“Melody,” I finally answer. “My sister. When you caught my sister with that boy in her room, having sex, doing drugs . . . she needed help.”
My mother’s hand quickly pulls away; my father reddens with anger. “Do not mention that person’s name in this house.”
“That person?” I ask, incredulously. “That person was your daughter. She was my sister and she needed help.”
“Kasie, please,” my mother breathes. The tears are fresh again. “Let’s not relive this. You are not your sister.”
“No, I’m not. I used to worry I’d become her. I worried that I’d make a horrible mistake and you’d cut me off, exile me from the family just like you did with her. I think I worried about it as recently as yesterday,” I say with a bitter laugh. “I know my role. I know I’m supposed to help you live the illusion. I’m the accomplished, well-behaved daughter who will marry well. You can point to me and prove to the world that anything that happened with Melody was a fluke. None of it was our fault. Her death wasn’t the consequence of our rejection. It wasn’t because we refused to acknowledge that she was sick, that she needed psychiatric help!”
“She was a dirty whore,” my father says, his eyes now glued to his elevating shoes. “She rejected discipline, had no moral center . . . I swear sometimes I wonder how a woman like that could share my genes!” He raises his eyes to my mother, flashes her an accusing glare. “You know she didn’t look anything like me—”
“Oh for God’s sake, she was yours!” I snap, raising myself to my feet. “You don’t get to just invent new ways to deny her! She was your flesh and blood, your responsibility, she was more than you were ready to handle and you fucked up.”
“Kasie!” my mother cries as my father mutters something about my language.
“You fucked up!” I say again. “We all did. We didn’t know anything about mental illness or addiction. We were confused, disoriented, and most of all we were afraid. So we made a whole slew of mistakes and now she’s dead.”
“Kasie!” This again from my mother. “You can’t blame your father for her death!”
I give her a withering look. “This isn’t about blame, but if it was, I wouldn’t just be blaming him.”
“Kasie!” this time from my father.
“This is about living with consequences. We made mistakes with Melody. Maybe if we can accept that, we can work through it. Maybe we can stop denying that she existed! I came here because I accept my mistakes, the mistake of accepting Dave’s ring, the mistake of getting involved with someone else before ending it with him . . . oh, and I’ve made so many mistakes in the way I’ve handled myself with Robert Dade. I fucked up and it’s affected every aspect of my life. I quit my job because of all the mistakes I’ve made.”
“Wait a minute,” my father says, his anger quickly switching to concern. “That’s the top consulting firm in the country! Unless they’re demanding your resignation—”
“They’re not but I can’t stay. Everyone there knows what I’ve done; they don’t trust me, don’t respect me, and don’t want to work with me. That’s the consequence of my actions. And maybe it’s not fair but that’s life. I want to live life, Dad,” I say, my voice breaking ever so slightly. “I want to live life the way it actually is. I’m so, so tired of illusions.”
My mother reaches for me again. “Sweetie, you’re overwrought. If this Mr. Dade fellow is as successful as you make him sound, and if he does care for you, well maybe you could make a go of it. No one needs to know how it all began. And you wouldn’t even have to work! You could get involved in a charity! You could say it was a choice you made because . . .”
She keeps speaking but I can’t hear her anymore. She’s just painting another pretty picture, a portrait of me that skips over my flaws . . . my strengths, too, for that matter. I stare at the mantel above the fireplace. There are pictures of me, of them, of my grandparents. . . .
There will never be a picture of Melody there. No one in this room is equipped to teach me how to face up to reality. I look at my mother as she speaks, my father as he stews . . . there’s no point in being angry. It won’t get me anywhere.
I let go of my mother’s hand and take a deep, cleansing breath to help me regain my composure before I kiss my father on the cheek. “Thank you for letting me talk,” I say quietly, resignedly. I lean down and give my mother a kiss as well. “I love you,” I say to both of them.