Chapter 9 - The Price of Being Seen
The producer had emailed an impressive list of previous segments and offered an interview in which the sisters could “reclaim the narrative.” Maeve disliked the phrase. It sounded like something a person said while preparing to take the story away from its owners. Vanessa forwarded the email without comment. Maeve read it twice before answering, because she wanted to be fair to the young wedding coordinator who was trying to protect her own work.
She almost wrote that the producer was exploiting the family. Then she remembered how quickly she'd labeled the photographer part of the problem at the reception. He'd only been doing his job. She chose a simpler response: Please decline. We appreciate you asking. Nobody here has agreed to participate.
It wasn't a victory over public opinion. The short clips would stay online. What mattered was that this one private recording remained private.
Maeve called Vanessa from her parked car before she drove off base.
“Don't sell it,” she said.
“I wasn't going to without everyone's permission.”
“Do they have everybody's?”
“Not even close. The producer says it's a human-interest piece about women in uniform.”
“It's about a woman who yelled at her sister on the worst possible day.”
Vanessa sighed. “I spent twelve months organizing that wedding. People think I planned the argument as some kind of stunt. My business account's getting hate messages.”
“I'm sorry.”
“I know you are. But I'm asking because it's becoming a business problem for me, too.”
Maeve hadn't considered the planner, the photographer, the hotel staff, or the servers whose faces appeared in the background of a clip neither Hart sister had posted. The family drama had spilled onto people who had no vote in it.
“Would you tell the producer no, and keep the video secure? I'll confirm that in writing so you have something for your records.”
“Thank you.”
Maeve called Lillian next. Noah answered her phone because Lillian was washing her hair.
“She's in the bathroom,” he said. “Can I help?”
“Just tell her Vanessa contacted me. I've asked her not to share the full video. It isn't ours to sell.”
“Agreed.”
There was a pause. Maeve heard the clatter of a saucepan.
“You okay?” Noah asked.
“That's becoming everybody's favorite question.”
“Then answer something else. How do you feel about lasagna?”
“Depends who made it.”
“I made it. So lower your standards.”
Maeve laughed. The sound surprised her. He said goodbye, and she sat looking at the steering wheel. He'd joined this family voluntarily. That alone seemed brave.
Lillian's day at the speech clinic had been difficult. A six-year-old boy she worked with had finally managed a sentence he'd been practicing all week, and his father had cried so suddenly that the child stopped speaking in surprise. Later, a parent asked if Lillian was “that woman from the wedding video.” She said yes. The parent asked why she had yelled at a service member.
Lillian could have told a long story. She could have described hospital hallways and canceled birthday plans and the unanswered call. Instead she said, “I said something hurtful to my sister. We're talking about it.”
The parent looked disappointed not to receive a better story. Lillian had spent the afternoon shaken, not by the accusation, but by the possibility that she could learn to tell the truth in one sentence.
At home she told Noah what had happened. He asked whether she wanted him to call the clinic director. She said no. His expression showed relief. He was trying to let her handle her own life, even when he wanted to fix it for her.
When she visited on Monday, Noah's lasagna was burned at one edge and cold in the middle. Lillian teased him, then put another pan in the oven so he wouldn't have to start again. Maeve offered to help; Lillian pointed at a chair.
“Sit down. You drove four hours.”
“I can chop something.”
“Maeve. Sit.”
She sat. It felt like obeying a difficult order.
They ate at a scratched wooden table that Lillian had bought from a neighbor. The apartment was small, with books stacked in odd corners and a door that wouldn't stay closed unless someone pushed it hard. Noah told them a long, boring story about the stormwater permit he'd spent all week correcting at his engineering office. It was beautiful in its lack of stakes.
After dinner, Lillian carried three plates into the kitchen and left the fourth. Maeve took it herself. The two sisters stood at the sink side by side, washing in warm water. From the living room, Noah called out that the television had decided to update and would not let him turn it on.
“I told him that thing needed replacing,” Lillian muttered.
“He likes fixing what isn't broken.”
“He likes pretending everything can be fixed.”
Maeve rinsed a fork. “He did invite Reed without telling you.”
“He apologized. We talked. He actually listened when I said it hurt.”
“That's new for us Harts.”
“Apparently.”
Lillian laid a dish towel over a cabinet handle. “You didn't answer Mom because you were scared.”
“Partly.”
“Partly?”
“I also thought the people I was helping needed me more. It sounds terrible when I say it that way.”
“It's honest.”
“Then I was so ashamed that I made up a cleaner explanation. And every time Dad said I chose strangers over Mom, I thought maybe he was right.”
Lillian looked at the suds turning gray in the sink. “I used to think I could keep her alive if I stayed awake enough. I got angry when nurses asked me to go outside for air. I shouted at one of them for bringing the wrong blanket. She'd been on her feet for fourteen hours.”
Maeve turned to her. “You never told me that.”
“I never told anyone. I apologized the next morning. She gave me a muffin.”
“That sounds like a nurse.”
“Mom would've told me to eat it.”
Their hands were wet and soapy. Lillian's eyes filled, and Maeve reached toward her automatically. Her sister didn't flinch. They stood together, not exactly embracing because of the plates, but leaning close enough that Maeve felt her shoulder warm against her own.
“I didn't hate you every day,” Lillian whispered. “Some days I really needed you.”
Maeve closed her eyes. “I know that now.”
The apartment buzzer sounded. Noah went to answer it. A minute later he returned with an uneasy look.
“It's Richard,” he said. “He's downstairs. He says he needs to speak to both of you.”
Lillian straightened and dried her hands.
May you like
“This time,” she said, “he can ask if he may come up.”
