Page 101 of True Blue

They move in tandem, my sisters, sliding in over each other's thoughts like this conversation has lived in both of them for years and finally found a way out. It makes my stomach turn to think how long they must have sat with this. How many times they must have swallowed it down. How long they waited until they thought I could actually hear it instead of defending Mom.

And how fucking ignorant I was not to see any of it.

I always liked my sisters, no matter what Mom said. I admired them more than I ever admitted out loud, especially when Nana and Pop talked about them proudly.

Danielle is terrifyingly smart, always has been. If I asked her for help with homework, she'd stop whatever she was doing and sit with me until I understood. She graduated top of her class, then went backpacking through Europe before college because she wanted to see the world. Mom said it was reckless, I thought it was brave.

And Stephanie was cool in a way that made every friend I ever had think so too, even the secret friends from school Mom didn't know about. Stephanie listened to loud, screaming music that Mom once called satanic, came home from college with tattoos and piercings, and talked about protests and sit-ins, almost getting arrested.

Both my sisters are brave. Braver than I ever was. And so was Indie.

I said the meanest thing I could think of to her, and it landed exactly where I meant for it to. No excuse for that. Nothing accidental. No blaming my mother's voice coming out of my mouth.

The meanest thing I could say about her was also the bravest thing about her.

She doesn't have a blood family to fall back on. She built everything all on her own, and when I used to express my admiration for that—because I truly would be nowhere without my family's financial support—Indie just looked uncomfortable with the praise, like she didn’t know what to do with it.

She's the bravest woman I've ever met.

"Mom's living the life she wants," Danielle says. "Perfect on the outside, rotting on the inside."

"Why do you think Dani and I barely come home?"

Danielle snickers. "I'm guessing because Mom told you we were ungrateful little brats who were jealous of you."

My silence answers for me.

"I didn't think that," I say weakly.

"No," Stephanie says. "Mom did the thinking for you and slid it right into your head. That's why Nana and Pop bit your head off any time you parroted the sexist bullshit you picked up from Dad."

"Pop almost rang his bell one Thanksgiving after Dad barked at Nana to get him a beer."

"I remember that," I whisper.

One of my earliest Thanksgiving memories was when I was six. Dad had snapped at Nana—literally snapped his fingers. Pop had sprung up from the couch like a jack-in-the-box, yelling at my Dad. I just remember being scared by the volume of their voices, then Mom ushering me out of the room.

I asked her what was happening, and she told me they were playing a game.

"How do you think your room got clean?"

"Mom," I say automatically, though as soon as I say it, I already know the truth.

"No, we did that, but you should have been doing it," Stephanie scoffs. "You should have been chipping in with chores, but it all fell on us."

"You know what Mom said when we told her that?" Danielle says. "That you were too young, that you were tired, that you wanted to play."

"I'm... I'm sorry," I say, because it's the only thing I can think of to say. "I'm really sorry."

There's silence from the phone before Stephanie sighs.

"We would have told you this sooner, but we didn't think you would listen."

"Then you started talking about Indie," Danielle says, and I can hear the smile in her voice. "And we were hopeful."

"Then we met her," Stephanie says, "and got excited."

"Finally, this one could actually be the one."