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Amanda makes an exaggerated gagging sound in her throat, then giggles. I’m glad she can laugh about it but her mirth doesn’t last long.
“I feel so dumb.” She slumps back against the seat.
She’s not a sister now. She’s a daughter. A girl trying to navigate the world. A girl raised by our parents who changed their ways with her and went farm-to-table as much as possible. Cooking all their own meals for her. Eating dinner with her.
Me? I was raised by those same people on whatever I wanted, eating alone most of the time.
“I didn’t even realize it until it was a few bites in because I’ve never even tasted it,” she says, still beating herself up. “How dumb am I?”
I want to snatch away all that unnecessary self-loathing. Squash it. Throw it in the trash so she never has to face it again. “No, bug,” I say emphatically, trying to impart some of my certainty. “You’ve never had it in your whole life. It was an easy mistake to make.” I pause for a few seconds. “How do you feel now?”
“Stupid. I couldn’t make it through a sleepover. What am I? Nine?”
“You are not stupid. It happens.”
“I just didn’t want to stay there and keep barfing,” she says, staring out the window as the driver cruises down Scott Street into the night, past Alamo Square Park where tonight’s doomed date began just a few hours ago. Feels like many days ago.
“Of course you don’t. Even if you’re feeling better, you just don’t want to take that chance.”
“I guess I’d rather just barf with you, Els,” she says, then sets her head on my shoulder. After a few quiet seconds, she seems to have found the end of her frustration since she says, “What are sisters for?”
I pet her hair. “More than I ever imagined.”
She sighs. “Sorry about that too.”
“Nope. Do not say that. Do not ever say that,” I say fiercely.
“Yeah?” She looks up at me, eyes full of questions, heart needing reassurance.
“Yes. Just yes. I’m exactly where I want to be,” I say. Even if I have no clue how to do this thing most of the time.
She seems relieved, and I’m glad I can give her that. But as the driver steers his way down the bustling streets, I worry away at my cuticles. Did I handle this right? Did I say the right thing when she called? Was I supposed to research the issue immediately like Stella or say it’s no big deal? Instead, I simply reacted like I always do, saying I’m on my way then flying out the hotel room door. I didn’t ask what she wanted. “Was it okay that I came to pick you up before even asking?”
She nods. “Yeah. I wanted you to. And Ally’s mom is cool, but I don’t think she wanted me there.”
“I get that. I mean I want you around though,” I quickly correct.
The car slows at a light while a pack of women my age in slouchy tops revealing their shoulders stream out of a neon-lit bar on the corner. Amanda glances at them, then me. “But I ruined your date, didn’t I?”
I’m certainly not about to tell her that it’d be impossible to ruin a date when I already rode a guy’s face like he was a wild Mustang. “We had a nice time and I think it ended exactly when it was supposed to end,” I say.
“Do you believe that? That things happen for a reason?”
An ache digs into my breastbone. I know where this is going. She still wonders if our parents died for a reason. What the meaning is behind that loss. What the meaning is behind…anything.
“I don’t know. I wish I did,” I say.
Some days I feel like the only thing I really know the meaning of is chocolate. I guess that’s why I keep going back to it. It’s the one thing in my life that feels consistent. The only thing in my life that has always been there. That promises exactly what it delivers—comfort, sweetness, and escape.
“Me neither,” she says. “I don’t think so though.”
“It would be hard to think it happened for a reason,” I say, especially considering how it happened.
As we turn onto our block, she looks me in the eyes again, her blue irises thoughtful and sad. “One time I was at a sleepover and I wanted to say goodnight, but I couldn’t reach Mom and Dad. I thought they were drinking again.” My throat tightens with too many emotions. Of course she knows about their past. They talked about their alcoholism openly with anyone and everyone. They’d stopped before my mom got pregnant with her. They’d become sober coaches, running sobriety retreats, ones they poured all their own money into, going into debt to try to help others. Ironic, in a terrible way, that they were killed by a drunk driver. That can’t possibly have been for a reason.
Amanda finishes with a shrug. “I think it turned out they were just busy in other ways.”
Like I was earlier. But at least I had my phone on. Maybe I deserve a badge for that?
