“Who said anything about sex?”
“Please. I’m eighteen.”
“No,” Ramona said. “You’re eight. You’re eight and you want a She-Ra party for your next birthday.”
“Hey, I might actually want a She-Ra party for my next birthday.”
“Mermista,” Ramona said, knowing she was Olive’s favorite from the show.
Olive laughed. “God, she’s so hot and mean.”
Ramona laughed too, wondering not for the first time just how straight her sister was…or just how queer. But Olive would figure that out in her own time. She’d realize sooner or later that Marley was totally in love with her, if she didn’t know already, and she’d have to decide for herself what to do about it.
She’d have to decide everything for herself come August.
“Hey, can I ask you a question?” Olive asked.
“Always.”
Olive waited a few seconds before speaking again, fiddling with the end of Ramona’s robe sash.
“Do you…ever…”
She trailed off, and Ramona felt herself tense, knowing exactly the direction this question was going before it went there, like a scent on the wind.
“Do you ever think about Mom?” Olive finally asked.
Ramona exhaled as quietly as she could.
“Of course I do,” she said just as quietly. A whisper.
“And?” Olive asked, sitting up a little to look at her sister.
“And what?”
“And…don’t you wonder? Where she is? How she’s doing?”
Ramona sat up too, pulled her robe tight around her throat. “No.”
“No?” Olive asked.
“No,” Ramona said, her tone even firmer. “I wonder about her,sure, but not specifics. She doesn’t deserve that, Olive. She hasn’t earned it.”
Olive flinched, her mouth opening, but closing again without a sound.
“It’s normal to wonder,” Ramona said, trying to soften her tone this time, but it was hard. Her mother brought up so many feelings, reactions, instincts. It was nearly impossible to control, this tightness in her chest, this anger and sadness and resentment and, somewhere under there, gratitude.
That she left.
Because if her mother hadn’t wanted them, Ramona was glad she hadn’t stuck around to remind them every single day. And at the same time, she felt hot with rage that her mother had left, that she hadn’t considered anyone worth more than her own comfort, hadn’ttriedto make things better, gone to therapy, couples counseling, family therapy. Hell, anything.
Anything but leaving, thereby indelibly marking her daughters as unwanted.
Forgettable.
At the mention of Rebecca Riley, Ramona was always a riot of emotion, her pulse in her throat, her ears, her temples, tears right at the surface. But she had to hold it together. Had to be strong for her sister, who was eighteen and young and vulnerable.
“But it’s useless to wonder too long,” Ramona said. “Too hard.”
