Chapter 40 Kerri

CHAPTER 40 KERRI

February 2007

Bolton Landing

I never hated Annie. I have this memory of her from when I was little—young enough that I was still dragging a doll around. It was after school, I’m sure, because Annie was in our kitchen making her and Amanda’s usual snack: a plate of tortilla chips with melted shredded cheese. The height of middle-school sophistication. Her face was pressed to the microwave, hands cupped around her eyes.

“Can I have some, too?” I asked. I remember I didn’t really want any chips, I just wanted to be part of whatever they were doing. Amanda was in another room, no doubt preparing whatever fun thing was about to happen. They were always doing something fun. If it was nice out, they’d be in the side yard using Dad’s old car parts to construct some action scene; if it wasn’t, they’d be doing a fashion show in Amanda’s room, or mapping out the rules of a game they’d devised.

So deeply focused on the melting cheese, Annie didn’t answer. Not unusual for her. She could be like that: single-minded. Whenever I saw her reading alone, I knew not to bother. She was very different from Amanda in that way.

A few seconds later she popped open the microwave and removed the plate. I was standing in the doorway, worried I’d have to ask again. Too much like begging. I watched as she walked past me as if I were invisible, plate of nachos in her hand. I turned, deflated. Then, she grabbed the banister with her free hand and paused, looking back at me.

“You coming, little one?” she said, winking. Grinning wildly, I dropped my doll and followed her up the stairs. I’d eventually recognize this as classic Annie: playing each scene for maximum effect, escalating the tension, unaware of the extra seconds of discomfort it caused the other person. Or maybe she figured the payoff was worth it.

As we entered Amanda’s bedroom, Annie announced, “I have hired us an assistant.” Amanda was sitting on the ground, fiddling with the VCR, which she must have unhooked from downstairs. She looked up, and I scoured her face for annoyance, found none. I loved that easygoing quality about her—about them.

“Let’s put the kid to work,” my sister said. I was ready for whatever menial labor was expected of me. Annie sat across from Amanda, put the plate between them on the carpet, the chips smothered in a spiderweb of orange.

“Grab the movie.” Annie nudged me, pointing toward Amanda’s dresser. On top was a video from the local rental store.

“What is it?” I brought it over, sitting down near, but not too close—I didn’t want to assume equality.

“Get over here.” Annie reached for my arm, and I scooted toward them.

“Here’s the plan,” Amanda was saying, now plugging the VCR into the small television she had saved up for that year. “We’ll each have a role, but first we have to get our lines.”

“They call this transcription ,” Annie said, handing me a notebook. I looked at what she’d given me: a cheap spiral notebook with a red cover.

Amanda glanced over, said, “No, not that one—I’m saving that one,” I then she pointed to a different notebook and Annie swapped with me.

“We’ll go scene by scene,” Annie said. “First, we’ll transcribe, then we’ll act it out. Don’t worry, we’ll help you with it. It’s actually helpful that you’re here, Kerri, because we needed someone to play Helen.”

“Who’s Helen?” I asked.

“Helen Kimble,” Amanda said, reaching to take the case from me.

I popped it open and saw the movie: The Fugitive .

“I’ll be Harrison Ford, obviously,” she said, pushing the tape into the VCR. My eyes darted to Annie. She rolled her eyes and I almost giggled but caught myself. This was serious actor business.

Twelve years later, when I was woken up to Amanda drunk and crashing around our living room, all I could think about was how tired I was, waiting for Amanda to find herself again. And that night when I screamed that I hated Annie, it had nothing to do with her leaving us. It’s like I was mad that we’d ever had her—mad that she existed in the first place.

You know that saying, it’s better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all?

That night I was feeling very much the opposite.

I . Note from Cate: That sound you hear is me exhaling—this, this , is the notebook in which I wrote the first draft of The Very Last .