I poured soda into a paper cup, held it to his lips.
He drank. “Thanks— How long did you actually treat her? Tell me about that—tell me anything you can.”
He’d shared his story. I had no option but to reciprocate. I recited, speaking automatically, while another lobe of my brain remembered.
The anxiety in his eyes when Milo had questioned him about Lauren. What I’d taken for guilt had been pain—a solitary ache.
Lauren and I agreed to do it the right way, not just spring it on everyone. There was Anita to think about—Dad’s illness has plunged her lower than I’ve ever seen her, and she doesn’t do well with change. And Dad, himself. I was concerned about the impact. So was Lauren, she wanted whatever happened to go smoothly or not at all. She said Dad knew about her—years ago, when Lauren’s mother wrote to him, he called, wanted to meet Lauren, but her mother put it off, said Lauren had emotional problems, she wasn’t ready. Dad tried a couple more times, then Dad backed off. That was just like him—make his offer, then not push. Maybe it’s a character flaw— emotional laziness, I don’t know. Sometimes, growing up, I felt Dad was too laid-back—as if he didn’t care. But on balance it was better than his trying to dominate Anita and me. . . . In Lauren’s case, maybe if he would’ve pushed . . . How can you second-guess’? By the time Lauren did build up the courage to meet me and tell me who she was, Dad was sick and weak. I was worried abut the shock. Maybe I— What’s the use . . . ? Right from the beginning Lauren and I got along so well—clicked, as if we’d known each other our whole lives. And—this is going to sound childish—we had fun. Imagining what things would be like once we . . . Our little experiment, we called it—figuring out a way of integrating Lauren into the family.
I said, The phone booth.
He nodded, winced. Moved his leg and his breath caught. That was part of our . . . arrangement. When we built up the courage to bring Lauren to Dad’s house. She’d call me at Point Dume, and if it was okay— relatively quiet at the house—I’d pick her up. I told people she was my friend—childish, I know. I think we both liked the cloak-and-dagger aspect. I would have so liked to know her better—longer. . . . My little sister.
At that point he’d broken down and sobbed, and I’d turned away, feeling low and intrusive, until his voice drew me back.
Don’t worry, I’ve had enough therapy not to be ashamed of my feelings. I guess what I want you to know is that Lauren had value to me—dammit, she deserves to be cried over. Maybe that’s what bothers me the most. There’s no one left to cry for her but me. That time you and Sturgis showed up at my apartment and told me what happened to her—it was as if my entire world was imploding. I’m not the most spontaneous person, but right then I could’ve just. . .gone mad. Of course, I didn’t. Too controlled . . . too much at risk . . . The thing about Lauren was that she made me feel like a kid— something I rarely felt when I actually was a kid. The two of us were planning and scheming, laughing about what we had in common. Our differences—she’d find something we just couldn’t see eye to eye on and laugh and say, “So much for chromosomes.” That kind of thing— No one knew. Not Anita or the women at the office, no one. At least I thought so. . . . Then I started seeing things. Looks passing between Kent and Cheryl, and Lauren would be going off with Cheryl talking. When I asked her about it, she just said, Cheryl was nice but not too bright. I never liked Kent, but never did I imagine—how can you imagine things like that’?. . . Poor Anita— outwardly she’s tough, but it’s an act. She’s always been frail, has irritable bowel syndrome, asthma, migraines—most of her childhood was spent in doctors’ offices. . . . Kent was . . . vulgar, but how could I know?… 7 keep asking myself that— Lauren going off with Cheryl, more and more— Was there some way to know ?