Aftermath of Dreaming Read Online Free PDF Page B

they left off. “Daddy used to take us to ball games with him, and all those trips to Grande Isle, remember the father-daughter days at school and the times he would—”
    â€œI refuse to have this conversation,” Suzanne says, her eyes hard on mine before staring off in the mid-distance as if the sister I should be is there. “You either want to show up for me in my life today or you don’t.”
    â€œNo, I do. Jesus, I just…” Not understanding why we can’t talk about our parents, I want to scream. Considering that we are the only twopeople in L.A. who know them. Who know that they aren’t just “parents”—that amorphous, only-exist-as-psychological-factors-in-your-life stratum that everyone’s parents fall into out here because no one can actually meet them. Whenever I talk about my parents (to my friends or even that therapist I went to a couple of summers ago, right after Momma died, to help me with the grief), I can feel little parts of them getting cut away by the words I use (which is the worst part—the words I use) because they have different meanings to each person who hears them. The people my parents were—in the shadowy memories that hold together the love I have for them—don’t exist where I live. Sometimes I long to be in a place where they still do.
    Suzanne is staring at me and my untouched coffee.
    â€œI’m happy to be in your wedding.” I carefully push a lace garter aside and place my china cup on the table. I can’t have something so fragile in my hands right now; the way I feel is breakable enough.
    â€œGood, I am, too.”
    â€œGood. So.”
    There is not one yellowed or dead leaf on any of my sister’s ficus trees or on the floor underneath. I understand this to mean that she has a maid.
    â€œHow are the anklets?”
    It takes me a second to figure out what she’s talking about. Our mother thought anklets were trashy—hooker jewelry. Not that Momma ever would have used that word, but then she didn’t have to, with the expression she’d have on her face.
    â€œYou mean earrings, bracelets, rings, pins.” My sister is the director of a small foundation that helps children with AIDS, a fact I have never forgotten, so why she can’t remember what I make I have no idea. Talking about my designs with Suzanne is like watching the semiprecious stones and gold I use get transformed into colored glass and tinny aluminum. “It’s going great, actually.” I keep my tone light, refusing to let her see how pissed off her remark made me. “I’ve been getting new commissions, and at the gem show in Tucson, the prices were so much better, I was able to buy bigger stones, and, you know, size matters.”
    I laugh; Suzanne does not. I had forgotten that since she got engaged, all sexual jokes have become verboten, as if the road to infidelity is paved with chuckles.
    â€œOkay, so.” I move the tulle aside again to uncover my purse. “When am I seeing y’all?”
    â€œThis Saturday, three o’clock.” Suzanne gets up. Even though I am the one who started to leave, I immediately feel dismissed.
    â€œRight.” I stand up in the gleaming, blinding whiteness of the room. She and Matt must walk around in here squinting at each other all the time, either that or wearing sunglasses. “Why’s Matt coming anyway? Won’t the ceiling of Bridal Tradition come crashing down on our heads?”
    â€œIt’s your dress we’re fitting, not mine.” Suzanne is walking me out through her immaculate nuptial labyrinth. “I want him included. Too many men feel left out of their wedding plans.” She opens the front door, stopping on the first step. “Our marriage is a partnership—we do things together.”
    â€œOh, well. That’s great,” I say with no enthusiasm at all. I have a sudden urge to run to her