Pieces of My Sister's Life (7 page)

I tasted the soup, then glanced at her. “You think there’s such a thing as destiny?”

“Destiny?” She looked at me funny. “Like Mom leaving and Daddy dying? Is that destiny?”

“You know what I mean.”

Eve shrugged. “Whatever. Maybe everybody has a destiny. But what I think is it’s usually the opposite of what you thought it would be. I mean look at us. Look at most people around here. They work their butts off half the year and freeze them off the other half. And most of the time they’re completely miserable.”

I watched her silently, then pulled the steaming pot of soup from the stove. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

“Look, forget it. I’m sorry, okay?”

“Bitch,” I said.

She smiled. “Asshole.”

“Obviously you’re jealous.”

“Yeah, because I’m sure it’s fun to be delusional.”

There was a thumping on the front door and I jumped. Too soon! Too soon! Eve squeezed my shoulder. “I’ll go out the back.”

I nodded and ran to the dining room. I set the soup pot on the table, smoothed back my hair, squeezed Daddy’s key necklace for luck and ran into the hall. “Come in!” I called in a voice too singsong.

Justin pulled open the door. His hair was disheveled and his eyes seemed almost mournful with fatigue. He looked from my jumper to the woodstove to the lit candles, and then to his stained blue jeans. “Oh,” he said. “I should change.”

My cheeks grew hot. “Oh no, don’t change. I was just dressed up because I went to church.” Where had that come from? I made my voice somber. “I wanted to pray for Daddy, to visit him.”

Justin’s face softened. “Oh, that’s good. Sure.”

“So come on in. Take off your coat and everything, I have dinner in the oven. You want a Coke?”

Justin slid off his coat. “You look nice,” he said.

I shrugged. “Don’t know why I dressed up to visit Daddy. Guess I just figured on the off chance he’s up there watching, I’d want him to see I’m doing okay.”

“If he’s up there watching, I’m sure he’s glad to see it,” Justin said, following me into the dining room.

“So sit,” I said. When I stirred it, the soup looked better, thicker, pink juice with flecks of black, no sign of the dead dandelions. I poured it into two bowls.

Justin sat and stared at the soup, then smiled at me and reached for his spoon. “Strawberry?”

“Strawberry soup. Got the recipe from a book.”

I studied Justin’s face as he lifted his spoon. He held the soup in his mouth for a long while, then finally swallowed it down and nodded. “Really good,” he said.

I grinned. “Thanks.” My heart thudded so loudly I was sure he must be able to hear it. I watched him make his way through the bowl, watched the gentle bulk of his forearms and shoulders, the swell of chest muscles under his shirt. I was nourishing him. From my hands into his body.

I looked down at my lap and wracked my brains for conversation. “Beautiful day out, hunh? I love this time of year.” And then I grimaced. How banal could you get? To distract myself from my banality, I dug into the soup.

And nearly gagged.

Now that it was hot, the soup tasted horrible, like regurgitated cough syrup. But Justin was somehow finishing his bowl, so maybe his tastes were different. Maybe he liked strawberry puke.

I whisked his bowl away. “Well, there’s salad next, and I’ll check on the chicken.”

I strode into the kitchen, rested my cheek against the oven door, then suddenly smelled the smoke. I yelped and flung the oven open. The top of the chicken was black, its sides still pink, and I scowled at it like it had betrayed me. Maybe I could scrape it, add more marmalade. With all the time I’d spent watching Mrs. Caine cook, why hadn’t I ever looked at oven temperatures?

But next was salad. Salad would be safe. Salad with dressing, then burnt chicken, then tea. And then, maybe a kiss. Maybe.

“Doin’ good, Ker.”

I whirled around. Eve was sitting at the kitchen table, chin in hands, watching me.

“What’re you doing here?” I hissed.

“Just making sure you’re getting along okay. Besides, this is the best entertainment I’ve had all year.”

“Well, get out. I can’t talk to him if I know you’re out here.”

“Fine, fine, I’m going.” She stood. At the door she stopped and turned. “But you want my honest opinion, Justin doesn’t feel the same as you. Just my opinion, but don’t make a fool of yourself or anything.”

I glared at her. “Well, gee, thanks for the advice.” I watched until she slipped out the back door, then turned the oven down to two hundred, put the tea on to boil and walked back to the dining room. I sat at the table and gripped the seat of my chair, trying to shake back a deep, pounding nausea.

Justin eyed me. “So you said there’s salad?”

I jumped up. “I forgot!”

“It’s okay. Listen, can I ask you something personal? It’s really personal, actually.”

He was going to ask if I liked him. I’d have to give a fake you’re-full-of-it laugh. “Okay,” I said weakly.

“I was just wondering, and you don’t have to answer if you don’t want, but I was wondering, when you pray to your dad, what kind of things do you say?”

I shrugged. “I just tell him about what’s happening in my life, things I’m feeling. Kind of like writing in a diary.”

Justin touched my hand, a light brush of skin on skin. “Do you tell him that you’re doing okay? You’re happy?”

I looked at the tingling spot where his fingers had been, almost expecting it to be a different color, pink or gold. “I’m okay,” I said. “I mean, happiness is relative, but yeah, I’m not unhappy.”

“Because when I saw you yesterday morning, I just got scared. You always seem fine on the outside, you and Eve are both so good at covering your feelings. But I know how much it must hurt.”

“I guess. But we’re getting used to it.” I smiled quickly. “So let’s have salad.”

The kitchen was empty, Eve’s turban in a pile on the floor. I’d almost expected her to be there at the table, I’d almost hoped for it. But as I walked to the door to peer out into the night, I saw a scrap of paper wedged between window and frame.
SORRY
, it said, in Eve’s block print. I lifted it, studied it as if that one word could tell me something. I wasn’t sure if it made me feel better or worse. Finally I folded the note and slipped it into my pocket, because if anything happened that night with Justin, I wanted some part of her, some sign of her contrition to be there.

When I got back with the lettuce and tea, Justin was standing, looking into the warmth of the woodstove.

He glanced at me. “I want to show you something, Kerry. I do this a lot, imagine different places for my stories, and I think I’ve felt where your dad is. I think I could show you.” He reached for my hand.

I felt myself smiling and I tried to stop, but my lips felt too distant to control. “I try and picture it sometimes,” I said, “the place he’d be watching from. But all I can come up with is stupid and fake, angels walking on clouds and playing harps. He’d be so bored he’d take the next train back to earth.”

Justin sandwiched my hand between both of his. “I’ll show you, okay? Close your eyes.”

I stared at him, my heart galloping like it was trying to get out from my ribs, then slowly closed my eyes.

“It’s not really something you can see, not a place. Just feel yourself sliding away, losing your body so you’re nothing and everything both.”

I peeked through my lashes. Justin’s eyes were closed, a twitching behind his lids. I studied the tiny mole on his cheek, imagining how it might feel to kiss it.

“You feel it? How your head starts swirling away? That’s where I find my stories, way back in that nothingness. That’s Canardia.”

“Yes,” I said. I wanted to curl my whole body into his palm, lie between his two hands and be enfolded. And suddenly I knew I had to say it. I pulled my hand away. “I heard you’re getting engaged.”

Justin’s eyes snapped open and his face sharpened, as if he were awakening from a dream. “You heard what?”

“To Leslie. I heard you’re proposing to Leslie next spring.” I shook my head. “It’s okay, you don’t have to pretend. Eve told me.”

“If I’m getting engaged, I wish somebody would tell
me
. Eve said—”

“You’re getting a ring.” The words flooded from me like tears. “Eve told me all of it, how you’re proposing to Leslie before graduation to make sure she doesn’t go off to school.”

Justin’s face was red. “So, Kerry, you guys have my life all planned out?”

I stared at him, and he shook his head. “I’m nineteen years old, you know? The thought’s never even crossed my mind. And Leslie, I mean don’t get me wrong, I like her a lot, but I’m not ready to spend the rest of my life with her.”

“You’re not getting married?” He wasn’t getting married? He wasn’t? Wasn’t? “I love you,” I said.

Justin made an odd choking sound; his face went pale. Not a good sign at all.

But maybe he hadn’t heard. Please God, don’t let him have heard! I grabbed the teapot from the table, steam sweating my face. “So let me give you some tea.”

“I know you do.”

I jumped away, dropped the teapot, lovage root tea scalding the front of my jumper. My face was frozen, mouth open, couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, so I choked back a sob and started to run. I ran from the room and out the front door. I would run to the wharf, run off the dock, into the ocean, to Daddy, disappear.

But as I reached the drive, Justin’s hand wrenched at the straps of my jumper, pulled me backwards so I fell against his chest. His kisses rained onto my head, down my temple, past my ear, down my cheek to my lips. I grabbed him, pressed against him and he made a choking sound and froze.

We stood there, faces barely an inch apart, breathing each other’s breath and then he pulled away. Time stood still, fractions of seconds that lasted an eternity as he looked into my eyes, his face unreadable, open and closed at once. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m sorry.” And then he stumbled backwards, turned and ran. And I sank to my knees and watched him, watching even after he’d vanished into the night.

TWO

Separation

March

2007

7

T
HE FERRY FROM POINT JUDITH
was more empty than not, carrying more supplies than people. The choppy waves roiled my stomach, rhythmic lurches that tried to throw me onto my butt as I tapped my foot in beats of four. The wind was biting, the drizzle gnawing against my face, but I stood there outside because I somehow needed to. Maybe to make this return real in a way that called for all the senses: piercing echoes of the foghorn, ocean smell, spray and taste, and the first possible glimpse of land.

I’d packed only three days’ worth of clothes, not because I planned on leaving but because I couldn’t imagine staying. I’d packed those clothes and my reminders: an empty bottle that had once held poisoned liquor and the torn letters Eve and I had written to Justin the night before I’d left. I’d never read Eve’s letter, had never been able to summon the fortitude to piece it together. But even in pieces the letters were a reminder of the dark sides of Eve, just as the empty liquor bottle was a reminder of myself.

I hadn’t told Justin I was coming, and now I wished to God that I had. Because what if I showed up and Justin said,
Oops, sorry, big mistake! Turns out she’d rather eat her arm than see you!

Somehow I’d found myself on this boat, but it wasn’t in my nature to be impulsive. It wouldn’t have surprised me just then if my body jumped ship and tried to swim on home. Or at least swam to a phone and called. If I’d called, then he’d have been prepared, which meant I might have been too, by proxy. And when I saw him I could’ve said,
Hey, I made it,
maybe shaken his hand like we were just old friends. Now I had no idea what I’d say, if I’d be able to speak, or if I’d just stand there with my mouth open like an idiot.

Then, out of the expanse of gray ocean, the North Lighthouse rose into view, followed by the sharp pitch of red clay bluffs that guarded the land from the Atlantic. Coming closer so fast, all so misleadingly tranquil, hardly a sign of human presence and no sign of the nightmare I’d lived. I was here. I was here, and I suddenly wanted to lunge for it, swallow it whole like I had some kind of teenage crush. I’d almost forgotten the feeling. It had been years since I’d loved anything.

From the deck, the view was strikingly the same: moored boats and returning fishermen, the harborside with its postcard-like rows of Victorian hotels and saltbox houses, marred only by the conveniences of parked cars and the Old Harbor takeout, its umbrella-topped outdoor tables folded in concession to the rain. Except for paint colors and the addition of electric lighting, the street had remained more or less unchanged since the Civil War.

I climbed from the ferry, trying to see it like a tourist would, the sleepy gray town no more than a disappointment in the drizzly cold. And here was Daddy’s dock. How could it have changed so little when I’d changed so much? Other men used it now, I could see that, had set up their own kitschy billboards and promises, but regardless it would always belong to Daddy.

I knelt on the damp wood by the second support beam, ran my fingers along the splintered plank. The initials Justin had gouged into the dark cedar with a screwdriver,
JC+KB
, were still there just above the water line.
Ten years from now,
he’d said,
we’ll come back and show our kids how we used to carve up public property. Won’t they be proud?

I wandered the winding streets on foot, past the fences built from ocean-smoothed stones that swirled in sighs and wisps over the rolling hills; past the rocker-graced front porches with chimes that gonged and hummed like ancient cowbells; past the fields upon fields sweeping with wheat grass, flattened by the rain.

Walking down Ocean Avenue, I saw that even the shops were the same: Eisner’s boutique where Eve and I stole a leather skirt after the badness started escalating, one of the last days I let myself trust her; the old printing press with its greasy windows and weed-choked steps, where once a group of tourists had stopped me, had handed me their camera and posed as if the dilapidation was something picture-worthy. Now I hurried past, scared to look in windows, scared it would somehow tunnel me back to a time when my mind was so dark, my thoughts so sour I could literally feel them burn inside me.

Up towards the center of the island were the smaller homes with peeling shingles, the lower-priced inns further from the ocean, a cattle farm, a horse farm and the Island Cemetery. Daddy’s cemetery. You could see pretty much everything up here: New Harbor to the left, Old Harbor to the right, the gentle dip and sway of hills that slid into the sea, the faded flags at the graves of veterans hanging limp as laundry.

Daddy’s grave was tucked beside a low stone wall, overgrown and neglected. I knelt before it and leaned my cheek against the stone, its edges cold and soft as a dead hand. “I’m sorry it’s been so long,” I whispered. “I never forgot.”

It was one of those unfortunate quirks of memory, though, that what I remembered most of all was not so much Daddy in life as the time I spent here with him like this, holding his carved stone like a surrogate, telling him everything and feeling his empathy. I told him about Justin, about Eve’s drinking and her men, about the night I’d steered his boat with another man’s blood under my nails. I told him everything until the guilt was my own and I grew too ashamed to tell.

The last time I’d spoken to Daddy, I’d lain here prostrate on this ground, wishing he’d pull me down to join him so we could lie there side by side. And then as now I’d risen, mud on my knees, realizing it was too late to ask for his help; my decisions, the consequences, were all my own.

I walked down the sharply sloped hill, feet slogging through waterlogged canvas. I strode up our street, a narrow dirt road that had no name. Past the huge oak with the knothole Justin had widened so he could practice his pitching, and then, too fast, there was home.

I stood by the wide dirt drive we’d shared with the Caines, almost expecting to hear a call for dinner, see Justin returning from work, shirt stained and cuticles ridged with oil. I searched for the words of greeting I’d use, even knowing there could be no words. And then I stopped short.

She was on the porch.

She shouldn’t be sitting there, it was all wrong. I’d pictured this again and again, and each time was the same. I’d knock and she’d open the door and step back, startled. Her eyes would fill with tears. “I’m so sorry, Kerry,” she’d say. It had to be that way, repentance behind a door, because I knew if I saw her face before she saw mine, I’d have to turn and run.

I pulled at the iron key strung about my neck and felt its familiar tug against my skin. One step closer. She was on the porch swing beneath an army blanket I thought I recognized. She wore something on her head, a black hat or a kerchief.

One step closer. Her eyes were closed and I could see, oh God, it wasn’t her, it was me in forty years, translucent skin draping sharp angles of cheek and nose and chin, mossy sprinkles of brown dotting her temples and sideburns beneath the creased black scarf. Her face was bare, no eyebrows or lashes, making her look naked and startled.

It wasn’t Eve and so my knees unlocked; I ran forward and dropped to the ground by her feet. She opened her eyes and looked into my face, no surprise in her expression, no joy or pain, only questioning, like she couldn’t think who I was or why I’d be there. So I held her, rain-soaked hair clinging to my cheeks, wet blouse heavy on my breasts, my head against her lap, the smell of ginger from her mug. And for that second the years disappeared. For that first second before I really saw her face, my arms reaching around her unimaginably narrow waist, for that first second I felt like I’d come home.