Walking On LilyPads

Bringing Up Memories

Ping!

My attention snaps to my bed, where I must have thrown my phone at some point. I reach over and pick up the device, swiping my thumb across the screen. It's my sister, Rosalie:

Hey! I don't know if you're up, but you should come have dinner with us tomorrow night. I have wine, and it's your favorite - picked it up this evening. I'll have Owen put the kids to bed so we can chill after dinner. Please say yes? I miss you!

I smile despite myself.

Oh sure, why not? :) blush or bust.. time?

Yes! White zinfandel! Dinner's at 6 - you're off at 5 right? You're welcome whenever!

Okay, sounds like a plan. Love you.

Love you most! <3

I lie back onto my bed, setting my phone on my nightstand. At least she didn't say anything about my eggs.

"Okay, babe, it's bedtime for the babes." Rosalie nods at Owen and gestures towards the staircase. They have a pretty good system, my sister and her husband. They split the kid duties between the two of them. I imagine she put the kids to bed last night in preparation for Owen doing it tonight. She made dinner, he did the dishes. She fed the baby, he fed the three-year old. She'll take out his contacts, he'll wipe her--

"So! Tell me about life--what's new? Anything exciting?" My sister looks so genuinely happy to see me that I feel guilty for poking fun at her, even in my head.

"Mm, not really . . ." I'm terrible at lying.

"You're seeing someone," she says without missing a beat. "Your face is doing that thing it does when you're not telling me something."

"What is my face doing?"

"The thing. Your cheeks get all flushed, you chew on imaginary gum, and you won't look me in the eye."

"What flavor of gum is it?" I challenge, feeling exposed. My hand comes up to my jaw. Do I really do that? My skin is warm . . . and I'm definitely not looking at her.

"Black hair. Dark complexion. Probably wears ridiculously strong cologne, if you haven't changed."

This is why I feel attacked when she talks about my eggs. "He does have dark hair . . ." I concede. She's right about too many things.

When I glance up at her, she rests her chin on her hand and blinks, waiting for the rest.

"Pour the damn wine." I lean my head back against the couch cushions and bring both my hands to my face, trying to rub away the shame.

Of course she already has the bottle uncorked, and the glasses are sitting on the coffee table. She plucks one off by its narrow stem in a delicate gesture, much like the way one picks a rose from a garden, carefully avoiding the thorns. Her burgundy, manicured nails clink against the glass. She pours so much for me that the pale pink liquid almost sloshes over the side, but her hand doesn't shake when she passes it over to me.

"Jeez. Do you think I'm an alcoholic?" I sip a bit off the top so it doesn't spill and then rest the base against my knee, my legs tucked under me.

"Oh, I know you're not. I just think it's going to take that much to get you to tell me everything I want to know." Older sisters are devious creatures. The smile she gives me isn't quite smug, but satisfied, nonetheless. She plays innocent well.

"Maybe I won't drink it then," I say, wrinkling my nose at her.

She mimics my expression and pours herself a glass. She clinks it against mine and takes a large gulp as if to challenge me. She knows I'm a lightweight.

My eyes narrow. I take another sip and lower the glass again. "He's perfect. You'd be hard-pressed to find a kinder, more genuine person, or more attractive for that matter. He looks at me and talks to me like I mesmerize him. I'm terrified and probably shouldn't have said yes to a second date because it's too good to be true. But I'm a sucker, so here we are. See? I don't need alcohol to be transparent."

"Well, I hope you're feeling confident about those feelings because the message I received earlier this morning may shake you up a bit." She shifts so she's facing me and takes another drink. Her face goes through a multitude of expressions--uncertainty, regret, apprehension--before she opens her mouth to speak. "Aleks messaged me and asked how you were doing."

I almost drop my glass, but I use my thigh to recover. Some of the wine spills onto my jeans, little beads of moisture soaking into the fabric. I don't say anything because I can't think of anything worth saying. My thoughts are a blur as I stare at my pants, the stains going in and out of focus.

"Lillian?" Rosalie reaches for my glass and eases it out of my hand, setting it down on the coffee table. "Should I not have said anything?"

Swallowing hard, I shake my head. The backs of my eyes sting, and it feels like betrayal. "It's . . . fine, I-"

"Oh, honey . . ." Her tone is saturated in guilt. She scoots over to me and wraps her long, slender arms around my shoulders. Our matching dark, wavy hair intermingles as it falls between us, and for a moment it's hard to tell where one of us begins and the other ends. Neither of us says anything for a while. Rosalie adjusts her position so she's leaning against me, her head on my shoulder. My sister is many things. She can be overbearing and dramatic, a little pushy . . . but her presence is a comfort to me. I can remember us being huddled together like this the night Aleks and I said goodbye for the last time...