The Lies I Told(9)
And when I finally sobered up, I realized that I’d never really known any of my friends or family. They were all strangers to me now.
4
BRIT
Friday, March 11, 2022
9:00 p.m.
The group gathered around the table chatted fairly easily, and the sky above had finally stopped dumping water. I’d been back and forth about having the party for days, worrying about the weather, the guests who were having trouble making time for the party, and of course Marisa. In the end, I’d asked David to attend as my backup (he’d agreed immediately—love him), strong-armed a guest or two, and decided we’d beat the weather. No Jack, but maybe that was for the best tonight.
All the trouble seemed to be worth it. Even Marisa was pretending to have a good time. She wasn’t, of course. She was never really happy, never really had been, but she’d been more subdued since the car accident.
I still had nightmares about the late-night call from the police, the rush to the emergency room, and the endless waiting for the surgeon to tell me whether my sole surviving family member would live.
My sympathy for Marisa had waned seconds after the double doors to the emergency’s waiting room opened and the surgeon, still wearing his scrubs, came to speak to me. I’d learned Marisa would be fine, that the swelling on her brain had been reduced, and she’d be her old self eventually. But I’d also discovered that my supposedly sober sister likely had drugs in her system. Tests might not pick them up after so many hours, but the paramedics who’d brought her here thought she was high. What other reason would she have for going more than forty miles an hour through a small city neighborhood south of the Church Hill district? Jesus.
Marisa had sworn she’d been sober for a year. She’d dutifully attended her meetings, collected her chips, and been building a real life. And then just like that, she’d screwed up. But that was the way it went with alcoholics, wasn’t it?
The counselors had said missteps were a constant and present danger and families needed to help the addict. I had done my share of hoisting my baby sister back up on the wagon, and I was officially tired of it. But I rallied and rode to the rescue again.
And yet here I sat in this damn birthday party, wearing a Good Witch hat, pretending that everything was all right. Which it was, essentially. But Marisa’s shit always hung over our heads, the proverbial sword of Damocles clinging by a thread. My little lost Dorothy.
A hand rubbed over my thigh, and I turned toward David. He was staring at me, clearly sensing that stress brewed behind my smile. He could read me so well.
“I can see into your mind, you know?” he said.
That smile. It always got me. “Can you?”
“I can. And just for the record, this is a great party,” he whispered. “Terrific job.”
A warmth spread through me as I gazed at him. We’d known each other for just a couple of months, but there was a connection I’d never shared with anyone else. “Thank you.”
He winked, reached for his beer. “Your sister looks happy.”
I stared across the round table at Marisa in deep conversation with Kurt. She was wearing the new camera strap he’d given her. It should have been Clare sitting next to him. “She does.”
I’d been at a loss as to how to handle the party. Celebrating Marisa’s birth reminded everyone that there had been another sister, Clare, who’d died at age sixteen. God, thirteen years since that runner had found Clare’s body by the river. Thirteen years of Marisa spiraling and struggling. Thirteen years of dealing with my own guilt and loss. Clare and Marisa had been identical twins, bonded before birth, but Clare had been my sister, too. That fact got lost more often than not.
The guests looked as if they were enjoying the barbecue, based on the nearly empty collection of plates. The drinks had been refilled a few times, and even the hats had sparked comments and laughter—as any icebreaker should. Dispersed among the torn wrapping paper were the vintage Leica camera I’d given Marisa for her collection and a canvas camera bag filled with disposable cameras from Jo-Jo and Jack.
Marisa raised her soda glass to her lips as she nodded at something Jo-Jo was saying. Those two plus Clare had been three peas in a pod. They’d gotten into more than their share of trouble. Daddy had had to clean up a few of their messes, but the twins had known how to humor him and soothe his temper. I’d seen right through them. God, if I’d pulled half the shit they had, Daddy would have tossed me out on my fanny. When he finally gave me clearance to crack the whip, I’d been less forgiving. And yet nothing I came up with sidelined them for long.
Even the car accident hadn’t really slowed Marisa down. That signature red hair was gone, but if anything, the shorter haircut made her look more attractive. Her clear eyes, cheekbones, and pale skin now all popped, and it was hard to admit how striking she was. Kurt certainly was enjoying the show. I’d even caught David stealing a few glimpses, though he’d had the decency to look chagrined when our eyes met.
The waiter came into our room, cleared the plates, and refreshed our drinks. Next on tap was the cake (topped with ruby slippers), after which I could safely put this birthday to bed.
“Do you have an early day tomorrow?” David asked me.
“Since it’s Saturday, I opted to take it off.” I was a lawyer, operated my own firm, and working weekends was standard. If business kept on, I’d add a paralegal and perhaps an associate next year. “I knew this was going to be a late night.”