Sweet Karoline (10 page)

Suddenly
I found myself telling her about Karoline, about the gulf that had opened between us. She nodded and nibbled, returning to her observer's mode, her face impassive, asking no questions. Her little sister a telecast of complaint.

In
the wake of her silence at the end of my confession, I took the fancy flowered napkin and wiped my face, then reached down to fetch my purse. Before I could haul out my evidence Elizabeth began to laugh.

"
Here I thought your life was so perfect," she said.

She
refilled our glasses, went to the wine rack, selected a bottle, and expertly pulled out the cork. "I think we're going to need lots of this tonight, little sister."

She
was still chuckling when she sat down again, so I shoved the paper across the island in fury. I wanted to see her face crumble. I wanted her to be upset. To take what was happening to Karoline seriously. I wanted her to cry in front of me, embarrass herself as I had just done.

With
a tremor of shock I realized that her attitude mimicked my own. The Ice Queen, impervious and unmovable, refusing to be touched. For the first time, I had to admit that I was in danger of losing that ability. Along with that realization came a rush of fear. I was suddenly vulnerable, open to hurt. I was here without Karoline. The one that had been my leader, guide, boss, friend. The one who navigated me through tense situations by teaching me avoidance techniques and defensive moves.

All
of these thoughts soared through me in a split second as I watched my sister scrutinize the papers before her. Had she developed an Ice Queen as a defense, too?

At
that moment Elizabeth looked up, as though she had followed my thought train. Our eyes held one another's for a long moment. I saw flickers of anger and resentment, rapidly replaced by a blankness that made her dark eyes look bottomless and empty.

"
I was wondering when you would find out," she breathed, her voice a sigh of satisfaction. "I told Mom and Dad that they should tell you. It was ridiculous to keep it a secret especially once you were a grown woman."

The
nastiness threw itself out in spittle, spraying me with contempt as though I had deliberately grown up ignorant. She tossed the papers down on the island, tucked another full bottle of wine under her arm, and picked up the cheese and crackers.

"
Grab those," she directed, nodding to our half-filled glasses and bottle before she flounced out of the kitchen.

She
led me up the stairs into a large window-lit room, which I knew had once bedded one of her hero children. Nowadays it was a library. All three walls were lined with bookshelves, while the fourth gazed out onto the lake. Two comfortable reading chairs strewn with matching cushions, a small pot-bellied fireplace, two end tables whose dark wood reflected the grain in the shelves, a sleek coffee table with hand carved Inuit soap stones, and old-fashioned goose necked reading lamps completed a picture of relaxation and comfort.

Elizabeth
produced placemats and coasters, snatched the glasses and bottle from my hand, and whipped everything into decorative stances with a practiced flare. She waved at the chair to her right, beside which sat a fat book of poetry. Sammy's chair. Appreciator of emotional words after spending all day with machines. As I sat, she reached for a large album at the bottom of one shelf.

I
took a long sip from my glass, fortifying myself, then poured us each more of the rich dark liquid. Tonight this wine was comfort or condolence. I wasn't sure which. Maybe it was a key to the lock of a secret that had obviously eaten at my sister for a very long time.

"
Who are my real parents, Liz?" I eventually asked.

Dear Diary,

Well,
well, well. You won't believe what I found out about Her Royal Princess. Was everything that well hidden? Or is she just stupid, as I have come to suspect? Can't wait to see the shock on her dumb ass face when I tell her. Of course, I'll be terribly sweet about it.

Chapter
12

Three bottles of wine later, when the inhibitions were truly squelched, Elizabeth released the venom. But before that she recited in a clinical fashion the story of how I'd come to be her younger sister.

"
Our mother has always hoarded her secrets," she said, upright in her chair, the large album flat and unopened on her knees. "I discovered purely by accident that I had several aunts and uncles living in squalor somewhere in eastern Ontario. To hear her tell it, you'd think she'd been an African or Indian Princess, maybe even both. Suddenly I learned that she'd escaped an entirely different kind of existence, one of poverty and alcohol and abuse."

I
said nothing, feeling that if I interrupted the flow Elizabeth's speech would plow into silence. I wondered how long she'd practiced these words. She looked down at the album or into her glass, held it out often for a refill, but she never looked at me.

"
She'd lived all the stereotypes, so she tried to rearrange the facts, create a new framework. Up to that point, I'd grown up believing that her heritage was a gift of far-reaching proportions. I was constantly reminded to be proud of my royal roots.

"
Mom's sister telephoned our house one day. I happened to answer. I think the woman was drunk. She had no idea who I was. She cried and yelled in my ear. I could barely understand her, but I heard enough to know that this insane person was somehow related to us. I would never forget the terror I felt. Someone's mind was shattering, with a little girl as direct witness. When Mom saw my face, she grabbed the phone, did the classic I told you never to call me here response, then told me to go upstairs to my room. Of course I didn't. I hid on the other side of the kitchen wall and listened. That's how I discovered this raging lunatic was my aunt, my perfect mother's own sister. I wouldn't let Mom get away with not telling me everything. Besides, she had to tell me, because soon afterward she went and got you."

Elizabeth
's words were beginning to slur. Though my head was spinning, I was lucid enough to identify the childishness in her tone. A young girl, daughter of a dreamy, flighty woman whose secrets created a kind of barrier between her and the rest of the world. Spoiled with things, with stories, with a highly developed sense of superiority. Just like me, or perhaps I was just like her. Both of us unschooled in how to love. Something missing in the way we viewed our fellow human beings. Into this dichotomy came a small demanding child.

"
They were over the moon about you. You were so beautiful, so perfect in every fucking way. I don't think they even saw me anymore."

I
could imagine Elizabeth the child, pulling back, fashioning herself into the distant, uppity person I'd always known. She hadn't been taught how to give and she wasn't taught how to share her parents with someone else.

"
They were just trying their best," I said. "They thought they were doing us a favor by providing us with a huge ego, a sense of entitlement, so we could elevate ourselves into the status that our mother had literally dreamed about."

Elizabeth
suddenly flung herself to her feet, spilling little square pictures all over the floor as the album upended onto the carpet. She leaned over my chair, regurgitating all the resentment she'd harbored since I'd entered her life.

"
I saw where you came from, missy. So high and mighty all the time. With your fancy apartment in L.A. and your big deal job. Hobnobbing with the crème de la crème of the film industry. You were born in a broken down shack to a mother who was nothing more than a drunken prostitute. Your beauty must only be skin deep, literally. I can't wait 'til you see this filth for yourself."

Swaying
slightly, she bent over and picked up the pictures one by one. Black and white darts landed on my lap. Blurred stick-like figures, mouths open in excess, leaning on each other for balance. Flashes of bottles, cans, a sagging porch. The detritus of careless consumption. A dirty-diapered baby squatted in the sand. Dirty-cheeked children unsmiling in the bright sun.

If
Elizabeth hadn't told me about the poverty and abuse, they would have been pretty clear from these photographs. Every skin color appeared to be represented, a united nations of alcoholics.

My
birth mother was, Elizabeth and the photos told me, the gorgeous long-legged mulatto with ringlets of curls piled high on her head, the girl with the biggest smile, the most number of antics for the camera, the least balanced look.

"
She did the nasty with everyone. Her brothers, her uncles, the assholes next door or down the street. She fucked for fun or money or booze. She had twelve children to who knows how many fathers? She never knew, never married any of them. She was a pig."

I
fought to hold onto one of the little squares in the whirlwind of Elizabeth's fury. Looking no more than twelve years old, the lithe young body openly sexually aware, prematurely experienced, my birth mother grinned back at me. Her beauty was apparent even in the graininess of the old picture. No wonder she'd never married, I thought. Imagine her view of men.

In
the lull of one of Elizabeth's intakes of breath, I asked, "What was her name?"

When
I received no answer, I looked up and nearly withdrew in fear. Elizabeth's face was mottled with anger. She flew at me, upending the armchair. We rolled, entangled, onto the floor, pulling at each other's shirts. Her slaps stung, her punches threw my muscles into reflex action. I punched and slapped, too, pinched and pulled, sobbing. Elizabeth grabbed my hair, yanking my head painfully backward. I kicked out and landed my foot hard against her shin. She yelped and cried, abruptly rolling away from me.

I
sat up. "Elizabeth!" I shouted. "I was a child. I didn't mean to hurt you. I didn't choose this. It wasn't my fault!"

I
was screaming, on my feet now. I leaned over her. Taking a huge breath, I straightened up, frightened by my loss of control. For a moment I stared at the ceiling. Focused on the carefully crafted beams, the immaculate paint job. Calmer.

Elizabeth
was still on the floor, her back to me, fetus-like, clutching her leg. Her voice was raspy, but I heard her.

"
Could you get me some ice?"

I
went into the kitchen and reappeared with an ice pack wrapped in a clean dishtowel. Gently I held it against her shin, which had already purpled.

"
I'm so sorry, Lizzy. I didn't mean to hurt you. Do you think it's broken?"

"
Nah, I bruise easily."

She
sat up, brought her knees to her chest and took the ice from me. She stared down at her leg.

"
Besides, I started it."

I
sat down beside her, staring into her red-rimmed eyes. Suddenly she began to laugh, but this time the sound was contagious, filled with self-mockery, wonder and release. I joined her until we were both crying once again, but this time wrapped in each other's arms.

"
I am such a bitch," Elizabeth moaned when she could. "Of course you were innocent. You were a child. How could I not have just loved you?"

"
You were a child, too. I don't think Mom and Dad meant to ignore you, especially Mom. But they didn't teach us to be very loving toward one another. Maybe it was the huge secret that clouded everything. Mom was so obsessed with being…"

"
Royalty?"

I
laughed again. "Yeah, something like that. She didn't want anyone to know who she really was. Somehow that created a wall around all of us, I think. We acted out our parts. We had no idea there was anything wrong with our family."

Elizabeth
was silent for a moment.

"
With Sammy and the kids, it was always different. But I never could put it into words. Sam is naturally loving and demonstrative. I think he was just born with a capacity to love. He taught me everything I knew about giving. But somehow it never translated over to you, or Mom and Dad for that matter."

"
You were only nineteen, just starting out with your life, when Mom and Dad transplanted to the States. They took me and left you behind. No wonder you hated me. The secret just kept festering." I sighed. "I'm trying not to blame Mom, but I want to shake her. I want to let her know how much better things could've been if she'd only told me."

Elizabeth
got up slowly, testing her foot. The purple had already faded and she was strong on her feet.

"
See. I'm nearly healed again." She smiled and gestured to the fallen chair. "Help me, baby sis?"

We
repositioned the chair. I poured more wine while Elizabeth foraged in the kitchen, emerging with a bowl of taco chips and her famous Mexicana dip. We sipped and munched in companionable silence for a while.

"
Anne, I'm so sorry."

I
wagged a cheese-meat-onion-sour cream finger at her.

"
No. No more apologies. You're the only one in my entire life who had the courage to confront me with the truth."

Elizabeth
smiled weakly, her mouth crammed with taco. "I guess I should've beaten you up a long time ago."

I
grinned back. "Yeah, maybe back then you could've taken me."

"
Are you really okay with knowing about your birth mother?"

"
I'm not sure. Actually I'm not sure about a lot of things. I haven't really progressed from shock to reality yet. I haven't even tried to get my head around it. Why don't I remember anything from back then?"

"
I'm not sure, but maybe it was an abusive situation and you've blocked it all out."

We
were both silent for a moment. My head was beginning to ache.

"
I realize that we have a lot to work out. I'm not naive enough to think this one night will take care of all the baggage. But, I'm glad you came to me. I'm happy Sammy wasn't home, to be honest, or I'd never have erupted that way."

I
squeezed her hand. "I know, Lizzy. This eruption has been good for both of us. We can start over. We're still blood."

Elizabeth
gave a short chuckle. "Cousins. Sisters. Who cares?"

"
Friends maybe?"

She
squeezed back. "Even better."

She
hesitated. I could see by her frown that she was working something out, so I let the silence remain.

"
I have to tell you, even though Mom will probably never forgive me. Your birth mother is still alive."

I
digested that. For some reason, I had expected her to be dead. No longer a breathing entity but a shadow, a memory. Not someone I could meet, confront, love or hate. The letter Karoline had received and hidden, the one from the adoption agency, had mentioned nothing about my birth mother other than she was 'related to' the adoptive parents.

"
Do you want to find her?" Elizabeth asked. "I'll help you if you do. We don't have to tell Mom if you don't want to. After all, she's withheld a few things from us."

"
Yeah, that's for sure." I sipped and chewed, thinking. "I don't know how I feel. I'd assumed she was dead. I don't know why. Probably so she could stay in the background, not change my life much. Thanks, though, for telling me. Can I sleep on it?"

We
spent the night together and two more nights after that, learning to be sisters and friends. I gathered my belongings from the motel, cooked Elizabeth some of my favorite Yankee recipes while she was at work. We confided, gossiped, debated, analyzed our parents and discussed what I should do.

We
scrutinized the photographs, found the 'last known' address for my birth mother. Although no names were listed, there was a rural street and a number. We studied maps. We promised, hugged, watched television, shared our favorite memories, movies, music.

I
told her about my difficulties with men. I told her more about Karoline, Glenn Simpson, Parris, my uncertainty about how to handle the changes in my friend. About her betrayal. Elizabeth described her love for Sam and her children, her fears that her life was evolving in ways she hadn't expected. So we also discussed what she should do. We compared the paths our lives had both taken, uncertain and changing.

Elizabeth
and I planned for hours, for both of us. We called our parents to let them know we were together. Nothing more. It was an awkward conversation for me. So many secrets lay atop the words.

Mom
was her cheerful, bright self. She expressed joy at our reunion, though I wondered if that was the way she really felt.

I
tried to put my emotions into words for Elizabeth but I wasn't able to clearly articulate the myriad of thoughts competing for my judgment. Did I resent my parents? Was I angry? Could I understand their silence? I wasn't certain of anything. Except that I had to find her, the aunt-mother behind the wall.