A group of friends tries to piece itself back together after losing its glue.
*****
It's a quiet October morning in Palo Alto, California, when the news break out--June Beaumont was...
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MERIDIAN
The first thing they tell you once they notice you're grieving is that they're sorry. Then, they tell you it gets easier.
In my book, that was the crystal clear definition of bullshit.
Sofia didn't move. She stood in front of me, as immobile as a statue, and didn't say a word. She was calmer, a lot calmer than I would be if our roles were reversed, and my blood boiled in my veins; I didn't know where all that anger was directed to—Sofia, June, myself, my parents, my neighbors, everyone who pretended to know what I was going through—but I sure as hell felt plenty of it.
I remembered hearing how other people felt numb after receiving the kind of news I had received. They ached to feel something, whatever it was, whereas I never got the chance to allow myself such luxury; everything inside of me was blinding red, burning rage. Before they left to do God knows what, they had asked me if I felt like talking.
I did. I supposed I wanted to, but couldn't do it, knowing that all that would come out of my mouth as soon as I opened it would be a bunch of screamed gibberish that'd make all of us feel even worse. I could tell by the look in my mother's eyes there was something else she wanted to tell me: maybe she resented me for having survived, maybe she thought I should have been the one to be found sprawled in the dusty bedroom of a motel room instead of precious June.
She didn't say anything, though, and I retreated back into my room to wallow in self-pity and, hopefully, try to ignore the bedroom down the hall.
All I knew was that I was pissed. My sister was dead, and I hadn't even picked up the damn phone.
"Meridian," Sofia called, and I internally grimaced.
That name continued to feel so stupid to me, even after twenty years had passed, and I often found myself wondering what in the world my parents were thinking when they named me. Even June's name wasn't relatively common, and they had some weird fixation on wanting to stick out (often like sore thumbs) and stand out from everyone else and their Gemmas and Nathaniels. They had Meridian and Juniper—at least they did, until a few hours ago.
Now they were stuck with me.
"I don't know what happened," she continued, her voice growing lower and thicker, "but, whatever it was, it was not your fault. You weren't there—"
"Well, that's the goddamn problem, isn't it?" I spat. Sofia didn't back away, even though she still flinched when I raised my voice. Instead, she held her chin up high and remained firm. "I wasn't there. She needed me, Sofia, she must have; otherwise, she wouldn't have called. You know how she's . . . you know what she thought about calling people on the phone."
