Sorority Sisters (27 page)

D
iane

–
Winter 1988
–

Missy killed herself on January 22. She was driving out in the desert just east of Palmdale and crashed. She was going over 100 mph and it was 2:14 a.m. when she lost control of the car and it left the pavement. It rolled six times, landing on its roof. She was not wearing a seat belt.

The accident was declared just that: an accident. She was not drunk and she had not been drinking. They think that she was speeding and one of her tires blew.

She killed herself. We all know she killed herself. Missy was the one who did what she damn well pleased, every time, and she was not going to let diabetes eat her up piece by piece, swallow by swallow.

Laurie is paying for a big party at the Beverly Hills Hotel. She rented the space and organized the food. Ellen, Karen, and I are paying for the liquor. Pi did the invitations; there were five hundred of them. Pi contacted everyone Missy had ever known, from kindergarten to the job she'd had the day before she killed herself.

We don't talk about how she killed herself. We just know that she did. We can see it in one another's eyes, the horror of it, the shame we feel that we couldn't fix it, couldn't make it all go away, couldn't find a way to fight for her in a way that would have any fucking meaning.

We're throwing a damn party for her because that's what she asked for, but dammit, it's not enough. It's not even close to being enough.

I feel like shit, like I want to cry all the time, but I can't and I'm holding it down and it's going to drown me. I can't get any time off—that's a given—so I sent a check to Karen, and I'm here for the weekend to play at being blitzed and happy at a party that Missy said was the only thing she wanted of me. So, okay. I'm here. Let's get the fucking party started.

“You can't cry,” Laurie says. “We promised Missy we wouldn't.”

“She's not here to see me,” I say, the tears leaking out of my face. I'm not crying. I've never cried like this before. I'm absolutely silent, no hitched breathing, no sobs. God, I think I'm
weeping
, old-fashioned weeping, like in a Victorian novel. “And I'm not crying. I'm
weeping
,” I say. “Get off my case, McCormick.”

We drive to the hotel on Sunset, avoiding the freeway since it's always a mess, not saying a word. Sunset curves and winds beneath tall, waving eucalyptus trees, multimillion-dollar stucco homes on lush green lawns, office buildings, recording studios, restaurants, eighty-thousand-dollar cars cruising past homeless people hanging around bus stop benches. LA. La-la land. I soak it all up soundlessly. I miss it.

I miss Missy.

How the hell did a girl like that ever end up with the name Missy? She should have been named Delilah or Lefty or something.

We're the first ones here, because we left early and didn't take the freeway, and I stand like a wounded buffalo while Laurie talks to the chick from the hotel.

“Let's go see where the bathroom is from the reception room,” she says.

“Okay,” I say, walking at her side like some freak-show reject. I can't seem to pull it together. It's like Mom all over again, only different, because I didn't see it coming with Mom and I saw it coming with Missy for about a decade, all in slow motion. It was like a dream that you couldn't wake up from no matter how hard you try, and then when you do wake up, thinking it's finally over, the reason it's over is because Missy is dead.

I can feel the tears running down my face. I think I've been crying nonstop for a week.

“You're not the only one, you know,” Laurie says stiffly.

“The only what?”

“I miss her, too. I'm grieving, too.”

“I know that,” I say, stunned.

I'm blowing it, and I don't know how. Am I not grieving in the proper way? Is there a rule book for this, too? Of course there is. Don't be an idiot, Ryan; get your mask back on and look at the camera like a good little girl. Don't let anyone see the ugly stuff. People can't stand looking at the ugly stuff, like naked grief, like shaking insecurity, like raw fear.

But this is Laurie. Can't I let the mask slip with Laurie?

I look at Laurie in the bathroom mirror. She looks slightly stiff and very composed, even more pulled together than usual. She's wearing a dark blue suit with a champagne-colored silk blouse, her dark blond hair pulled back into a low ponytail. She could be going to a deposition or a bank meeting, but she's going to a funeral masquerading as a party.

“Thanks for driving,” I say, watching for her reaction.

She snorts a little bit, lifts an eyebrow, and turns on one of the faucets.

“Hey, are you okay?” I say.

“No. I'm not. Thanks for asking,” she says, looking at me in the mirror.

“Well, go on. Spill it. If you think I'm a first-class bitch, go ahead and say so.”

She wipes her hands on a towel and reaches in her purse for her lipstick, but she doesn't use it; she just pulls the cap off and on, off and on. Considering that this is Laurie, it's like watching a first-class nervous breakdown.

“I loved her, too,” she says.

“I know that.”

She doesn't say anything more, but I can feel that she wants to, that there's this tidal wave of words just begging to be let loose.

“Just say it, Laurie. Whatever it is, just say it,” I tell her. “If we can't be honest with each other by now, what the hell's been the point?”

Laurie looks at me, her eyes sad, her mouth tipped up in a reluctant smile that lasts a millisecond.

“Sometimes I feel like you get there first, that there's . . . no room for anyone else.”

This isn't about Missy; this is about Doug. We've never talked about Doug, never said a word to each other to tie off the dripping vein of pain and humiliation he opened up ten years ago. I didn't think we needed to talk about it; haven't we shown each other that there's nothing to say, that he did his thing and we made it and hooray for us? I guess that's not enough, at least not for Laurie, and maybe even not for me. Maybe I need to tell her what I've wanted to say and she might have needed to hear. I've got to make myself say something, face it down and shut it off, once and for all.

I've got to be brave enough to talk this out and bury it.

I'm really, really horrible at confrontation. I guess when all's said and done, I like life behind the mask, which is so damn pathetic that I'm suddenly disgusted with myself and with life in general.

“I'm sorry,” I say, turning to face her, my hip resting against the counter. “I don't mean to do that. I don't want to get there first. Most times I don't want to get wherever the hell I'm going at all.”

Laurie looks at me, a brief glance, and then she looks at the pattern the lights are making on the ceiling. “Yes, you do. I'd want that. I'd want to be first, to have the first claim.”

“Laurie, look, let's not do subtle. We're talking about Doug, aren't we? Well, okay, I was in love with him and you were in love with him and he screwed us both over.”

Laurie turns to look at me, her brows raised, looking a bit shocked.

“Hey, I could have said
fucked
. I'm trying to be sophisticated because we're in the Beverly Hills Hotel.” She smiles a little bit, but it fades almost before it begins. I smile back and try to make it stick. “I'm just trying to say that I wanted him to love me, and when he didn't, and when I could see straight again, I wanted him to love you, and when he didn't, when he blew it, then I wanted him to get thrown from a fast-moving train. That's all. If I could have avoided being first for that Mexican hat dance, then I would have. But not,” I say, grabbing her hand, “if my being first sent up a warning flare that he was a total shit and you should run for your life. But it didn't. And I was first. There's nothing I can do about that except to say I'm sorry that you feel like you're second to me in anything. You're not. We both know you're not.”

I stop talking because I don't think I'm making sense anymore, if I ever did.

“You're not mad?” she says. “That I went out with him after he . . .”

“Kicked me out of bed? No, I'm not mad. I was never mad; I just didn't want him to hurt me, and then I didn't want him to hurt you.”

Laurie smiles, and it holds. Then we're hugging each other, messing up each other's hair, and pushing our mascara to the edge, but it's okay. It's all okay. Missy's gone, but Laurie is here and I've got her and she's got me and we both know that. That's all that matters, in the end. Hell, that's all that matters in the beginning and the middle.

“As long as he didn't hurt
us
, then it's okay,” she says. “Well, not
okay
, but . . . okay. I didn't want to lose us, Diane. Especially after Missy . . . It just all overwhelmed me, all these thoughts and regrets. I don't want to lose us, any of us,” she says.

I smile. I know exactly what she means, and I think, really, for the first time, I understand what Missy had in mind when she commanded us to have this party when she died. She wanted us to remember that we are an
us
, and that we can't lose us or we'll lose everything.

“Let's go party. Let's go be us. For Missy,” I say.

And that's exactly what we do.

 * * *

F
our hours into the party celebrating Missy, when most of the non-Exclusives have left and it's only Missy's extended family and us still taking up space at the Beverly Hill Hotel, Ellen sits down next to Laurie and grabs her hand.

“I need to ask you something,” Ellen says. “I need to do something.”

“How drunk are you?” Karen asks. “You sound drunk, not that Missy wouldn't approve, but you can't drive home like that. I'll drive you. Is Megan with your parents? Are they okay with keeping her overnight? I'll take you to my house and you can stay with me.”

“God, will you shut up? I am not drunk,” Ellen says. “I have something to ask Laurie, and you are not invited into this conversation.”

“Well. Thanks a lot,” Karen says, starting to laugh.

“She's more fun when she's drunk. Have you noticed?” I say.

“After a decade? Yeah. I've noticed,” Karen says.

“Laurie, ignore them,” Ellen says. “I really need to ask you something. Something huge.”

“I can do huge,” Laurie says.

“Is this the beginning of a fat joke? 'Cause I'm out of here if it's a fat joke,” I say. I went up a size. I'm feeling kind of hysterical about it.

“Laurie,” Ellen says, ignoring me, “I really want to thank you again for buying Mike off.”

“Is that what we're calling it?” I say.

“What else is it when you tell a guy that all he has to do is disappear forever, and that if he does, he'll never have to pay a dime?” Karen says.

“A payoff,” I say. “Without any money changing hands. Very tidy, Laurie. You sound really good at what you do. If I ever get married and divorced, you'll be my first call.”

“And,” Ellen continues, throwing me a dirty look, “Missy dying so young has made me think about Megan, about how, if I go before she's of age, then she'll have no one.”

Karen and I share a look and keep our traps shut.

“We've talked about this before,” Laurie says. “I'm glad you're finally taking it seriously.”

“It's a serious day,” Ellen says. “In a drunken-brawl kind of way.”

We all smile a bit at that. It's exactly the kind of day Missy wanted and, though she's not here, I feel her in every conversation and every corner of the room. It was a party, a good old-fashioned wake.

“We need to meet at my office because you need to talk to a lawyer who specializes in this kind of thing,” Laurie says, pulling out her pocket organizer. “Give me a call on Monday and I'll see what Milt's calendar looks like.”

“Yeah, fine,” Ellen says, “but that's not exactly it. It's more than that. I'm about to ask you the biggest favor I've ever asked anyone. Are you ready?”

Laurie

–
Winter
1988
–

Am I ready?

I know what she's going to say before she says it. I can see it in her eyes, all the memories we share, all the small moments that become large memories, memories that fill a life and make it warm.

“Remember the strawberry jam?” I say, leaning forward and taking Ellen's hands in mine.

“I wish I could forget it,” Ellen says with a grin.

“What's the deal with strawberry jam?” Diane asks.

“Be glad you were gone,” Karen says with a shudder.

“Okay, now I have to know. Just because I'm off serving my country—” Diane says.

“God, okay. I'll tell you the strawberry jam story,” Ellen says. “Megan was two, not even, and Laurie was over at my place; we were going to Paradise Cove to see my mom. So when Laurie got to my house, I jumped in the shower—”

“Which sounds innocent enough, doesn't it?” I say. “But Megan got into the pantry while I was washing the dishes, and she dropped a jar of strawberry jam, one of those huge jars—”

“I don't think the size of the jar was the problem,” Ellen says. “So I hear Laurie screaming for me to get out of the shower, and so I do, and there's Megan, covered in red—blood, jam, who can tell?”

“I thought she was bleeding to death, right in front of me,” I say. “The kitchen floor was covered, and then she was crying hysterically and waving her hands around, and blood is flying all over the white cupboards.”

“I threw on a beach cover-up and flip-flops, my hair soaking wet, and we ran out the door, Laurie holding Megan while Megan is screaming like a banshee,” Ellen says.

“Who can blame her?” Karen says.

“So I'm driving like a bat out of hell,” Ellen says, “while Laurie's in the backseat with Megan, holding her thumb with a dish towel—”

“I didn't know if she'd severed it completely or not,” I say. “There was so much blood, and her fingers were so tiny.” I can feel the tears building in my eyes, just like they were when it happened. “I kept telling her how sorry I was.”

“Yeah, I'm driving, hitting every light, because, you know, that's my karma, and all I can hear is Laurie whispering, ‘I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry.'”

“I'll bet,” Diane says.

“So I get to the pediatrician's office, because it's closer than any hospital, run her in there, Megan still crying her heart out, and the blood hasn't even slowed down, and then they put her in one of those boards where the kid is tied down. That was fun. I just kept stroking her head, telling her that she was going to be all right,” Ellen says.

“Four sutures in that tiny little thumb,” I say. “I stayed in the waiting room and filled out the paperwork.”

“You could get a real nice career going, doing that,” Diane says.

“I don't know how I held the pen; I was just crushed with guilt. After about thirty minutes, Ellen came out holding Megan, who was still whimpering, her little beach outfit stiff with blood, Ellen's hair still damp, and she said . . . she said . . .” I hesitate, my eyes overflowing and my throat tight.

“I said, ‘Well, that's it for me and strawberry jam. I assume that's unanimous?' Which seemed the only logical conclusion,” Ellen says. “That was three years ago. We're still a grape-exclusive jelly household.”

“Me, too,” I say.

“Damn,” Diane says. “After that, me three.”

“So, the strawberry jam story,” Karen says. “Is this going where I think it's going?” Karen has tears in her eyes, but she's smiling.

I can't smile. It's too much and it's too important, and though I'm the one who's been urging Ellen to get the paperwork on this done, to get her legal house in order, I didn't see this coming.

“Laurie,” Ellen says to me, her blue eyes full of hope and trust.

“Of course,” I say, smiling at her, cutting her off, not forcing her to say the words, words no mother should have to say.
Will you be my child's mother? Will you love my girl if for some reason I can't?
“You don't even need to ask.”