My Sister's Prayer (34 page)

On Friday night when he was there, it was too chilly to go outside again, so I headed upstairs instead. But with no door between us, I found it hard to block out my sister's deep, guttural groans as they worked. Soon a different ringtone came to mind, the Pink Umbrellas' “Can't Take the Pain,” but I resisted the urge to download it, telling myself this was Greg's job, after all. If Nicole didn't resent how hard he was pushing her, I would try not to either.

But that didn't mean I was going to keep quiet about it. Later, as he was leaving, I asked if he had a few minutes and then followed him out the door and partway down the walk, where he and I could speak privately.

“I have to tell you, Greg, these sessions are brutal. Seems to me that you may be pushing my sister a little too hard.”

“I know it looks that way, Maddee, but she's a tough kid. There's a huge amount of determination inside that tiny package.”

I couldn't help but smile at the description. She had always been a tiny package, even before losing weight after the accident. Nicole had taken after our mom, who was short and petite—unlike Dad and me, who were Jolly Green Giants in comparison. When my sister and I were teens, standing next to her made me feel like a cornstalk beside a mini pumpkin.

At least Greg had some height to him, I thought now, his eyes just about even with mine as we talked.

“But the pain,” I said, ignoring how blue and warm those eyes were. “She can't take anything for that except ibuprofen. Maybe you don't know this, but recovering addicts aren't allowed—”

“Oh, I know,” he replied, cutting me off. “All of my clients are in the same boat, Maddee. This is what I do. I'm a certified addiction specialist.”

I blinked. “You? I thought you had to be a psychologist for that.” I didn't add that if I hadn't decided to work with children, I probably would have focused on addiction disorders instead and become a CAS myself.

“Not necessarily. The certification is open to other medically related professions as long as you meet all the requirements and put in the time.”

And a lot of time it was, including several years of experience plus a bunch of additional training. He wasn't just helping Nicole heal from her injuries; he was helping her heal from her addictions as well. In that instant, an image of Nana popped into my head, and I realized what she'd meant when she called the PT she'd hired “special.” She hadn't been trying to play matchmaker at all. She had just been bringing in the best of the best, once again—this time a physical therapist who also happened to be an expert in addiction and recovery disorders. Thank goodness I'd been too busy this week to call and fuss at her for something she hadn't even done.

“Anyway,” Greg was saying now, “I agree that it's hard to watch Nicole suffer. If it helps, the groaning has as much to do with her lack of stamina as it does with actual pain. At seven weeks, she's on the home stretch with the ribs. They should be better soon. It just hurts to do the exercises because the area isn't immobilized like the legs are. You can't exactly put a cast over a rib cage.”

“If it's that painful, though, how can it be good for her?”

He leaned one shoulder against the brick wall of the carriage house. “Treatment protocol requires movement and deep breathing. Without that, she could develop pneumonia, or even a collapsed lung. I know it's not fun, but it's a necessary part of the healing process.”

I exhaled slowly, considering his words as he continued. “I do make sure to use moist heat before we start, and I always end with ice. You might try giving her a heating pad at bedtime to see if that helps.” He went on to describe other options we could explore, including pain relief patches, a TENS unit, and even acupuncture. “Bottom line,” he said, “there are many ways other than narcotics to ease her pain.”

“Then ease her pain,” I replied, trying not to sound snarky.

Saturday morning dawned cool and cloudy. Today was to be Nana's first visit since Nicole moved in, so I spent the morning baking my special caramel apple coffee cake while my sister kept me company. Our grandmother showed up shortly after eleven, as promised, and the three of us enjoyed the still-warm treat, along with coffee, at the kitchen table.

Fresh from her weekly women's group, Nana seemed to be in a much better, far less anxious state than she had been last Saturday. She'd even brought a little gift for Nicole, a tiny ceramic frog, which she said was in honor of her continued sobriety.

“It's supposed to remind her to F-R-O-G: fully rely on God,” Nana explained to me. Turning to Nicole, she added, “That's one of the things they say at those meetings of yours, isn't it?”

“Yes,” Nicole replied, studying the little figurine, and though I expected to see a familiar mix of scorn and amusement in her eyes, instead she seemed genuinely touched. “Thank you, Nana. This is so sweet.”

Prior to the visit, we had both prepared ourselves for what we called the Onslaught of Nana, but our grandmother was on her best behavior, with not a criticism or insult to be heard. In fact, she went in the other
direction, complimenting both the living room setup—especially my “very impressive” whiteboard schedule—and how well Nicole seemed to be doing.

Once we finished our coffee cake, I cleared the table, and Nana grabbed the manila envelope she'd brought with her, set it down, and pulled out its contents, explaining that these were the letters she'd told us about and that she'd made copies for each of us.

“As I said, these letters were written to Catherine Talbot by her daughters. The very first one was sent by Celeste in July 1704. The second one is from October of the same year. Those two are both short and to the point because back then the girls were both so occupied with surviving that they didn't have time for much else. Later on, they wrote more detailed letters, including all about what those first few difficult months in Virginia had truly been like.”

Nicole held up the second letter. “The handwriting on this one is completely different. Are you sure it came from her?”

“Yes, but that's an interesting story,” Nana said. “Someone else had to write it for her because she was…incapacitated. You'll learn more as you read.”

I stared down at the old-fashioned handwriting. “If the letters were sent to England, how did they end up back in America?”

“One of their younger brothers came over a few years later and brought the letters with him, along with other family documents, including the pamphlet that's now at the Smithsonian.”

I nodded. That priceless pamphlet had been donated to the Smithsonian last July in a lavish ceremony, the same weekend our cousin Renee proved there had been blood in the cabin and sparked the official investigation into our old mystery.

“As I said before, I thought the two of you would really appreciate the story these letters reveal.” Nana's expression growing intense, she turned toward Nicole, adding, “I especially want you to read them.” By the tone of her voice, it sounded oddly important to her.

“O-kay,” Nicole replied warily.

“Do you promise to read them?” she persisted, and again I detected
some undercurrent I didn't understand. From the look on Nicole's face, our grandmother was making her uncomfortable.

“Yes, of course, Nana. I promise.”

Nana wrapped up her visit after that, and then I walked her to her car. As soon as we were out of earshot, I asked what on earth that was about. To my surprise, she wouldn't tell me. All she said was, “That's between me and your sister, dear. Don't be nosy.”

Whatever it was, I decided, maybe I would figure it out after I'd read the letters for myself.

There was no time for that now, however, so once I was back inside I tucked our copies safely away in the living room and helped Nicole get ready for today's meeting, which would be at a church in Carytown at one o'clock. I usually spent that hour sitting in the hall and just reading a book or catching up on email on my phone, but today I was feeling antsy, so I went window-shopping along nearby Cary Street instead. Known as the “Mile of Style,” Cary Street offered an amazing array of stores and boutiques. And though I didn't buy anything, at least I managed to work off some energy.

Back at home afterward, Nicole and I set about making lunch, a beef-and-vegetable stir-fry with Tahini sauce. As she chopped and I cooked, I offered to put on some music.

“Are we talking about my definition of music or your definition of music?” she asked slyly, gesturing toward the stereo in the living room. “I'm sorry, Maddee. I love you, but I've never seen such a lame CD collection.” Setting her work aside, she rolled herself over to the cabinet. “Just the ‘ettes' alone are enough to make me queasy.”

“The ‘ettes'?”

“Yeah, let's see.” Running a finger down the neat stack of CDs, she began reading off some of the band names. “We've got the Marvelettes, the Chordettes, the Ronettes, the Barbalettes, the Ikettes, the Jaynetts, the Royalettes, the Velvelettes, the Carolettes, the Marquettes, the Pearlettes, the Charmettes, and the Coquettes. Seriously?”

“Hey, now,” I replied, shaking a carrot at her. “Don't judge what you don't know. Have you ever given any of them a try? You just have to get in touch with your own inner girl band.”

“Yeah, okay,” she said, rolling her eyes.

“Go ahead. Put on any one you want. I promise you'll find something you like.”

“Fine.” She began sorting through and pulling various CDs from the rack, reading the backs and then setting some of them aside.

“Find anything that looks interesting?” I asked, wondering what was taking her so long.

“Yeah. I'm putting together a medley of hits in honor of your date tonight,” she replied with a mischievous grin. We hadn't discussed Austin once since our fight earlier in the week, but if she was willing to have a sense of humor about him now, I guessed I could too.

Her montage started off with the Quin-Tones' “Down the Aisle of Love.” Considering that the song opened with a bridal march before moving into the melody, I feared things could only go downhill from there.

At least Nicole had fun with her musical torment, playing songs like “Tonight You Belong to Me” and “Born to Be with You” and “Then He Kissed Me.” As I predicted, after a while she seemed to be getting into the music, bopping around as best she could without hurting her ribs to “Sweet Talking Guy,” and singing along with the chorus of “Be My Baby.” Over in the kitchen, I danced along as well, wrapping up the stir-fry to the Angels' “I Adore Him.”

As I fixed her plate and carried it to the table, she put on her DJ voice one last time and announced we'd be ending today's girl band showcase with one final selection, dedicated “from Richmond's prettiest psychologist to the world's hottest doctor.” Then she put on the Shirelles' classic, “Will You Love Me Tomorrow?”

“Very funny,” I said, making my own, smaller plate as I sang along.

When it ended, she put the CD back in its case, turned off the stereo, and got herself to the kitchen. Watching her, it struck me that she really was doing better. This time a week ago, she couldn't have rolled herself two feet without collapsing in pain.

“So what happens next?” she asked once I said grace and we began to dig in. “We paint each other's nails and watch a Doris Day movie?
Because if that's how this is gonna play out, I'd rather do my taxes or get a root—”

“Oh, no you don't! Make fun of my music all you want, but do
not
malign the Great and Wonderful Doris.”

We both laughed, and once again I felt a pang of something deep in my heart, a mix of joy and trepidation. How I had missed my sister! Until she came to live with me, I hadn't even remembered how much.