It wasn’t Marisa’s fault that Clare was more vibrant, playful, and compliant. She always brightened up a room with her smile, and she always let the doctor examine her when she was sick, and she’d always taken her medicine. Marisa had fought Mommy and later me every step of the way on everything. M was who she was, and that had never been quite enough for me.

“It was good to see everyone,” Marisa said. “Why’d you invite that group?”

“I thought it would be fun to go down memory lane.”

“You hate memory lane.” She dusted the everything seeds from her bagel onto her napkin.

“It wasn’t my birthday. It was yours.”

“Right. Well, thank you for the effort. It was nice.”

I picked up my purse and walked to the framed black-and-white pictures. Each time I’d come into the apartment while Marisa was in the hospital, I’d stopped and stared at them. Moody and distant, like Marisa. And they whispered a message that always taunted me. “You should have another show.” I turned, found Marisa cupping her mug in both hands, staring at the images. “Not still stressing about the missed ten days, are you?”

“Maybe a little.”

“Why?”

“They hold secrets. And you know how I hate secrets.” Marisa’s light tone barely skim coated over the frustration fracturing the words.

“There are no secrets. There was your art show. You had three prewedding planning appointments the week leading up. And then a wedding the Saturday right after. The accident was the following Friday evening. There was nothing to miss but work.”

“I sold one of my prints that week. To whom, I don’t know.”

“There was no entry in your Venmo account.”

“It was a cash deal.”

I walked to the door, opened it. “Call me if you need anything.”

“Will do.”

“Dinner with David and me soon?”

“Of course.”

I stepped into the hallway, and as Marisa closed the door, I said, “See the doctor. Take more pictures. Lock the door.”

The door closed, followed by a click, the twist of a dead bolt, and the scrape of a chain. “Satisfied?” Marisa said.

“Yes.”

But I wasn’t. Not even close.

7 MARISA

7

MARISA

Saturday, March 12, 2022

10:00 a.m.

Today’s wedding was going to be relatively simple. It was a courthouse elopement. Neither wanted any pregame photos, just the two of them rushing down the courthouse steps and then driving off in his vintage red Corvette.

I swallowed the last of my coffee and hurried to the shower. Out barely a minute later, I towel dried my hair. As much as I missed my long locks, I didn’t miss the drying time. And shorter hair made me look different enough that I wasn’t always seeing Clare staring back in the mirror. Maybe I wouldn’t be in such a rush to grow it back out.