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She laid her cheek against my shoulder. “You were my source of strength. You made me believe in better days. I wouldn’t have recognized what love was when I met Daniel if you hadn’t already shown me.”
“Thank you, Rach.” My fingers twitched with the urge to write down my sister’s words, to share them with my daughter. “You were all those things for me too, you know?”
“What’s that notebook about,” she asked. “The one on the nightstand.”
“It’s a journal. I’ve been writing in it for a while. It helps me process my thoughts.”
“Since the abuse.”
“Yeah.” I nodded. “Since then.”
“What kind of things do you write about?”
I stiffened. “Things I find difficult to talk about.”
“Things from back then?”
“Yeah, mostly.”
“But you’re not going to elaborate.” She lifted her head, studying me closely. “You never talk about the details, and I never pressed you. Maybe I thought it was better to let those things lie. But if you ever need someone to talk to, you’re not alone anymore. You can talk to me.”
“It helps you just being here,” I managed to say, even with love and gratitude tightening my throat.
“I think us being together helps us both.”
She was absolutely right. But I worried about who would help Claire.
Addy
Rachel and I fell into a pattern that wasn’t as effortless at work as it was at home. Waitressing didn’t come naturally to my sister.
For example, when bands were playing, she lost her focus. The way she stared at the stage made my chest hurt. I recognized regret and longing when I saw it.
Her reasons for giving up music entirely all those years ago, I understood. But I think it was more complicated than just ABCR losing their record deal. I believed Rachel needed music. She’d once used it to process her emotions the way I now used my journals.
“Hey,” I said, pulling her aside after the second patron hit me with a glance when Rachel had lingered overly long at his table with a faraway look in her eyes. “It might be too early for you to start working.”
She gave me a pleading look. “I need to work. Please let me work. I can’t be alone with my thoughts.”
“Maybe you could pick up your guitar,” I said carefully.
“That’s Claire’s guitar now.”
“Yes.” I knew that. “But you could play it too. You could share it.”
“No.” She shook her head. “Just looking at it makes me sad. Playing that guitar was how Daniel and I met.”
“Sadness is a valid emotion. It would probably be better if you didn’t avoid it.”
She raised a challenging brow.
“Yeah, I avoid a lot.” I sighed. “I’m just trying to help you do better than me. Music was a big part of your life for a long time.”
“For you too.” Both her brows went up.
“It still is.” I gestured. “Look around.”
As the soft notes of the band’s acoustic set flowed from the speakers, a few couples swayed together on the dance floor. Taking it all in, I could see she got my drift.
