The Second Sister Page 6

  “When you are talking to somebody at a party in the district, the person you’re talking with is always scanning the room behind you to see if they can find somebody more important or more useful. It’s true. You could be baring your soul to someone, and right in the middle of your sentence, they’ll interrupt and say, ‘Excuse me. The secretary of the interior just came in. Call me and we’ll do lunch.’

  “And just like that,” I said, snapping my fingers, “they’re gone and you’re standing there alone in the crowd, swirling the ice in your glass and looking like a wallflower.”

  I turned the key in the ignition, bringing the engine to life.

  “And you know what the worst part is? That I completely get it. I’m just as bad as all the rest of them, Father. And yet,” I sighed, “I’m planning to go back there for the next four years, possibly eight. Voluntarily.”

  I put my foot on the brake, shifted into drive, and looked up at him.

  “Do you think there’s something wrong with me?”

  Father Damon worked his lips for a moment, weighing the question.

  “Probably,” he said.

  Chapter 8

  My cell phone rang at 5 A.M. on Saturday. Eyes still shut, I reached up and groped the top of the nightstand, a reflexive response after all these years, and answered on the fourth ring.

  “Can’t sleep?” I mumbled, my voice raspy. “Alice, can’t you leave the bedroom door closed? The cats won’t starve during—”

  “Miss Toomey?”

  The voice on the other end of the line didn’t belong to Alice. I opened my eyes, saw the blue-and-white afghan on the bed, remembered where I was and why and that I would never again wake in the darkness to the sound of my sister’s voice, and experienced the stab of loss anew, a vacancy in my center.

  “Miss Toomey?”

  “Oh . . . Yes. I’m sorry. This is Lucy.”

  “Please hold for the president-elect.”

  I rubbed the sand from the corners of my eyes, then grabbed the afghan from the end of the bed and wrapped it around my shoulders. It didn’t seem right to hold a conversation with the next leader of the free world in a state of semi-undress, not even over the phone.

  A moment later, he was on the line.

  “Lucy?”

  I cleared my throat. “Good morning, Mr. President-elect.”

  Groggy as I was, I couldn’t help but smile as I addressed him by his new title, thinking how much better it would sound in just a few weeks’ time, after we subtracted the suffix.

  “How are you this morning, sir?”

  It came to me automatically, this new formality of address. Of course, I’d always spoken to him this way in public. Anytime there were people present, he was sir, or Congressman, then Governor, but when it was just the two of us in the room, he’d been Tom. But things were different now. Aside from his wife and immediate family, he had no familiars.

  This was what I had wanted, what we had wanted. Knowing it had come to pass made me proud. But also a little sad. We’d never be just Tom and Lucy again.

  “Doing well, doing well. You sound a little rugged, though. Did I wake you?”

  “No, sir.” I blinked a few times, trying to bring the room into focus. “I was just getting up. Where are you, sir?”

  “In the car, heading over to the Pentagon for a security briefing. I know it’s early, but this is the only open spot in my day. I’m sorry I didn’t get in touch sooner.”

  “No need to apologize, sir. I know you’ve been booked every second since the election. Thank you for sending the flowers. They’re just beautiful.”

  I switched on the bedside lamp so I could see the arrangement of orange lilies with yellow roses with the card that read, “In our thoughts and prayers, Tom and Leah Ryland.”

  “Leah picked them out especially. I’ll tell her you liked them. The funeral is today, isn’t it? How’re you holding up?”

  “I’m fine,” I assured him, sitting up a bit straighter and clutching the afghan tighter around my body. “I still have a few loose ends to tie up, but I’ll be in DC sometime next week, hopefully by Thursday.”

  “There’s no rush,” he said. “In fact, that is part of the reason for my call. I think you should stay out there for a while, Lucy. Take some time off.”

  “You’re very kind, sir, but that really won’t be necessary—”

  “Lucy,” he said, cutting me off. “Hear me out for a second. This is a big deal. Your parents are gone, now your sister. You’re all alone in the world, an orphan. It might not have hit you yet, but it will. And when it does . . .” He took in a breath and let it out. “You remember what it was like when Mike passed.”

  I did.

  His brother, Mike, his last surviving relative, who had suffered a traumatic brain injury during his service in the First Gulf War, died of heart failure four months before the Iowa caucuses. The governor went home to Colorado for the funeral and was back on the campaign trail the next day. At first he appeared to be handling the loss well, but after a few days he started snapping at the staff, very uncharacteristically. He seemed unfocused, too, lethargic. He definitely wasn’t himself.

  At that stage in the race, every minute away from the campaign was a lost opportunity, but I cleared the schedule and sent him home to the ranch for a few days, over his strenuous objections, but I insisted.

  “Everybody needs time to grieve,” I told him at the time. Now he quoted my own words back to me.

  “I appreciate your concern, sir, but the best thing for me will be to get back to work.”

  “When was the last time you took a vacation?” He answered for me. “Never.”

  “Not true. I take my sister on vacation every Christmas. I did.”

  “Three days,” he scoffed. “Four at the most, and you spend the whole time on your phone or answering e-mail.”

  “I went to Europe in 2013.”

  “Yeah, I remember because I was there; five countries in eight days, six major speeches, a dozen interviews, and thirty-three photo ops. That wasn’t a vacation, Lucy. It was a ‘fact-finding’ tour designed to boost my international bona fides. I’m talking about you taking a real vacation.”

  “Sir, I appreciate your concern, but I’m doing just fine. I can’t afford to take any time off now. There’s so much to do before the inauguration. Somebody has to sort through all the—”

  “I’ve already got the transition team in place. Miles is taking that job at CNN, but that’s just as well. Drew, Natalie, and Steve are staying on through January, and we’ve already got short lists for all the cabinet posts and have begun vetting the candidates. Jenna is helping with that. Hope you don’t mind . . .”

  “Of course not, sir. But I just don’t think this is the time for me to—”

  “If not now, then when? You think things are going to slow down after January twentieth? You have got to take some time for yourself, Lucy, and you’ve got to do it now. A month, maybe more.”

  “A month!”

  My feet hit the cold wooden floor and the afghan dropped from around my shoulders. I stood there with the phone clutched to my ear, wearing nothing but a University of Wisconsin T-shirt, polka-dot underpants, and, I’m sure, an expression of panic.

  “Mr. President-elect! I’m . . . I don’t understand. Sir, if you’re trying to tell me something or if you’re unhappy with . . .”

  I stopped, took two big breaths, trying to slow the pounding in my chest.

  “Tom, are you firing me?”

  “Firing you? No. Dammit, Lucy! I’m trying to do you a favor!”

  He huffed in exasperation. “I didn’t want to have to say this, but you look like hell. Seriously, Luce. Veterans returning from combat zones look less worn-out than you did when I last saw you. You need to take some time off and get a rest, a real rest. You need to sleep late, breathe deep, go on some long walks, eat some decent meals—something besides cookies and black coffee—and spend some time thinking about your sister and what yo
u really want to do with your life.”

  What I wanted to do with my life? He was trying to fire me!

  I plopped onto the edge of the bed, too shocked to speak. It felt like somebody had smashed a fist into my stomach.

  “When you sent me out to the ranch that week,” he continued, “I spent a lot of time thinking about Mike and all the things he never had a chance to do. Life goes so fast, Lucy. You shouldn’t waste it doing anything but the things that speak to your heart. While I was home, I started really thinking about why I got into the campaign. I came to realize that, at least partly, it was because I didn’t want to disappoint you.”

  “What?” Suddenly, I found my voice again. “Pardon me, sir, but that’s a stupid reason to run for president. You’ve got to want it for yourself!”

  “Can I finish my story?”

  “Sorry,” I said, hearing the rebuke in his voice and remembering I was talking to the man who would soon have access to the nuclear launch codes. “Go on, sir.”

  “One day while I was out there, I saddled up Diamond and went for a long ride, thinking it all through, sorting out what I had to offer to the country and what I really wanted to do with what was left of my life. I was gone all day. It was dark by the time we got back to the barn, but when I did, I knew that I wanted to run for president. And I knew that I wanted to win.”

  “And you did.”

  “We did. I couldn’t have done it without you, Lucy. Come January twentieth, our team needs to be rested and ready to govern because it’s going to be a grueling four years. Exciting, but grueling.”

  “Four?” I asked, smiling as I bent down to pick up the afghan, then draping it over my shoulders again. “I’m counting on at least eight.”

  “All the more reason for you to take some time to decide if this is really how you want to spend the next eight years of your life. I don’t want you signing up for this just because you’re afraid of disappointing me. No!” he barked, silencing my protests before I could even voice them. “Don’t say anything now. We’ll discuss it in a month, after your vacation.”

  “Sir, I don’t need a whole month. Maybe a week. Two at the most.”

  “Four at the minimum,” he retorted, using the tone I recognized so well, the immovable “I carried fifty-one percent of the vote and you didn’t” voice, the voice that tolerates no negotiation.

  “And if you decide you need more time, that’s fine. All I ask is that you be back in Washington by January second, refreshed and ready to move into your office in the West Wing on January twentieth.”

  I almost dropped the phone.

  “I . . . I’m sorry . . . I—Did you say the West Wing?”

  “I did,” he replied, and I could almost hear his grin, the pleasure he took in springing the surprise on me.

  I was more than surprised. I was stunned.

  For a career political operative, a job in the West Wing—any job in the West Wing—was the pinnacle, the thing we all aspired to. After Iowa, I’ll admit that I’d entertained a few fantasies about working there, becoming one of the few, the chosen, an insider’s insider. But New Hampshire had brought me back down to earth.

  “Sir, I’m flattered. You know I am. Don’t you think you’d catch a lot of flack for appointing me? What if—”

  “What if what?” he snapped. “What if some deep-pocket donor or party hack tells me that you’re a liability? That I can’t afford to put my trust in somebody so untested? That I need to hire people who’ve been on the inside? I’ll tell ’em to get the hell out of my Oval Office!

  “My office. My White House. My rules. I listened to those idiots once. I won’t do it again. They damn near cost me the election! But I did win, Lucy. We did! I’ll be damned if I let anybody make me act like we didn’t. Anybody who gives me flak about you had better get ready for a fight. I’ll sic my FBI on them. Better yet, I’ll invite ’em into the Oval Office for a chat, stick a knife in their hand, and scream for the Secret Service. We’ll see how that goes!”

  I put my hand over my mouth, covering a smile that threatened to swell into a giddy laugh. Tom Ryland has a long fuse and you have to work pretty hard to light it, but he was on fire today. And on my behalf! I was touched, I really was, but I couldn’t let him talk like that, not even in jest.

  “Okay, sir. Let’s just calm down a little bit. I know they record phone conversations in the Oval Office. Do they do the same thing when you’re in the motorcade? If anyone is listening,” I said in a loud voice, “he was just kidding.”

  “Not by much,” he grumbled.

  “Sir, I really am honored by your offer, but be practical; you don’t want me in the West Wing. I’m an organizer, somebody who greases the skids and makes sure the wheels keep turning. What you need are policy wonks. I don’t have any expertise in foreign relations, national security, or economics—not at that level. I’m not even a lawyer. And I’ve never held a job in the White House.”

  “Neither have I,” he said. “That’s why I want somebody I trust close by, somebody who understands how I think and has a complete grasp of what our message was during the campaign and why the voters sent us to Washington. That’s why I’m going to appoint you deputy assistant for intergovernmental affairs, because I need somebody who can make sure everybody plays nice with everybody else. I don’t want any hidden agendas in my administration. We’re all going to pull in the same direction. I need you, Lucy. I do. I can’t imagine doing this without you.”

  The walls of my throat felt thick. In all the years we’d been together, he’d never spoken to me quite like that, never come right out and said he needed me. Until that moment, I hadn’t realized how long I’d been hoping to hear him say so.

  “You don’t have to give me an answer,” he said. “Not today. Just tell me you’ll think about it.”

  I bobbed my head and swallowed hard. “I will.”

  “Are you all right?” he asked, picking up on the rasp in my voice. “I’m sorry. Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything, not on the day of your sister’s funeral.”

  “No, no,” I said, swiping at the corner of my eye. “It’s fine. I’m fine.”

  “Take some time, Lucy. Mourn your sister. Get reacquainted with yourself and your hometown. Wisconsin must be a beautiful place to spend the holidays.”

  “The holidays?” I choked out a laugh. I couldn’t help it. “Mr. President-elect, I have no intention of spending the holidays in Nilson’s Bay.”

  “Then where will you go?”

  “I don’t know. But I can tell you this; the second I’ve wrapped up my business, I’ll be on the next plane to anywhere that isn’t here.”

  Chapter 9

  We say that we mourn the dead, and there is some truth in that.

  We lament the flower frozen in full bloom, cut off at the moment of promise, or another long wilted, whose slow fading and drawn-out, painful diminishment cast a shadow over a vibrant and glorious past.

  And yet.

  Once the eyes are closed and the heart is stilled, we come to understand that the worst of the pain has passed. For them. The dead have no more use for pain, for memory or regret. Regret is for the living.

  And so when we stand at the bedside, the graveside, the casket, our mourning is less for the beloved departed than it is for ourselves. We mourn the missed opportunity, the word unspoken or spoken in haste, the hole in our lives and the unsettling of our souls, our own disappointments and the loss of innocence. We gaze upon the stillness that is unending and feel our self-importance crack and the myth of our immortality smash. We stare upon the face of death to see ourselves more clearly, to satisfy our curiosity, to make peace with the inescapable.

  We hold our breath, try to imagine what it would be like never to take another and what the departed know now that we don’t. We try to conjure what the life we have left would look like if such knowledge were ours. We try to imagine ourselves kind and expansive and giving, balanced and patient, more honest, more thankful, more peaceful,
content with what we have, mindless of what we have not.

  We imagine ourselves happy. For a moment, we believe we can be.

  And then, because we can’t help ourselves, we breathe and, breathing, are reminded of the many other things we cannot help.

  The faith of a moment fades and hope is replaced by the intimate knowledge of our imperfections. Lonely, weeping, we stand with our feet anchored to the ground, watching our better angels fly above us and beyond us to time out of mind, and we mourn.

  Chapter 10

  I heard the clearing of a throat.

  “Lucy? May I close the lid now?”

  My heart clenched like a fist inside me. I bent my head over the still form in the casket, brushed my fingers across the brown curls spread across the satin pillow. Her face was so still and pale, an expression carved from ivory, like the face of someone who reminded me of someone I used to know.

  I wanted to say something, but couldn’t remember what. I took a step back, trying to think what it could be. Mr. Sedgwick moved into the vacancy and placed his hands on the coffin lid.

  “Wait!” The sound of my voice stayed his movements. “Wait a minute.”

  I reached out and plucked a pink rose, still in bud, from the spray of flowers that stood nearby and carried it to the casket. I lifted the edge of a quilt of pink, green, and white, bound with periwinkle blue, and slid the long stem of the rose underneath so the flower was just peeping out, then pressed the fabric smooth across Alice’s chest, tucking her in for the night ahead.

  “I’m sorry,” I whispered and kissed my sister’s forehead.

  I lifted my head, took a last look, and turned to face the mortician and his sober-suited assistants.

  “All right. You can close it now.”

  I wasn’t that surprised by the number of people who came to Alice’s funeral; Father Damon had prepared me for that. But he forgot to mention the dogs.