First Comes Love

  When she still doesn’t answer, I offer her a multiple choice. “Upset? Annoyed? Frustrated?”

  “All of the above,” she says, crossing her arms tightly over her chest.

  “Why?” I say, genuinely wanting to know. “I just don’t see why.”

  “Well, for starters, let’s back up here….I’ve been trying to get you to go to the cemetery forever—Mom, too—and you finally go when I’m out of town and you don’t even tell Mom you’re going….”

  “It was a last-minute thing,” I tell her.

  “But that’s even worse,” she says. “You go on a whim? Without us?”

  I let out a weary sigh, then try to explain. “I was at your house, spending time with your daughter because your husband lost Rabby….”

  “So?” she says. “And your point is…?”

  “My point is…it just came up….Nolan asked me to go with him….I wanted to say no, but I felt sorry for him, you know, with everything going on….So I said yes….How can you be pissed at me for that?”

  Meredith doesn’t answer the question, just stares at me, then presses on to her next point. “Second of all, I specifically told you that Mom and I wanted to plan something for this December…for the fifteen-year anniversary.”

  I once again wince at her use of anniversary in this context.

  “And then you pull this stunt,” she says. “This was supposed to be about you and me and Mom doing something together. In Daniel’s memory.”

  “Well, we’re together now,” I say.

  “I know, but Mom’s not here, and, shit, Josie,” she says, throwing her hands up, then letting them fall back onto her lap. “Don’t you get my point? At all? That we always do things your way…on your terms?”

  “Yes, I get that it might seem like that….But things change….Neither one of us thought you were going to take a leave from work and flee to New York and plan a divorce—”

  “Can we please leave Nolan and my marriage out of this?”

  “Fine,” I say, catching an older woman staring at us. I slide down a couple feet, so I’m directly across from Meredith, then lean forward, lowering my voice. “But I think it’s all related.”

  She shakes her head and says, “No, it’s not all related.”

  “Yes. It is,” I insist, my heart now racing. “It all goes back to Daniel. Don’t you see that?…Nolan…your marriage…Sophie…” I nearly blurt out my confession right there on the subway, just to get it over with, and win the debate. Show her just how much it’s all so fucking interrelated. But she is now glaring at me with such animosity that I back down, afraid. “My issues, too,” I simply say. “And I really want to sort those things out before I have a baby…before I become a mother.”

  “Exactly!” she says, raising her voice and pointing at me, just like the lawyer that she is. I stare back at her, wondering what point she thinks I’ve just made for her.

  “What?” I say. “Is there something wrong with that? God, Mere. Why do you hate me so much?”

  “I don’t hate you,” she says, giving me a look like she does. “I’m just sick and tired of everything revolving around you. Your timing. Your plans. It’s always about you, Josie.”

  My cheeks on fire, I say, “That’s so unfair….I came here to see you, Meredith—and to make sure you’re okay. I was really hoping to work on our relationship—which is why I didn’t want to spoil our good mood last night with anything serious.”

  She starts to speak, but I hold my hand in the air, determined to make my last point. “And I also came here because I need to talk to you about Daniel.”

  “Yeah. You keep saying that,” she says, shaking her head. “When’s that conversation going to happen, anyway?”

  “Tonight,” I say, knowing that things are about to get much, much worse between my sister and me.

  —

  WHEN WE GET back to Ellen’s, I text Sophie, telling her that we would love to meet up with her tonight. She quickly writes back, suggesting we come to her place on the Upper West Side for a drink before dinner and she’ll make a reservation somewhere casual.

  In the hours that follow, Meredith and I both react to the stress of our plan in our typical ways: she changes into workout clothes and announces that she’s going for a long run. I change into sweats, crawl back into bed, and fall into a deep sleep.

  I awaken sometime later to my vibrating phone, feeling disoriented, and even more so when I see Pete’s name. I suddenly remember where I am, as I answer with a groggy hello.

  “Hi, you,” he says, his voice chipper. “Were you asleep?”

  “No,” I fib, wondering why I always deny being asleep or drunk.

  He asks me what’s going on, and I tell him I’m in New York, visiting my sister. I haven’t spoken to him in a few days, and have yet to tell him about my decision to use Gabe as my donor. I feel bad, having gone so far down this path with Pete, especially given his generosity throughout. I don’t want to hurt his feelings or seem mercurial. But these factors just can’t override the bigger picture. Contrary to what Meredith might think, I have no illusions about how serious this undertaking is, that we are talking about a child’s life here. Anyway, Pete might even be relieved to be off the hook. Surely, he’s had his share of doubts and second thoughts, too. But at the same time, I’m more than a little worried that it will extinguish any romantic possibility between us, and maybe even end our odd, fledgling friendship. And I have the sad, sinking feeling that I’m really going to miss him.

  “Oh. Cool,” he says. “I didn’t know you were going up there.”

  “Yeah. It was kind of last minute….My sister and I really need to sort some things out….” I say, as it actually crosses my mind to tell him everything. As in, everything. Instead, I stick to the broad strokes about Sophie and our plan to see her this evening.

  “It’ll be the first time we’ve seen her since my brother’s funeral,” I say.

  Pete whistles. “Wow. That sounds intense.”

  “Yeah. It’s probably going to be pretty awkward….” My voice trails off.

  “Is she married?”

  I tell him I don’t know, that her Facebook page is vague. She mostly posts articles or random, funny, Seinfeldesque observations. “It looks like she has a son,” I add. “There’s one little boy on there a lot. But I guess it could be her nephew or a family friend…you know, like you and Fudge.”

  “Right,” he says with a laugh. “Good ol’ Fudge.”

  “So anyway…what’s going on with you?” I ask, mentally refuting Meredith’s accusation that I’m self-absorbed.

  “Not much,” Pete says. “I was just kinda missing you.”

  I smile, pleasantly surprised by his answer. “Really?”

  “Yeah,” Pete says. “I mean not a lot. But a little.”

  “A little, huh?”

  “Yeah. A smidge.”

  “Well, I miss you a smidge, too,” I say, as I get an unexpected tingly feeling.

  “Well, good,” he says. “So when’re you coming home?”

  “Tomorrow,” I say. “My flight lands around five, I think.”

  “You need a lift home?” he asks. “I’d be happy to come get you.”

  “Aw, thanks,” I say. “That’s really sweet…but I drove.”

  “Well, then…how about dinner? Monday night?”

  “That’d be great. I actually wanted to talk to you about something….”

  “Oh?” he says, his tone turning serious. “About?”

  “Just…some things,” I say.

  “You mean baby-daddy stuff? Or our kiss at Johnny’s?”

  I laugh, remembering the feel of his lips on mine. “Both, actually,” I say.

  —

  TWO HOURS LATER, Meredith and I are cabbing it to the Upper West Side. I feel queasy for the obvious reasons, but also a little intimidated by the idea of dining with an accomplished, sophisticated British doctor. I can tell Meredith is uneasy, too, as she keeps checking her makeup and f
iddling with her hair.

  “You look great,” I say, glancing at her sideways.

  Looking sheepish for being caught primping, she snaps her compact closed and stows it back in her purse, murmuring a dismissive thanks.

  “At least there’re two of us. There’s only one of her….I bet she’s more nervous than we are,” I muse aloud.

  “I’m not nervous,” she quickly says.

  I shoot her a skeptical look and say, “C’mon, Mere. How could you not be nervous?”

  “I’m just not,” she insists. “I’m a little apprehensive, maybe….I mean, she’s sort of a stranger.”

  “She’s completely a stranger. We haven’t laid eyes on her since Daniel’s funeral….I don’t even think I talked to her that day.”

  “You didn’t talk to anyone that day,” Meredith says with an accusatorial edge.

  I ignore the dig, and ask her if we should have a signal.

  “A signal for what?”

  “A signal for ‘let’s get the hell outta here.’ ”

  Meredith purses her lips and shakes her head, adamant. “No. No signals. We have to be warm and engaging—no matter what….We have to make a good impression…for Daniel….You know?”

  It occurs to me to accuse her of being too wrapped up in appearances (which she is) or to point out that if Daniel really is up there watching us, our making a good impression on Sophie surely would be among the least of his concerns. But the last thing we need right now is another tiff, so I simply say, “Yeah. I guess so.”

  A few minutes later, we arrive at Sophie’s building on Central Park West. Meredith and I get out of the cab and walk into the marble lobby of a stuffy doorman building.

  “Movin’ on up!” I start singing the theme song from The Jeffersons, mesmerized by a big crystal chandelier.

  Meredith hisses at me to stop it, as the doorman smiles, then asks if he may help us.

  “Yes,” she replies, her voice high and prim. “Could you please tell Sophie Mitchell that Meredith and Josie are here to see her?”

  He nods briskly, picks up an old-fashioned telephone, and says, “Yes. Hello, Dr. Mitchell. Meredith and Josie are here….Very well. Will do.” He hangs up, points to the elevator, and says, “Ninth floor.”

  Mere thanks him, and we head that way. Once inside the elevator, we wait for both sets of doors to close—the outer, then the inner accordion-like grate—before lurching upward.

  After a slow ascent, we grind to a stop, and the doors open in reverse order into a small vestibule flanked by two apartments. Before we can select the correct door, one swings open, and there stands a surprisingly faded version of Daniel’s Sophie. I’d still characterize her as attractive, in a Euro sort of way, and she is wearing a very chic jumpsuit and pointed patent flats. But she has a less-than-svelte figure and heavily sun-spotted skin.

  “Hello. Come in, come in,” she says, her voice exactly as I remembered, her English accent undiluted by so many years in the States. I can tell she’s nervous as she steps forward to give us each a stiff, arm’s-length hug, in our birth order. “It’s so nice to see you both again.”

  “It’s nice to see you, too,” Meredith says.

  “Yes, thank you for having us over,” I add as Sophie leads us into her living room. I note that there are about a dozen places to sit, including an L-shaped sectional, two huge armchairs, and several plush ottomans, yet no television in sight. I have a sudden random recollection of her telling us that she wasn’t allowed to watch it growing up.

  “You have a beautiful home,” Meredith says.

  “Thank you,” Sophie says. “We just completed a renovation. This used to be the dining room…but nobody entertains that way anymore….” She laughs, then adds, “And I still can’t cook.”

  I catch the we, and feel sure Meredith does, too, yet still see no signs of a husband, or a child for that matter, though I do see several framed photos of the boy from her Facebook page.

  We follow Sophie into her all-white contemporary kitchen, as she asks what we’d like to drink. “A cocktail? Or a glass of wine?”

  Meredith and I both say sure, we would love a glass of wine.

  “Red or white?” she asks.

  “Whatever you have open,” Meredith says, until Sophie insists that we choose.

  “Red would be great, thanks,” I finally decide, when I notice that Sophie is drinking red. Her stemless lipstick-stained glass rests on the counter next to an artfully arranged charcuterie board. She may not be able to cook, but she certainly can entertain.

  “And for you, Meredith?” Sophie asks with a charming lilt.

  “Red would be lovely,” my sister says, sounding pretentious.

  Sophie reaches up, plucking two glasses from her open shelving, then fills them both a little more than halfway. Meredith and I each take one as Sophie lifts hers, a smile frozen on her face. An awkward beat follows as it becomes clear that she is poised to make a toast. “To old acquaintances,” she finally says, looking into my eyes, then Meredith’s.

  “To old acquaintances,” we echo. I force a smile, as I think of how contradictory the two words are, acquaintances always seeming as if they should be brand-new, either progressing to full-on friendship or falling back into obscurity. Then again, I can’t think of a more accurate categorization—so I give her a pass as we all sip our wine. An awkward lull follows, Sophie speaking first.

  “So you’re a lawyer?” She looks at Meredith.

  “Yes,” Meredith says. “Though I just took a sabbatical.”

  I cringe at the term, wondering why she didn’t call it a “leave of absence” like she has before, as Sophie turns to me. “And you’re a teacher?” she asks.

  “Yes, I teach the first grade. How did you know that? From Facebook?”

  Sophie shakes her head and says, “No. Your mum told me…the last time she wrote….”

  “And when was that?” I ask, uncertain of the timing or frequency of their communication, and wondering if Mom’s been in touch about a December visit.

  “Oh, several years back,” she says. “Maybe two thousand ten or eleven…I can’t recall exactly. How is she doing?” Sophie’s brow furrows with concern.

  “She’s fine,” I say. “She got her real estate license.”

  “Mmm,” Sophie says, a British response that I’ve never been able to decipher. Does it mean “Oh, really?” or “Tell me more” or “I already knew that”?

  “And I guess you heard our parents got a divorce?” I say.

  Sophie drops her eyes, as she says yes, she knew that. “I’m so sorry,” she adds.

  For some inexplicable reason, I feel the urge to make it worse. “Yeah. Mom couldn’t deal with Dad’s drinking. He was on the wagon until…everything fell apart.”

  “Okay, then,” Meredith says in a brisk, upbeat voice. “Enough of that.”

  I smile, then say to no one in particular, “Okay. Meredith says enough of that.”

  “I just think we can find more cheerful things to discuss,” Meredith says under her breath.

  I raise my brows, thinking, Oh? Like the last time we all saw each other, at Daniel’s funeral, perhaps?

  “Anyway. She sends her best,” Meredith says, which I’m pretty sure is a lie, unless she happened to talk to Mom this afternoon while I was napping.

  “Tell her I said hello, too.” Sophie smiles and nods, but can’t mask her pained, pitying look. I know it well—it was the way so many people looked at me for so long after the accident—and feel a rush of annoyance, though I know it’s not fair. How else do I expect her to look right now? And would I really want her not to feel pity?

  Silently granting that she is in a lose-lose situation, I pluck a piece of ropy Serrano ham from her appetizer spread, pop it into my mouth, and change the subject. “So?” I say, still chewing. “Are you married, Sophie?”

  Meredith interjects with a high, nervous laugh, then says, “Well. That’s a little direct.”

  “Oh. It’s fine
,” Sophie says, as I recall one of her letters to Mom about a year after Daniel’s death. It was several pages long, both front and back, and written in the most beautiful handwriting, covering every subject imaginable—from her family to her residency to her travels. But there was not one single mention of her romantic situation, only an awkward paragraph about how she still thought of Daniel “every single day.” I remember folding it back up and thinking this should be a given, hardly worth mentioning—and that this seemed to be a sign that she was seeing someone.

  In any event, she seems perfectly comfortable with my question now. “I’m actually divorced. But we had a good run…almost ten years.”

  “I’m sorry,” Meredith says, bowing her head.

  At least he didn’t die, I think.

  “Thank you,” Sophie says. “It was hard…but I’m in a good place now.”

  I imagine her saying these same words to her ex-husband about Daniel and feel another irrational wave of resentment at just how adept she is at getting over big wounds.

  “Do you have kids?” Meredith asks.

  “Yes,” Sophie says, smiling. “I have a seven-year-old son. Calvin.”

  “Oh, yes. I think I saw him on your Facebook page.”

  She smiles, nods, and says, “Yes. That’s him.”

  “That’s a cute name,” Meredith says, as I think that I can’t picture my brother going for a name like Calvin. But frankly, I can’t picture Daniel with Sophie at all anymore. Even when I try to adjust his age in my mind—a difficult thing to do—I just don’t see them together as she is now.

  “Thank you. He’s a sweet boy,” Sophie says, perking up the way parents so often do when the subject turns to their kids. “Do you have children?”

  “I have a daughter. Harper. She’s four,” Meredith replies, a look of pride flickering across her face.

  “Oh. That’s a great age,” Sophie says.

  Meredith nods her agreement, then says, “Josie’s planning on having a baby soon, too….”

  I look at her, surprised, as Sophie asks me, “Oh? Are you pregnant?”

  “No,” I say. “I’m planning to do it via donor insemination…soon.”

  Sophie cocks her head to the side, giving me a look that can only be interpreted as one of respect. “That’s marvelous. Good for you,” she says.