Forbidden Sister (28 page)

“Don’t tell me what I can and can’t do,” I said. I glared at her.

She sighed and looked at Mama. She was wearing a new winter coat now. It was red with a white fur collar. She had a white fur hat with splashes of red in it to match her coat, and she had another pair of knee-high polished leather boots. She wore dark blue slacks and a blue sweater beneath the coat. She took off her designer sunglasses and pressed her thumb and forefinger into her temples. All I could think of was that she didn’t look anything at all like a daughter grieving over her mother’s terminal illness.

“How many different outfits do you have?” I demanded.

She looked at me and laughed.

“What? Why are you laughing at me? My question is silly? You wear something expensive and new every day.”

“One of my clients is high up at one of the more exclusive department stores,” she said. “I get gifts in addition to spending my money on clothes. I like clothes. I’m not apologizing for—”

“For anything, I know. Why are you here, Roxy? Why did you come back now?”

“What do you mean? You came to me, didn’t you? You sent me letters and that charm bracelet.”

“Yes, I did,” I said. I looked at Mama. “I thought it would help her.”

“Maybe it has. I told you not to become bitter, M. It won’t change anything.”

“This isn’t right,” I said. Tears burned under my eyelids.

She nodded and looked at Mama again. “Maybe she can’t live without him. I’ve been told we’re all living with one terrible disease or another dormant inside us, just waiting for our immune systems to weaken. Grief does that, grief and great loss.”

“Then you’ll live forever,” I said.

She looked at me, shook her head, and walked out.

I didn’t speak to her again until Uncle Alain arrived and insisted on seeing her. He was taller than Mama, very slim, with hair a shade darker and eyes that seemed to go from blue to green depending on his moods. Green was for the more serious ones. Mama and he shared some of the same facial features, their noses, high cheekbones, and perfect lips. I remembered that Uncle Alain was always dapper, elegant, and fastidious about his appearance. Everything always matched perfectly, with clear, correct creases in his pants and no wrinkles in his shirts. He loved shoes, especially soft Italian leather, and always wore a subtle cologne, not too sweet but always interesting, like the discovery of a new flower.

He called me when he landed. I waited for him at the house, but I didn’t call Roxy.

“How grown up you are,” was his first comment when I opened the door. “Petite Emmie.” He hugged me and kissed me on both cheeks. Then he looked past me. “Roxy isn’t here?”

“No, she doesn’t live here, Uncle Alain.”

He nodded and closed the door. I took him to our guest bedroom.

“Are you tired?” I asked.

“No. I had a good flight. I’ll shower and dress, and we’ll go over to the hospital. Then I was hoping I could take you both to dinner.”

“Both?”

“You and Roxy,” he said.

“Oh. I’ll see if she’s available,” I said, trying to disguise my bitterness.

I left him to get himself ready and called Roxy. She answered on the second ring.

“What?” she asked in a clipped voice. I knew what she was expecting.

“Uncle Alain is here. We’re going to the hospital soon, and he was hoping that afterward he could take you and me to dinner. Are you free for dinner tonight, or do you have a client?”

“I’ll be at the hospital, M. And yes, I’m free,” she said.

She hung up to show me she wasn’t going to tolerate any more negativity from me. I was out of my class when it came to competing with her, anyway, I thought. She was the expert. Anger and hate were infrequent companions of mine. The battles they brought along with them were battles I was not used to waging. She was a veteran of those wars.

I made some coffee for Uncle Alain and some toast with cheese so he could have something before we left.

“You’ve been here by yourself whenever your mother is in the hospital?” he asked.

“Yes. It’s no problem, Uncle Alain.”

“Tell me about Roxy. When did she come back? Where is she living? What is she doing?”

Roxy would always be more interesting than I was, I thought. Why should it come as any surprise? I was still more interested in Evan than I would ever be in Richard. I had wondered if that meant evil was always a strong part of us and if life was a constant battle to keep it subdued. I was wondering about it even more now. Who wasn’t more excited about breaking rules in school, disobeying their parents, and experiencing the most forbidden things?

“She came back because I sent a letter to her about Papa’s death. I thought that might bring her around to see Mama, but for a long time, she didn’t respond. She was as angry at Mama as she was at Papa, because Mama didn’t stop him from throwing her out.”

“I know. Your mama has always regretted that.”

“Finally, Roxy broke down and came to the hospital when Mama was in surgery.”

He sipped his coffee and nodded. “She has your father’s headstrong ways. Your mother always thought that was why they didn’t get along. They were too alike. So where is she living?”

I described the hotel. He knew she had the name Fleur du Coeur.

“This is what she still does?”

“
Oui.
She makes a lot of money, has beautiful clothes and expensive jewelry. She gets taken in private jets to warm places.”

“You sound jealous. I’m sure you have a boyfriend, no?” he asked, smiling.

“No. I did for ten minutes,” I said, and he laughed. We both looked at the clock. “Should we go?”

“Yes.”

I put everything away.

He looked about the house and told me I was doing a good job of keeping it nice. “My sister must be pleased with such a mature, responsible young lady for a daughter.”

I pressed my lips together and nodded.
Can’t cry now,
I thought. I wanted Uncle Alain to concentrate on Mama and give her all of his affection and attention, not me, and certainly not Roxy.

We left, and when we arrived at the hospital, Roxy was waiting for us. I looked at Uncle Alain when he saw her, and I was immediately jealous of his reaction. I was sure that Roxy looked more beautiful than ever to him. They hugged and kissed, and he told her how pretty she was.

“But you always were,” he added.

“You look very well, Uncle Alain. Still living in the Saint-Germain area of Paris?”

“Where else?”

“And Maurice? Where is he working now?”

“He’s at Pierre Gauguin, a very upscale restaurant.”

“Still throwing chopping blocks at the sushi chefs?”

Uncle Alain laughed. “You know how he thinks
of his kitchen. It’s a work of art, and he will not tolerate mistakes. He’s no different at home, although he doesn’t throw anything at me.”

I looked at Roxy. How did she know so much about Uncle Alain and his partner? Had they kept in touch secretly all these years?

“He would have come along with me, but he’s under some pressure. New owners.”

“Too bad. We would have gotten a good meal.”

Uncle Alain laughed again. “That you would,” he said.

“Mama is upstairs,” I muttered, as if I had to remind them why we were there. They both glanced at me.

“Oui. Allons,”
Uncle Alain said, and we headed for the elevators.

Before we entered Mama’s room, Uncle Alain took both our hands. He lowered his head, perhaps in prayer, and we walked in. I could see in his face that he wasn’t prepared for what he was seeing, even though he was well aware of Mama’s condition. I had been living with it for a while, so her gradual loss of weight and her gaunt look were surely much more of a shock for him. It occurred to me that the last time he had seen her, she was vibrant and alive.

She was awake and smiled at him. He didn’t speak. He took her hand and kissed it and then sat beside her and spoke in French. Both Roxy and I stood back and watched until he turned to us, telling her still in French that she had two very beautiful daughters. We drew closer, but we didn’t interrupt his telling her all
about their family in France. The nurse appeared to check her IV bag. She had the look of someone just going through the motions. Uncle Alain asked her about Mama’s doctor, and she told him he was on the floor.

Soon afterward, Mama fell asleep, and we left.

“That’s her doctor,” Roxy said, nodding at Dr. Hoffman, who stood by the nurses’ station.

Uncle Alain approached him, and they talked. Roxy and I stayed back. Neither of us wanted to hear what the doctor had to say.

When Uncle Alain returned to us, he looked pale, but he forced a smile.

“Take me to an expensive restaurant,” he told Roxy. I was sure she knew the best.

I didn’t think I would have any appetite, but Uncle Alain was an amazing shot in the arm for both of us. He was funny and interesting. Like an expert pilot, he navigated through the minefields that would bring on any sorrow or displeasure. He didn’t ask Roxy any questions that would make her defensive, and he didn’t dwell on Mama’s condition. For a moment or two, I wondered if the doctor had given him some reason to be hopeful, but he laid that idea to rest when we all left the restaurant and Roxy hailed a taxi for herself.

“This won’t go on much longer,” he told her. She nodded. I could see the way they were looking at each other and then at me.

“One of us has to call Aunt Lucy and Uncle Orman,” she said.

“You do it,” I told her. Aunt Lucy had given her their telephone number.

Roxy nodded and left. We hailed our own cab and headed home. I could see that Uncle Alain was pretty exhausted, both physically and emotionally, so I told him just to go to sleep and not worry about keeping me company. I said I had homework to do.

“That’s good,” he said.
“Bon nuit, ma chère.”

“Bon nuit.”

As I watched him walk off, his shoulders slumped, his head down, I remarked to myself how effective grief was when it came to making you look older. Maybe that was because minutes and hours, days and weeks, suddenly became so important that you wished they would last forever. He was up ahead of me the following morning. He said it was the jet lag, but he had a nice breakfast prepared for both of us.

“You might as well go to school today,” he said. “I’m here now, so I’ll be at the hospital waiting for you when you are done.”

“Is Roxy meeting you there?”

“I’ll call her.”

“Don’t be surprised if she’s busy. She’s very popular doing what she does,” I said.

He heard the disapproval and anger in my voice but held his soft smile. “It’s never good or right to judge each other, but especially not now,” he told me.

Maybe he was right, but it felt like a reprimand. He should at least have pretended to agree with me. I didn’t care how nice Roxy was being to Mama now and how beautiful, elegant, and refined she was.
She had broken Mama’s heart for years. Uncle Alain should at least acknowledge that, at least to me, I thought, and I left for school carrying rage along with my books. For now, it was comforting to be angry.

It kept me from being sad and feeling sorry for myself. I supposed I was being more like Papa. I needed him, needed his firmness, his unemotional military demeanor, and his intolerance of anyone or anything that would break ranks.

I pitied anyone who crossed my path that day, and entered the school as if I were stepping onto a field of battle.

I would take no prisoners.

No one, including my teachers, dared to ask anything that might upset me. They even avoided asking me questions about the subject or homework. I supposed that was because of the look on my face, but I became paranoid about it, and when I looked around, I began to wonder if everyone knew even more about my mother than I did. Maybe because of my desperate need to cling to some hope, I was blind to the inevitable. I wouldn’t listen, and I wouldn’t see what others could. I would never accept it.

When I walked toward a group of my classmates, they parted like the Red Sea to let me pass, no one speaking. Of course, I had my gaze on the floor and didn’t pause. Perhaps I was imagining everything, but when I grazed against people or bumped into them, they jumped back as if I had touched them with a Taser. Finally, Chastity came to speak to me at lunch. I was just sitting, staring at nothing and barely eating. I didn’t even realize she was standing there.

“Emmie,” she said.

I blinked and looked at her. She was holding her books against her breasts tightly, like someone anticipating an earthquake or something. I never noticed until that moment that she had cut her hair. I don’t know how many times I had warned her not to, not with a face as round and plump as hers. It made her look even fatter.

“Mistake,” I said.

“What?”

“Your hair.”

“Oh. My mother thought I would look better.”

“Did she?” I looked away, leaving my words out there, drifting, looking for receptive ears.

“Are you all right?” she asked timidly.

I looked at her again for so long that anyone would think I didn’t recognize her and was trying to figure out who she was. I saw that it unnerved her. She looked back at the girls she was hanging with these days, grimaced, and then turned back to me.