When We Were Sisters. Emilie Richards

of lightweight pants, three shirts ranging from semidressy to casual and a vest with multiple pockets. Quick-dry underwear I can wash out and hang up at night is a given, and two plain T-shirts I can sleep in or wear if necessary. For this trip I added a fleece cardigan and a heavier waterproof jacket I would carry on the airplane.

      My photography bag contains cameras—including a new Canon I bought for this occasion—an assortment of lenses, filters, cables, memory cards, batteries and more. My second carry-on is a backpack with my computer, tablet and personal items, but it’s large enough to hold camera equipment if necessary later on.

      Our first stop will be western Pennsylvania, the town where Cecilia was born. We probably won’t be there long, but the temperature will be in the forties at night. At this point the next destination is still under discussion.

      I was about to give up on Kris and try to get some sleep when he finally came in and closed the door behind him.

      I sat up. “Is Nik still working on his essay?”

      “I don’t know. He was in bed.”

      “You’ll need to check with him tomorrow. It’s due at the end of the week.”

      “I’ll put that on my list.”

      His tone didn’t bode well. “He’ll be glad to talk about the essay. We talked a little tonight. He’s trying to figure out what he should say, that’s all. Maybe you can help.”

      “I’m going to take a shower.”

      He made a wide berth around the bed, as if he was afraid I might leap out and grab him.

      “You could wait,” I said.

      “I’ll be busy in the morning.”

      “I mean wait a little while.” I patted the bed beside me, willing to take a risk because Kris’s arms around me tonight would go a long way to quieting my fears. “Wouldn’t you rather snuggle and maybe say goodbye properly?”

      He finally looked at me. “You’re getting up early. You ought to go to sleep.”

      “I can sleep on the plane.”

      “I’m not in the mood, Robin. Do you know that in order to get home on time to meet Elena I had to blow off a meeting? I’ve been on the telephone all evening catching up with what I missed.”

      “Okay.” I turned away from him. I knew better than to say more because at moments like these words are dangerous weapons.

      He spoke to my back. “I don’t want to be this angry. For the record.”

      “Does that mean you think you’re overreacting or that it’s my fault?”

      “I wish I knew.”

      I rolled over again and faced him. “I’ll be gone for a while on this first leg. Do you really want to say goodbye this way?”

      “Remember me? The guy who doesn’t want to say goodbye at all?”

      “For the record, in case you’re still mulling over your choices? You’re overreacting.”

      “Maybe so, but how much worse could your timing be?”

      “For which of us? The one who’s trying to figure out her life by doing something other than wait on her family hand and foot? Or the one who can’t figure out how to incorporate that same family into his world?”

      “Look, I know the accident has a lot to do with this.”

      “Not as much as you think. It just sped up the process.”

      “Maybe I’ll get used to seeing you walk out the door, Robin. Maybe I’ll even start to look forward to it. Who knows?”

      My voice remained steady, but only with great effort. “Could be. Maybe you’ll find having a paid housekeeper is every bit as good as having me. And maybe I’ll find that having no husband isn’t all that different from having you.”

      We stared at each other. The weapons had been launched. Maybe both of us were torn and wishing we could take back our words.

      Or maybe that was just me.

      I turned away again, and moments later I heard the bathroom door close behind him.

10

      Kris

      Robin’s gone. I had counted on waking up to say goodbye before her airport shuttle arrived. I wanted to wish her well and restore at least a fraction of goodwill, but apparently I lay awake for too much of the night thinking of exactly what I would say and how I would absolve us both. Midnight problem solving takes a toll. I didn’t hear her get up, much less go downstairs. Now she’s gone, and frankly I wouldn’t even be awake right now if Channa Weinberg wasn’t standing in the driveway next door sobbing.

      Channa, who lost her mother less than a month ago, a woman I admired and whose friendship I enjoyed. The same woman who took the place of my wife on the night of the accident.

      My wife? While Talya left this earth without a goodbye, this morning Robin left our home without learning how much she would be missed, how glad I am that she survived the accident, how sorry I am that I’ve been acting like an asshole ever since.

      Now I heard Michael comforting his daughter, although at this distance the words weren’t clear. But as I slid out of bed and started down the hall to wake my children, I wondered what I would say in the same circumstances.

      Michael probably understands what Channa needs, and acts accordingly, despite his own grief. Then there’s me. The man who fully intended to be a hands-on father and found that eking out the time was a lot harder than he expected. Of course I had the perfect stand-in. Robin is a wonderful mother who has always been right here so I can be a wonderful wage earner. And now she’s changed the rules and taken off to leave me in charge of both.

      The first glimmer of anger reappeared, and I welcomed it. I didn’t have enough time to be angry at myself and Robin this morning. I made the obvious choice. Suddenly I missed my wife less.

      Pet was already up, which I should have expected. Fully dressed for school, she opened her door and stared at me standing bleary-eyed in her doorway in my pajamas.

      “Doesn’t your bus come soon?” I wasn’t quite sure what time it was because I hadn’t checked the clock. And strike two? The bus schedule was posted downstairs.

      Clearly, from Pet’s expression, my IQ had dropped a few points this morning. “I have to eat, don’t I?”

      “Exactly what are you wearing?”

      My daughter isn’t sophisticated enough to hide guilt. She has fair skin like her mother, and now I watched the color in her cheeks deepen before she looked down. “Everybody wears skirts like this.”

      The skirt barely covered my daughter’s tush. Maybe everybody wore them, but I was pretty sure that unless they were auditioning for a reality show called Preteen Hookers, they wore them with something else.

      I pointed toward her closet. “Wear something under it or change.”

      “Daddy!”

      “It’s fall. You’ll freeze, and besides you’ll spend the whole day pulling your skirt down. If they even let you stay in school.”

      “But I told you, everybody wears skirts this short.”

      “Does your mom let you wear that skirt to school without something under it?” The “something,” whatever it was called, wasn’t in my vocabulary. I would Google this mystery later so our next conversation could be more precise.

      She didn’t answer.

      “Go.” I pointed again.

      “Fine, but I’m going to be late!”

      That was already