The Language of Sisters (3 page)

I smiled halfheartedly, vigorously rubbing my biceps with both hands. “I’ve lived most of my life here, actually.”

He nodded sharply. “You going home, then?”

“Looks like it,” I said, the apprehension I felt taking up too much space in my chest, leaving little room for air. I certainly didn’t feel like chatting, so I turned to look out the window, hopeful the driver would take the hint and leave me alone for the rest of the ride. The lights of downtown twinkled before me, the Columbia Tower looming over the rest of the buildings as a father does over his children. The outline of the city looked odd
to me, but it took a moment or two for me to realize what was missing.

Though I had watched the news footage of the Kingdome being demolished, the gray, hatbox-like structure had remained in my memories: the time I had spent there at Mariners games with my dad, sitting on the hard metal bleachers of the one hundred level, eating Red Vines and popcorn as he sipped a Big Gulp–size beer and hollered at the players. I smiled a bit, remembering how much I enjoyed that time with my father each season, just the two of us heading out for a Saturday afternoon game.

Those outings stopped when Jenny began regressing again, her spine curving into a deeper S than was safe for the survival of her organs, the doctors telling us she might need major back surgery to correct the problem. My father began folding in on himself, spending more time at the homes he built for other people and less time at his own. Gradually, he became less like a person, less like a member of our family, and more like a shadow moving along the walls, jumping out to frighten us at unexpected moments.

I closed my eyes and a vision filled my mind: my father’s broad-shouldered back moving into the darkness of Jenny’s room in the middle of the night; the door closing softly, no lights turning on; the murmur of his voice behind those walls; the soft, insistent squeak of the bedsprings. My stomach swirled in acid at what I rarely allowed myself to think about. I willed the memory away.

My thoughts were interrupted by the driver prompting me to get out of the car. The trip from the airport had gone by too quickly, and suddenly I was in front of my childhood home. I sat immobile, stuck to the seat. “Help you with your bag?” the driver offered.

“No. Thanks, though,” I said, pushing the fare through the slot. I added a hefty tip for his silence during the ride.

He saw the size of the tip and gave me a happy, yellow-toothed grin. “Peace, sister.”

“Peace,” I said as I opened the door and went to grab my bag from the trunk. The driver tooted the horn lightly as he pulled away, and I had to quell the urge to hail him back. I longed to be anywhere but where I was; I wanted someone to save me from what I was about to do. I stood on the sidewalk and shivered again in the night air, my breath a silver cloud escaping me. How small the one-story Craftsman-style house looked. A child’s playhouse in a backyard, not the seemingly rambling home I had lived in for eighteen years. The A-line white trim seemed closer to the ground; the four square windows on the front of the mustard yellow house looked about the size of dinner plates. Even the fragrant red cedar in the front yard looked shorter to me as I moved toward the crumbling brick porch.

A shaft of light flooded the steps as the door opened; my mother stood in the entryway. She hugged herself against the night’s chill. The first thing I noticed was her hair. Once long past her shoulders, it had been cut into a sleek bob that followed the edge of her jaw, accenting the sharp point of her chin. Like the rest of her body, the line of her neck was still elegant and long, her head balanced perfectly at its top. Her clothes were plain: a navy blue sweat suit and white socks. I froze at the bottom of the steps, anxiety bubbling within me. We stared at each other a moment longer.

Mom was the first to speak. “Come in,” she said. Her voice was flat, careful.

I nodded, dipped my head down, and ascended into the house, its familiar scent assaulting me. The whisper of my father’s pack-a-day habit still clung to the yellowed walls. I was surprised that our mother hadn’t painted to erase any hint of him. The ceiling seemed too close to my head. Had the house always been this
small? Did I make it larger in my memory? I hadn’t grown any since leaving, yet I felt like a giant stumbling through a dollhouse. I dropped my bag to the worn gray carpet.

My mother stepped toward me, and we hugged awkwardly, our bodies barely touching. She was warm and smelled of sleep. She patted me in a stiff gesture, then pulled back to look at me. “You’ve gotten so pretty,” she said, reaching to touch my hair, then stopping quickly as though she had thought better of it. “Your hair turned out so much darker than your father’s.”

I nodded again, not trusting my voice. While I had inherited my father’s bold hair color and my mother’s slanted mossy green eyes, my shorter, more voluptuous build was a gift of heredity from a grandmother I had never met. Jenny had been the lucky recipient of both our parents’ slender tendencies. I fingered my copper curls self-consciously, keeping my eyes to the ground. I wrestled with the simultaneous urge to either slap this woman or throw myself into her arms, weeping. I kept every muscle, every nerve in my body rigid and tense, fighting for control. As we stood in the light of the hallway, I took in the details of how the last ten years had changed her. Her once-smooth, pearlescent skin was now crinkled, like fine white tissue paper. The lines around her mouth sliced her cheeks in deep parentheses, and the gray in her chestnut hair grew in thick stripes on each side of her face. Her eyes were the same, in perfect echo of my own. Our eyes were the only indication we were related. Without them, we might simply be strangers passing each other on the street.

“I’m exhausted,” I finally said, tearing my gaze away from her to the watch on my wrist. It seemed forever since that morning in the bakery when I first heard Jenny’s call. It seemed a lifetime ago.

“Of course,” she agreed and gestured for me to move past her
and into the living room. I noticed a few tan age spots on the back of her hand, and it suddenly struck me that my mother was growing old and that I was no longer the child who had lived within these walls. I had grown, gotten stronger. I could get through this. I
would
get through it.

I picked up my bag, and my body moved by remembered feel through the house; Mom followed close behind, watching me assess the living room. The furniture was the same: dark wood tables and blue floral couches surrounding a brick fireplace. I glanced down the dimly lit hallway that led from the living room to my parents’ bedroom and saw that family pictures still covered that particular wall: bright, false images of a happy existence. I wondered whom my mother thought she was fooling.

I proceeded through the living room and into the small, square kitchen, noting the chipped yellow paint on the chairs and the severely dated, rust-colored appliances. I stepped carefully down the short hallway from the kitchen, past the bathroom door, then paused outside my old room. My mother stood right behind me. “Am I staying in here?” I asked her.

“If that’s all right with you.”

I turned the doorknob. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

She didn’t answer me but reached to one side of the door and flipped on the light switch. The room hadn’t changed much: faded red-rose-flowered paper still dressed the walls; matching bedspread and curtains completed the look. I set my duffel bag down on the hardwood floor and went to sit on the bed.

“I put on fresh sheets,” Mom said, gesturing to where I sat. “I don’t use this room much anymore. You might want to open the window.”

“Okay.” I patted the bedspread nervously, then opened and shut the nightstand drawer. Unspoken words sparked electric between us. “When can I see Jenny?”

“I took the day off, so we’ve got an appointment at Wellman at nine.” She started to leave, then turned back to look at me. “Is that too early?”

“No, it’s fine.”

She paused again before shutting the door behind her. “I’m glad you came, honey.” The look she gave me was an open, fragile thing, full of hope; I was not expecting it.

I nodded, though unwilling to say I agreed.

“Welcome home,” she said, and a shiver ran through me at the same words Jenny had sent to my heart the moment the plane touched down.

•  •  •

My call to Shane first thing in the morning caught him in his car on the way to the office. “Let me get my headset on,” he said when he heard my voice. He talked on his cell phone so much while he was driving, I had insisted he start using one. After a moment of freeway noise and plastic rustling in my ear, he came back. “Okay, all set. So you got there okay?” he asked.

“All in one piece.” I ran my finger down a long crack in the textured plaster wall. I stood in the hall across from my old bedroom door. As a teenager, since the phone was so close to the kitchen, I used to drag it inside my room for the illusion of privacy. I quashed the urge to do the same now. I was an adult; I didn’t have anything to hide. “I’ll see Jenny in an hour or so,” I told Shane.

“Did you talk to your mom yet?” he asked loudly, his words broken up by static in the connection. “Is Jenny going to have the baby?”

“I pretty much went straight to bed when I got here. I doubt she’ll have it, though. An abortion seems like it’d be the smartest thing to do.”

“Um-hmm,” Shane agreed. “Tricky legal issue, though. Who’s her guardian?”

“My mom.” I sighed, frustrated that he seemed more concerned about the legal aspect of the situation than about the turbulent feelings that went along with it.

“What about your dad?”

Acid emotion rose up and burned the tender flesh of my throat. “He’s not involved. He gave up his rights years ago.” I stared at the door to Jenny’s room, only a few feet from my own, feeling my father’s presence in the house wrapped around me even though he was gone. I hadn’t shared the details of my childhood with Shane; in fact, I hadn’t shared them with anyone.

“Didn’t you tell me he pays for your sister’s care?”

“Yes, but it was part of the divorce agreement that he’d get to sign away any responsibility for Jenny if he took care of her expenses. Nice, huh?” My voice rattled as I spoke, and I pressed my forehead against the rough wall. “God. What am I doing here? I don’t know if I can do this.”

“You’ll be fine,” Shane casually assured me. He didn’t know, didn’t understand what I had come back to. He didn’t know how I had left things. “Is there anything I can do?” he asked. “Do you want me to call the D.A.’s office in Seattle and see what I can find out about the rape case?”

“I’m not even sure if there
is
a case.” I pulled away from the wall and stood up straight, rubbing my forehead with my free hand.

“Couldn’t hurt to call.” Static interrupted us again, and we were suddenly cut off.

“Shane?” I said loudly. “Shane?” I hung up, then tried to reach him again but couldn’t get through. “Dammit!” I swore softly under my breath as I slammed down the receiver.

Mom chose this moment to emerge from the kitchen, her
coat and hat already on. “Who was that?” she asked as she pulled on a pair of brown leather gloves.

“Shane. I just wanted to let him know I got here safely. Don’t worry. I used my phone card.”

She stared at me blankly for a moment. “I wasn’t worried. You can call whomever you like.” She blinked, then shook her head. “Anyway. We should get going if we want to beat the traffic over the bridge.” She looked at me expectantly; her eyes businesslike and efficient, the hint of openness I had seen the night before had vanished. “Is that what you’re wearing?”

I had pulled on my traveling jeans and a slightly wrinkled embroidered peasant blouse. I glanced down at them. “Yeah,” I said, the heat rising to my skin. I couldn’t believe she was starting to criticize me already. “Is that okay with you?”

She shrugged. “Of course it is. I only meant you wouldn’t have time to change. We need to go.” She tugged at her gloves. “Your hair looks nice up like that.”

I touched my upswept ponytail. “Thank you,” I said, with an unsuccessful attempt to keep the surprise from my voice. I never knew what to expect from my mother. I could never read her intentions the way I could with other people. The way I could with Jenny. I took a deep breath and followed my mother out the door, hoping the sister I had neglected for so long wouldn’t turn me away.

•  •  •

The Wellman Institute perched like a boulder at the top of Capitol Hill, looking down over the downtown corridor of I-5. It was an imposing structure, square and sturdy, its faded brick facade strewn with ivy, its windows barred and closed. Spotty gray clouds moved over the morning sun, creating black ghosts that waltzed across the perfectly manicured lawn.

We pulled into the visitors’ parking lot a few minutes before nine. A pointed crown of Douglas firs guarded the property like frozen soldiers; beneath them, thick rows of what must have been an abundant crop of daffodils hung their heads low, their petals pale and bruised. They looked how I felt.

When my mother got out of the car, I sat in the front seat, hands gripping my knees, trying to control my breathing.
It will be fine,
I told myself.
I can handle this. I am a grown woman. Jenny needs me.
I had repeated this mantra all night long. Unable to sleep, I had lain stiff in my childhood bed, overwhelmed by the enormity of my decision to come. Why hadn’t I waited a day? Given it more thought? My therapist’s training told me the answer to this: thinking was what had allowed me to stay away all these years. Reasoning and remembering, analyzing and rationalizing; these were the mental weapons I had brandished in defense of my behavior. Not thinking, allowing my instincts to finally take over, was what brought me home.

“Nicole?” My mother rapped at the window, startling me out of my thoughts. “Are you coming?”

I nodded. “Yes.” I followed her into the building using the same heavily swinging metal doors I had escaped through a decade before. The stinging scent of ammonia did little to mask the cloud of stale human waste in the air. My eyes watered.