Where the River Runs

Sissy’s new white Jaguar was parked under the live oak, moss brushing the leather convertible roof. I groaned. Just what I needed—I thought she and Penn weren’t coming until next week. Mother hadn’t said a word about Sissy being there.

I had planned on telling Mother about the fire, but not with Sissy’s honey-laced curls straightened into a bouncy bob and her lip-lined pout and Chanel suit on a two-hundred-degree day. Somehow the moisture and heat here never affected Sissy, while my hair wilted and my clothes sagged before I reached the porch.

I opened the front door and called out for either Mother or Sissy. A rustling came from the library and I opened the double French doors. A gasp stifled itself in the base of my throat; Sissy was crumpled on the edge of the couch. Her hair fell in loose curls to her shoulders. She wore a pair of jeans and a wrinkled peach button-down blouse.

I entered the room, whispered, “What’s wrong? Are the girls okay?” All I identified was something completely amiss.

Sissy looked up with swollen eyes, a red-blotched face. “Penn has a mistress. An honest-to-God-lives-in-a-condo-he-bought mistress.”

She lifted a crushed lace handkerchief to her face and blew her nose. “You want to know how long?”

I shook my head. No, I did not want to know how long. I glanced at Mother sitting upright in the green velvet chair, a glass of sherry in her hand.

A laugh bubbled up from my throat. Mother gasped. Sissy had never cursed in her life as far as I knew.

I stood amazed at how much of the McFadden family’s facade was falling away, as if some seismic shift had taken place. I went to Sissy, wrapped my arms around her. “No, it’s not funny.” I hugged her. “I’m so sorry. What happened? How did you find out?”

Mother stood. “I’m sure it is much too painful for her to repeat.” Her face was blanched. It would be better if this were happening to me—at least that, Mother could understand. But not Sissy.

“I found his skinny blond girlfriend on top of him in the back of his BMW in the parking lot of his office complex.” She shivered. “Could you throw up? I’d gone to drop some papers off for him that he’d forgotten at home. There they were in the parking deck. My God, you’d think if he’d bought her a condo, he could’ve at least made it there, not the parking deck.”

Mother took a long sip of her drink. “I forgot to mention it—Sissy is having a crisis here. We have to figure out what to do. . . .”

I sat down on the couch. “Doesn’t matter why I’m here. What can we do? Where are the girls?”

Sissy softened; her shoulders slumped forward. “Upstairs. I think they’re actually scared to death. I didn’t tell them what happened. I just threw them in the car and came here. They don’t need to know. . . .” She burst into sobs again. “It’ll ruin them forever.”

“No, children do not need to know disgusting things like this,” Mother said.

I stared at the ceiling, seeing the similarities in the way we protected our children, shielded them. “So we just let them think we’re all perfect and then they never understand why they’re not?”

I waved my hand in the air. “Okay, what can I do to help, Sissy? What do we do now?”

Sissy wiped her face with the handkerchief. “I can’t think straight—I don’t know. Right now I’m going to go talk to the girls. Then . . .” Her voice cracked. “Then . . . I have no idea.”

“We’ll figure it out. We will definitely figure it out.” I patted her knee.

“No. I just have some things to take care of. And—” I glanced at Mother, who definitely could not take one more shock today; the symptoms of a hysterical fit were etched all over her tight face and listless eyes. “I’m going to go get my bags. . . . Are the girls in my old room?”

“Yes . . .” Sissy stood, then sat, then stood again as if she couldn’t figure out even the simplest motions. “I’ll move them to the guest room in the attic cove.”

I nodded, almost feeling the unopened wooden box under the bed in my hand, my tattered quilt over my body.

“Meridy, don’t be so selfish. Let the girls stay where they are,” Mother said.

Sissy rolled her eyes. “Mom, let Meridy have her room. For God’s sake, there are a lot more things to worry about than that. The girls don’t care and neither do I. They don’t like sleeping in the same bed anyway.” Sissy stood, walked out and slammed the door.

Mother and I exchanged raised eyebrows. “Okay, then. I’ll be getting my things. Do you have any more news about Tulu?” I asked.

“I’ll go see her tomorrow.” I glanced over my shoulder as I moved to leave the room.

“Oh . . . how come my family is falling apart now . . . and Dewey not here?” Mother lifted her glass, then set it on the side table. “I never thought these kinds of things would happen now. . . .”

“The worst parts?” I left to grab my suitcase, laptop computer and papers. Yes, the worst parts.

My bedroom swallowed some of the loneliness and battered emotions. But a deeper fear arrived—Cate and now Sissy. Was I better than them? No, much worse. So why would Beau be any different than these men who had seemed so . . . devoted?

I slipped on my tennis shoes, walked down the hall and knocked on Sissy’s door, not knowing what I could or would say, but knowing I had to try to find some words to comfort her.

She opened the door in her white cotton gown. “What are you doing?” she asked, glanced at my shoes.

She backed into the room, slumped onto her bed. “Meridy, I don’t even have the energy to take a walk down the hall. No.”

I sat next to her. “I’m so sorry you’re going through this, Sissy. I really am.”

She looked up at me. “See, here’s the problem—I just don’t get it. I’ve tried so hard to do everything right, to be so good, and look where it got me. You never tried that hard . . . and you’re fine. It’s so backward and unfair and—”

“I don’t know you’re talking about. . . . I try too.” Anger attempted to rise, then sank in the empathy I felt for my sister.

“Maybe now you do . . . but you didn’t when we were kids.” She lay back on the bed, sighed.

“Why do I feel like you’re picking a fight?” I said, but smiled and tousled her hair.

Sissy rolled her head toward me. “I’m sorry. . . . I’m just so pissed off. It’s not you. You walked in the room at the wrong time. I’m sorry. . . . Your life is so . . . perfect and mine is all screwed up now.”

“I really thought that if I did everything right, nothing like this would happen to me. Isn’t that ridiculous? Like being good is insurance on love.”

“Maybe the love we need or want isn’t the kind we deserve. . . . It isn’t a prize or . . . something. I don’t know. I’m still trying to figure it out myself. Let’s just find out what would help you right now.”

“Sleep, sleep would be good.” She closed her eyes and curled into a ball.

I lay down next to her and held on to her hand. And at that moment there weren’t words to be said, or platitudes to offer, or even a parable to quote—only a hand to be held. After a while, her breath softened, then evened out into the rhythm of sleep I’d heard from her my entire childhood.