At the kitchen sink, I wash my hands with an ancient sliver of soap and glance over at Penny. “Except for mopping the floor, we’re about done with the kitchen, Penn.” I keep my voice low. “Do you think we should move into the living room and give Ginger a hand with that bookcase? She might want to talk.”
“Good idea. Just let me haul this trash bag to the Dumpster.” While Penny secures a huge garbage bag, I dry my hands and go into the living room, where Ginger has been working in silence for more than an hour. She has stacked a mountain of books by her knee, set a couple of books on the sofa, and piled a huge collection of papers, booklets, and other printed materials against the wall.
I know I ought to comfort her, but I’ve never known how to approach Ginger. Earlier, when I was rubbing her back, I felt like I was soothing a cactus.
“Grandma Lillian was quite the pack rat.” I pick up a theater program for Guys and Dolls. “Anything interesting in all that stuff?”
Ginger barely lifts her head. “A couple of things. Found my wedding announcement, along with yours and Penny’s. Your first weddings, that is.”
Not knowing how to take that remark, I sit on the edge of the couch. “I didn’t even send out invitations when Wort and I got married. I e-mailed a couple of close friends who promised to stand up with us, and that was it.”
Ginger’s eyes narrow. “I wondered why you didn’t invite us.”
“Would y’all have come?”
She snorts softly. “I don’t know. But I thought you’d at least send an announcement. We are sisters, after all. And Michael and I did take you in for a year.”
So … she’s reminding me that I owe her one, or chiding me because I’ve apparently forgotten that fact. “I’m sorry I didn’t invite y’all to my wedding,” I say, trying to appear nonchalant. “But if it’ll make you feel better, I want you and Michael to come to my funeral.”
“Very funny.”
“I’m not kidding.”
“Then don’t hold your breath. I’ll probably croak long before you do because I’ve got a seven-year head start. Add the stress from taking care of you two all these years, and it’s a wonder I’m not already in the grave.”
I study Ginger’s expression, but her gaze is pinned to a newspaper article and her voice is stony. Here I am, being far more open about my plans than I ever intended to be, and Ginger only hears what she wants to hear.
She’ll probably beat herself up when she learns that I’m gone, but she has no reason to feel guilty. Penny and I keep telling her that we’re accountable for our own mistakes, but Ginger never seems to listen. Doesn’t matter, though. If my plan is a big mistake, I’ll be the one responsible for making it.
Unwillingly, my mind drifts back to my junior year and the nine months I lived with Ginger and Michael. By the time I hit seventeen, I had lost interest in school and almost everything else, dropping out of church, art, and my part-time job. When I got involved with a boyfriend who sported cigarettes, shaggy hair, and glassy eyes, Daddy sent me to live with the newlyweds … a decision that didn’t please anyone at first. But moving to Savannah gave me a fresh perspective, and after an initial rough start I learned how to give Ginger and Michael the space they needed.
Ginger and I got into a few skirmishes that year, but I think she took comfort in ordering me around because she was more familiar with the role of big sister than wife.
Michael proved to be an understanding friend … and at seventeen, a girl appreciates protective male friends. By the end of the school year, Ginger decreed that I had recovered from my inappropriate love affair and sent me off to Gran’s cottage on St. Simons, but I wouldn’t have minded staying in Savannah.
I haven’t seen much of Michael in the intervening years, but I’ll always be grateful to him for making me feel like a real sister and not an annoying intruder. I can’t imagine what he was thinking if he cheated on Ginger, but I know he is usually tolerant and easygoing. If he strayed, something significant must have happened between those two.
But do we ever know what really goes on in other people’s homes?
I probably shouldn’t blame Ginger for not picking up on my secret—her elder sister’s intuition has been numbed because she’s still in shock about Michael. Despite her apparent attention to the dusty books scattered around her, she’s wearing the dumbfounded look I wore when I discovered my first husband cheating on me. I clutched at all kinds of reasons for why Todd would be taking his secretary out to dinner when he was supposed to be fishing with his best friend, but in the end it came down to one thing: the man was a cheating dog and I never should have trusted him.
Still, the betrayal felt like a punch in the stomach and left me breathless. I went to pieces during those days, so this state of shock may be a blessing for Ginger. She’ll fall apart later … maybe in an hour, maybe next week.
“If you want to talk”—I push the words through the empty space between us—“I know what it’s like to find out your husband’s cheating. So I’m here. If you want to talk.”
“I’m fine,” Ginger answers, each word like a splinter of ice. “I don’t need to talk.”
To you.
She doesn’t speak the last two words, but I hear them all the same. Ginger has never confided in me, never let me peek behind her calm and polished exterior. I’d be surprised if she confides in Penny, which means she must not talk to anyone in the family … except Michael.
So this betrayal must be doubly difficult.
I know she’s on a collision course with despair, but I’ve a feeling Ginger will handle this disaster like any other event on her schedule. One day, when she has no other engagements planned, she’ll crumble in her quiet, controlled way, then steadily pick up the pieces and arrange them in some kind of defined order. She must have been forged of iron and steel in the womb.
Unlike me. I am made of tissue paper. But when I say my final good-bye, no one will blame my exit on a particular crisis. People will believe I died in an accident. Even if some suspect otherwise, they’ll never be able to prove anything.
I’ll be firmly in control when I check out of this world. I have my affairs in order, my life firmly in hand.
In that moment, I will be as much like Ginger as I have ever been.
Because we’ve allowed ourselves to be sidetracked from our declared mission, when Ginger stands and turns as if to deliver an announcement, I brace myself for a rebuke or a new plan involving charts and Post-its. Instead, she yawns and gestures toward the stairs. “If you two don’t mind, I’m going up to bed. Driving always wipes me out.”
It’s not the drive that exhausted her, it’s the calamity that followed, but I’m not about to verbalize that distinction. I glance at Penny, wondering if we share the same thought, but Penny’s waving Ginger up the steps.
“Go on, get some rest. Rose and I will finish up here so we can tackle the bedrooms and closets tomorrow.”
Ginger shuffles toward the stairway, her stockinged feet moving soundlessly over the pine floorboards. I watch until her shadow disappears from the stairwell, then I turn to Penny. “Do you think one of us should sleep in the room with her tonight?”
“I wouldn’t want company. You take Grandma’s room and I’ll sleep in the blue room.”
“But she’ll be alone. And she’s not used to being alone.”
“Maybe she wants to be alone tonight. What if she wakes up crying? Would you want someone else hearing that?”
“But we’re her sisters.”
“We’re not her friends. Think about it—would she have told us about Michael if we hadn’t been here? I don’t think so.”
I stare at Penny, then realize she’s probably right. The three of us are not friends. Though we are bound by shared experiences, we are separated by beliefs, distance, and years. At times the gaps between us feel almost unbridgeable.
I release a deep sigh. “I guess I’ll go to bed too. I’m beat, and I’d like to call Wort before I go to sleep.”
“Tell him hello for me, will you?”
“Okay.”
“And, Rose”—Penny waits until I look at her before she continues—“are y’all really doing okay? You seem … kinda down this weekend.”
I summon up a bright smile. “I’m fine. Wort’s good. Everything’s great … except for my sick dog, that is. The little guy has seen better days.”
“Better years, you mean.”
I stop by the cushion, where Justus has been sleeping, and wake him with a gentle scratch behind the ears. “Hey, buddy, are you ready to go to bed?”
“It’s not like he hasn’t been sleeping all day,” Penny says, chuckling. “In fact, you’d better take him outside before you put him to bed. Ginger will have a fit if that dog pees on Grandma’s floor.”
“Good point.” I slap the side of my leg and whistle softly. Justus pulls himself up and follows me out into the humid Georgia night. He’s hanging in there, and so am I. And so, apparently, is Ginger.
As I watch Justus root around in the soft grass of the front lawn, I lean against a porch post and consider my plans for Monday. I want Ginger to be okay; I want her to weather this crisis. As sorry as I am to see her marriage implode, I hope she bears up under her grief and remains strong.
Because if she’s still shell-shocked on Monday, I don’t know if I can proceed with my plans. Ginger may never want or accept help from me, but she’s my sister and I have a feeling I should stick around in case she needs me.
Though the idea of Ginger needing me makes me laugh.