I live in my parents’ Upper East Side town house now. Nice, right? Three floors, working fireplaces, an outdoor space, original fixtures and wainscoting throughout. Shelves of rare books, art from all over the world. They’ve had this place since their thirties, inherited from my mother’s parents. It’s worth a fortune now, though it’s a bit run-down and in need of work here and there. The pipes clank; the lights flicker; the floors creak terribly. I think they should sell it, but they won’t hear of it.
Where in the world would we go?
Anywhere, I tell them, anywhere in the world.
But they’re lifers, Manhattanites to the core. They’ll carry us out of here feet first.
Anyway, they’re away on one of the trips they take—these kind of hiking, educational things. Basic accommodations, good food, but nothing fancy. They’re all about substance, my parents. I have no idea where they are, though they’ve told me multiple times, their itinerary buried in my email somewhere. I’ll have to check my mom’s Facebook page. Idaho? Something about bird migration. My father has made it clear that this—my living with them—should not be seen as a permanent solution. I don’t blame him. It’s been a year. I’m truly better, solid, on my feet. And I’m ready to be on my own too. No one wants to live with his parents, right?
I enter the foyer, close the door. The quiet of the place greets me. My mother usually has the television on or music playing. She can’t bear silence. My father is usually in his study, working or having a soft-voiced conversation with an author. He could have retired, but he still works as a freelance editor. He, too, has offered to help me get published—or to make the connections, anyway. But I want to do this myself. The help of a peer is one thing; getting your dad to make calls is quite another.
I’m confident that you’ll be on your way to having a situation when we return, Dad said. A situation? Who am I? Jane Eyre?
They’re not going to kick me out, though. That much I know. The room upstairs is mine and has always been my refuge, the place I return to when things go badly, as they so often seem to.
I look at the card Emily gave me—Paul Stafford of Writers Space—stuff it back in my pocket. That’s a good thing. I’ll focus on that. Write a query letter, send those very polished first three chapters, using Emily’s name. Maybe. Maybe this is my first step forward into a real life.
My sister, Claire, would have been a better adult child, I’m sure. She was my superior in every way. No one ever says so, but it’s quite obvious—she was the smart, beautiful, sweet one. There was so much promise. Whereas I was always the difficult one, the problem—colicky as a baby, bad grades through middle and high school, worse behavior, then a general failure to launch, multiple career “setbacks,” recently my very serious suicide attempt.
Again, my parents would never say so—perpetually singing my praises and overinflating my meager accomplishments, making excuses for my failings. The world is too much with him, I overheard my mother tell her friend on the phone. He’s creative, such a sensitive spirit. That girl. She just bled him dry.
Interesting turn of phrase.
Yes, Anisa just bled me dry.
Or was it I who bled her dry, bled us dry with my insecurity, my accusations?
Looking back, knowing that she loved you, that she was always faithful, what led you to doubt her? Dr. Black asked.
It always seemed true. There was always a real thing that sent me into a froth.
Once it was some text messages that seemed suggestive. Another time I was sure I saw her kiss a man in the dark hallway outside the bathrooms in a club. Once she said she was with Emily. But she hadn’t been. I still don’t know where she was that night. She was already pulling away from me then.
But even if it were true, the doctor said, do you recognize that you don’t, can’t, possess another person? Even if you were married, it’s not a crime for her to be unfaithful. It doesn’t give you the right to spy, snoop, follow, to violate her boundaries. Can we agree on that?
I know that. I do.
But—how can you keep that jealousy from causing you to do things you know are wrong? How can you keep from clinging to things you don’t want to lose? When they seem to be slipping away?
Dr. Black suggests, of course, meditation and mindfulness exercises, deep breaths, a calm and respectful query, if necessary. Yes, that seems right.
I want to tell Anisa all of this. How it took me nearly throwing away my life to finally understand it. Maybe she can forgive me.
Not take me back. No. I know that.
I’m just looking for forgiveness, for closure.
You have to be okay with not getting that from her. You have to forgive yourself.
If ever there was a shrinky non-phrase. What the hell does that mean? Forgive myself. Of course I forgive myself. Isn’t it all too easy to do that?
My parents have another house too. Upstate, on twenty acres, deep in the woods. Another inherited property, this one from my father’s side. Grandpa’s old hunting cabin that they’ve built upon and modernized over the years. That’s where my sister died. They don’t go up there anymore. It sits empty, going to seed, as my father likes to say. I’m the only one who ever goes there—to check on things, meet with the handyman when there’s a problem. Sometimes I go there to write. Anisa and I visited a few times.
My mother thinks I should go up there permanently, do the fixing up that needs doing instead of the handyman, take care of the property, get a job in town while I finish my novel and try to get it published. I think she wants me to exorcise its demons, make it a happy place again.
Anisa never liked it there. There’s a sadness there—in the walls, in the lake, in the trees, she said. It’s true. My sister drowned there in the lake behind the house. An accident.
Claire was older by three years, a beautiful sylph of a thing. In pictures, she looks ephemeral, as if she was never part of this world. I remember her always just out of my reach—with sunlight for hair and a galaxy for eyes.
She was babysitting that night, fifteen to my twelve—well, not really babysitting. She was supposed to be with me, keeping an eye on things, the older, more responsible sibling. Why did she go out there in the dark? I remember hearing the door, that slapping of the screen so common in summer. The whisper of her voice. The melody of her laughter. Another tone, too, the youthful baritone of a boy. There were always boys—on the phone, sitting awkwardly in the living room with my parents. It didn’t mean much. She wasn’t allowed to have friends over when she was babysitting, but she knew I’d never tell on her.
There was no evidence of foul play. The police ruled it an accident, a careless nighttime swim. She drowned. But who was the boy that night? We never found out. People wondered if I’d dreamed it, that other voice.
Somehow thinking of Claire makes me remember that shadow behind Anisa again, the one who pulled her away from me. Why was there always someone taking them away? Again that ugly lash. If I let those thoughts take their course, I’ll get angrier and angrier. But I use one of Dr. Black’s mantras: I acknowledge that there is anger arising in me. I accept it and release it. At first it seemed like pure bullshit. But it actually works, most of the time.
I creak up the stairs, down the hall to my room. I lie on my bed and scroll through Anisa’s Instagram feed—again.