Sister Mine (5 page)

It wasn't until I became an adult and raised a child of my own that I understood the rareness and the enormity of their generosity, and how niceness had little to do with it. Isabel and Jimmy had been motivated by anger and outrage; they had been on a mission to save us.

But all of this aside, I don't like E.J.'s tone. He's lecturing me.

“What was I supposed to do? Quit school when I was six years old to stay home with my motherless baby sister? I didn't have a choice. I watched her as soon as I got home. I took care of her at night and on weekends.”

“Stop it, Shae-Lynn,” he says roughly. “Everything in life isn't a competition. I'm not saying you didn't take care of your sister, and I'm not saying my mom took better care of her. I'm just saying my mom and dad should know about this.”

“I was planning on telling them when I know more. Nothing's for sure yet.”

“What do you mean, nothing's for sure? This lawyer from New York is looking for her in her hometown. He said he knows this is her hometown. That means he knows her. She's alive.”

We both fall silent as we let this fact sink in.

“So what are you going to do?” he asks me.

“I don't know. Maybe I should help him find her.”

“You sure you want to find her?”

“What kind of question is that?”

He gets up from his chair and starts pacing.

“Personally, I'm pissed as hell at her. My mom almost died from grief when she disappeared. So did you. Have you forgotten all that? What she put you through? What she put us all through? Here all along she's been fine and she never tried to contact any of us. You're gonna forgive all that?”

“We don't know she's been fine,” I tell him. “We don't even know she left on her own. Maybe she was abducted.”

“Abducted? In Jolly Mount? And then I suppose she was taken away and tortured and brainwashed?”

“It happens.”

“It's been eighteen years. She never tried to contact you once. You're telling me she was tortured and brainwashed for eighteen years?”

He stops in front of me.

“How does this guy know her?”

“I didn't ask him. I was too shocked. I couldn't think straight.”

“And you didn't tell him you're her sister and she's been gone all these years?”

“No. I didn't want him to know I knew her. I don't know why. It was a feeling I had. I don't trust him. I'm not sure I want him to find her. I'm not sure it would be good for her if he did.”

I stand up, too. Talking is not helping. It's making me feel worse. He's bringing up too many things I don't want to think about.

“I'll get more information out of him later when I see him again tonight,” I tell E.J.

“You're seeing him tonight? You planning to screw it out of him?”

I take a step closer until the tips of my breasts are almost brushing against his chest.

“Don't start on me. You're one to talk. You're the biggest slut I know.”

“Men can't be sluts.”

“Then you're a pig.”

“I'm a stud.”

“You're an ass.

“It's a disgusting double standard,” I think to add.

He smiles and takes a swallow of beer.

“It's a great double standard.”

We're almost touching. A few inches more and I'd be able to feel the hard denim of his fly push against my belly. The thought makes me think back to when I was first starting to want him. We were still kids and the sight of the newly developing muscles in his arms and back when he'd go shirtless became so magnetic to me that I found myself looking for any opportunity to brush up against him without knowing exactly why, only that any physical contact with him sent a thrill through my body that would lodge between my legs and make me want to get back on my bike, clamp the banana seat tightly between my thighs, and ride down a particularly bumpy hill.

The feeling wasn't mutual, though. At around the same time, he started hanging out less and less with me. He stopped talking to me at school. Eventually, he was never home when I called or stopped by his house.

I couldn't figure out what had happened. The only explanation I could come up with was to blame my breasts. The equation appeared fairly straightforward: We were best friends, then I got breasts, then we weren't friends anymore.

It wasn't that he wasn't interested in breasts. He was definitely interested. Just not in mine.

I used to sit in the bathtub, crying, trying to scrub them off with a washcloth until my skin was almost raw.

I know it didn't make sense. I should have been happy. I had a great figure; I was suddenly pretty, something all girls were supposed to want. But the way I saw it the only thing my new body did was attract a lot of attention from guys I didn't like and cause me to lose the one guy I did.

My cell phone rings.

I pull it out of my pocket and walk away from him.

“Jolly Mount Cab,” I answer.

“Hi, Mom. I have a favor to ask. Actually, it's more of a job. I think I can trust you with it.”

“Hi, honey. I'm fine. No broken bones. No missing teeth. Thanks for asking.”

“Mom,” he sighs, “I know you started it. You can't expect sympathy.”

“What's the job?” I ask him.

“I need you to drive out to Pine Mills and help a woman change a flat tire. I'm not going to do it. It's beneath me.”

“And it's not beneath me?”

“You drive a cab. I'm an officer of the law.”

I love this kid. The things that come out of his mouth. When he was six, he wouldn't eat pie a la mode because ice cream and pie were both desserts and he insisted that eating them at the same time would be a conflict of interests.

“Well, yes, of course. No one should expect an officer of the law to change a tire,” I reply, doing my best imitation of Inspector Clouseau so “law” comes out sounding like “loo.”

“It's not my job. If she was a different kind of person I'd do it regardless, but I think it's important to teach her some respect for the profession. She has a bit of an attitude.”

“What kind of attitude?”

“The kind that would lead someone to think having a flat tire merits a 911 call.”

“Why didn't the operator tell her to get bent?”

“She was hysterical during the call and said there had been a fatality.”

“She lied and said someone was dead in order to get a cop to change her tire?” I ask incredulously.

“Someone is dead. A groundhog. She hit a groundhog.”

I can't help laughing.

“You've got to be kidding.”

“No, I'm not. Fortunately, I was in the area so I got here fairly quickly and was able to radio back in time to keep the state police and the fire department from wasting their time coming out.”

“So why are you calling me? Why not Mack's or some other garage?”

“I thought you could use the money.”

“I can charge her?”

“Charge her an arm and a leg.”

“You're still thinking about health insurance, aren't you?”

“Gotta go.”

I look back at E.J. He's gazing out the open garage door.

The first time I saw him after the rescue was in the hospital corridor. He was wearing a hospital gown and slippers that looked as ridiculous on him as a circus tutu on a bear. His left arm was in a cast, and his left hand was bandaged.

He'd been bathed and shaved and given a haircut, but nothing could be done to get rid of the hollowness in his cheeks or the ghostly pale of his skin. His face was covered with dozens of tiny brown cuts and purple bruises that made him look like he had a strange rash or a bizarre batch of freckles.

He smelled of smoke and it was instantly obvious to me that he had snuck somewhere to have a cigarette and now he was heading back to his room. I couldn't figure out how he had been able to do it with all the nurses checking on him constantly and all the reporters congregated at every exit.

He stared at me. His pupils were still dilated, and his shock and confusion over being alive were still evident in his eyes, making them appear wild and haunted one moment and as depthless and motionless as pools of night water the next.

He still gets that look sometimes. He has it right now.

He catches me watching him and picks up the first available object as a distraction, which happens to be the photos of his folks.

I always loved my own parents' wedding photo. My mom looked ethereal in her white lace and gauze. Dad looked awkward and too big in his rented tux, but he wore the defiance of youth and the triumph of capturing a pretty girl better than anyone else I've ever seen.

I was around ten years old when I got up the nerve to ask him if I could have the picture when he died instead of him giving it to Shannon.

He gave me a suspicious, startled look. I knew it didn't have anything to do with the photo. He just didn't like me figuring out he wasn't going to live forever.

Chapter Four

C
LAY DIDN'T GIVE ME
detailed directions to the damsel in distress, which meant he knew I wasn't going to need them.

On the back roads between Jolly Mount and Pine Mills, one doesn't encounter a brand-new, champagne-colored Lexus SUV with Connecticut plates very often. The owner is sitting in the front seat. She has set up three small neon orange hazard signs on the road that probably came with the vehicle in a fireproof, waterproof, wild animal–proof emergency kit along with a flashlight and some pepper spray.

I park my car far enough away from hers that she won't get spooked. I leave my hat and sunglasses on the front seat.

I walk right up to the driver's side window without her seeing me. She's staring straight ahead and her lips are moving. At first I think she's talking to herself or praying, then I realize she has one of those headsets that allows her to use her cell phone without using her hands.

I tap on the window and she almost jumps out of her skin.

I instinctively reach for my creds so I can flash my badge before remembering I don't have one anymore.

I take a step back from the car and try to look as harmless as possible.

She gives me a hesitant smile and rolls down her window. Even from a distance, I can feel the blast of air-conditioning.

“Hi, there. Deputy Penrose gave me a call. Says you're having some car trouble.”

I reach out my hand for her to shake.

“I'm Shae-Lynn.”

She looks at my hand for a moment. It's hard for me to read her eyes because she's wearing a jaunty white ball cap.

She finally takes my hand. Hers is beautiful. It reminds me of some of the hands of high-priced D.C. mistresses who passed through my security screenings on their way upstairs to visit their sugar daddies in the Capitol office buildings after hours.

The hands of the wives were always nice, too, but none of them had the satiny perfection of the girlfriends'. One of the reasons was age. Another was that most of the wives hadn't always been pampered. They had struggled before their husbands were elected and their lifestyles were elevated. Their hands had changed some diapers and washed some dishes and done some gardening. Not so for the mistresses. These girls were in their twenties and had never done anything with their hands except jerk off other women's husbands.

This one is pale, soft, blemish- and wrinkle-free. It's even hard to make out her knuckles. The nails are almond-shaped and painted in a high-gloss burgundy. Not a smudge or a chip or a scratch on them.

“Pamela,” she says, then thinks to add, “Jameson.”

“Nice to meet you, Miss Jameson.”

She smiles. I knew she'd like that. Her lips are painted the same exact color as her nails and they're equally flawless. Remarkable.

“It's Mrs. Jameson,” she corrects me.

“I'm sorry. I'm here to change your flat tire if you'd like me to.”

“He said he was going to send a mechanic who used to be a police officer so I could trust him.”

“That would be me. Except I'm not a him and I'm not a mechanic. I run a cab company.”

I hand her one of my business cards.

“But I'm perfectly capable of changing a flat tire,” I go on. “And I used to be a police officer so you can trust me.”

“Well,” she says slowly. “I suppose if the deputy sent you.”

She suddenly holds up one index finger to keep me silent as she finishes her phone call. When she's done, she smiles again and tells me, “That was my sister-in-law. My niece just earned her anti-stress badge in Girl Scouts.”

“Anti-stress badge?” I wonder. “Are you serious? How do you earn it?”

“Different activities. They keep a feelings diary. They learn how to give foot massages. They visit a spa. They practice breathing exercises.”

“How old are these girls?”

“Between ten and twelve. You'd be amazed at the amount of stress they're already under at that age.”

“Like the stress of having to earn an anti-stress badge?”

She doesn't say anything.

I continue standing there while she continues to sit in the car.

“It would be easier for me if you get out of the car,” I finally explain to her. “And you'll need to turn off the engine.”

“Oh,” she says.

I watch her crawl down out of her cockpit. She's wearing a sleeveless, silk blend, mock turtleneck, a pair of white Capri pants, and leather flats that match her top exactly. The tunic and shoes are a blue-green, but I'm sure she'd call the color Lagoon or Waterfall. The matching cardigan lies neatly across the backseat.

“How do you know the deputy?” she asks me. “Did you used to work together?”

I'd put her age around mine. She could easily pass for ten years younger if I only look at the skin on her face, but she has a forty-year-old neck and like all women, no matter how well their outsides have been maintained, her true age shows in her eyes and movements.

She seems to know what I'm thinking and she reaches back into her car for a pair of white Ray-Bans and slips them on beneath the bill of her little cap.

“Not exactly. We're old friends,” I answer. “We go way back.”

“He was attractive. I was surprised.”

“Why's that?”

“Oh, you know the stereotype of the country sheriff and his deputies: fat, stupid, bumbling, bad teeth.” She tries to scrunch up her face in disgust but amazingly, nothing moves on it except for her lips, which purse slightly, and her nostrils, which flare. “And they chew tobacco.”

I nod.

“I suppose where you come from all the cops look like Brad Pitt.”

“We do have a fairly good-looking police force.”

“Where are you from?”

“A town in Connecticut. I'm sure you've never heard of it.”

“I'm flattered that you assume I've heard of Connecticut,” I say.

I turn my back on her and start walking toward the flattened groundhog.

I'm really pissed at my son right now.

She follows along behind me, but stops well away from the carcass.

Apparently, removing the dead groundhog from the road was also beneath an officer of the law.

“Why are they called groundhogs?” she asks me. “They don't look like hogs. Are they actually related to hogs?”

“No,” I say, heading back to her SUV. “But they do live in the ground.”

“Do you think they feel pain?”

“I would imagine so.”

“But they're not intelligent?”

I give her a blank look.

“Say as intelligent as a schnauzer, for instance?”

“I've never spent any time around a schnauzer, so I wouldn't know. Can you show me where your spare tire and jack are?”

She gives me a blank look.

“Never mind.”

I find what I need and set about changing her tire.

She hovers over me while I jack up the front of her car.

“Did you take a class?” I hear her ask.

“Pardon me?”

“To learn how to change a tire? Did you take a class?”

This is one of those questions where I believe if a person feels compelled to ask it, he or she is not going to understand the answer.

“No,” I say.

“Why are you no longer a police officer?”

I lean into the lug wrench with all my weight to loosen the hubcap nuts.

“Mrs. Jameson,” I say through gritted teeth, “I'm kind of busy here.”

“Oh, I'm sorry. I talk too much when I'm nervous. I've been meaning to discuss it with my doctor. I believe there's a pill on the market now that can get rid of the problem.”

“Yeah. Cyanide,” I say under my breath.

It's a hot day, and it's been a long time since I've had to change a tire. Plus every inch of my body aches from my brawl with Choker. I can feel sweat beading along my hairline and between my breasts.

The woman continues to prattle on above me despite her earlier apology for doing so. I can tell she's pacing back and forth behind me by watching her shadow move back and forth across the doors of her car.

I decide if I can't beat her, I'll join her, but I'm taking control of the conversation. This is the second wealthy out-of-towner to show up in Jolly Mount today, and I'd like to know why.

“So what brings you to rural Pennsylvania from a town in Connecticut that I've probably never heard of?” I ask when there's a break in her monologue.

“I'm meeting someone in a town called Centresburg. Do you know it?”

“Yes, I do. It's about thirty miles south of here.”

I get up from my crouch to get the spare tire.

“Actually, I'm not exactly meeting her. I'm trapping her.”

“Trapping her?” I almost laugh. “What did she do?”

“She stole my baby.”

The seriousness of the words stop me in my tracks. I lean the tire against the car.

“Someone kidnapped your child?” I ask her.

“Something like that.”

“Isn't that something the police should be handling?”

“No, no. It's very important that I don't involve the police. That's why I didn't tell the deputy, even though it occurred to me that he might be helpful since he knows a lot of people around here. You're not going to tell the police, are you?”

“No.” I shake my head. “It's none of my business.”

I don't know what else to say to her. I can't read her eyes, since they're safely concealed behind sunglasses and I can't read her face, since it's no longer capable of showing any emotion.

“Maybe you could help me?” she says suddenly. “Do you know a woman who lives around here named Jamie Ruddock?”

The name gives me a start. Shannon rode the school bus with a girl named Jamie Ruddock. If I remember correctly, they hated each other. They were both kicked off the bus for awhile after they got into a fight in the middle of the aisle and the driver had to pull over and separate them. Shannon never did give me a good explanation for their animosity. Only that Jamie Ruddock thought she was better than us, and I understood that reason.

“Jamie Ruddock stole your baby?” I ask her.

“Do you know her?”

“I know a Jamie Ruddock, only she's Jamie Wetzler now. She's married with four kids of her own. Lives in a double-wide near Jolly Mount, and I'm willing to bet she's never been to Connecticut. I doubt she's ever been farther than the mall.”

Pamela Jameson considers this information, then walks back to her car and returns with a photograph. She hands it to me.

My heart starts pounding heavily in my chest exactly the way it did when I heard Gerald Kozlowski say Shannon's name.

I haven't seen her since she was sixteen but the face is exactly the same. Maybe a little fuller. The eyes are mine. The smirk is hers. In her teens she wore her shoulder-length hair chopped up in a feathered cut like 90 percent of the other girls and inflicted so many boxed highlights on it, it was difficult to tell its true color. Now it's all one length and a shiny natural chestnut. In the photo she has it skinned back from her face with a headband.

“Is that Jamie Ruddock?” I hear Pamela ask me.

“No.” I shake my head. “Do you know this woman?” I ask her.

“I know her very well. Or at least I thought I did.”

“You say she's in Centresburg?”

“Maybe. Do you know her?”

Once again, my gut tells me to lie.

“No,” I reply.

I stare at the photo again.

Shannon's standing on a city street holding a big Macy's shopping bag. She's wearing a coat, and a pair of red cowboy boots peek out from the cuffs of her jeans.

“This is the woman who stole your baby?” I ask, holding out the photo of my sister.

“Yes.”

“When are you trapping her?”

She takes the picture back from me.

“I think maybe I've said too much.”

She walks away from me and doesn't return. I finish changing the tire amidst welcome external silence while my brain is filled with the clanging of a hundred unanswered questions about my little sister.

When I'm done, I assume I'm going to be offered some money and I decide to just take whatever she gives me.

I watch her get back in the SUV and turn on the engine, then I realize she's about to leave.

I walk over to her window and stand there like an idiot. She rolls it down. The air-conditioning is already blasting.

“Yes?” she says.

This is one of those situations where I don't like being a woman. A man does a job and he expects to get paid for it; a woman does a job and she feels like she should say thank you for being allowed to do it.

“That took an hour of my time, not to mention the time it took to drive out here.” I show her the filth on the palms of my hands. “And it wasn't exactly what I wanted to do on a Saturday afternoon.”

“Oh, I see. You expect to get paid? Well, of course. I'm sorry. I thought you were just doing a good deed. I thought country people were friendly.”

“We are. That's why I haven't knocked you unconscious and stolen your wallet and your car the way a city person would.”

She smiles and reaches into her purse.

“Fifty,” I tell her.

She could easily afford two hundred but I know if left to her own discretion, she's going to give me a twenty.

I pull up the bottom of my shirt and wipe the sweat off my face, then tie it up into a knot below my bra.

I look up and find her holding out fifty dollars to me while staring at my midriff.

“Did you get that in the line of duty?” she asks me.

I follow her gaze to the ragged shiny pink scar on my left side.

“Yes,” I tell her. “In the line of duty.”

I'm not lying. It's the place where my dad hit me with the claw end of a hammer when I told him I was going to keep my baby.