. Ghosts just enjoy each other’s company.”
Julia smiled at her sister’s whimsy. Sylvie was part of her, and in their separation, Julia had missed these kinds of thoughts. Sylvie was the part of her who walked out of the pages of a novel, who kissed boys for ninety seconds for fun, who talked about third doors and ghosts as easily as she made a grocery list. Maybe she and her sister were ghosts, or hallucinations, or maybe it didn’t matter. Julia was aware that she felt better—happier, more relaxed—than she had in a long time. She was supposed to be in a different city. She was with Sylvie, whom she’d excised from her life a quarter of a century earlier. Julia felt a shot of joy rise through her like bubbles to the surface of a glass. She was free of her real self, of her real life, for a few hours, and when Julia left for the airport a little while later, she and Sylvie both knew—although neither spoke the words out loud—that Julia would return. They’d found a loophole, which allowed them to be together without anyone’s knowledge, which meant this time meant nothing, which meant everything.
Alice
November 2008
Alice waited for her mother at the Greek restaurant that Julia liked. She didn’t mind her mother being late. During work hours, Alice lived in her head and in whatever manuscript she was editing—questioning the details of each line—so after hours she initially found conversation, with its awkward pauses, questions, and changes of topic, challenging. She liked her work for the quiet and for the details. She was able to take a book and check, change, and verify that every single fact and timeline was airtight. When she was finished with a manuscript, she knew—and her employer appreciated—that it was as correct as was humanly possible.
The waiter kept refilling Alice’s water, and she kept drinking because it felt like the polite thing to do after he’d gone to the effort.
“I don’t want to be rude,” the waiter said, when he came by with the water pitcher again. “But do you play for the Liberty?”
“No, I work in publishing,” Alice said.
The waiter blushed. “I’m sorry. I just thought…”