The coincidence is astonishing, Phoebe," Renata said, offering her the milk-drunk baby Charise. Dark wisps of hair capped the infant's round head, and she smiled blearily at her aunt as Phoebe propped her up on her lap and began gently patting her back until Charise released a rather unladylike belch. "And you're sure they don't know about Lily?"
"No one knew about Lily," Phoebe insisted. "There's no way they could have known about what I went through, especially not back then. It happened the year after Angela went to jail. Although the Clintons were still together then, from what Angela has told you, Jules, things were starting to unravel, so I doubt Alice would have been paying any attention to what was going on in my life during that time."
Gia glanced around the room at her sisters, their faces each bearing a different set of emotions. Ren analyzing the information Phoebe had just shared, Phoebe relieved at finally being able to share it, coupled with the warm glow of love in her eyes for the tiny niece she held cradled in her arms. Juliette worried her bottom lip between thumb and forefinger, her brow furrowed. She and Angela had been in contact by letter for the last year, and from the look on her face, she was scrolling through the pages shared between them, looking for clues or connections between Angela and Alice's stories.
Gia turned to Phoebe. "What happened to the Clintons?" she asked, trying to keep her voice level. Alice's ministry was pretty wonderful, truth be told, but how was it supposed to impact the four sisters beyond the relevance of a piece of Phoebe's artwork? "I mean, did Alice give you any information that would help prepare us for meeting with Angela? Isn't that the goal here; isn't that what we're gearing up for?" Alice had sent invitations home with Phoebe, asking that all four sisters come to dinner once Angela was home. A dinner planned for the coming Saturday night. Angela had requested a chance to talk to all of them together, face to face, so that questions could be asked and answered in person rather than via the written word, where emotions and sentiments could be misconstrued too easily.
Ren nodded and added her own question. "Yes. I'm curious about that, too. Was the divorce because of Angela? And does Alice's ministry have anything to do with what happened with Angela?" Then she turned to Juliette. "Has Angela ever said anything about her parents splitting up?"
Juliette shook her head. "She's only said that they divorced about a year after the accident. But I do get the feeling it's all tied together somehow. Something happened to trigger Angela's binge, we know that." Angela had confirmed as much in one of her letters to Juliette, but had asked to be allowed to talk to them in person once she was back home. "Phoebe's right. Their home had to have been in chaos back then. There's just no way Alice could have known about Phoebe."
"I really believe that it's a God thing," Phoebe said, resting her chin on top of Charise's head. The baby had burrowed her face into the crook of Phoebe's neck, one chubby hand fisted in Phoebe's hair, the other pressed to her tiny wet mouth where she sucked on her knuckles as her eyelids grew heavy.
"I never thought I'd hear those words on your lips." What once might have been not-so-subtle jab coming from Ren now held a tender note of teasing. "But that said, I think you might be right. We've seen a lot of 'God things' lately, and this is feeling that way, too."
"What do you mean, though? Isn't that a little trite?" Gia asked, wanting clarification, but also giving way to the contention in her spirit. As much as she appreciated hearing the Masters' story, and although she acknowledged the providential link between the heart of Alice's ministry and Phoebe's own experience, she wasn't sure how this was supposed to play out for the rest of them. "A God thing how?"
Phoebe spoke softly so as not to disturb the baby. "Well, don't you think it's quite the coincidence that her ministry speaks to my heart and my past on so many levels, and that Cerulean has played such a huge role in that home? And what about the fact that I buy my groceries from Cal because his store offers a delivery service? Cal, who coincidentally happens to be the husband of the mother of the girl who killed our mother."
Gia held up her hand to stop her sister. Something dark stirred up inside her, something twisting and ugly, and she felt it clawing at the back of her throat. "I. Me. My. Yeah, yeah, Phoebe. I clearly see how you might think there's a 'God thing' connection between you and Alice. But this isn't just about you, is it?"
The stunned silence that followed her words only served to heighten her disquiet. She turned to Juliette. "And I get your—" She struggle to find the right word. "Your fixation with this whole thing. Angela was your friend, and I assume you need closure or something."
"My fixation?" Juliette asked, her expression one of surprise, and slightly wounded.
"Georgia," Ren said, her voice quiet but firm, the way she spoke to her oldest son when he was getting a little too pushy with her or Tim.
Gia didn't look at her, but her words came out harsh and surly. "Don't 'Georgia' me, Ren. You're not my mother." She toyed with the handle of her coffee cup, her thoughts buzzing like angry bees in her head. "I—we—don't have a mother or father because of that—that—" She sputtered, trying to find a word that would encompass her chaotic thoughts, but came up empty. "Because of that Angela Clinton chick you all are trying to reconcile with. Why? Can someone tell me why we want to have a relationship with her?" She gripped the handle of her mug tightly, watching as her knuckles and nail beds whitened. Apparently, she did have some unresolved anger toward the girl, after all. "She got rip-roaring drunk and killed our parents, you guys."
Juliette made a noise that might have been her clearing her throat, but Gia pushed up off the floor before her sister could say anything. She stood, towering over them. She could feel the heat emanating off her, her scalp tingling, her shoulders tight with her bottled up fury. "What is wrong with you people? Why do you want to be all buddy-buddy with her and her family? She murdered our parents! And now she wants to reconcile with us, to smooth things over? She hasn't even had the decency to tell us what happened that day." Gia's voice was growing louder and more forceful the longer she spoke, and now her hands were gesturing madly, almost of their own accord.
Phoebe lifted a hand to cover Charise's ears, but Gia didn't care. It was as though the dam holding her emotions in check all these years was crumbling, collapsing in on itself, and once breached, there was no stopping the deluge that poured out of her.
"She claims to have had her 'come to Jesus' moment in prison and has spent the remainder of her sentence praising the Lord and sharing the gospel truth with her fellow inmates, right? Well, what about sharing a little of the gospel truth with us, the victims of her crime? She's left us all to live totally in the dark with our loss and grief—and not just us, but Granny G and Gramps, too!—because she doesn't want to tell us why she did what she did." Gia turned on Phoebe, pointing a long finger at her. "I bet a million bucks that the Clintons' divorce was a direct result of that day, or what led up to it. Which means Alice knows, too. Did she tell you? Did she give you even a morsel of an explanation to share with us? Anything that might shed some light on why we got to grow up without our parents?"
Phoebe's eyes were wide with concern and she shook her head. "She said she felt that it was Angela's place to tell her own story." But Gia could tell her questions were sinking in, making Phoebe think.
"Who have they been protecting with their silence all this time? And why? Because it sure isn't us." And there it was. Suddenly, it all came clear to Gia. A reason. That was all she wanted. A reason for what happened so that she could accept things and move on. She didn't want to make friends with Angela or her mother, she didn't care what they did with the rest of their lives. She just wanted to know why things had happened the way they happened. She needed to know why she'd been forced to grow up without a mother or father, why she felt adrift so much of the time. She wanted to know why Angela Clinton got to come home at the end of the day and reunite with her mother, but Gia and her sisters would never have that for themselves.
She had to get out of there. She needed to drive with the windows down and the music up too loud. She needed to think. She needed Ricky sitting beside her in his truck, holding onto the waist of her jeans as she hung halfway out the open window, singing at the top of her lungs so she could drown out all the confusion in her head.
Without another word, she snatched up her coffee cup and napkin and marched into Juliette's kitchen. She stood at the sink, shaking so badly her teeth rattled, holding the cup under the faucet. A noise behind her made her glance over her shoulder. Renata stood in the entry to the kitchen, her hands tucked into the front pockets of her jeans.
"Gia," she began, her voice sad, worried. "I'm sorry."
"For what?" Gia snapped, not ready to set aside her anger. "You didn't kill our parents."
"To be honest, I feel like we've been insensitive to you about all of this," Ren said. Gia kept her attention on the task at hand, not wanting to see the regret in Ren's eyes. "I hate to even admit this, because as a mother, I should know better. But I think we just assumed you were too young to be as deeply affected by all of this as we were."
"Well, I wasn't too young. And if you're really being honest about all of this," she said, using Renata's own words, "then you might consider that maybe I was even more affected by the accident than you three were. At least you have your memories of Mommy and Daddy. At least you can talk amongst yourselves about how great they were, how in love they were. You three can reminisce about the good times, about family vacations and holidays, about Mom's accent and her French curse words, about Dad's stupid jokes and how he loved Mom's hair and her smoky gray eyes. Which, by the way, you three have and I—I don't." Her voice caught and she swallowed hard, trying to dislodge the lump in her throat. She set her clean cup in the drainer and dried her hands on a dishtowel that lay on the counter beside the sink. "You three at least have the years you got with Mom and Dad. Not me. I have nothing... because of Angela. Not even a reason why."
"This isn't like you," Ren murmured, stepping further into the kitchen. "What's going on? What's happened?"
"How do you know this isn't like me?" Gia asked, turning around to look at her sister. Behind her, Juliette had risen, too, and now leaned against the arm of the couch where Phoebe still sat with Charise clutched close to her heart. They were all watching her, misery etched into their faces.
"We know you, Gia pet," Ren said, using Grampa's nickname for her.
Gia shook her slowly, firmly. "No, you don't. I don't even know me." Gia smacked a hand flat on the counter beside her hard enough to make her palm sting. The pain, however, seemed to sharpen her clarity, helping her to find words. "I have lived my whole life trying to be as good as everyone says I am. A good girl. A good friend. A good student. A good employee. A good Christian. A good leader. A good granddaughter. A good sister." She snorted; it was an ugly sound made uglier by the words that followed. "I don't ever recall being called a good daughter, though. Huh." She crossed her arms and leaned back against the counter, clenching her smarting palm into a tight fist. "I have been good all my life because I've been afraid to be anything else. And no, I'm not so self-absorbed that I think Mom and Dad left because I wasn't a good girl, so don't go assuming I need therapy, or anything."
"Please, Gia—" But Gia cut Ren off.
"But I have been afraid to disappoint everyone. Do you remember how desperate I was to be included in this sister thing you three had?" She waved a hand around in a circle in front of her before tucking it back against her side again. "Do you remember what I had to do in order for you to let me in? If I recall, I was your slave—your slave—for months before I was allowed to join."
Juliette opened her mouth to say something but Gia held up a hand. "I know, Jules. You were nice to me, but I was still afraid to do anything wrong just in case I screwed up my chances. And do you all know that there is one—one!—person in my life I can truly call friend? Ricky. Just Ricky. He's the only person outside of family who still gives a rat's hindquarters about my life these days. All those girls I hung out with in high school? They weren't my friends. I was their good little leader, in charge of making sure they didn't get in trouble, or at least they didn't get caught. Do you remember my TDD badge? Do you know what that stood for? Team Designated Driver. Yep. That was Rickaroni and me. I got invited to parties so that everyone else could party. How sad is that?"
She paused to let that sink in, not just for her sisters, but for her, too. Talk about clarity.
"And before you bring up good old Granny G and Gramps," she said, knowing for sure that at least one of them was desperate to remind her of how much love they'd been given in the Gustafson home. "Please don't patronize me. I'm perfectly aware of how lucky we all are to have grandparents who took us in and raised us as their own. I have had many more years living with them than any of you, and I know how much of a sacrifice they made to make a home for us. But our grandparents are almost four times my age, you guys. They're in their late seventies. They're tired. They're old. I've never doubted their love, even for an instant. But I've always lived with the fear of losing them. Where would I go if they died, too? Even if one of you took me in, I'd be an obligation, a burden. It would be like having to join one of your clubs all over again. No thank you."
"No, Gia. That's not true," Juliette spoke up, her voice thick with tears. "You know that's not how any of us would feel."
"That's just it, though," Gia railed, pressing her clenched fist over her heart. "I'm telling you how I would feel. I'm telling you how I have felt my whole life. Like the afterthought, the odd man out." She felt the tears begin to well again and she clenched her teeth together. She would not cry. "I'm truly the 'oops' baby in this family, and I have felt that as far back as I can remember."
No one dared contradict her out loud, not in the state she was in, but she saw on each of their faces the need to comfort her, to draw her to them. She wasn't having it, though. Not tonight.
"It's not your fault, you guys." Her words came out raspy, rough. "It's Angela's. And I, for one, have no interest in hearing what she or her mother has to say. Not now. Not after all this time." She shook her head, feeling stubborn and perhaps a little childish, too, but she didn't care. "She's had fifteen—no, more than sixteen years now—to tell us why she did what she did. It's too late, as far as I'm concerned."
"Gia," Ren began again, but Gia shook her head, not wanting to hear it.
"I think I need to go home. I don't want you guys to make your decision about Angela and Alice based on my feelings. If you want to continue with all of this, please do. I totally understand your reasons, but they're not my reasons." She skirted Renata, not wanting to be touched at that moment, and headed toward the door. She'd only brought her wallet and keys with her and she'd left them on the table by the front door. "Just please don't tell me about it, okay? If you need to have a G-FOURce or two without me, I totally understand that, too."
"Please, Gia," Phoebe said, her voice still soft because of the sleeping baby, but urgent nonetheless. "Don't go. I'm sorry I made this about me. You're right. Ren's right. We haven't asked you how you feel."
Gia stopped in the foyer and reached down to scratch Bob's head between his ears. "I'm sorry I said those terrible things to you, Phebes. You're not the bad guy here." She straightened and scooped up her belongings before turning back one last time. "I love you guys. This is your gig, though, not mine. I'll see you this weekend, okay?" And with that, she pulled open the front door and slipped out into the night, glancing briefly over at Mrs. Cork's door, grateful to find it closed. The last thing she needed right now was to have to play nice with the sweet old lady and her little dog.