Sorority Sisters (25 page)

Karen

–
F
all 1982
–

I stare at her profile for a moment, the sunset fading to purple and gold, casting her face in a soft warm glow. I haven't been alone with Laurie since we shared that North Hollywood apartment; that seems important now. I feel like I've lost something with Laurie, that our connection, through benign neglect, is frayed and thread-thin.

I let the silence in the car build, convincing myself it's not an uncomfortable silence. I tell myself that Laurie is concentrating on her driving. I tell myself that it will all be fine once we get to Diane's apartment in San Diego, once all the other Exclusives surround us, buffering us against the awkwardness of secluded intimacy.

I used to have the knack for lying to myself. I'm out of practice.

“He used to ask about you all the time,” Laurie says, staring at the road. “Doug, I mean.”

I look at her. “No kidding,” I say.

I don't know what else to say. Pursue it? Let it drop? Doug broke her heart, which is bad enough, but he also broke into us, the Exclusives, and broke something we had between us. He did it through Laurie, and I don't think I've ever really let myself think about how angry that made me at Laurie. She should have shut him out. She should have put us first. If I could, the girl who couldn't say no, she should have, too.

“He always asked me why you wouldn't go out with him. He couldn't let it go. He always wanted to know what your
real
reason was.”

Is this why my connection to Laurie got so thin? Did Doug drag me into the middle of them?

“My real reason? Like I had a fake one? What did you tell him?”

“I told him I didn't know. I told him to ask you. I told him that whatever you'd told him was the reason,
was
the reason.”

“That's true,” I say.

The silence stretches out again. It's my turn to offer something up. I know what I want to say, but I don't know how to say it. Old scars and old wounds, sloppily healed, thick and ugly. It was a long time ago, and yet it's still so fresh, and still so important. How does everything, every hurt and every memory, stay so fresh and real and important when it's so very old?

Bodies age; memories don't. My mother told me that.

“What was the reason?” Laurie asks me, her eyes lit up by the headlights of the car behind us as the light bounces against her rearview mirror.

“The biggest reason? I couldn't do it to Diane,” I say, still staring at her. If I'm going to strike a blow, I'm going to face her when I do it. I'm not going to thrash around with my eyes closed. “He hurt her so much. Diane seemed torn up about it for a long time,” I say. “I still worry about her.”
And about you.
But I don't say that. I can't quite make myself say that.

“He does that,” Laurie says softly. “He tears you up. What were the other reasons?”

I sigh, not wanting to say it, knowing there's no nice way to say it. “He just seemed too good to be true, you know? Like a fake ruby, too red, too sparkly, exactly what you think a ruby is supposed to look like, except they don't. How could he seem so perfect for Diane, and then do his snake-charmer thing and seem so perfect for me, then so perfect for you? He just keeps reinventing himself.”

“You didn't trust him.”

“That's the short version, yeah.”

“I think he cheated on me,” Laurie says.

“I'm so sorry,” I say. “He seems like the type.” I pause, trying to hold my tongue. I can't. The lid has been pried open. “How could you go out with him, Laurie?” I ask. “I didn't understand it then and I still don't understand it. He was so brutal to Diane.”

Laurie stares straight ahead, her face expressionless, the sunlight sliding down to deepest mauve, the headlights slicing into the growing darkness.

“He asked me. He was . . . nice to me,” she says. “He was just so nice, so attentive. I thought he was charming. I guess I still do, looking back.”

“And he was so damned handsome,” I say, looking at her. “His not-so-secret weapon.”

“Yes. That didn't hurt.”

“Except that it did hurt,” I say. “Right?”

“Old wounds,” Laurie says, adjusting her rearview mirror. “Old history.”

He was nice to her. That was all it took? Sadly, I believe it. Laurie, all alone in the world, falls for the first guy who bothers to pay attention to her for more than five minutes at a stretch. I suddenly feel like crying. Why was I mad at Laurie? Laurie is defenseless.

Laurie keeps her eyes on the road. After a few seconds, she says, “Do you think Diane has . . . I mean, it's been a long time now . . . Do you think she was upset about it?”

“I don't know. You might want to talk to her about it,” I say.

Laurie glances over at me and smiles briefly. “Yeah. I probably should.”

We drive on in silence after that, Doug Anderson hovering in the air between us.

 * * *

T
he restaurant is nice. It's dark and atmospheric, and the service is good. I'm not sure where it is since I don't know San Diego at all, but it's on the beach.

There are eight of us, but the table isn't long enough to make conversation difficult. We sit three on one side and three on the other with one on each end, a rough plaster wall separating the restaurant from the bar at my back. The restaurant is Friday-night full and noisy. But we're noisier, as usual.

I'm sitting across from Laurie with a nice view of the ocean. Ellen and Holly are next to me, and Missy and Cindy are surrounding Laurie. Diane and Pi are at each end of the table. We've eaten, taste-testing off one another's plates, something I don't do with just anyone, and while we're waiting for the dishes to be cleared, and not impatient that it be done, somehow the conversation aims directly at Laurie's love life.

I swear it wasn't me.

“You've been dating him—what?—how long?” Ellen asks. “Is it even dating? It sounds like whenever Rick feels like giving you a call, he does, having you drop everything so that it's all on his time, his schedule. Otherwise, he can't be bothered.”

“It's not like that,” Laurie says stiffly, looking across the table at Ellen. “He's a father. He's a
good
father. He has to put his kids first. He wants to be there for them.”

“So what? He's a saint now? So he's a dad,” Ellen says, her voice rising. “Can't he be a dad without treating you like a piece of shit?”

“Please, can we not do this?” Diane says from her end of the table.

“You don't even know him,” Laurie says. “Besides, we're not even dating anymore.”

“That's my point! You were
never
dating him. You were just there for him, whenever, or not, if he didn't feel like it. God, Laurie, when are you going to go out with a guy who doesn't treat you like shit stuck to his shoe?”

“Guys, come on,” Diane says, looking around the restaurant.

People are starting to look at us. I'd feel more uncomfortable if I didn't think Laurie needed to hear this, even if Ellen's timing and choice of words aren't the best. At least someone is saying it. Holly is toying with some noodles on her plate, mashing them back into soggy flour. Cindy is looking at Laurie, her gaze sympathetic, her jaw locked tight.

“He's a nice guy. You don't even know him,” Laurie says with quiet dignity. “I know him. I know the choices he's made. They're the right choices for his kids. He's just thinking of his kids.”

“But he never thinks of
you
, Laurie; that's the problem,” Ellen snaps. “Why do you keep zeroing in on guys who can barely stop to give you the time of day? First Pete, and then Doug, and now Rick—”

“Oh, God,” Diane moans, resting her elbows on the table and putting her hands over her eyes.

“You keep falling for the wrong guy, the guy who just wants to screw you over until something better comes along. Find someone who actually cares about you—”

“Stop it!” Laurie says sharply. We all snap our gazes to her. Laurie never speaks sharply, about anything. Calm. Cool. Composed. Classically restrained. That's Laurie. “You think this is what I want? You think I have guys falling all over me? You think I don't know what you all think of me?”

Her eyes are full of tears, her hands clutching her napkin. She casts a gaze around the table, looking at Diane the longest.

“Laurie, it's okay,” I say softly, remembering our conversation in the car, wanting to shoot myself.

“You think I planned that I'd be alone? Maybe I deserve it. That's what you think. Maybe there's just nothing in me to love. You think that, don't you? You all think that,” Laurie says, her voice high and strained, her tear-filled eyes finding mine. Accusing me silently.

That big, silent, empty house she grew up in until she was twelve, until she was sent away. Those silent parents who don't come to anything important to her, like her graduations from prep school and college and law school. Parents who were never there except to pay a bill. Parents who taught her without saying a word that she was on her own. Parents who didn't show her she was loved simply by paying attention to her.

Doug was
nice
to her. So she fell in love with him.

I shake my head, my eyes filling with tears, and reach across the table toward her. “We don't think that. Why would we think that? We love you, Laurie. We just want you to be happy.”

Laurie snorts and twists her napkin on her lap, shaking her head nervously.

“I don't think so,” she murmurs.

“I love you, Laurie,” Ellen says, her voice lowered. “We all do.”

“Really. We do love you, Laurie,” Diane says. “We do. I do.”

Laurie looks at Diane, her eyes full of tears. Diane nods at her, smiling.

“We just want to see you with a guy who appreciates you, who treats you right, the way you deserve,” Ellen says. “Hell, the way we all deserve.”

“Yeah, well, so do I,” Laurie says, her voice a sliver of sound.

“And that settles that,” Diane says. “We all agree that Laurie is wonderful, and guys, in general, are pond scum. Let's get the check and get out of here.”

The check does not come on command, and so we sit, staring at our laps, at the tabletop, at our dirty dishes, trying not to look at Laurie or at one another. But I do catch Diane's eye. Diane looks at me, tears in her eyes, and shakes her head once, briefly.

In that simple moment, I know that Diane forgave Laurie about Doug, if forgiveness was even required, long ago.

“God. I'm sorry,” Ellen says.

We all look at Ellen.

“Hell has officially frozen over,” Pi says. “What are you apologizing for? I want to get this down in my diary.”

“I'm being a bitch,” Ellen says.

“Yeah, not worth writing that down,” Missy says, smiling at Ellen.

“Look. Shit. I've got good news and bad news,” Ellen says, looking around the table at us. “I'm pregnant.”

“Congratulations!” Holly says. Holly and Bill had a baby last September, a blond-haired, blue-eyed boy who looks almost exactly like Bill. Holly told us that she finds that extremely annoying since she's the one who did all the work. “When are you due?”

“Is that the good news or the bad news?” Pi asks.

“Oh, nice,” I say. “Congratulations, Ellen! I'm so happy for you!”

“What's the bad news?” Diane asks, trying to signal the waiter for our check.

“I've left Mike,” Ellen says.

We're all quiet for a moment, the air sucked out of us. But only for a moment.

“I'm still waiting for the bad news,” Missy says.

Ellen, who has been holding herself very still, suddenly bursts out with a laugh. The old Ellen laugh. It strikes me that I haven't heard her laugh like that, like herself, in years.

“You're right. It's all good news,” Ellen says.

“What happened?” I ask.

“Besides him still being in school,” Laurie says.

“Yeah, that's been fun, huh?” Ellen says.

The waiter arrives at our table, looking harried, and Diane says, “Bring us a cheesecake. The whole thing. Thanks.” She waves him away with an apologetic smile.

“I thought we were leaving,” Cindy says.

“You thought wrong. For this kind of conversation, we need cake,” Diane says. “It's tradition. Go on, Ellen. What was the final nail in his coffin?”

“He cheated on me. With a coed. Okay, so she was older than your average coed, but still—” Ellen says.

“So's he,” Pi interrupts.

“If he did it once, he probably did it ten times,” Ellen says.

“How'd you find out?” Laurie asks.

“The regular way,” Ellen says.

“You did a Sam Spade on him?” I ask.

“Enter the eighties, will you, Mitchell? I'm exhausted trying to keep up with your old movie references,” Pi says.

“Okay, substitute Magnum for Spade,” I say.

“Uh, this is about me right now,” Ellen says. “Try to stay focused, people.”

“Go ahead,” Laurie says. “What happened?”

“I walked in on him. That's what happened,” Ellen says. “He was with her at Paradise Cove. Can you believe that? Doing it on the couch where I used to sleep with my sister when I was ten. Doing it with her in my favorite place on earth.”

“Oh, my God,” Diane says. “That's disgusting. What a jerk.”

“Tell me about it,” Ellen says. “So I open the door and there they are; his pants were down and her skirt was up and her blouse was off and they looked like a couple of teenagers, going at it in Daddy's house. Which, now that I think about it, is basically the gist of the whole situation.”

“Asshole,” Missy says.

“What'd he do when you caught him?” I say.