“Yeah, she doesn’t have any boundaries,” I say, and we both laugh a little, awkwardly. “But what does that have to do with this?”
“I’m just saying, Cassie told your ‘secrets’ to everyone on a regular basis, and you guys were still friends. I don’t see why it’s such a big drama just because what’s-her-name’s doing it.”
“But—” I stop. This secret—it isn’t like other secrets. But I can’t tell him. Not yet. Now that we’re finally talking again, like we used to, I don’t want to make things weird.
“Fine,” I force out. “I guess I’m being melodramatic. Thanks.”
“Just call me Dr. Phil.”
“Whatever.” I sigh. “Dr. I-Have-No-Sympathy.”
“Oh yeah—I’m still having my New Year’s Eve party this year. My mom said to tell you. You should totally come. Oh, and brriiing beeer,” he adds in a stage whisper.
“Uh huh.” We both know the likelihood of me showing up is pretty low, but I’m touched. “Well … thanks,” I tell him. “If I don’t make it, tell everyone I said hi.”
“Sure thang, sweet thang,” he says, sounding like the old Spike again.
I hang up and put my head in my hands.
When I tried to explain my fight with Mikaela to him, it seemed so petty because I couldn’t tell him the real reason for it. And telling him about Mikaela liking Cody would only have made it sound worse, like I was a jealous third wheel, like it was just a fight over a guy.
On top of that, he made me sound like a pushover be-cause I always used to go along with whatever Cassie said. And he’s right. I did used to go along with it, used to laugh even if I didn’t think it was funny. Am I being a hypocrite? Why do I expect so much out of Mikaela, when I always forgave Cassie? I’m not sure I understand it myself. I guess I’m not the same person anymore.
A while later—I’m not sure how long—I’m awakened from a doze by the doorbell. I look at the clock next to my bed: 4:15. The afternoon sun is already low, shining the last of the weak winter light through my window. I wonder who’s here. I yawn and stretch my neck, stiff from falling asleep half-sitting up, and head downstairs.
I’m halfway down when I see my mom and dad open the door. Framed against the bare branches of the oak tree in our front yard is Auntie Mina, her face pinched but set with determination. Nobody says anything. Then the silence is broken with a loud thud, and I jump. It’s a black suitcase, heavy and overbalanced, tipping over onto the front porch. Auntie Mina’s suitcase.
From Shiri Langford’s journal, May 20th
I had a fight with Brendan. We’ve never fought before. I forgot to call him to tell him tennis practice was going late and I wouldn’t be able to meet him at the falafel place. I forgot. I honestly did. I was just playing so hard and knew I had the practice set in the bag and I forgot.
I tried to tell him. I got falafels and brought them by his apartment and he wouldn’t even talk to me. He just sat there silently. I pleaded with him, begged him to talk to me. He finally said he waited an hour before he decided I’d blown him off. Was I with someone else?
I can’t believe he would think that.
I fell apart. Then he apologized. His last girlfriend cheated on him. When I heard his thoughts the first time, all those months ago, he was feeling so betrayed and so vulnerable, and now I realize it was about her. I should have realized. I should have known. It’s my fault.
sixteen
Mom and Dad lunge for Auntie Mina, all three of them talking at the same time. Mom hugs her, gently, and my dad holds her at arms’ length, looking her up and down as if he’s examining her for injuries. Maybe he is. I creep down the last few stairs and stare at her hard, as if I can figure out what happened just by reading it in the lines of her face, the wrinkles of her disheveled blouse.
Auntie Mina looks up at me briefly. Her gaze is steely, and I feel a surge of hope.
She says to my parents, “I don’t want to impose, but … ”
“Don’t be silly,” my mom says. “Here—come sit and have a cup of tea. Of course we’ll help. Of course you can stay.” She slides an arm around Auntie Mina’s shoulders and steers her into the kitchen. My dad grabs the handle of the enormous suitcase.
“Sunny,” he says, sighing. He lugs the suitcase inside and sets it in the front hallway. Frown lines crease the middle of his forehead as he glances at me distractedly. “Could you please check the guest room? And put out another towel.”
Resentfully, I rush through prepping the guest room and go back downstairs to the kitchen. Dad glances at me as I pull up a chair. Auntie Mina is sitting next to him, her head resting on his shoulder, tears running down her face. My mom hands her a clean dishtowel and she wipes her face absently. I desperately want to ask what’s going on, but my mom shoots me a quelling look. I bite the inside of my lip.
There’s a long silence.
“We’ll do everything we can,” my dad finally says. “We can get you a new cell phone if you’re worried about him harassing you.”
“I don’t think that’s necessary,” Auntie Mina says, straightening a little. “He just needs time to cool off. He didn’t hurt me.” My dad looks at her hard. An unspoken this time hangs in the air. “It was just an argument. But I’ve had enough.”
“Mina, the guest room is yours for as long as you need it,” my mom says. “We can talk more about the trial separation tomorrow. Just relax now.”
“Thank you,” she says, her voice thick with emotion. I’m not sure what to do, so I push the mug of tea closer to her. She grabs my hand, grips it almost desperately.
“Sunny, I should thank you, too. I know this must be disruptive for you. And so close to Christmas.”
“I—no, it’s okay.” I’m taken aback, tongue-tied.
“You’ve always been such a treasure,” she says, out of nowhere. “We’ll get to spend some time together. I’m looking forward to that. I’ve missed you. You’re growing up so fast.” She sniffles a little. I want to pull away, but I don’t. My body is tense, though. How long is she going to be here?
All I want to do is get past everything that’s happened. Now I’m going to be reminded of it every day.
That night, upstairs in my room, I close the door and take Shiri’s journal out of my desk drawer. I run a hand over the battered faux-leather cover, but I don’t open it. I could show it to Auntie Mina. Would Shiri have wanted that? I don’t know. It wouldn’t make things normal again. It wouldn’t make Auntie Mina happy again, and it wouldn’t bring Shiri back. And I feel just as powerless. I can’t go back in time and do things differently. I can’t go back and be a better cousin, a better friend. And so what if I’d sent her more emails, called her more often? Would it even have mattered?
I clench my jaw against unshed tears. I can’t answer those questions. She stopped really confiding in me once she left for college; I think she started to change even before that. But I didn’t notice. I don’t think any of us did.
“Oh, I’m writing a paper about the existentialists for my philosophy class,” Shiri said. It was a couple of weeks after she started college. She sounded excited about her classes, upbeat and energetic.
“Yeah?” I moved the phone to my other ear and absentmindedly clicked the computer mouse, scrolling through the photos she’d emailed me from Blackwell Cliffs: her new dorm friends, scenes of the campus, an odd one of Shiri looking pensively out a café window at the autumn leaves, her eyes shaded by a floppy knit hat. “What’s that all about?”