Sisterhood Everlasting (6 page)

Eudoxia always referred to Kostos as “your young man.” Drew she referred to as “the sandwich maker.”

Lena was tempted to act like she didn’t know what Eudoxia was talking about, but she didn’t bother. “Probably not. Imagine how busy he is. He works in London now.”

“He goes back and forth. That’s what he said in his letter.”

Lena pressed her fingers to her warm face. It was her own fault. She’d spent a lot of hours stumbling around in Greek trying to describe that letter. In fact, her fervency had ushered in a series of conversational breakthroughs, and Eudoxia had noticed it. She started calling Lena “my Daphne,” and when Lena asked why, she said, “Don’t you read your myths?” After that she always liked getting Lena to talk about Kostos.

As for the subject of Drew, it did not yield any breakthroughs.

“You should write to him and tell him you are coming,” Eudoxia declared. “You could write it in Greek! I could help you! Wouldn’t that be a surprise?” She whacked her hand on the table again.

Lena hesitated. She could imagine how many people from Kostos’s
old life were clamoring for his attention. She didn’t want to do that to him.

In the silence Eudoxia seemed to recognize this was not something she could reasonably hope for. “But promise me this, my Daphne,” she said, leaning forward. “Promise me that at least you will call him. You will call him before you leave that island.”

Lena just laughed.
Not bloody likely
. “Maybe,” she said aloud in Greek. “You never know what will happen.”

When you jump for joy,

            beware that no one moves the ground

                         from beneath your feet.

             —Stanislaw J. Lec

Carmen was a terrible one for bargaining with God. She knew
it was wrong, but she found herself doing it anyway. When she was nine, the night before she was flying to Orlando for a holiday weekend in Disney World with Lena’s family, she flopped around in her bed for hours, so excited she couldn’t stand it. As the hours passed, excitement grew so big it transformed into terror that she would die before morning. Her desire turned monstrous, and she was suddenly sure it would swallow the happiest day of her life. She begged God to please just keep her alive through tomorrow, please, and then he could do whatever he wanted with her.

Two decades had passed since then, yet she lay in her bed on the night of October 27 with the exact same feeling. She wriggled and turned and stuck various limbs outside the covers to cool down, asking God to please just look after her until she was reunited with her friends in Santorini the following day. If she could just get to that, she would be happy. He could do whatever he wanted with her after that.

What could she offer in return? She’d be a better person. She’d spend less money on shoes. She’d play in the network’s charity softball game. She’d mentor a high school student. She would call her father twice a week absolutely and without fail. She would read the editorial page of
The New York Times
every day. She would no
longer search the Internet for cellulite photos of actresses who got the roles she was rejected for.

Though Carmen felt foolish, she also felt lucky that she was bargaining with God, who was all-forgiving, as opposed to somebody who would surely come back to collect on her wager.

Lena prided herself on her capability as an abstract thinker, but sometimes her brain was as concrete as a lizard’s. It took the actual sight of Bridget and Carmen, flesh and warmth and flying hair, racing toward her through the international terminal at JFK in New York City, to make her understand how terribly much she had missed them.

Bridget reached her first and grabbed her without entirely braking. Lena felt herself pulled into the familiar momentum.

Carmen in her tall cork sandals got there a few seconds after. She squeezed Lena’s forearm so hard it would make a bruise. She screamed so loudly in Lena’s ear she left it ringing. She stepped on Lena’s toes without thinking. Lena felt tears pricking in her eyes and she laughed. It was so good to feel these things, even the ones that stung.

Bee made it a huddle. She tried to pick the two of them up off the ground, and Lena drew in the familiar stimuli: Bridget’s peppermint shampoo, the delicate sponge-cake texture of her skin against Lena’s cheek, Carmen’s grapefruit-scented hair junk and sticky lips. The smells on them were deeper, the colors brighter, than on other people.

Lena liked them to stay the same, and they were awfully obliging about it. In recent years her joy at seeing them was always mixed with anxiety that there would be some telltale change. She wasn’t sure what it would be: a supercilious brow, the forgetting of some little ritual, a set of crow’s-feet, a this or a that, that would separate one of them from the rest, or from their bond or from their past.

Bee was especially accommodating. She was practically a Bee museum. Her faded lavender T-shirt had been gathering snags and extra stitches since ninth grade. Her yellow hair was long and messy as ever, the flow of it interrupted by skinny braids here and there
that reminded Lena of Bee’s cornrow phase in sixth grade. She dragged along the shiny airport floor the same worn-out Israeli clogs she’d bought with Lena on a jaunt along Eighth Street the summer after college. Lena amply forgave her for the drooping blue socks, which she’d shamelessly stolen from Lena on the last trip to Greece.

Well, Carmen did show some signs of change, even in the two months since Lena had seen her: her highlights were slightly lighter, her jeans slightly tighter, her eyebrows slightly thinner. But she was the makeover queen, so what would you expect? With Carmen they were always the same category of cosmetic changes that did nothing to mask the eager animation of her face. Change was the weather with Carmen. It would be weird if she stayed the same.

Tibby would be waiting for them at the airport in Fira. “She texted me that she got there yesterday morning. She opened up the house,” Lena told them excitedly, though they already knew, because she’d texted them too.

Lena settled into a bouncing stride between Carmen and Bridget, unabashedly clutching their hands through the long terminal. She had a magazine under her arm, candy in her bag, and an unaccustomed feeling of robust hunger in her stomach. She was looking forward to her life with brazen joy, and that was a gift she almost never gave herself. She looked forward to every single piece of it, from the airplane food to flying through the night under shared blankets, to Carmen’s sleep-sputtering (God help you if you called it snoring) in her ear, to the first sight of the Caldera from the air.

Most of all she looked forward to seeing Tibby when they landed. With an ache she pictured Tibby’s freckled, heart-shaped face, lost to her for almost two years. The last time she’d seen it, it was framed in the door of their old neighborhood bar on East Fifth Street, where the four of them had met to celebrate Carmen’s first getting cast on
Criminal Court
. Tibby had been looking over her shoulder, a final glimpse as she said goodbye. Lena hadn’t known it was goodbye at the time, but maybe Tibby had. Tibby had always been awkward about showy rituals. And she wouldn’t have wanted to take anything away from Carmen’s big night. But within a week Brian had gotten some tremendous opportunity and the two of
them were rushing off to Australia. Just for a few months, Tibby had thought at the time. But it had been two long years, and even Lena’s lizard brain could sense that expanse, now that their reunion was so close. Seeing Tibby would make her joy complete.

Lena was good at convincing herself of things, and dangerously good at thinking she could be herself without these friends of hers. As the three of them yapped contentedly all the way to the gate, through the lengthy boarding process, onto the plane with its blankets and pillows that gave it the atmosphere of an international slumber party, she felt her face opening into expressions she’d forgotten how to make. Lena remembered herself in all the old familiar things they said. She existed in her friends; there she was. All the parts of herself she’d forgotten. She knew herself best when she was with them.

Blinking in the artificial morning light with her weary, late-night eyes, Carmen could read the same tired bewilderment on her friends’ faces. Their plane had carried a big bellyful of America, which had dissipated the moment they stepped into this bustling, overheated little airport.

“Are we late, do you think?” Lena asked.

Bee squinted at the board showing arrivals. “Are we early?”

“I’m not sure my phone has the right time,” Carmen said, studying it.

Carmen had geared herself up for seeing Tibby first thing off the plane. They had all calibrated their patience to that moment and no further. So after ten minutes of swinging heads and darting eyes and thudding under ribs, Carmen was fairly sure that Tibby had not yet arrived at the gate, and the excitement started to wear on them.

“Maybe she’s at the baggage claim.”

“Yeah. Probably.”

“These things are always confusing.”

“Maybe that’s Tibby.” Bridget pointed to a corpulent middle-aged woman in a blue head scarf.

Carmen laughed. “Well, it
has
been a while.”

Carmen’s eyes were still darting. She studied every face through
the glass wall of the arrivals area. She wished she had not been so vain as to pack away her distance glasses.

“Let’s go to baggage claim.”

“She’ll be there.”

They moved as a tired six-legged creature toward the sign that said Baggage Claim, all of them scanning the crowd for a freckled, wiry, much-missed American.

The smell of cigarette smoke was strong, and the amount of sunshine in the airport felt out of step with the notion of nighttime still lagging in their bodies. It had seemed a lot more important to talk through the flight than sleep. At the time it had. Carmen felt a slight sick feeling of exhaustion starting in the bottom of her stomach.

They stood in the baggage claim. They were so busy scanning for Tibby they kept forgetting about their bags. Bee’s army-surplus duffel went around the belt multiple times unclaimed.

They could barely pass a sentence between them, so eager were they to catch sight of her. She was just … there. Just behind that pillar. Just walking through those double doors. She was so close, Carmen could practically bring her to life with the effort of her mind. Any second. Every face was, for a flash, Tibby’s face.

Finally they retrieved the bags and sat on them in the middle of the room. To Carmen it felt like they were stalled out ten feet from the finish line of a marathon. Everything had gone smoothly until now. They’d accepted their medals. They’d bathed in the congratulations. They’d donned those silly tinfoil blankets. You weren’t allowed to stop here.

“Something got messed up,” Bridget said. “The time, the date, something.”

“She might have gotten lost on the way to the airport,” Carmen offered.

“It’s not easy getting around this island,” Lena said. “Just getting down from Oia is a challenge. She probably didn’t leave enough time. She’s probably getting taken to the cleaners by some crooked cabbie as we speak.”

“Did you check your phone?” Bridget asked. Carmen had never expected Bee to say those words.

“It doesn’t work here. I told you that.”

“She’s probably trying to call us,” Lena said.

Bridget nodded. “We’ll just wait here.”

“Until she comes,” Lena said.

The three of them might have stayed there sitting on their suitcases until darkness fell, had not a porter respectfully ushered them out of the airport and to the curb around midday. The baggage handlers and airport officials were eager to get a meal. People went home for lunch here. There wasn’t another flight coming in for two hours.

“If we go back to Lena’s, though, I’m worried we’ll pass her on the way,” Carmen said to the porter, who gave no sign that he understood English.

Lena tried to translate, but that just made Carmen feel stupid. It wasn’t a thing you said to be heard or understood. It was a thing you said to say.

In disarray they packed all their stuff and themselves into a taxi. Lena said a few words in Greek. Carmen felt misgivings about leaving. This was where they were supposed to meet. She remembered the direction always given to them as children: “Just stay in one place; we’ll find you.”

Bridget seemed to understand Carmen’s mind. “Don’t worry. She’s probably at your grandparents’ house wondering where the hell we are. She couldn’t get to the airport for whatever reason. She’d figure we’d come to the house. She’ll be there. Where else would she be?”

Lena nodded and then Carmen joined in the nodding, but for the long, expensive taxi ride they remained mostly silent.

They walked and dragged the last uphill stretch to the house. The road was too narrow and too steep for a full-size vehicle. By the time they were halfway up the hill, Bridget was carrying all three bags.

“Who needs a mule,” Carmen said.

Lena tried the handle on the weathered egg-yolk-colored door, in case Tibby was inside, but it was locked.

“Hello?” Lena called, unlocking and pushing open the door. The
three of them stood sun-drunk and huffing in the dark of the shuttered house. “Hello?”

“Tibby?” Carmen shouted in such a loud voice it made Lena wince.

Lena opened a shutter and Bridget put down the bags. Slowly Carmen’s eyes took in the familiar contours. “Anybody home?” she called.

“I don’t think she’s here.”

“We should’ve stayed in the airport,” Carmen bleated wearily. “What if she’s there?” The more tired she felt, the worse she was at keeping her moods to herself.

“She may be stuck somewhere in between,” Lena pointed out in a reasonable voice, “but she’ll find her way back here eventually.” She waded deeper into the house. “And look, she was definitely here earlier. Look at these flowers!” She opened another couple of shutters. The girls had all been trained by her voluble grandmother not to open them willy-nilly, that a house here was essentially a fortress against the sun.