Home>>read Two by Two free online

Two by Two(44)

By:Nicholas Sparks


When my mom finally asked if London would like another spoonful of  chocolate pudding, she hopped off my lap and gave me a kiss before  following my mom into the kitchen. She held her hand out in front of her  like a surgeon who'd just prepped for an operation. I said as much out  loud, eliciting a laugh from Marge and Liz.

Vivian, however, didn't laugh at all. Instead, her slitted gaze seemed to accuse me of a crime: betrayal.





CHAPTER 13





Crime and Punishment


I was twelve years old and Marge was seventeen when she came out of the  closet, or whatever the politically correct way to say it is these days.  Marge wasn't conscious of being politically correct back then; it just  sort of happened. We'd been hanging out in her bedroom and the subject  of the homecoming dance at the high school came up. When I asked why she  wasn't going, she turned toward me.

"Because I like girls," she said abruptly.

"Oh," I remembered saying. "I like girls, too." I think part of me  vaguely suspected that Marge might be gay, but at that age, everything I  knew about sexuality and sex pretty much came from murmured  conversations in school hallways or the occasional R-rated movie I'd  watched. Had she told me a year later, when I would wedge my bedroom  door shut with a shoe to have some privacy practically every day, I  don't know how I would have reacted, although I suspect it would have  been a bigger deal. At thirteen-middle school-anything out of the  ordinary is considered the Worst Thing Ever, sisters included.

"Does that bother you?" she asked, suddenly engrossed in picking at her cuticle.

It was only when I looked at her-really looked-that I understood how  anxious she was about telling me. "I don't think so. Do Mom and Dad  know?"

"No. And don't say a word to them. They'll freak out."

"Okay," I said, meaning it, and it was a secret that stayed between us,  until Marge sat my parents down at the dining room table the following  year and told them herself.

That doesn't make me noble, nor should you infer much about my character  at all. Even though I sensed her anxiety, I wasn't mature enough to  understand the full gravity of what she'd told me. When we were growing  up, things were different. Being gay was weird, being gay was wrong,  being gay was a sin. I had no idea of the internal struggles Marge would  face, or the things people would eventually say behind her back-and  sometimes even to her face. Nor am I arrogant enough to believe I can  fully understand them even now. The world to my twelve-year-old brain  was simpler and whether my sister liked girls or boys frankly didn't  matter to me at all. I liked and disliked her for other reasons. I  disliked, for instance, when she'd pin me on my back, her knees on my  arms, while she scoured my chest bone with her knuckles; I disliked when  Peggy Simmons, a girl I liked, came to the door and she told her that  "He can't come to the door because he's in the bathroom, and he's been  in there a long, long time," before asking Peggy, "Do you happen to have  any matches?"

My sister. Always doing right by me.

As for liking her, it was really pretty simple. As long as she wasn't  doing something dislikable, I was more than happy to like her. Like  younger siblings everywhere, I had a bit of hero worship when it came to  Marge, and her revelation didn't change that in the slightest. As I saw  it, my parents treated her like a young adult while they treated me  like a child, both before and after she told me. They expected more from  her, whether around the house or in taking care of me. I'll also admit  that Marge made my own path to adulthood smoother than it otherwise  would have been because my parents had always been there, done that with  Marge first. Surprise and disappointment, after all, often go  hand-in-hand when it comes to raising children, and fewer surprises  usually meant less disappointment.

When I snuck out one night and took the family car? Marge did it years before.         

     



 

When I had too many drinks at a high school party? Welcome to the club.

When I climbed the water tower in our neighborhood, a popular teenage hangout? That was already Marge's favorite place.

When I was a moody teen who barely spoke to either my mom or dad? Marge taught them to expect that, too.

Marge, of course, never let me forget how much easier I had it but to be  fair, it often led me to feel like an afterthought in the family, which  wasn't easy either. In our own ways, we each felt a bit slighted, but  in our private struggles, we ended up leaning on each other more and  more with every passing year.

When we talk about it nowadays-what she went through-she downplays how  hard it was to come out to others, and it makes me admire her all the  more. Being different is never easy, and being different in that way-in  the South, in a Christian home-seemed to strengthen her resolve to  appear invulnerable. As an adult, she lives in a world defined by  numbers and spreadsheets, calculations. When she speaks with others, she  tries to hide behind wit and sarcasm. She deflects intimacy with most  people and while we're close, I wonder if my sister sometimes found it  necessary to hide her emotional side, even from me. I know if I asked  her, she would deny it; she would tell me that if I wanted sensitivity, I  should have asked God for a different sister, the kind of sister who  carried a Kleenex at the ready on the off-chance a sad song began  playing on the radio.

Lately, I've found myself wishing that I'd impressed upon her that I saw  the real her, that I've always loved who she was. But as close as we  are, our conversations seldom reach those depths. Like most people, I  assume, we talk about the latest goings-on in our lives, hiding our  fears like a turtle tucking its head back into its shell.

But I've also seen Marge at her lowest.

It had to do with a girl named Tracey, her roommate. Marge was a junior  in college at UNC Charlotte, and while she didn't hide her sexuality,  she didn't flaunt it either. Tracey knew from the very beginning but it  never seemed an issue. Often together, they fell into a close and  natural friendship the way college roommates often do. Tracey had a  boyfriend back home and after the breakup Marge was there to pick up the  pieces. Eventually, Tracey noticed that Marge was attracted to her and  didn't discourage the feeling; she even speculated that she might be  bisexual but wasn't exactly sure. Then, one night, it happened. Marge  woke in the morning feeling like she'd discovered the part of her that  had been missing; Tracey woke, even more confused, but willing to give  the relationship a try. They were discreet at Tracey's insistence, but  that was fine by Marge, and over the next few months, Marge fell even  more deeply in love. Tracey, on the other hand, began to pull away and,  after returning home for spring break that year, told Marge that she and  her boyfriend had reconciled and that she wasn't sure she and Marge  could remain friends. She told her that she would be moving into an  apartment that her parents had rented, and that what she and Marge had  shared was nothing but experimentation. It had meant nothing to her.

Marge called me just before midnight. She was drinking and babbling,  telling me bits and pieces of the story and slurring that she wanted to  die. I'd just gotten my driver's license and somehow, I knew exactly  where to find her. I raced to the water tower and spotted her car parked  beneath it. I made the climb and found my sister sitting near the edge,  her legs dangling. There was an open bottle of rum beside her, and it  was immediately clear that she was beyond drunk and practically  incoherent. When she saw me, she scooted closer to the edge.

Speaking quietly, I was able to convince her to let me come closer; when  I finally reached her, I put my arm around her and inched her back from  the ledge. I held her as she sobbed, remaining at the top of the water  tower until it was nearly dawn. She begged me not to tell our parents  and after I promised, I drove her back to her dorm room and put her in  bed. When I got home, my parents were livid-I was sixteen and had been  out all night. They grounded me for a month, and I lost driving  privileges for another three months after that.

But I never told them where I'd been, or how devastated my sister had  been that night, or what might have happened to her, had I not shown up.

It was enough to know that I'd been there for her, that I'd held her in  my arms when she'd needed it the most, just the way I knew she would for  me.





Needless to say, after dinner with my family, Vivian and my postponed  date night didn't happen. Vivian wasn't in the best of moods by the time  we got home. Neither was I.         

     



 

Sunday morning began in a lazy fashion, one that allowed for a third cup  of coffee after a five-mile run, my longest run in nearly ten years.  London was watching a movie in the family room and I was reading the  paper on our back patio when Vivian stepped outside.

"I think London and I need a Mommy and Me day," Vivian announced.