“It’s okay,” Milla said to reassure her mom. She thought of going up to her room to avoid her older sister, but that seemed so cowardly she remained where she was. Their relationship was strained, not violent; she didn’t care to be around either her brother or sister now, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t be polite.
Listening, they heard Mr. Edge open the front door, heard Julia say, “Hi, Dad. Where are Mom and Milla?”
“In the kitchen.” His tone was that of a man who planned to absent himself from a likely unpleasant scene as soon as possible.
Then there were Julia’s crisp footsteps on the hardwood floor in the hallway. Milla just stood and waited, leaning against the cabinets, declining to do anything that would make her look busy and casual.
Julia was three years older than Milla and two years younger than Ross. Instead of being the stereotypical middle child who got lost when the family’s attention was doled out, Julia had always claimed attention as her due. She paused in the kitchen doorway, looking as stylish, collected, and determined as always. She had always been the pretty one of the family, with their mother’s delicate features. Her hair was the same color as Milla’s, but had great body and a hint of wave instead of Milla’s crop of curls. Whenever she had time, Milla actually had a perm to tone down her curls and make them more manageable; Julia had never had to resort to a perm for anything.
They were both around the same height, five-seven, with the same general build. No one looking at them could ever mistake them for anything other than sisters, despite the stronger, more severe structure of Milla’s face. Their styles were completely different: Milla moved with a floaty grace that was completely in tune with her love for rich fabrics and feminine clothes, while Julia strode through life, preferred tailored suits for work, and at home was often in sweatpants and a T-shirt.
Julia would have been much more suited for the life Milla had been living. She would never have lost control of her emotions and charged into danger.
“What’s wrong?” Mrs. Edge asked, a trifle nervously.
“Wrong? Nothing. You said Milla would be here, so I came by.” Julia was staring hard at Milla, as if daring her to say something to start a fight.
“You’re looking good,” Milla said with perfect civility, and truth. She wouldn’t say she was glad to see her sister, because she wasn’t.
As usual, Julia charged right to the point. “Don’t you think this has gone on long enough? It’s silly that we can’t come over when you’re here, and you’re doing nothing but hurting Mom and Dad by staying away during the holidays.”
There were a lot of things that Milla wanted to say, but she took a page from Diaz’s book and remained silent, letting Julia have her say. This was distressing enough for their mother, without descending into a hurtful argument.
“It’s been three years,” Julia continued. “Don’t you think that’s long enough to pout?”
Had she been pouting? Milla wondered. Funny, she had considered her anger to be far more serious than that. The word “enraged” came to mind.
Evidently their mother took issue with Julia’s word choice, too, because she said, “Julia!” in a sharp tone as she got to her feet.
Julia said, “You know it’s true, Mom. We told her the truth, and she got in a snit about it. Milla, honey, I’m so sorry your baby was stolen, I would do anything in the world to undo it, but it’s been ten years. He’s gone. You’re never going to find him. At some point, you have to start living again. It’s better to do it now while you’re still young. Get remarried, have a family. No one will ever replace your baby, but this isn’t about replacing him, it’s about living.”
“No, it’s about making life more comfortable for you and Ross, because you feel guilty whenever I’m around,” Milla said.
“Guilty!” Julia drew back, her pretty face astonished. “What do we have to feel guilty about?”
“Having your children safe and sound. Being happy. Being whole. It’s a form of survivor’s guilt.”
“That isn’t true.”
“Then what does it matter to you how I live my life? If I were a drug dealer or a prostitute, I could see your point, but I look for lost people—children, mostly. And I still look for my son. How on earth is that harming you? What if it were Chloe?” Chloe was Julia’s five-year-old daughter, an impish pixie of a child who lit up the world with her smile. “If some stranger snatched her away from you at, say, the mall, how long would it take before you said, ‘Oh, well, I’ve looked long enough, time to get on with my life’? Would there ever be a night when you didn’t go to bed wondering where she was, if she was hungry or cold, if some pervert was using her in unspeakable ways? And even then would you pray that she still be alive, so you at least had a chance of seeing her again? How long would you give yourself, Julia?”
The color washed out of Julia’s cheeks. She wasn’t the most imaginative of women, but she could picture how she would feel if anything happened to Chloe.
“So imagine how I felt when you and Ross said, ‘Hey, it’s been a while, you might as well give it up and stop bothering us with your sad face.’ I personally don’t give a damn how you feel about my sad face, and I don’t know if I’ll ever forgive you for saying Justin doesn’t matter!” Despite her attempt to remain calm, Milla’s voice was fierce as she finished.
“We never said that!” Julia was appalled. “Of course he matters! But he’s gone, and you can’t change that. We just want you to accept it.”