Two Traitors

On hands and knees, count the betrayals. You’re drawing them out and holding them up to the light. For the first time, you’re thinking that maybe she’ll never change. Your family always told you that you just need to accept her for who she is. They said that Amy is ‘feisty’ and ‘stubborn’. They said she has a big personality, which is something that no one has ever said about you. And up until now, you thought it meant that you had to be patient and mild. You thought it was your job to understand and accept. Your family always avoided talking about the elephant in the room. You pulled her out of the tent she’d spent the summer in. She’s ‘free-spirited’. ‘Offbeat’. She called you out of the blue and said that she wanted to get sober. Your roommate had just left to visit family in Seoul, and she wouldn’t be back for another six weeks. Like it was meant to be. I need a place to stay. Just until I get back on my feet. And you believed her.

And maybe this is all your fault for expecting her to change in the first place but you’re lining up the pretty little lies in a row on the carpet and the glass bends the light as if it’s trapped inside. And you know it’s a disease, but you’re thinking how could you do this to me? 

You get out from under the bed and check the dresser drawers. The closet. The bathroom cabinet. You put all the bottles you can find in a cardboard box and carry them to the breakfast nook. She comes home late. You watch the headlights of her boyfriend’s dingy lowrider recede down the driveway. Amy is wearing that black backpack mom got her when she started college. A short-lived dream.

“You went in my room?” The betrayal is heavy on her face, and you feel like a monster. She sees you as a monster. Slowly, she puts her backpack down at the door. You hear the slightest clink of glass on glass. She crosses the space between you and pulls up a chair. And there you sit; two traitors side by side. “You never said I couldn’t drink.”

“You told me you wanted to get better.”

“You have no idea how hard it is.” You won’t listen to any more excuses, so you don’t let her continue. This is different from your regular sisterly heart-to-heart. It feels different. This time, you find that you don’t care how she’ll justify it and you don’t want an apology.

“Pack your things. I need you out of here tonight.”

“You’re kick me out? Seriously? I was going to go to a meeting tomorrow.”

“You should go to the meeting. But you still have to leave. It’s too late.” She tells you that it’s your fault that she hasn’t recovered yet. She says that you always pretend to support her so that you can watch her fail. If only you had a little more patience, always one step away from a breakthrough.

She slams the door shut behind her. You stay sitting, where you are in the kitchen. If you stand up, your knees are sure to buckle. Your mom will say that you have to accept her. “Warts and all.” You can hear Amy’s panicked words through the wall. “I can’t take this anymore! She always does this.” Something slams shut and you hear glass shatter. You hope that Ara didn’t leave anything irreplaceable behind. “Honestly, it is so toxic. I shouldn’t have even come here. I have to get out.” Sitting quietly at the table, you listen to her say, “can you pick me up? I need a place to stay. Just until I can get back on my feet.” You wonder how many times she has said this. You wonder if she still believes it.

A few minutes later, you watch headlights pull back into the driveway. Your legs are steadier now, but you stay where you are. Amy is composed when she comes out, but you can tell she’s been crying. She rolls her suitcase behind her, scratching the hardwood.

“I’m done.” You say, “this is it. I hope you get sober, but I’m done waiting around.” You wish she’d turn over her shoulder and call you something you haven’t already forgiven her for. You hope she slashes your tires on the way out. A big final 'screw you' instead of the thousand little betrayals. You wish she’d do something that would settle your mind and prove that you’re making the right decision in cutting her out. But she gives you nothing. She bends over and slings her backpack over her shoulder. The bottles rattle but she has nothing left to hide. She pets the cat on the way out the door and leaves you alone in your house that’s too big for one person.

You wait for her to call you that night. Instead, you hear from your mom, your dad, your brother. “Give her another chance.” They say, “she is who she is.” They say, “she’ll come around.” 

Thanksgiving rolls around too soon, and you tell your family you’re spending it with friends from work. When Christmas comes, sit quietly in your parents' dining room and watch Amy pour herself another glass of champagne and tell loud stories that you’ve heard before. Still, she’s so good at it that you can’t help but laugh along. You wish you could hate her. Make something up. A reason to leave before 7:00. A reason that won’t ruin Christmas. On your way out, try not to think about what you’re missing.

Try to come up with a reason not to go to your brother’s wedding. When the best thing you’ve got is that you have nothing to wear, buy something simple and black online. At the ceremony, you consider pulling up a seat in the back, but you chicken out and sit in the reserved chair next to your mother. Amy doesn’t look at you, but she makes small talk with those around her. You will always be the sister who didn’t believe in her.

The ceremony is beautiful and you’re glad you came. The reception hall is crowded so that you don’t even see much of her. Hovering in the back of the room, laugh like you're having a good time. You’ve been inching toward the door since they cut the cake, but every distant cousin wants to catch up. “You were so small then, what have you been up to?” Out of the corner of your eye, pretend you didn’t just see a ghost. She’s hard to miss, even in a room this packed. Gliding through the room in her floral dress, she cuts through to the bar. You realize that she isn’t dead to you in a classic sense, but that you no longer rely on her for closure. You’ve closed that door, and she’s the only one with the key. Casually, she leans against the bar and chats with the bartender. The ball is in her court, but it will likely stay there forever, and you realize that you’ll be okay. She’s dead in that you have to move on instead of forward. The dead can’t hurt you anymore, and they can’t keep you away from your family. She’s happy without you, and you need to learn to move on without expecting her to apologize or change. Finally, you feel some sense of closure. And you stay.