Sister Dear (19 page)

A second paragraph alleged that Thomas and his staff were hazing players—beating the new teammates after practice or at midnight meetings—as a rite of initiation. Her mother, according to the letter, had witnessed the coach rough up a player after a game and had talked to at least one team member—a boy who wouldn't deny the beatings were happening but refused to share his name.

The editorial called for an investigation into Coach Thomas, his staff, and drug testing for all of the players.

Caroline stopped reading. Why would someone make enough copies of this to string down a school hallway?

“Pop quiz,” her teacher announced, a stack of papers cradled in
her arms. She walked down the aisle, handing out one to each student. “Put your books away,” she reminded and paused by Caroline's desk. “Something the matter, Miss Marshall?”

A few classmates exchanged murmurs.

“No, ma'am,” she muttered, taking her copy and centering it on the desk. Caroline reached for her pencil and squinted at the page. She couldn't focus or think. She folded the red paper tight and stuffed it into her pocket.

Caroline closed her eyes and exhaled, gripping her pencil. Her neck prickled; her skin felt hot. Someone had taken the time to find the editorial. Copy it. And distribute it to the entire school, teachers included. It was a cruel, mean trick, meant to embarrass her, to bring attention to the not-so-secret fact that Caroline's mother was home from prison.

“Thirty minutes, people. Let's get started,” her teacher called.

Every sound in the room amplified. Her teacher's heels clicking on the tile floor. The scratch of pencils and the creak of desks. When it all came to a crescendo in her head, Caroline suppressed a moan, causing her instructor and all of the students around her to look. It was all too much, too many people, too many noises. She leaped up, grabbed her backpack, and ran from the room as a low murmur of questions followed.

“Caroline, wait!” the teacher called after her. But she didn't stop. She had to be alone. Somewhere she could quiet the voices in her head and make sense of this. Away from all of the eyes and the staring and the voices. Caroline reached for the long silver bar on the school's double doors, slamming into it with her palms and right hip.

A half mile away from the brick buildings on campus, chest heaving, lungs burning for more oxygen, Caroline nearly tripped over a heaving crack in the sidewalk. After another block, she dropped to her knees behind the thick trunk of an oak tree, hugging
her arms to her chest. As she raised one shaking hand to wipe her forehead, Caroline realized that her cheeks were slick with tears. She was weeping, the drops splattering her shirt and jeans.

Then Caroline heard the anguished sound. Guttural, like a wounded animal. After a moment, she realized it was coming from her own lips.

TWENTY-FIVE

EMMA

2016

Just before five o'clock, Emma poured two glasses of wine and waited for Allie to arrive. She sipped, the liquid warming her throat and her belly, as her thoughts turned to Caroline. She wondered how her day had unfolded, what stories she would bring home.

Emma wouldn't have long to wait now. She drained the glass, feeling a rush of dizziness as the effects of the alcohol spread throughout her body.

It would be a telling evening. Like watching a movie unfold, waiting for the cliffhanger. She'd felt that same anticipation, so many years ago.

August 2006

Emma had lingered after Coach Thomas's second home game, offering her parents an excuse about forgetting her wallet at the concession stand. She promised she'd be home soon, kissed her niece on the head, and told her sister good night.

As soon as Allie disappeared into the crowd with Caroline,
Emma made her way outside the locker room area and positioned herself near the doors. She walked back and forth, holding her cell phone to her ear, making occasional murmurs into the phone.

Her timing was excellent. Moments later, Thomas walked out, deep in conversation with one of his key players. He looked up. They locked eyes.

Emma kept up the imaginary dialogue, offered a small nod in the coach's direction. He finished talking to the player, patted him on the shoulder, and told him to head home. With flourish, Emma hung up the phone and tucked it into her purse. “Good game. I think you have some happy fans.”

“We aim to please,” the coach answered with an ounce of swagger.

Summoning moxie she didn't think she possessed, Emma pressed a slip of paper and a business card from her father's office into his hand. “I brought that number you were wanting.”

Coach Thomas raised an eyebrow.

Emma leaned in near his cheek. “Have a good night.”

With trembling legs, she walked away, pacing her steps so that she appeared to be taking her time. Around the corner, a block past the stadium, Emma stopped and gripped her heart. Her breath came in short bursts, her fingers tingled, her entire body throbbed.

What was she thinking? Was the note a mistake? Would he come?

On the paper, Emma had written four numbers—the security code to her father's office. She'd added three other words:
Back door. Tonight.

If he were intrigued, he would put the clues together. If he wanted more, he would meet her there. If . . . if . . . if . . .

It took him less than an hour.

The rear entrance to the building was private and blocked with
rows of thick shrubbery. The parking lot wasn't visible from the street.

At ten thirty, Emma heard truck tires roll down the driveway and stop. A door opened and shut. The alarm code was entered. She met him in the hallway, wrapped only in a white sheet over her bra and panties.

He didn't speak as the door closed behind him, covering the two of them in darkness. Emma backed against the wall, pulling him toward her. His lips found hers. His fingers brushed her skin. His breath was thick and hot.

She unbuttoned his shirt, reached down for his belt.

With one hand, he grabbed her wrists, pressing her arms against the wall over her head. Before she could cry out, he ripped the delicate lace from her skin.

With sudden force, he swept her into his arms and carried her into the first open door. He laid her on the floor's thin carpeting and knelt down, bruising and marking her body with his hands, lips, and teeth. The act left her breathless, a little frightened, and wanting more.

Every Friday night it became their meeting place. She'd wait for him there, until midnight or into the early morning. Sometimes, when the team traveled away, he didn't visit at all. His absence only fueled Emma's determination to have him.

Each time they were together, they played games of their own. He'd tear at her clothes, desperate and hungry. She'd put him off, tease until he tingled from head to foot with desire. They made love on chilled exam tables, on chairs, next to volumes of veterinary books. When he was finished and spent, he'd trace the bruises he left on her delicate skin and kiss the marks, as if to say she was his. He owned her completely.

She opened her heart wide, poured herself into him. His lips burned and scorched hers, a passion Emma couldn't imagine.
There was nothing she wouldn't do to see him. She shed every bit of herself. She went willingly, carrying secrets and dreams.

2016

When Allie rang the bell, Emma jumped, checked the clock on the wall, and calculated how long it would take for Caroline to show up.

Tick. Tock.

“Right on time,” Emma said, balancing plates with one hand as she opened the door wide. She tilted her head in the direction of the living room. “Come on in. I made up some chicken salad.”

Allie shrugged off her jacket, draped it over the edge of the sofa, and collapsed into a chair. “Sounds great.”

“I can't take the credit. Mom's creation.” Emma stepped into the kitchen and retrieved the bowl from the refrigerator. As she lifted the lid, she glanced at her sister. Beneath the cheery exterior, her sister was nervous.

Allie pursed her lips and glanced at the clock, kneading her hands.

“Um, and so, by the way, did you know that Ben's back in town?” Emma asked, a smile playing on her lips. “I ran into him at the grocery store about an hour ago.”

Allie stopped rubbing her hands, frozen as if she'd seen a ghost. “Ben?”

“He's been back for a while, actually, maybe a couple weeks,” Emma added. “His parents moved to Florida, so he's living in their old house. The word around town is that he's disillusioned with the whole political scene and quit whatever campaign he was working on.”

Allie nodded and blinked rapidly, shell-shocked at the announcement.

Ben, ever the knight in shining armor, had pledged to wait for
her sister. Emma curled her lip in satisfaction as Allie glanced away. Her sister had returned Ben's loyalty by breaking off their engagement and breaking his heart.

Emma knew that just the thought of Ben so close would add another heavy layer to Allie's already-substantial stress.

Sure, Emma knew it was logical for Allie to let Ben go. Allie had agonized afterward for more than a year, confiding several times in Emma that it was one of the most awful decisions she'd had to make. But Allie had sworn, too, that she wouldn't have forgiven herself for making him put his life on hold.

Tamping down a flare of jealousy at the depth of Ben's love, Emma had comforted her and listened, agreeing emphatically that her sister had, indeed, done the right thing.

Back in the present, Emma capitalized on her sister's silence and continued. “He's doing freelance reporting for a few newspapers and writes for a couple of blogs.”

Before Allie could remark or reply, Emma heard the familiar creak of the front door opening. Footsteps pounded toward the kitchen. “Hello?” Caroline called, her voice scratchy. “Where are you?”

“In here.” Emma swiveled her head to look at Allie. “At the table—”

Caroline skidded to a stop, momentarily thrown off balance at seeing her mother. Her dark hair lay in thick, tangled waves around her shoulders. Thick lashes framed her wide, chocolate-brown eyes. Below, her lips were glossed the color of raspberries. Smudges of dirt marked the knees of her jeans, and there was a place just below her elbow beginning to bruise. And she was furious.

Emma squinted at the mark. “What happened?”

“Nothing,” Caroline snapped. “I'm fine.”

“All right. Well, why don't you come in and say hello?” Emma said, keeping her tone even.

Caroline ignored the polite request. She threw her backpack to
the floor, bent over to unzip it, and shuffled through folders and notebooks. After a few tense moments, she yanked out a red piece of paper and waved it around.

Emma reminded herself to act surprised. “What is it?”

“Did someone think this was funny? A joke?” Caroline shook the page, making it rattle.

Emma wrinkled her forehead. “I'm not sure what you're talking about.” She glanced at Allie, whose skin looked bleached white. “What is that? Where did you find it?”

“It was in my locker,” Caroline said through clenched teeth. “There were more copies, though. In the lunchroom. In the hallways.” Her eyebrows arched, framing her face.

Thrusting out her hand, Emma beckoned her niece to give her the paper.

“It's an editorial from the newspaper. From, like, ten years ago,” Caroline spat out, and then swiveled and glared at Allie. “You wrote it. You started the whole thing.”

The room vibrated with the accusation.

Emma hoped, in some small way, that Caroline lashing out at Allie would bring her niece some relief. She knew, only too well, that ridding that sort of emotional poison was necessary and cathartic. Once a person betrayed you, they couldn't be forgiven.

Caroline needed to put up walls, blocking out Allie once and for all. This, what was happening tonight, was the start.

Allie didn't deserve Caroline. She wasn't worthy. Emma, after all, had done the work of raising a child, spent the time parenting her, guiding her, and loving her. Emma would take care of her. She always would. She wouldn't allow Allie to take Caroline away.

Allie didn't reply, but kept her gaze level. Her eyes said everything, with Caroline stomping around like a wild animal, gnashing her teeth and behaving like a three-year-old.

“Calm down,” Emma said. She grabbed the red paper from Caroline's hands and skimmed the type.

As if she could tell her aunt was scrutinizing every move, Caroline inched away and stood by the window. When Caroline spoke, her voice was softer. “Do you know . . . Do you realize how many copies they made of this?” She stared at the red paper.

Allie didn't answer.

“Hundreds! Probably a th-thousand,” Caroline said, looking up at Emma, her words getting caught in her throat. “They were in the basement, in the teachers' lounge, in the locker rooms.” She swallowed. “I ran out of school. I stayed in the park until everyone went home.”

Emma gave her niece a moment to breathe. Caroline's eyes were puffy from crying. Caroline trembled, shivering like she'd been locked in a subzero freezer. She shut her eyes and covered her face, pressing her fingertips to her temples.

“Did you have to put it in writing?” Caroline finally murmured. “Because you were going to med school and you were ‘so smart'?” She made quotation marks with her fingers. “That's why everyone thinks you killed him. You probably did.”

Allie rose out of her seat shakily. “That might be what everyone thinks, Caroline. But that's not what happened—”

“Let's not do this now,” Emma said, putting both hands up.

Allie ignored her. As did her niece.

“Then why did you go to jail?” Caroline demanded. “You ruined everything! I hate you. I hate everyone.” She began to sob and sunk down against the wall, knees splayed.