Do I Know You?(32)

“Speaking of,” my dad goes on genially, “we haven’t gotten your RSVP yet.” He wasn’t this convincingly casual the first time he brought the topic up. But he’s had practice.

I feel my whole body cringe. It’s not that I don’t want to go to my sister’s wedding. It’s that I know Michelle doesn’t want me there. Different words from a different conversation echo harshly in my head. Of course this is exactly what you’d do. Sweat unrelated to the poolside sun gathers in the creases of my cover-up.

“That’s because I never got an invitation, Dad.”

“So?” I practically hear the grandiose shrug in my father’s voice. “You’re family. Obviously, you’re invited—it’s assumed.”

“No, actually, it’s not,” I reply, my patience fraying. Past my frustration, it’s kind of heartbreaking how unwavering my dad’s conviction is. I’ve felt on occasion—recent occasions, certainly—like he’s a TV dad, Craig T. Nelson or Ty Burrell or someone, and he’s struggling with events not conforming to the script’s happy ending. “Why don’t you ask Michelle instead of me?” I go on.

“You’re being ridiculous. It’s your sister’s wedding. She wants you there,” he insists quickly. From his phrasing and switch of strategy, I realize what he’s not saying. He did ask Michelle, who didn’t give him the assurance he’s giving me. Now he’s come to his other daughter in hopes of getting the answer he wants.

I’ve entertained this conversation long enough. It’s starting to hurt. “She doesn’t. You know she doesn’t,” I say more quietly. I know, logically, my and Michelle’s fight has gotten out of control. It’s deepened, dark and ugly, into a crevasse in my life I prefer to ignore. I just—can’t be the one to end it. It’s not my place.

Or, I’m pretty sure it’s not. It’s definitely not my place to show up to a wedding I wasn’t invited to. Even if it’s my only sister’s.

We haven’t spoken since Michelle’s engagement party. I helped her plan the whole event, perused slideshows of restaurant photos on the Instagram links she sent me, helped her pick out party favors, came up with the name for the specialty cocktail. I was even supposed to give the toast, which I’d had written weeks earlier.

I missed it. Not just the toast. The entire party. My sister’s engagement party.

The day of, I was in the studio, recording for hours. The job was really important, and a lot of other people were depending on me to meet this deadline. I couldn’t skip it. When I rushed out of the studio, I had fifteen minutes to get to the airport. I pushed past lines and crowds, raced to my gate, and it didn’t matter. My plane was gone.

Despite my every effort to book a new flight that would get me to Oklahoma in time, I couldn’t. When I finally reached Oklahoma City the next morning, it . . . was for nothing. Michelle was furious. I don’t enjoy these conversations with my dad because every one brings wounding reminders of my little sister’s flushed cheeks, of the waver in her voice like I’d never heard. Of course this is exactly what you’d do. Just another episode of the Eliza show, huh? She said I was a failed actress who didn’t like ceding the spotlight. She said I wanted to make her night about me and my job.

Of course, we haven’t spoken since.

I never even explained why I couldn’t make it. Never said how hard I honestly worked to reschedule my flight, or how it wasn’t about my job, but about the people depending on me. I would have if Michelle had asked. Which she didn’t, not even once. She should have known I would never do something like this on purpose.

Instead, she just assumed. It stung enough that I didn’t even want to correct her. If I’m the negligent sister, the selfish sister, the unkind sister to her, fine. The least I could do is be those things out of her life.

With the pungent whiff of chlorine in my nose, I fix my gaze past the flagstones. The gorgeous view of grasses and sky is incongruous with the very not-tranquil pounding in my temples. My dad huffs into the phone. “Well, it doesn’t matter. I’m paying for half of this wedding, so I say you’re invited. Do you and Graham want fish or chicken?”

I wince. His bluster poorly conceals the fact that he’s feeling the way I do. For some reason, he just insists on fighting it.

“Dad,” I say softly. “I can’t just show up at her wedding. It would ruin her big day.”

“No, what would ruin her big day is not having her big sister there for her,” Dad charges on. “You don’t want this little tiff to get in the way of one of the most important events of Michelle’s life. You’ll regret it forever if you do. You both will.”

My stomach twists. This is what he doesn’t understand. I know I’ll regret it. I’ve envisioned the regretting, tossed and turned in bed over the regretting. I can see how the day will go with painful precision, like the Greek prophetess Cassandra in the Aeschylus play we read in my college Classical Drama class. I’ll see the posts come up on the hashtag I still follow, ignore the notifications from the now mostly silent family group text. It will be wrenching.

But I know if I come uninvited to the wedding, Michelle will think I’m doing exactly what she accused me of. She won’t recognize sisterly support in my presence. She’ll only see narcissistic Eliza stealing the spotlight again.