“She wanted to go. I didn’t know. I thought it was just a party.” Paul’s words stumbled out of his mouth, a sob thick in the back of his throat, his body slumping down the wall as Stewart released him.
“Did you put her in the truck?” Stewart asked, every word a bite of venom. “Did you look into the eyes of the boy who killed her? Or were you too busy fucking around to worry about something as simple as our little sister’s life?”
Paul was silent, his head in his hands, shoulders racking as he tried to contain silent sobs.
“You fucking disgust me.” Stewart said, breathing hard, his face tight with barely restrained rage. I left my post by the wall, stepping forward, my eyes meeting Stewart’s, a fraction of a moment in time before I wrapped my arms around his chest. He gripped me tightly, so tightly it hurt, his need so great, his heart openly breaking between my arms. “She’s gone.” He whispered the words, his voice gravelly. “She’s fucking gone.” His voice broke and I felt the shake of him, his strong frame crumbling in my arms, his breath gasping as he buried his face in my hair. “What the fuck are we going to do?”
I held him, my own tears flowing, my eyes blocked from Paul by the wide expanse of Stewart’s chest. I wanted to go to him, to hug my little brother, but could feel the anger radiating from Stewart, mixing with his pain, the combination crippling him. I pulled back, looking up into his eyes. “Mom’s asking for you.”
He nodded, squeezing me one final time before stepping away, his eyes never going to Paul, his profile furious.
I waited until he left the room, pulling the door shut with a finality that hurt, then hurried to Paul, crouching down next to him. I wrapped my arms around him, shushing him as I felt him shake. When he moved, sitting up against the wall, his wet eyes staring straight ahead, I curved into him, his arms automatically moving around my shoulders, taking me into his embrace. “He hates me.” He whispered.
“He’s just in pain.” I said softly. “He’ll change Paul. He knows you were just trying to do the right thing.”
“I wasn’t. I was being fucking selfish.” He choked out. “I should have been with her. It was her night. It’s my fucking fault.” He tightened his arms around me and rested his head on mine, letting out a shuddering breath. “It’s my fucking fault and he knows it. He should hate me.”
“He doesn’t hate you. He loves you.” I said the words, and believed them to be true. But Stewart may have loved Jennifer more. And when one love kills another, can you still love them?
Stewart left minutes after the funeral ended. He and Paul didn’t see each other for three years, until Mom’s funeral. They framed her casket, two visions of handsome in black suits and somber faces. Then the separation continued. It has been seven years and three months since her death. Over seven years of silence.
The first few years, I ran ragged between the two of them. Attempting reconciliations. Planning peace-keeping holidays, birthdays, lunches. But the time has only increased the distance, and after two years of trying – Paul asked me to stay away. Said that it was too painful to see my face. Said that I reminded him too much of her. I fought it, continued to try. Then he changed his number, moved. Made his feelings crystal clear.
I hope that now, as an adult, Paul realizes the implications of his actions but also the reality of the true cause. Stewart buried him so deep in guilt that it took years for him to smile again, to realize that he is a good person who made a simple mistake. I think he now begrudges Stewart for those years of pain, when he was close to suicide over the loss of his sister and the overwhelming guilt he felt.
But Stewart... he still blames Paul for her death. And he is too proud to admit anything to the contrary.
They both loved her. So much. Almost too much. So much that her death was impossible to recover from, at least where their relationship was concerned.
And that brings me to the present. Another woman holds both of their hearts in her hands. Their relationship didn’t survive Jennifer. I’m worried their hearts won’t survive Madison. I have to protect them. I am their sister. It is my duty.
VENICE BEACH, CA
MADISON
The alarm chirps in our silent bedroom, soft yet insistent, my mind swimming through remnants of a dream as my hazy mind deciphers sleep from reality. I hear Paul groan, feel the bed shift as he rolls over, the knock and roll of bedside table items, and then silence. I open my eyes briefly to dawn light, and try to figure out what, where, and why the alarm would be going off.
Ugh. It comes to me, reality waking me with a cheerful smack on the head. Mother. I sit up, my brain momentarily gripping my skull, a painful reminder of what late night poker, cigar smoke, and too much Miller Lite can do to your head. Paul rolls over, reaching for me, and I lean down, ignoring the scream of pain in my head, and kiss his forehead. “Go back to sleep. I’ve got brunch with Mom.”
“Have fun.”
I playfully bite his earlobe, harder than is necessary, and he yelps, pulling the covers over his head and pushing me off. I head to the kitchen, bee-lining for aspirin and water.
Mother. I prepare myself, as I drive, for the inquisition that awaits me. Even though she has foiled most of her adult life, she still considers herself the foremost authority on my life, and will spend every moment of the upcoming event to make sure that my life is on the proper track. Parental guidance, doused in bourbon.
I enter the curving hills of Rancho Santa Fe a half-hour ahead of schedule, my convertible slowly winding through the familiar roads of my childhood. I have a brief moment of nostalgia for my diamond-encrusted upbringing, familiar homes and restaurants reminding me of shopping, teenage groping over the gearshifts of Ferraris, and spring break trips to Europe. I turn into the large gates of Maurice’s neighborhood and roll down my window.
“May I help you?” This neighborhood doesn’t believe in rent-a-cops. They employ off-duty police officers, give them crash courses in overkill, and then post them, like sentries, outside of million dollar gates.
“I’m here to visit Evelyn Fulton. My name is Madison Decater.” I pull out my identification, passing it to him, and ignore the death stare he seems intent on sending my way. He checks my trunk, a miniscule space barely big enough to hold a case of beer. Then we go through the song and dance where he quizzes me, verifying that I, in fact, know my mother’s address, that I am not staying for longer than four hours, and that Maurice and Mother are expecting my arrival. It’s a good thing I was ahead of schedule. Heaven forbid I miss a moment of brunch.
The gates finally open, the guard fixing me with a glare of the Bruce Lesnar variety, and I wave cheerily, cranking up the radio and pulling forward with a gentle squeal of tires. Five minutes later, I am lost.
Fuck. I stare at the giant Mediterranean villa before me. All of these homes look alike. Huge. Tile roofs. Palm trees. Dollar signs. When one home got a private gated entrance, they all did, the constant need to one-up each other steamrolling into a giant ball of allourhouseslookthesame. I have only been here a handful of times, my avoidance of Mother’s new life a dedicated one. It’s been six months since my last examination from that security guard, long enough to smear my compass and flush my memory of intelligent, directional thought.
I repeat the address in my head, reversing the car and looking for a street sign, some indicator of which part of Posh I inhabit. Nothing. This ridiculous excuse for a neighborhood doesn’t believe in street signs or house numbers, something so ghastly as numerical digits having no place in their architectural façade.