The Second Summer of the Sisterhood Part 11

Life isn't fair. It's just fairer than death, that's all.

-William Goldman

The first few days in Greta's attic were pure manual labor, pulling boxes down from giant stacks and carrying pieces of furniture and loads of books down to the bas.e.m.e.nt.

The morning of the fifth day, the Traveling Pants appeared in the box Bridget had set up at the post office. She was pleased at first, because the rougher work in the attic was about to start, and she needed them. But the anxiety set in when she got back to her room.

She shuffled around the carpet as she opened the package. With her breath held and every loose part of her sucked in, she began to pull them up. She met resistance at the thighs. She had to stop. She couldn't keep going with them. What if she ripped them? How horrible would that be?

She pulled them off fast and pulled on her shorts, breathing hard.

She didn't want to read too much into this. It didn't have to mean anything. So she needed to drop a few pounds. She sat down on the bed and rested her head against the wall and tried very hard not to cry.

She held the Pants. She couldn't just leave them here and ignore them. Maybe the Pants didn't actually have to be on your person to work their magic. Right? Maybe?

Numbly, Bridget strode from the room, clutching them. She carried them all the way to Greta's, where she let herself in the side door, as instructed. Greta was in the kitchen, p.r.i.c.king her finger for blood. Quickly Bridget looked away. She'd suspected already that Greta was diabetic. She'd seen the familiar-looking equipment around. Bridget knew about diabetes, because her mother had developed it in the last few years of her life.

"Good morning, Greta," she said, keeping her eyes down.

"Morning," Greta replied. "Would you like some breakfast?"

"No, thanks," Bridget said.

"Orange juice?"

"No. I'll take some water up with me, if that's okay." She went to the refrigerator to get it herself.

Greta was squinting at the Pants. "Are those yours?" she asked.

Bridget nodded.

"Would you like me to wash 'em for you? A little bleach would clean that whole mess right off them."

Bridget looked aghast. "No! No, thank you." She cradled them protectively. "I like them how they are."

Greta clucked and shook her head. "To each her own," she muttered.

You have no magic in you, Bridget thought.

It was hot in the house, and at least fifteen degrees hotter in the attic. Bridget was already soaked with sweat by the time she got up the stairs.

She had left a pile of boxes in the corner that said MARLY on them in black marker. This was where it got tricky. It was both the part she wanted and the part she dreaded. She perched the pants on a bookshelf and got down to work. Putting her hands on the first box, Bridget didn't let herself think too much, she just opened it.

Carefully she pulled out some composition books. They were from grade school. Bridget felt a slight ache in her chest at the sight of her mother's careful cursive. Social Studies, English, Algebra. There was an envelope full of photographs below those. There were birthdays, ice cream outings, a school fair. Her mother seemed to grab Bridget's eyes in every picture. Her hair glowed and her face never stood still. Bridget had always known she had her mother's hair.

The box contained many pieces of artwork, mostly on paper plates and crumbling construction paper. Bridget saved what she could and threw the rest in a Hefty bag.

The next box seemed to date from high school. Bridget waded through textbooks and notebooks before she came to the photographs. Marly dancing, Marly cheerleading, Marly posing for cheesecakey shots in her bathing suit, Marly flirting, Marly going to party after party after party with one smug-looking date after another. There were four yearbooks, each filled with photographs of the same sort. Marly-was dramatically overrepresented in each one.

Fourteen yellowed editions of The Huntsville Times contained Marly's photograph. There were dozens more pictures of her clipped from the local weekly papers. In every one, Marly was magnificent. She was like a movie star, smiling, laughing, shouting, preening. Bridget couldn't help feeling proud. It wasn't just her beauty-although that was striking, Bridget mused-but her intensity in every single shot.

Bridget was deeply struck by this girl, but she didn't feel she knew her personally. This Marly didn't relate in any obvious way to the woman she had known as her mother. For less than a second Bridget flashed back to her own more recent image of her mother, in the darkened room where she had lain day after day.

"Gilda!"

It was twelve. Greta was calling her down for lunch.

Numbly Bridget went down the stairs. She watched Greta laying out bologna sandwiches and potato chips, her lumpy, arthritic fingers spending an inordinate amount of time folding a paper napkin.

How did she ever come out of you? Bridget found herself wondering.

Carmen spent her afternoon at Lena's making brownies and M&M cookies and putting them into care packages for Bee and Tibby. Now that it was dinnertime, she was especially glad to be at Lena's. She didn't actually love Lena's dad's cooking or the overbright halogen lights over the table or the smell of Effie's quick-dry nail polish that camped out in her nose. But she was glad not to be in her own empty house for the third night in a row.

Tonight her mom and David had gone to a baseball game. Her mother had put her hair back in a ponytail and worn an Orioles cap, which Carmen had found frankly embarra.s.sing.

"This is delicious, Mr. Kaligaris," Carmen said, sweeping her fork through something that involved spinach.

"Thanks," he said, nodding.

"So, Carmen," Effie said, picking up her fork gingerly so she wouldn't mess up her nails. "I heard that your mom is madly in love."

Carmen swallowed hard. "Yeah, sort of." She glared at Lena, searching for signs of disloyalty.

"I didn't hear it from Lena," Effie said, picking up on the vibe. "I heard from Melanie Foster. You know her? She's a hostess at the Ruby Grill. She saw your mom and her boyfriend kissing at the table."

"Do we need to hear this?" Lena asked.

Carmen felt the spinach thing coming back up.

"Don't you like the guy?" Effie asked.

"He's fine," Carmen said shortly.

Mrs. Kaligaris appeared to be interested, embarra.s.sed, and slightly appalled at the same time. "Nice for your mom that she's met somebody she really cares for."

"I guess it's nice," Carmen said after a silence. She closed her face off.

Effie, not being an idiot, backed away from the topic.

Carmen glanced at her watch. "Speaking of ... she's supposed to be picking me up in a couple minutes." She looked around to make sure that everyone was more or less finished with dinner. "I should probably go get my stuff." She cleared her plate. "Sorry to ... you know ... eat and run."

"That's fine, honey," Mrs. Kaligaris said. "I'm sorry to be eating so late tonight."

The Kaligarises always ate late. Carmen figured it was the Greek way.

For the next fifty-five minutes, Lena sat with Carmen in the living room, waiting for Christina.

"She could at least call," Carmen said. She had said that a few times already. It suddenly occurred to her that it was the kind of thing her mother used to say about her.

Lena yawned. "It takes forever to get out of the stadium. I'm sure she's stuck in the parking lot or something."

"She's too old to go to a baseball game," Carmen muttered.

Mrs. Kaligaris came down in her bathrobe to get something from the kitchen. Almost all the lights in the house were off. "Carmen, you know you'd be welcome to sleep over if you'd like."

Carmen nodded. She felt like crying.

At 10:44 a car pulled up outside. David's car.

Lena, the early riser, was practically asleep on the sofa. She roused herself and touched Carmen on the elbow as Carmen stomped to the door. "It's okay," Lena said gently.

"Nena, it was a mad house," Christina erupted as soon as Carmen opened the car door. "I am so sorry."

Christina's face was too happy and excited to look as if she were so sorry or really cared very much at all.

"Carmen, I feel bad. I apologize," David said earnestly.

Then why are you smiling like that? Carmen felt like asking.

She slammed the car door and sat in silence.

Christina and David whispered things to each other as they pulled up in front of the apartment building. Carmen made no effort to hear what they were saying. She leaped out of the car so she didn't have to watch the good-night kiss.

Carmen didn't try to hold the elevator doors, so her mother had to run to make it. In the close confines of the elevator car, Carmen perceived with disgust that her mom's breath smelled of beer.

"Sweetheart, really," Christina said. "I know we were late, but if you had seen the traffic ... The game was sold out, and ... well, you've never minded having extra time at Lena's house...."

Her eyes had a bright and tipsy look. She badly wanted Carmen to let this one go and leave her in her happy world.

Carmen walked ahead of her mother down the hall and used her keys to open the door. She wasn't going to let it go.

"I hate you," she told her mother, filled with shame and desperation as she stomped off to bed.

That night, Tibby stayed in with Brian. She could have sneaked him into the cafeteria, but she rejected the idea. Instead, they ordered a pizza and had it delivered to the room.

Afterward they both lay on the floor with paper and pens and pencils. Brian had the radio tuned to a cla.s.sical station.

"What's that?" he asked, looking at the path of squares she was making over two large sheets of paper.

"It's kind of a ... a storyboard, I guess."

He nodded, interested.

He too was hard at work. He was drawing a comic, Tibby guessed. His people had large heads and eyes. They weren't very good. They reminded her of those cheesy s.h.i.+ny-eyed sad-children paintings. He bit the inside of his cheek when he concentrated. He moved his lips around when he shaded with his pencil.

Tibby was considering her frames when she noticed the music. It was some sort of symphony, maybe. She realized that Brian was whistling. The crazy thing was, he was whistling along with the music. Hundreds of notes, and he seemed to hit all of them.

She stopped and looked at him. He didn't notice her. He was shading and whistling.

The music was beautiful, whatever it was. How did Brian know it so well? How did he know it note for note? Tibby lifted her hands from her papers. She rested her chin in her hand. Had he always been such an in-tune whistler?

She didn't want to say anything. She was worried that if she did, he might stop, and she didn't want him to.

She laid her head on the floor. She closed her eyes. A chill fluttered up her scalp. She felt like crying, and she had no idea why. Her papers wrinkled under her cheek.

Shading and whistling. The violins screeched and soared. The cellos sucked at the bottom of her stomach. The piano pounded away, unaccompanied by anything but whistling for a-while.

Then it was over. Tibby was unaccountably sad. It felt like she had lived in the world of the music, warm and jubilant, and now she'd been cast out of it. It-was cold out here.

She gazed at Brian. He was quietly drawing. He still hadn't looked up. "What was that?" she asked finally.

"What?"

"That music?"

"Uh ... Beethoven, I think."

"Do you know what the thing is called?"