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much as a swipe of mascara, not even years later at her own quirky wedding at Cape Cod, when she and Fred had exchanged vows in front of our two families and a half dozen friends. It was a cold day in October, they were both barefoot, and the breakers were so loud that none of us could hear a word that the justice of the peace was saying. Still, it was the most beautiful wedding I have ever attended, and I wasn’t the only one crying. And crying is something I was never in the habit of doing. Not then, anyway.
    She and Fred were the happiest couple in the world. They had started dating when they both worked at McDonald’s at sixteen. I had opted to work in Dad’s dry cleaners, but Ginger went for the glamour of the golden arches. Fred and Ginger: it had to be destined, right? Fred was no trip to Hollywood, as my mother, bless her, was fond of saying: he had never grown into the Dumbo ears that protruded from his gigantic head, and the man seemed to have been born without shoulders. But he was funny, smart, kind, a whiz with computers and business later on, as well as being a great fan of early twentieth-century Irish poetry. I always thought Fred was a prize – I think, looking back, that he was my first crush. Even though we were the same age, he treated me with the affection one would reserve for a beloved family dog. And I was always just as loyal as one.
    Ginger was what I had always wished I could have been, but have always known deep in my soul that I couldn’t. I didn’t have her charisma, her loving openness with everyone, even strangers in the grocery store. Her infinite capacity for nurturing.
    She was the best of us, and now she was dead.
    And in his hysterical voicemail to me, Fred had said it was by her own hand.
    * * *
    I got to the front of the line at the Air Canada check-in counter, and slapped my passport down on the counter. Thank God it was still valid. I hadn’t used it in two years, but before that, with Jack, I had travelled all over the world. I had more stamps in there than all of the Jolie-Pitts combined.
    “I’m on the 5:15 to Orange County,” I said, not returning the ticket agent’s perky smile. “I don’t have the confirmation number. My brother has it, but he’s not here yet.”
    The agent slid my passport off the counter and looked at the picture, looked at me.
    “You’ve certainly changed,” she said. I’ll say. My passport showed a woman with long blonde hair and thirty extra healthy pounds on my 5’10” frame.
    “Plastic surgery, Lisa,” I said, glancing at her nametag. I met her eyes with a level gaze. She smiled uncertainly, then dropped her eyes. She was clicking away at her terminal. “Aisle seat, please, Lisa, if possible. And please seat my brother, Darren Cleary, next to me.” I was trying to sound normal and control the shaking that was starting to take over my limbs. Sometimes after a long enough bender and not enough sleep or food, I could resemble someone with a neurological disorder. I had managed a bit of sleep, so I should be okay without a hit for a while, but I was days past any food other than saltines.
    And my twin sister had committed suicide. Ginger was dead. I knew I couldn’t think about it now. If I thought about it now, I would sink down to the floor and might not be able to get up again. And this, I had to do. I fantasized about running out the door, into a taxi and back home. Calling D-Man and hitting the pipe until my heart exploded. What did it matter? Ginger was dead. I somehow used every reserve of strength left in me to stay standing. To not flake out on Darren and leave him to deal with Fred and the boys – oh God, the boys – alone. Not to mention Skipper and Laurence and the horrors of funeral planning.
    I closed my eyes, and willed myself to be still, and to not vomit.
    Lisa the Ticket Agent clicked away further without acknowledging me. She probably had dealt with enough wise-ass freaks today. She was in her forties, tanned to a