According To Jane Part 28

On a crowded 777 heading west into the sunset, I thought about my sister's soon-to-be-born baby. Di would need me, I reasoned. Maybe the two of us would end up like Jane and Ca.s.sandra, relying on each other when the hope of finding true love had gone.

I smiled thinking of this. Funny how life could change. Di was the one person I'd never imagined as a close friend and, yet, that was precisely what I now considered her to be. For sanity's sake, though, it would be best if we never shared a house again.

My American Airlines flight required a quick plane change at Boston's Logan Airport and, since we were an hour late departing London, "quick" meant "immediately."

"Attention pa.s.sengers with connecting flights to Chicago, we are beginning to board Flight 509," I heard the gate attendant say over the loudspeaker as I wobbled my way down the plane ramp with my stuffed backpack, slogged into the airport proper and cleared the Customs line. "Flight 509 now boarding at Terminal B, Gate 17."

"Oh, d.a.m.n." I was in Terminal E. "How do I get to Terminal B?" I asked the first person I could find wearing an airline uniform.

That person turned out to be a handsome, forty-something pilot (married, or so implied by his gold band) who pointed me in the direction of the shuttle bus, and off I raced. I made it to the gate just as a different attendant was saying, "Last call for Flight 509..."

But it wasn't until I was struggling up this new plane ramp and away from the airport proper, that I realized where I'd been. In Boston.

Sam's city.

And though I hadn't seen him there, hadn't seen anyone who looked remotely like him even, this was where he was. Somewhere nearby. As always, almost within reach, but not quite.

I grinned to myself, for no other reason than that I knew of his continued existence. He wasn't dead, like Jane's or Ca.s.sandra's young admirers had been when the sisters were my age. No. Sam lived and breathed and was a part of my history. A history that, despite our fumbles, we'd gotten a fair amount of closure on.

And, so, I could claim the happier memories as my own. The odd camaraderie he and I shared in high school. The one amazing night we'd spent together. A night that had greatly influenced my view of love and relationships ever since. I could embrace our infrequent path-crossings in the years that followed. Sure, the recollections still held their fair share of pain, but at least I wasn't left hanging, or wondering for eternity what might've happened between us if we'd had the chance. Right?

Because, hey, if I wanted to, I could still reach him. I could do a Yahoo People Search when I got home and look up Sam's e-mail or his home phone number or his street address in Boston. I would've heard through our suburban gossipy grapevine if he'd moved, so he must still be somewhere in this city.

If my life were a romantic comedy, I could run right back down this ramp and look him up here and now. Take a chance he'd want to see me again. No, better yet, believe he'd fallen in love with me. Or, exponentially better, that he'd always been in love with me!

I'd call him from an airport pay phone, still breathless from my sprint past all those other gates. In violation of the laws of physics, he'd materialize almost instantly, and the two of us would pounce on each other. We'd wrinkle our previously pristine clothes and lock lips with a voraciousness only B movie stars could replicate. The flight attendants would all cheer.

Yeah.

I collapsed into my seat, 15F, and giggled at this fantastical, whimsical vision, complete with Heart's Greatest Hits as the musical score.

As if something like that could ever happen-even if I wanted it to. Which I didn't. Because I was too realistic.

Nevertheless, I daydreamed variations of this fantasy for two straight hours, amusing myself with dialogue worthy of a Mexican soap opera. Until somewhere, just above O'Hare's sacred airs.p.a.ce, Jane reentered my mind with a h.e.l.lo, Ellie. Enough of this nonsense, please.

Ah. Back to my real life.

Any lingering visions of Di and me forming a Jane-and-Ca.s.sandralike, no-men-allowed-to-come-between-us-for-the-rest-of-our-naturallives sisterly bond were dashed the moment I spoke to Di in person.

"Alex and I are back together again," she informed me, rubbing her belly and looking large enough to be carrying twin baby Orcas. Not that I told her that.

"Really? Wow," I said, praying this was the right move for her. "And you're happy about this?"

She nodded. Happiness radiated off every part of her.

"How does he feel about the baby?"

"He, um...wants to a.s.sist me during the birth."

"Oh," I said, trying to mask my disappointment by sounding extra upbeat and supportive.

"I know you said you'd help me, Ellie, with the Lamaze stuff and everything. But this way you don't have to go to those cla.s.ses and s.h.i.t." She grimaced. "Alex took me to an information session at the hospital this week, to see what it was like and all. Man. Those leaders really try to scare the c.r.a.p out of you."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." She looked worried. "I'm not so sure I wanna do it after all."

"The Lamaze method?"

"The birth," Di said.

I put my hand on her shoulder and squeezed lightly. "You'll get through it just fine. Especially with Alex by your side." I paused. "You must still really, really love him."

She gave me a long look. "I do. And, El, he loves me, too. Neither of us ever stopped."

So, it wasn't much of a surprise when, four weeks later, my sister gave birth to a nine-pound, two-ounce baby boy she named Clifton Barnett Evans (since Di had never changed back her last name after the divorce). And, just after Clifton's APGAR scores p.r.o.nounced him to be in excellent health, Alex and Di got reengaged (which made that whole last-name thing really convenient). Wedding date to be announced soon.

And it was.

Three months after that, with the fresh chill of December blowing in the door, I entered Di's new condo to find Clifton flashing his first smile and his proud mother announcing that she and Alex would get remarried early the following November.

"I wanna do it right this time," Di said, bouncing my chubby, adorable nephew in her arms twice before holding him out to me. She knew I needed to have my baby fix when I came over.

I grabbed the little guy from her and buried my face in the softness of his rounded belly before cradling him tight and rocking him to my imaginary soundtrack of '80s tunes. "You'll have a lovely wedding," I a.s.sured her. "You've put Mom on the case. Who could be more thorough?"

"I'm not worried about those kinds of details," Di said. "I meant that I want to make sure I do the important things right. Like remembering to keep my vows with Alex-in sickness and in health and all that stuff. Like not drinking tequila from my shoe at the reception-that was stupid. And like-" She shot me a look. "Having my sister be my maid of honor."

A lump formed out of nothing in my throat. I couldn't get a response out.

"Will you?" she asked me, looking as though she were holding her breath.

Tears threatened to spill down my cheeks, and I was having a devil of a time speaking. I clamped my mouth shut and nodded.

Di's eyes looked suspiciously bright, too. She nodded back at me and then leaned in to give my cheek a quick kiss. "You're such a geek," she said, but the affection in her voice gave her away.

"I love you too, sis," I said.

"Jingle Bell Rock" flooded the airwaves all that week. I remember because that was the song playing on the radio the evening I opened Terrie's Christmas card.

There were other songs, too, of course, and other cards. Actually, I'd gotten so much pre-holiday mail I'd been joking with Jane about it. That, and the fact that the date was December sixteenth, her birthday, and I'd been alternating between humming Christmas carols and "Happy Birthday to You" all day long.

We'd just finished a rousing debate over mail delivery (Early nineteenth century British versus early twenty-first century American-which was more civilized? Discuss...) when I'd returned with the day's postal stack from my mailbox. I tossed the bills into the Boring pile and turned right to the Newsy pile. The cards.

I'd gotten quite the a.s.sortment of newsworthy items that week already: Tim signed his name to the bottom of a picturesque card that said only "Merry Christmas from Sunny Antigua."

Mark and Seth crowed about their new puppy in their holiday letter. Named him Spider-Man because he kept climbing all over their polished Shaker furniture.

Kim, Tom and the kids claimed to be fine in their card, but Kim was getting antsy being a stay-at-home mom. Was thinking about going back to grad school. Maybe business. Maybe art therapy. She didn't care. She just wanted to get out of the house.

Angelique and Leo, who'd had their triplets a couple months back (one girl, two boys) in California, sent a photo of their newly expanded family. They were hanging in there despite the sleepless nights, and Lyssa had proven to be a terrific older sister. "Thank G.o.d for her!" Angelique wrote. "She can change diapers like a pro." They were seriously saving for her future Stanford tuition.

And, from my annual grad-school university alumni newsletter, came this shocker: Brent "Go Fish" Sullivan had departed this earth back in July. The victim of a fatal car crash. No reported surviving widow or children, but I figured there was probably a woman somewhere. No mention of substance-related causes but, considering he loved single-malt Scotch almost as much as he loved card games, that wouldn't have surprised me either.

Regardless, I was rendered speechless when I saw his name in black ink on the "In Memoriam" page. And, to be completely honest, I was sincerely saddened.

I guess I'd hoped he'd live long enough to be redeemed. That he'd find someone he could be true to, even if he hadn't yet married her. I wished for some kind of happy ending for him in part, I supposed, because I wished it for all of us. And, yes, for me especially.

So, when I saw the two cards that came in on Jane's birthday, sure, I rolled my eyes at the first one. Dominic Reyes-Jones. But I opened up the envelope immediately. He was getting remarried, his card said. He'd had a tough start to the year-been out of work for a few months-but had gotten a new part-time job. The (latest) love of his heart and soul was taking him to the Greek Isles for their honeymoon. Life, he insisted, was fabulous.

Well, good for him. He was happily s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g someone else, literally, figuratively. That was fine by me. Hey, at least he wasn't dead.

Terrie's card I opened with much more genuine interest and antic.i.p.ation. Inside I found a cute photo of her and the children, plus a handful of scented stationery sheets. She'd moved out of state again but not far, Iowa this time, following a job lead that had paid off. She'd gotten herself a place of her own and enrolled her kids in a good neighborhood school. Said she'd met a new man too. Everett. Planned to take things real slow.

I grinned at this and would've bet anyone willing to take me on that, when I invited her to Di and Alex's second wedding next fall, she'd be bringing this Everett dude along. It was something about how she wrote his name, her script so precise. Or maybe it was in the way she went on about him for a full seven pages. Kind of a giveaway.

Then, on the last page of her letter she added this postscript: Oh! I thought you'd want to hear the latest gossip. My sister Sabrina told me she ran into Nate...and that he told her that Sam Blaine was finally getting married. Guess he's engaged to some woman in Boston. Poor girl, huh?

The words jumped off the pretty floral pages and punched me in the stomach. Sam? Engaged? To somebody else?

Really?

I reminded myself that it wasn't as though I wanted to marry him. No. I simply liked the fantasy I'd created. It was the possibility I'd grown attached to...I told myself I didn't want to see a romantic avenue I'd imagined get closed off. That it was for this reason alone that my hands trembled and my knees shook-a bizarre reaction that had nothing to do with the man himself.

Only, I felt numb everywhere, and I knew I'd been wrong about something. When Tim and I broke up, I believed heartache couldn't get any worse. That by embracing the pain and letting everything inside me go soft, I'd recover faster.

It'd worked with Tim, but this case was different. Going soft made me feel the cruel edges of pain sooner, and they were sharper. Each sensation was more acute, more immediate, more devastating than I could've imagined, and the question barrage wouldn't stop: Why didn't I stay longer at the bookstore cafe that one day?

Why didn't I really talk to Sam when I'd had the chance?

Why didn't I run back down that plane ramp in Boston and call him from the airport?

Why didn't I open up my heart more readily instead of being paralyzed by old fears until it was too late?

Why, why, why?

G.o.dd.a.m.ned story of my life.

15.

If the dispositions of the parties are ever

so well known to each other or ever so

similar beforehand, it does not advance

their felicity in the least.

-Pride and Prejudice Ten and a half months later, at age thirty-four, I was at my parents' house-midweek, early November, up to my eyebrows in relatives-when the doorbell rang for the first time, at noon.

"I'll get it," the bride-to-be said around her last bite of lasagna Florentine. "It's probably Alex." And Di, knowing her ex-/future-husband well, was right.

"Hey, babe," Alex said, kissing my sister and fourteen-month-old Clifton, then waving to the rest of us...the rest of us being me, my mom, my dad, Angelique, her husband Leo, all four of their children, my brother, his wife Nadia, their two boys and their collie, Fritz.

Various reciprocal greetings occurred, from handshakes to hugs to high fives. Mom shoved a plate of food at Alex, and Fritz contributed a friendly bark.

Dad said to Di's fiance, "The men are gonna watch some ESPN downstairs in ten minutes. A couple college basketball teams are playing. Wanna join us?"

Alex shook his head and gave my sister an adoring glance. "Thanks, Mr. B., but Di and I need to check out a few things with the florist."

Mom shot Di a horrified look only the mother of the bride could produce with conviction. "What? Is there something wrong with the arrangements? The reception centerpieces we chose? That flower guy promised me-"

"Nah, nothing like that," Di said. "We just wanted to make sure they had the right number of corsages and boutonnieres for the ceremony Sat.u.r.day."

Mom brought her palm up to her heaving chest. "Oh, good." She motioned for Alex to sit down. "Eat then. Now. We've got pecan pie and vanilla ice cream for dessert when you're done."

Alex took one look at our mother's anxious expression and, apparently, didn't dare disobey. He picked up his fork and dug in.

Mom used this opportunity to whip out her encyclopedia-sized planning calendar. "What else is left to check on today? Ellie already called about the final dress fittings. I talked with the musicians yesterday, and everything is set there. The photographer is okay. The videographer is fine, too. Di, you got ahold of the Reverend?"

"Yep," Di said. "And Ellie and I also double-checked the cake order over the weekend."

"That's right...the cake," Mom said. Then, "Oh, G.o.d! Ellie, the caterers! Did you-"

"Everything's under control," I told her, trying to sound rea.s.suring. "I sampled the entire menu again on Monday, and chicken Marsala with broccoli almondine never tasted so good. The wedding dinner will be great. Don't worry."