“You literally said I showed up injured.”
“You know what I mean.”
“No.”
“I don't.”
Vanessa stepped closer.
“Everyone keeps asking about you.”
“I cannot control other people.”
“You could stop giving them stories.”
“What stories?”
“How much surgery hurt.”
“I have barely discussed it.”
“You wear that pathetic sling.”
“I haven't worn it once here.”
“You made Mom carry your suitcase.”
“Because I’m not medically cleared to lift it.”
“There.”
“What?”
“That tone.”
I laughed in disbelief.
“What tone?”
“The helpless victim thing.”
Something inside me went cold.
“Vanessa.”
“What?”
“I spent a night in intensive care.”
Her eyes rolled.
“I know.”
“My surgeon rebuilt my shoulder.”
“I know.”
“I couldn't wash my own hair for six weeks.”
“I know.”
“So what exactly are you angry about?”
She looked toward the party.
Then back at me.
“I’m tired of people feeling sorry for you.”
I stared at my sister.
There it was.
Finally.
Not anger about anything I had done.
Anger about what other people felt.
“I don't want pity.”
“Well, you get plenty.”
“That is not my fault.”
“You always do.”
“Always what?”
“Make people protect you.”
That hit somewhere old.
Childhood.
Parents.
Arguments.
The family’s eternal balance.
Vanessa loud.
Emily calm.
Therefore Emily must be weak.
Therefore Emily needed protecting.
Therefore Vanessa was punished for being “strong.”
At least that was how she remembered it.
I said quietly:
“You think kindness toward me is something stolen from you.”
Vanessa’s face changed.
“Don't psychoanalyze me.”
“I’m not.”
“You always act so superior.”
“I’m standing on a terrace trying not to argue at your wedding.”
“You're doing it right now.”
“You followed me.”
Her jaw tightened.
I should have walked away.
Instead I asked the question I had avoided for years.
“Do you even like me?”