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“—you’re back in control. Completely. ”
Slowly he lifts his hand to my mouth. His thumb brushes the corner of my lips. Then he pulls back. “Good-bye, Vivienne. ”
After he walks away, I walk back into the noise and the hubbub of the bar to find the nearest empty chair. My heart is still racing, and I hardly trust myself to remain on my feet. How could I have gone from suspicion and hurt to exhilaration so quickly? But Jonah took me there.
Jonah takes me so many interesting places, I think, and I laugh to myself.
By now the sky overhead is dark, and the heat has faded to pleasant warmth. The waiter manages to find me; the red wine Jonah chose for me tastes earthy and rich. I indulge myself by hanging out on the patio for thirty minutes or so, drinking about half my glass. Once a guy comes over in hopes of hitting on me, but I wave him off. Happily he’s a gentleman who can take no for an answer. All I want is to sit here luxuriating in the memories of Jonah’s touch, and his words. In the promise of what’s to come.
My phone buzzes from within my purse. Who would be texting me? Maybe it’s Jonah, determined to keep me hot and bothered all night long. I bet he’s as good at sexting as he is at everything else.
A sly smile spreads across my face as I fish out my phone. Turns out it’s not a text, just a voice mail. The name of the sender glows on the screen. My smile fades.
All the shame comes flooding back.
Eleven
“Not answering. How surprising. ” Chloe’s voice is sharp, precise. Her words could cut diamonds. “I saw Liz at Art for Art’s Sake. Imagine my surprise when she said you’d spent the weekend at her house not two months ago. ”
I grimace. Liz usually covers for me; my sister must have caught her off-guard.
Chloe’s voice mail continues. “You know, I can’t ask you to be a better daughter, or even a better sister, as apparently that holds no interest for you. But I wish you could be a better aunt. Libby loves her Aunt Vivienne, and she asks after you all the time. Colors for you, and makes me send them to you, even though I’m sure you just toss them in the trash. Maybe you don’t understand children’s feelings, since you don’t have any of your own. But if you cared at all, you’d at least try to see your niece when you were in town. ”
My fridge is covered with Libby’s drawings. I’ve kept every single one. Her photo smiles out from the picture frame beside my bed. On my last birthday, Libby called and sang to me on my voice mail, and I’ve never deleted that message. I play it when I’m feeling blue.
But I didn’t go see her when I was in New Orleans in August. Seeing Libby means seeing the rest of my family.
“I’m giving you an ultimatum,” Chloe says. “We expect to see you at Thanksgiving. My house, I’m cooking. All you have to do is show up. Do you think you could manage that much?” After a moment of silence, she adds, “No need to return this call. Come home for Thanksgiving, and we’ll pretend this never happened. Don’t, and as far as I’m concerned, my daughter doesn’t have an aunt any longer. Because I’m not making excuses for you to Libby, not even one more time. If she asks where you are, I’ll have to come up with something else to tell her. Not the truth, of course. That would be too hurtful. Just something that makes it clear Aunt Vivienne’s not going to be around any longer. I’ll see you in November. ”
She would have been so happy when the call went directly to voice mail. Instead of having an honest discussion, she got to issue a command: Thanksgiving or else. Chloe prefers to be confrontational in monologue. Face to face, or even voice to voice? Forget it. Everyone in my family is a master of the veiled threat, the cruel hint, the passive-aggressive twist of the knife that’s deadlier than any stab.
I’ve spent the last five years or so learning how to deal with people in a more direct way. A healthier way. I’m getting better at it. But when it comes to my parents or my sister, it’s like all that progress instantly collapses. Whenever I’m with them, within minutes, I sink into the sullen dysfunction that defines the Charles family.
Libby deserves better than that. Better than our dishonesty, better than my neglect.
Worst of all—beneath Chloe’s anger, beyond the chill in her voice, I hear genuine hurt. Chloe and I got along well, growing up. She was five years older than me, and I thought she was the most sophisticated, glamorous person in the world. We sat on the bathroom vanity while she taught me how to apply mascara. She would hold my hand while we stood in line for sno-balls on hot summer days. Chloe didn’t tease or bully me. I knew I had a good big sister.