ten, our mother had started hitting her hard across the face—open-faced slaps that echoed with the sharp crack of force. Again and again and again. Our mother had hit us before, but this time Deirdre hit her back—and not just a slap. She delivered a dead-on right hook that gave our mother a black eye for two weeks. After that our mother never hit either of us again.
I said, “Mom’s different now. She’s a different person.”
Usually, Deirdre got angry when I said this. But this time she just shook her head. “She’s the same, Nor. She’s exactly the same. You just can’t see it.”
“What do you mean, I can’t see it? I live with her.”
“That doesn’t matter. You see what you want to see.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing. Never mind. Just forget I said anything about any of this, all right? It’s not your problem; it’s my problem. I’ll deal with it. I’ll get the money somehow.”
I suddenly missed being kids, when we promised that we would always be there for each other—that we would always rescue each other. Life had shown us pretty clearly that rescue wasn’t always possible.
“I’m sorry that Boyd left,” I said, feeling useless.
“I’m not. I’m better off without that asshole,” Deirdre said. But I could tell she was lying. I could hear it in her voice—the difference between really believing something and wanting to believe something. Deirdre was trying to convince herself of something she didn’t feel at all. “You’re lucky Dan left you,” she said. “You’re lucky you’re alone. It’s better that way. It’s not worth it.”
My sister was the master of the backhanded compliment. The thing was, Deirdre was only saying aloud what I had been trying to tell myself for years.
After last night, I shouldn’t have trouble believing it. I had every piece of evidence that relationships ended in a mess, a car wreck of shattered trust and broken love. But sitting in the kitchen with my sister, with the smell of the coffee brewing and the quiet of the night outside, I finally told the truth. Before this I told myself I had given up, but I hadn’t. And now I voiced my hidden hope.
“I could still meet someone,” I said.
Deirdre snorted. “In this town? Yeah, right.”
“You never know.”
And later I wondered if that moment of belief was what drew him like a magnet to me. But if I believed that, I’d have to wonder about the tragedy that was coming along with him.
Sometimes it is best not to know. I think that was why Tammy didn’t tell me more about what she’d seen. She knew that sometimes the veil God draws over the future is the greatest kindness he has to give.
Timothy
Timothy Arrives in Nebraska
W hen I got off the jet in Omaha early Monday morning, I got a message from my assistant telling me that my meeting with Warren was not going to happen until Wednesday morning.
I could have told the crew to turn around and take me back to New York so I could be in the office to follow the surging and plunging market. But then I thought again. In financial panics, people often overreact. I had made some bets the week before, and if I went back to the office I would only second- or third-guess them. I’ve found, over the years, that the initial gut reaction is the one that pays. I’d read a book about how that split-second gut reaction seemed to tap into some larger intelligence. On Wall Street there is reverence for the man whose gut can be trusted—for the man who has the balls to stand behind his hunches.
My hunches were good, and people were starting to notice. The only reason I cared was that if enough people start listening to you, it becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy. You buy a stock, everyone who trusts you does the same, and like magic, the stock price goes up. Or you sell and dozens of people jump ship with you. Again you’re proven right, without even needing to be right.
I decided, not only was I going to leave
I said, “Mom’s different now. She’s a different person.”
Usually, Deirdre got angry when I said this. But this time she just shook her head. “She’s the same, Nor. She’s exactly the same. You just can’t see it.”
“What do you mean, I can’t see it? I live with her.”
“That doesn’t matter. You see what you want to see.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing. Never mind. Just forget I said anything about any of this, all right? It’s not your problem; it’s my problem. I’ll deal with it. I’ll get the money somehow.”
I suddenly missed being kids, when we promised that we would always be there for each other—that we would always rescue each other. Life had shown us pretty clearly that rescue wasn’t always possible.
“I’m sorry that Boyd left,” I said, feeling useless.
“I’m not. I’m better off without that asshole,” Deirdre said. But I could tell she was lying. I could hear it in her voice—the difference between really believing something and wanting to believe something. Deirdre was trying to convince herself of something she didn’t feel at all. “You’re lucky Dan left you,” she said. “You’re lucky you’re alone. It’s better that way. It’s not worth it.”
My sister was the master of the backhanded compliment. The thing was, Deirdre was only saying aloud what I had been trying to tell myself for years.
After last night, I shouldn’t have trouble believing it. I had every piece of evidence that relationships ended in a mess, a car wreck of shattered trust and broken love. But sitting in the kitchen with my sister, with the smell of the coffee brewing and the quiet of the night outside, I finally told the truth. Before this I told myself I had given up, but I hadn’t. And now I voiced my hidden hope.
“I could still meet someone,” I said.
Deirdre snorted. “In this town? Yeah, right.”
“You never know.”
And later I wondered if that moment of belief was what drew him like a magnet to me. But if I believed that, I’d have to wonder about the tragedy that was coming along with him.
Sometimes it is best not to know. I think that was why Tammy didn’t tell me more about what she’d seen. She knew that sometimes the veil God draws over the future is the greatest kindness he has to give.
Timothy
Timothy Arrives in Nebraska
W hen I got off the jet in Omaha early Monday morning, I got a message from my assistant telling me that my meeting with Warren was not going to happen until Wednesday morning.
I could have told the crew to turn around and take me back to New York so I could be in the office to follow the surging and plunging market. But then I thought again. In financial panics, people often overreact. I had made some bets the week before, and if I went back to the office I would only second- or third-guess them. I’ve found, over the years, that the initial gut reaction is the one that pays. I’d read a book about how that split-second gut reaction seemed to tap into some larger intelligence. On Wall Street there is reverence for the man whose gut can be trusted—for the man who has the balls to stand behind his hunches.
My hunches were good, and people were starting to notice. The only reason I cared was that if enough people start listening to you, it becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy. You buy a stock, everyone who trusts you does the same, and like magic, the stock price goes up. Or you sell and dozens of people jump ship with you. Again you’re proven right, without even needing to be right.
I decided, not only was I going to leave
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