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Bittersweet memories . . .
Just once a week to relive those old memories. Was that so terrible? Once a week, so she could make it through the rest of the days and nights of her life.
I will always love you.
Mat had everything he’d ever wanted. Money. Respect. A job he loved. And privacy.
If he reached for his flannel shirt when he came home from work, it was exactly where he’d left it. When he opened his bathroom cabinets, he found shaving cream, deodorant, Ace bandages, and foot powder. Nobody got into his root beer, left her Walkman where he could step on it, or threw up on the carpet of the townhouse he was renting in Chicago’s Lincoln Park.
He was only responsible for himself. He could change his plans on a moment’s notice, watch the Bears lose without anybody interru
pting him, and call his buddies to shoot some baskets whenever he felt like it. His life was perfect.
So why did he feel as if he’d somehow been cheated?
He set aside the newspaper he hadn’t read. Most Saturday mornings he drove to Fullerton Beach and ran along the lake, but today he didn’t feel like it. He didn’t feel like doing much of anything. Maybe he’d try to get a start on next week’s columns.
He gazed across his living room, which was furnished with big chairs and an extra-long couch, and wondered what they’d be doing today. Was Lucy getting along with the other girls at that ritzy private school Nealy had stuck her into? Had Button learned any new words? Did they miss him? Did they even think about him?
And Nealy . . . it looked like she was getting ready to make a run for Jack Hollings’s seat in the Senate. He was happy for her—really happy—so he didn’t know why he felt as if something were tearing open inside him every time he saw a photograph of her decked out in one of her designer suits.
He was tired of being alone with his own misery, so he started upstairs to change into his running shorts only to be stopped by the doorbell.
The last thing he wanted was Saturday morning company. He stalked over to the door and jerked it open. “What d’you—”
“Surprise!”
“Surprise! Surprise!”
“Surprise!”
Seven of them. Seven surprises. His sisters burst inside and hurled themselves into his arms.
Mary Margaret Jorik Dubrovski . . . Deborah Jorik . . . Denise Jorik . . . Catherine Jorik Mathews . . . Sharon Jorik Jenkins Gros . . . Jacqueline Jorik-Eames . . . and Sister Ann Elizabeth Jorik.
Chubby and skinny; pretty and plain; college students, stay-at-home moms, professional women; single, married, divorced, bride of Christ—they exploded into his space.
“You’ve sounded depressed when we’ve talked to you . . .”
“. . . so we got together and decided to visit.”
“To cheer you up!”
“Out of the way. I have to pee!”
“. . . hope you have decaf.”
“Oh, God, my hair! Why didn’t you tell me it looked like . . .”
“. . . use the phone so I can call the sitter.”
“. . . all the publicity these past few months has been so hard on you.”
“Shit! I snagged my new . . .”
“. . . what are sisters for?”
“. . . anybody have a Midol?”
