The sad fact was, they used to be friends, best friends. When they were young, they used to take hikes together in the nearby forest preserve, have picnics in the backyard, share peanut butter-and-honey sandwiches, Pepsi from a thermos. They were sisters. Karen would walk Mindy to school, zip up her jacket, hold her hand when they crossed the street. She was very protective of her, a mother hen. For years they shared a room, clothes, toys, inside jokes. Mindy’s first audience was Karen, not me.
To be sure, they never were particularly sweet girls. As I have mentioned, Karen was always distant, Mindy, sarcastic. They sprang from Mary’s womb that way, their hardwire already in place. But when they were young, they had some sweetness in them, especially when it came to each other. I was there, I witnessed it. At night I would sometimes sing them the old Beach Boys song, “God Only Knows,” and listen to their shared giggles. I would watch them say their prayers, hear them bless each other out loud. God only knows what happened to them.
Whatever it was, it wasn’t right. They were sisters. They used to share a room. They had been through too much together. What happened? What unraveled? How did the bond break? The bond should never break. Wasn’t that the whole point of being sisters, of family? The bond should never break.
I drove fast, past another exit, the road vanishing underneath me, the gray sky looming low.
*
After Ethan had a meltdown because Karen wouldn’t let him put his head through the open sunroof (we stopped at a rest area and drove around the parking lot for ten minutes so he could scratch that itch); and after Mindy had a meltdown because her phone kept cutting out when her agent called about her first movie offer (we stopped at a gas station so she could finish discussing Upchuck Chuck, a film about a food critic with stomach issues); and after Karen had a meltdown because the florist from Charleston called to say they were still charging her/Mary/me the full amount for the undelivered flowers (we stopped at a Cracker Barrel parking lot where Karen told them exactly what they could do with their undelivered flowers); and after we stopped at what I thought was an authentic southern BBQ restaurant but was really a dump (Me: “Don’t judge a book by its cover. I’m sure the food is great!”); and after we stopped to go to the bathroom at various gas stations and truck stops because the pulled-pork sandwiches proved to be a poor and turbulent choice (Me, yelling: “I didn’t force anyone eat those sandwiches, okay? That was your decision”), we arrived exhausted at the Marriott in Myrtle Beach.
“I’m going to order room service,” Mindy said as we trudged across the hot parking lot. “I’m going to order a fucking gun so I can kill myself.”
“I am going to take a bath,” Mary said.
“Swimming!” Ethan said.
“I’ll take him,” Karen said.
“You will?” I was surprised by this offer. “Thank you, honey.”
She shrugged, grabbed Ethan’s hand, and dragged him away.
I stopped to fumble with my luggage while everyone walked ahead of me.
“Hey, let’s all meet for dinner at six thirty,” I called out. “That sound good? We’ll all have dinner together. Everyone! And enjoy the place. Costing me a lot of points. Enjoy it. It’s like we’re on vacation!”
*
At the hotel bar a few hours later, Mary said, “Do me a favor: don’t use the word vacation anymore.”
In a number of ways, and on a number of levels, my ex-sweet-sweetie and I were an odd couple, a mismatched pair of socks. I was optimistic to the point of delusional, she realistic to the point of grim. I was, at best, vague on details; she, at the at the very least, obsessed with specifics. I’m tall, blond, fair-skinned, blue-eyed; she’s short, brunette, dark-skinned, dark-eyed. I like the Sox, she likes the Cubs. Our lives together for thirty-some years had been a testament to opposites attracting. And make no mistake about it: for most of those thirty-some years, we were crazy for each other. Love, go figure.
Sitting next to me at the crowded Marriot bar, in her blouse that showed off her toned arms, jeans that fit just so, hair pulled back to reveal her wonderful and slightly bemused brown eyes, I felt that age-old attraction, and hoped, despite the circumstances, despite everything, she did too.
“Okay,” I said, “I won’t say ‘vacation’ anymore.”
We had spent the last few minutes tying up loose ends from the wedding, who we had heard from, what they had to say, who we still owed, who we didn’t, while eating unsalted peanuts from a red plastic bowl. An hour earlier Mary had surprised me with a call asking to meet for a drink. Reading too much into her offer, I immediately abandoned my plans to walk on the beach, threw on a new polo shirt, brushed my teeth, and obliged.
“I still can’t believe that whole thing happened. Or didn’t happen,” I said.
Mary shook her head.
“How’s she doing?”
Mary reached for a peanut. “You know her. Toughest girl alive.”
“She doesn’t look good. So pale.”
“She’s hurting, but she’ll be okay. I think she had doubts about him all along.”
Once again I wanted to call Roger a bastard, but I was under certain pot-calling-the-kettle-black constraints. Instead I said, “I’m disappointed in Roger.”
“He’s a bastard.”