Second Summer of the Sisterhood (Sisterhood 2)

“You’ve known for a long time?”

Another nod.

“The whole time?” Bridget asked.

“Not the first day,” Greta answered, protecting Bee from feeling sad that her scheme had failed entirely.

Bridget nodded.

“You’re my honey Bee. How could I not know?”

Bridget considered that. It made sense. “Even with my hair different?”

“You are you, however your hair is.”

“But you didn’t say anything.”

Greta lifted her shoulders and dropped them. “I figured I’d take your lead.”

Bridget nodded again. It was remarkable and true. Greta sensed what Bridget needed. She had always done that.

Crawling back in bed, with her raw skin and her smooth hair, Bridget had a feeling of comfort spreading through her insides. She’d let in the memories of a mother who couldn’t seem to love her, but in the same flood had rushed in memories of the mother who could.

Through the middle of August, Lena got up in the morning and went to bed at night. Sometimes she went to work in between. She ate once in a while too. She saw Carmen, and she listened to Carmen talk. She had a few stiff conversations with Tibby. The time Bee called she hadn’t been home. Lena was the kind of person who liked to share good news. Bad news she kept for herself.

Kostos had gone back to Greece. He hadn’t explained why. When she had asked if she’d done anything wrong, he’d gotten upset. For the first time in days his voice had lost its flatness.

“No, Lena. Of course not. Whatever happens, you didn’t do anything wrong.” His voice had been thick with emotion. “You are the best thing that ever happened in my life. Never think you did anything wrong.”

Somehow, she wasn’t reassured by that.

He had promised he would write all the time and call when he could. She knew he wouldn’t be calling much. It cost a fortune and would put a burden on his grandparents. Their house in Oia wasn’t even set up for e-mail.

It was back to the letters. The delay of gratification seemed like torture beyond anything even Kafka could have dreamed up.

I don’t know if I can do this, she thought on many occasions. But what was the alternative? Fall out of love with him? Impossible. Stop caring? Stop wishing she could be with him? She’d tried that once. She was too far gone to try it again.

“Lena, are you all right?” her mother asked her one morning at breakfast.

No! I’m not! “I’m fine,” she said.

“You look so thin. I wish you would tell me what’s going on with you.”

Lena also wished it. But it wasn’t going to happen. For a long time, especially since the Eugene debacle, they’d orbited each other at a wide distance. It wasn’t like her mother could suddenly hug her and make everything better.

Carmabelle: Tib. Saw Brian riding bike today. Almost ran over him. Looks amazing. Is handsome. Not kidding.

Tibberon: Are kidding. Or mistaken.

Carmabelle: Am not.

Tibberon: Are too.

Bridget needed a run. A long, fast one. For days she’d been hanging close to the house, padding around in Greta’s slippers and letting Grandma make her lemonade and rub her back. She’d gone a long time without a mother.

Usually when she slept twelve hours at night it meant she was falling apart, but these nights, with her quiet dreams, she felt as if she were remaking herself, putting herself together.

She washed her hair vigorously, four times in a row, watching the last of the faint brown dye go down the drain. Then she put on her running shoes.

The air was a little cooler than usual, and her breath settled into an easy rhythm right away. Her body felt light and wonderful, as if she’d cast off a very heavy, very dark blanket.

The river was still extra full from the day and night of storms. Her feet slipped a little on the muddy parts of the path, but she slowed down without breaking her stride. She could have run a million miles today, but she decided to turn back once she was five miles out. The trees were so lush and thick they drooped heavily over the river’s edge. Big-leafed magnolias towered to the sky. A thick coat of moss seemed to cover every boulder and rock.

“Hey!”

“Hey!” the voice shouted out a second time before she realized it was directed at her.

She slowed down and made a half turn.

It was Billy. He was waving to her from farther up the grassy bank. It made sense. She could see his house from here if she stood on her tiptoes.

He came toward her. He looked confused by her appearance.

She touched her head, remembering she hadn’t covered it. What was the point anymore?

“You look … different,” he said, eyeing her carefully. “Did you dye your hair?”

“No, I … kind of … undyed it.”

He looked surprised.

“I mean, this is how it usually is.”

There was something stirring in his eyes. He was grasping for something.

“You do know me, Billy,” she said.

“I do, don’t I?”

“My name isn’t Gilda.”

“No.”

“No.”

He was racking his brain, she could tell he was.

“It’s not Mia Hamm, either.”

He laughed. He studied her a little longer. “You’re Bee,” he said finally.

“I am,” she said.

He smiled, amazed, happy, bewildered. “Thank God there aren’t two girls in Burgess who can kick my ass all over the soccer field.”

“Just one,” she said.

He pointed to his forehead. “I knew I knew you.”

“I knew I knew you.”

“Yeah, well, I wasn’t going under an alias, was I?”

“No. Besides, you look exactly the same.”

“You look …” He considered her. “The same too,” he decided.

“Funny how that is,” she said, feeling giddy.

They started walking together along the river.

He was grabbing looks at her as they went. “Why were you using the fake name?” he asked finally.

It was a reasonable question. She wasn’t sure what the answer was anymore. “My mom died, did you know that?” So it wasn’t an answer, but it was information she wanted him to have.

He nodded. “We had a memorial service for her here. I remember thinking maybe you would come.”

“I didn’t know about it. Or I would’ve.”

He nodded again. She was leaving open a lot of questions, she knew, but people didn’t press you when your mother was dead.

“I thought about you a lot,” he said. She knew by his eyes that he meant it. “I felt sorry a lot. About your mom, I mean.”

“I know,” she said quickly.

He touched her hand lightly as they walked. They had only ever talked about soccer before this, and yet he was able to be serious with her now, to absorb who and what she was.

“I wanted to come here and see this place again,” she explained after some silence. “I wanted to see Greta and find out about my mom, but I … I didn’t want any … commitments. I guess.”

He seemed to find this rational, although she couldn’t be sure.

“I don’t feel that way anymore,” she added.

She liked how carefully he looked at her, but she was ready to change gears now.

“So how’d y’all fare against Decatur?” she asked. Now that she was herself again, it was funny to hear her voice relaxing into the old accent.

“We lost.”