After the service, her brother approached us.
Rebecca could barely look at him.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
He studied her for a long moment.
“You didn’t start the fire.”
“No.”
“You didn’t know she died.”
“No.”
“But you knew eventually that somebody had.”
Rebecca’s face crumpled.
“Yes.”
He nodded.
“That’s the part you’ll have to live with.”
Then he walked away.
Rebecca didn’t ask him to forgive her.
I was glad.
Some apologies are obligations.
Forgiveness isn’t.
It’s been almost three years since the hospital called.
Rebecca and I speak most weeks now.
Not every day.
We aren’t inseparable.
We don’t finish each other’s sentences.
Sometimes we argue.
Sometimes she tells a story from Ohio and mentions people I’ve never met, and I feel that old flash of resentment.
Sometimes I mention Mom and watch grief move across her face.
Neither of us tries to make the other feel better immediately anymore.
That’s progress.
Last Christmas, Rebecca came to my house.
It was the first holiday we’d spent together since she “died.”
I found her in the kitchen early that morning, staring into a cabinet.
“What are you doing?”
“Looking for coffee.”
“You hate coffee.”
“I do.”
“Tea’s on the left.”
She opened the wrong cabinet.
I laughed.
She looked offended.
“You reorganized.”
“I’ve lived here nine years.”
“Exactly. You had plenty of time to organize it correctly.”
For one second, I heard the old Rebecca.
Then it was gone.
And I realized I didn’t need it back.
Later, Lucy gave her a ridiculous purple scarf she’d knitted herself.
