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“And how do we acknowledge her?” I asked.
“I’m not sure yet. We can each do something, together or on our own. I just know I want a tree this year. I just thought of something. Lucy loved Christmas. I’ll pretend I’m doing it for her.”
That made sense, and I wanted to tell Lillian, but I wasn’t ready to celebrate yet. “Mom, that’s lovely. You should do that. But I will not come. Not yet.”
“Okay, my dear. That’s perfectly okay. You had a traumatic week. I think it shook everyone up. Maybe that was the catalyst to us wanting the tree. Life is so short and all that.”
“Right.”
I didn’t say what was on my mind, and that was that Lucy might still be alive if someone had listened to me, but I couldn’t be that mean. I also wouldn’t tell her what her father had said to me.
We said goodbye. My inspiration to clean had left as quickly as it came. Forcing myself to do my room would be the last thing. As I wound the electric cord around the vacuum, my phone beeped. It was Margo.
“Mom just told me you told her you approved of celebrating for Lucy.”
“I wouldn’t go that far, but I didn’t give her grief about a tree. I’m not going anywhere that old man will be.”
“I’m telling them, Bella. It explains a lot.”
“Naw, don’t ruin it for her. It’s not important anymore.”
“You estranged from the family is important!”
“Can we get through Christmas, at least? I’m dreading all of it. What that old man said to me isn’t as important as Lucy’s parents ignoring warnings she was in trouble. That’s the thing I’m really struggling with, the words that are always on the tip of my tongue. If we’re going to make an issue about anything, that should be it.”
“Yeah, except it’s too late. And they are still so sad. Do you really think blaming them for her death is going to help?”
Margo had never said that before, and it rattled me. “Do you think I’m blaming them?”
“If you tell Pop and Mom that they could have prevented her death, that’s blaming them for it. I just think some things are better left unsaid. What good will it do? It’s too late. She’s gone.”
“She died pissed off at me because I opened my big mouth, Margo. How’d you like that on your conscience?”
“I know, sweetheart. I’m so sorry. It’s all messed up. Rocko and I are afraid to move farther because of it. At least you got away.”
I wasn’t sure what had propelled me out of the house to college. After Lucy died, I was suffocating in there. My parents could barely stand to look at me. We were identical, and when Lucy was alive, someone was always saying something like,Is it Lucy or Isabel? And it took a while for that to stop after she died.
When we were little, my mother tried to dress us differently so she could tell us apart. Lucy wore red and orange, and I wore purple and pink. When we were around four, we started switching things around purposely to mess up our parents.
Lillian finally figured it out. “Oh, Lord, those two are going to drive me mad! Who is it?”
Then I got a cat scratch that left a scar above my right eye. Someone was always grabbing our chins to look this way and that to see who had the scar.
In school, they tried to separate us, but we wouldn’t stand for it. My mother fixed the identity issue by using colored hair ties—red for Lucy, purple for me. We wore uniforms, so the hair ties were really the only way to tell us apart.
In our junior year, Lucy resented the extra work she did for the college classes, and her grades were showing it. That led to making friends with kids from a different crowd than she had throughout elementary school, kids she referred to asthe others. Even in Catholic high school, drugs had become a problem.
“What are we going to do this weekend?” was a common refrain. In the past, we’d planned things together.
“I have plans withthe others.”
“Can I come?” I’d ask.
“No. You go with the old crowd,” she said, snickering. “I’m with the new.”
My parents didn’t see that right away. Things like breaking curfew and belligerent behavior got their attention. Lucy was always miserable, fighting with them and crying about the smallest issues. When she grew more combative, I retreated.
She wanted her own room for the first time. The first months of our senior year, apart from her, I cried myself to sleep most nights. Begging her didn’t help.
