"You know that. You've seen me bringing my gym bag to work. I wouldn't have time otherwise. Of course, it sometimes also ends up being a working session depending on which executive is there."

Though she didn't mention a name, I had a sinking feeling that by executive, my wife actually meant Walter, which, if true, struck me as the cruelest Saturday Surprise of all.

By then, I was downright glum. Vivian and Marge continued their superficial conversation while I pretty much tuned out, my thoughts exploding like fireworks between my ears.

London and my mom emerged from the house, both of them wearing gardening gloves. London had clearly borrowed a pair from my mom, since they seemed about three sizes too large.

"Hey sweetie!" I called out. "Time to do some planting?"

"I have gloves, Daddy! And Nana and me are going to make the flower bed soooo pretty!"

"Good for you."

I watched as my mom lifted a shallow plastic tub containing twelve smaller plastic pots, marigolds already in bloom. London grabbed two trowels, and my mom listened attentively while London chattered away nonstop on their way to the flower bed.

"Have you ever noticed how good Mom is with London?" Marge asked. "She's patient, cheerful, and fun."

"You sound a little bitter when you say that," Liz observed.

"I am," she said. "It's not like Mom ever planted flowers with me. Or showed me how to make pudding-in-a-cloud. Nor was she patient, cheerful, or fun as a general rule. When she spoke to me, it was because she had some chores she wanted me to do."

"Are you open to the idea that your memories may be selective?" Liz asked.

"No."

Liz laughed. "Then maybe you should simply accept the notion that she likes London more than she ever liked you or Russ."

"Ouch," Marge said. "That's not very therapeutic."

"I wish London would get to see my parents more often than she does," Vivian remarked. "It makes me sad that she doesn't have the same kind of relationship with them. Like she's missing out on getting to know my family."

"When was the last time they were here?" Liz asked.

"Thanksgiving," Vivian said.

"Why don't they come and visit this summer?"

"My dad's company has been involved in a huge merger and my mom doesn't like to travel without him. I suppose I could bring London to them, but these days, when would I have the time?"

"Maybe that will change when things settle down," Liz suggested.

"Maybe," Vivian said, a frown suddenly appearing as she watched London digging while my mom put the flowers into the ground. "If I'd known London would be planting flowers, I would have brought a change of clothes. Her dress is practically new, and she'll be upset if she can't wear it again."

I doubted that London cared as much as Vivian. London probably couldn't remember half of the dresses she owned, but my thoughts were interrupted by a sudden, piercing scream from London, the sound of pain and fear...

"OW, OW, OWWW!!! It HURTS! DADDY!!!!"

Instantly, the world splintered into disjointed images; I felt myself rising, the chair flung out behind me... Liz and Marge turning their heads, shock in their expressions... Vivian's mouth in the shape of an O... My mom reaching for London... London beet red and crying, shaking her hand, her face contorted...

"IT HURTS, DADDY!!!"

I bolted off the porch toward her, adrenaline coursing through my system. As soon as I reached her, I scooped her into my arms.

"What's wrong? What happened?"

London was sobbing too hard to answer, her screams drowning out her ability to answer, her hand held away from her body.

"What's wrong? Did you hurt your hand?"

Mom's face was white. "She was stung by a bee!" she called out. "She was trying to swat it off her hand..." Vivian, Liz, and Marge were beside us as well. Even my dad had appeared in the doorway and was hustling toward us.

"Was it a bee?" I asked. "Did a bee sting you?" I tried to reach for London's hand, but she was frantically waving it, convinced the bee was still attached.

Vivian quickly took hold of London's arm, even as London continued to scream. She rotated it, finally focusing on the back of London's hand.

"I see the stinger!" she shouted at London. London continued to flail, oblivious, as Vivian went on. "I have to get it out, okay?"

Vivian gripped London's arm tighter. "Hold still!" she demanded. Using her fingernails, it took a couple of attempts to loosen the stinger, but then with a quick pull, the stinger was out. "It's out, sweetheart," she announced. "I know it hurts," she soothed, "but it'll be okay, now."

No more than fifteen seconds had passed since I first heard London begin to scream but it seemed far longer. London was still crying, but she struggled less and her screams had begun to subside as I held her. Her tears dampened my cheek as everyone pressed in around her, trying to comfort.

"Shhh..." I whispered, "I've got you now..."

"Are you okay?" Marge asked, stroking London's back.

"That must have hurt, you poor thing...," Liz added.

"I'll get the baking soda...," my mom announced.

"Come here, baby," Vivian said, reaching for London. "Let Mommy hold you..."

Vivian's arms snaked around London, but all at once, London buried her face in my neck.

"I want Daddy!" London said, and when Vivian started to lift her, I felt London squeeze even harder, nearly choking me, until Vivian finally relented.

I carried London back to my chair and took a seat, listening as her cries gradually diminished. By then, my mom had mixed baking soda and water, forming a paste, and brought it to the table, along with a spoon.

"This will help the swelling and take away some of the itch," she said. "Do you want to watch me put it on, London?"

London pulled away from my neck, watching as my mom applied the paste to her skin.

"Will it sting?"

"Not at all," my mom answered. "See?"

London was back to sniffling by then and when my mom was finished, London brought her hand closer. "It still hurts," she said.

"I know it does, but this will make it feel better, okay?"

London nodded, still examining her hand. I brushed away her tears with my finger, feeling the moisture on my skin.

We sat at the table for a while making small talk, trying to distract London and watching for an allergic reaction. None of us expected one neither Vivian nor I were allergic, and London hadn't been allergic to the fire ants but since it was London's first bee sting, no one knew for sure. London's breathing seemed normal and the swelling didn't worsen; when we turned the conversation topic to Mr. and Mrs. Sprinkles, London even seemed to temporarily forget her pain, if only for a few seconds.

Once we knew that London was fine, I recognized that all the adults had overreacted. Our panic, our rush to soothe, the way we'd fussed over her in the aftermath, struck me as a bit ridiculous. It wasn't as though she'd broken an arm or been hit by a car, after all. Her screams of pain had been real, but still... she'd been stung by a bee. As a kid, I'd probably been stung half a dozen times and when it happened the first time, my mom hadn't made paste from baking soda and water, nor had she held me in her arms to comfort me. If memory serves, my mom simply told me to go wash the stinger off and my dad said something along the lines of, "Stop crying like a baby."

When my mom finally asked if London would like another spoonful of chocolate pudding, she hopped off my lap and gave me a kiss before following my mom into the kitchen. She held her hand out in front of her like a surgeon who'd just prepped for an operation. I said as much out loud, eliciting a laugh from Marge and Liz.

Vivian, however, didn't laugh at all. Instead, her slitted gaze seemed to accuse me of a crime: betrayal.

CHAPTER 13.

Crime and Punishment

I was twelve years old and Marge was seventeen when she came out of the closet, or whatever the politically correct way to say it is these days. Marge wasn't conscious of being politically correct back then; it just sort of happened. We'd been hanging out in her bedroom and the subject of the homecoming dance at the high school came up. When I asked why she wasn't going, she turned toward me.

"Because I like girls," she said abruptly.

"Oh," I remembered saying. "I like girls, too." I think part of me vaguely suspected that Marge might be gay, but at that age, everything I knew about sexuality and sex pretty much came from murmured conversations in school hallways or the occasional R-rated movie I'd watched. Had she told me a year later, when I would wedge my bedroom door shut with a shoe to have some privacy practically every day, I don't know how I would have reacted, although I suspect it would have been a bigger deal. At thirteen middle school anything out of the ordinary is considered the Worst Thing Ever, sisters included.

"Does that bother you?" she asked, suddenly engrossed in picking at her cuticle.

It was only when I looked at her really looked that I understood how anxious she was about telling me. "I don't think so. Do Mom and Dad know?"

"No. And don't say a word to them. They'll freak out."

"Okay," I said, meaning it, and it was a secret that stayed between us, until Marge sat my parents down at the dining room table the following year and told them herself.

That doesn't make me noble, nor should you infer much about my character at all. Even though I sensed her anxiety, I wasn't mature enough to understand the full gravity of what she'd told me. When we were growing up, things were different. Being gay was weird, being gay was wrong, being gay was a sin. I had no idea of the internal struggles Marge would face, or the things people would eventually say behind her back and sometimes even to her face. Nor am I arrogant enough to believe I can fully understand them even now. The world to my twelve-year-old brain was simpler and whether my sister liked girls or boys frankly didn't matter to me at all. I liked and disliked her for other reasons. I disliked, for instance, when she'd pin me on my back, her knees on my arms, while she scoured my chest bone with her knuckles; I disliked when Peggy Simmons, a girl I liked, came to the door and she told her that "He can't come to the door because he's in the bathroom, and he's been in there a long, long time," before asking Peggy, "Do you happen to have any matches?"

My sister. Always doing right by me.

As for liking her, it was really pretty simple. As long as she wasn't doing something dislikable, I was more than happy to like her. Like younger siblings everywhere, I had a bit of hero worship when it came to Marge, and her revelation didn't change that in the slightest. As I saw it, my parents treated her like a young adult while they treated me like a child, both before and after she told me. They expected more from her, whether around the house or in taking care of me. I'll also admit that Marge made my own path to adulthood smoother than it otherwise would have been because my parents had always been there, done that with Marge first. Surprise and disappointment, after all, often go hand-in-hand when it comes to raising children, and fewer surprises usually meant less disappointment.

When I snuck out one night and took the family car? Marge did it years before.

When I had too many drinks at a high school party? Welcome to the club.

When I climbed the water tower in our neighborhood, a popular teenage hangout? That was already Marge's favorite place.

When I was a moody teen who barely spoke to either my mom or dad? Marge taught them to expect that, too.

Marge, of course, never let me forget how much easier I had it but to be fair, it often led me to feel like an afterthought in the family, which wasn't easy either. In our own ways, we each felt a bit slighted, but in our private struggles, we ended up leaning on each other more and more with every passing year.

When we talk about it nowadays what she went through she downplays how hard it was to come out to others, and it makes me admire her all the more. Being different is never easy, and being different in that way in the South, in a Christian home seemed to strengthen her resolve to appear invulnerable. As an adult, she lives in a world defined by numbers and spreadsheets, calculations. When she speaks with others, she tries to hide behind wit and sarcasm. She deflects intimacy with most people and while we're close, I wonder if my sister sometimes found it necessary to hide her emotional side, even from me. I know if I asked her, she would deny it; she would tell me that if I wanted sensitivity, I should have asked God for a different sister, the kind of sister who carried a Kleenex at the ready on the off-chance a sad song began playing on the radio.

Lately, I've found myself wishing that I'd impressed upon her that I saw the real her, that I've always loved who she was. But as close as we are, our conversations seldom reach those depths. Like most people, I assume, we talk about the latest goings-on in our lives, hiding our fears like a turtle tucking its head back into its shell.

But I've also seen Marge at her lowest.

It had to do with a girl named Tracey, her roommate. Marge was a junior in college at UNC Charlotte, and while she didn't hide her sexuality, she didn't flaunt it either. Tracey knew from the very beginning but it never seemed an issue. Often together, they fell into a close and natural friendship the way college roommates often do. Tracey had a boyfriend back home and after the breakup Marge was there to pick up the pieces. Eventually, Tracey noticed that Marge was attracted to her and didn't discourage the feeling; she even speculated that she might be bisexual but wasn't exactly sure. Then, one night, it happened. Marge woke in the morning feeling like she'd discovered the part of her that had been missing; Tracey woke, even more confused, but willing to give the relationship a try. They were discreet at Tracey's insistence, but that was fine by Marge, and over the next few months, Marge fell even more deeply in love. Tracey, on the other hand, began to pull away and, after returning home for spring break that year, told Marge that she and her boyfriend had reconciled and that she wasn't sure she and Marge could remain friends. She told her that she would be moving into an apartment that her parents had rented, and that what she and Marge had shared was nothing but experimentation. It had meant nothing to her.

Marge called me just before midnight. She was drinking and babbling, telling me bits and pieces of the story and slurring that she wanted to die. I'd just gotten my driver's license and somehow, I knew exactly where to find her. I raced to the water tower and spotted her car parked beneath it. I made the climb and found my sister sitting near the edge, her legs dangling. There was an open bottle of rum beside her, and it was immediately clear that she was beyond drunk and practically incoherent. When she saw me, she scooted closer to the edge.

Speaking quietly, I was able to convince her to let me come closer; when I finally reached her, I put my arm around her and inched her back from the ledge. I held her as she sobbed, remaining at the top of the water tower until it was nearly dawn. She begged me not to tell our parents and after I promised, I drove her back to her dorm room and put her in bed. When I got home, my parents were livid I was sixteen and had been out all night. They grounded me for a month, and I lost driving privileges for another three months after that.

But I never told them where I'd been, or how devastated my sister had been that night, or what might have happened to her, had I not shown up.

It was enough to know that I'd been there for her, that I'd held her in my arms when she'd needed it the most, just the way I knew she would for me.

Needless to say, after dinner with my family, Vivian and my postponed date night didn't happen. Vivian wasn't in the best of moods by the time we got home. Neither was I.

Sunday morning began in a lazy fashion, one that allowed for a third cup of coffee after a five-mile run, my longest run in nearly ten years. London was watching a movie in the family room and I was reading the paper on our back patio when Vivian stepped outside.

"I think London and I need a Mommy and Me day," Vivian announced.

"A what?"

"You know, girl stuff. We'll get all dressed up and get a manicure and pedicure, maybe have her hair styled, things like that. Kind of a mini-celebration before her first day of school, where we're not having to rush around like crazy like we did yesterday."

"Is any place open on Sunday?"

"We'll find something," she said. "I could use a good mani-pedi, too."

"Does London even know what a mani-pedi is?"

"Of course she does. And it'll be good to have some alone time with her, you know? I've been working so much lately. And it'll give you a break, too, to do whatever you want. Goof around, work, whatever."

"When do I ever goof around?"

"You know what I mean," she said. "Anyway, I have to go help her pick out some clothes. I want to get all dressed up and make it special."

"That sounds like a very girly day," I agreed. "I hope the two of you have a good time."

"We will."

"How long do you think you'll be out?"