What Happened to My Sister: A Novel (11 page)

“Do you have any brothers or sisters?”

That last one was where the trick of it was. Like I said, those days and weeks right after Richard died were real blurry to me. I
tried real hard to
concentrate
like the lady said but my brain felt all mushy and loose. I remember feeling tired all the time but even with all that I knew she was up to something. I knew she was trying to get me to talk about my sister. She wanted me to say
Yes, ma’am, I have a sister
. That’s what she wanted to hear. I knew it even then. What’s more, I may have been eight but I knew if I talked about Emma I’d never see Momma or Mr. Wilson or Hendersonville again. I knew something bad would happen if I told the lady yes but I didn’t know what to do at first. Because the fact is, yes I believe I had a sister but something happened—she disappeared and I wasn’t supposed to talk about her ever again.

When Emma was a baby Momma talked about her. Her and Daddy both. No matter what Momma said when I was eight, no matter how close the state lady watched me when she asked if I had a sister, even when I was telling her
no, ma’am
, in my head I could hear Momma and Daddy talking about the baby. I can
still
hear it. What’s funny is that it was the state lady who reminded me of it when she asked if I ever heard anyone
else
saying I had a baby sister.
Whammo!
It came back to my ears like we were talking to each other with two tin cans and string, me on one end, Momma and Daddy on the other. When she was a baby I remember I lifted Emma up out of the drawer they used for a bassinet and took her over like she was a play doll. Momma didn’t mind. If Emma got hungry or needed changing I’d bring her over to Momma, who’d tell me to go somewhere to
get out from underfoot
. She hated people being
underfoot
so I’d have to leave baby Emma with her and get out of the way. But Momma knew how much I loved Emma so when I came back in she’d have already put her in my room on the middle of the bed where she couldn’t get into any trouble. That was back when Emma couldn’t even turn over, she was so little. Nothing better than going into a room where there’s a baby’s happy to see you. I loved it when Emma was itty bitty. I can say she
never existed
till I’m blue in the face but I swear I remember her.
When she got older I kept taking care of her—because at some point Momma stopped talking about her or doing anything for her at all. Momma had a lot on her mind back then, even before Daddy died. He wasn’t home all that much, my daddy. Which I guess is why Momma was sad all the time. So Emma and me, we were all we had. We stuck up for each other.

Then, years later, after Richard died and the state lady came, Sheriff and Momma and her all watched me real close when they said the name Emma. They asked if I knew an Emma, like did I know if she even existed. Momma said
no she never did
. The lady hushed Momma and asked me if I thought there’d been an Emma. They seemed happy when I slowly shook my head no but because I was staring at Momma when I answered, the state lady had to ask Momma to
give us some time to visit, just Caroline and me alone
. The more she asked if I was sure there was no such person as Emma and the more I said
no, ma’am
, the happier the state lady got so I guess you could say I passed the test. Then something super-incredibly weird started to happen. I started to forget what Emma looked like. The harder I tried to remember, the worse it got. I knew her hair was near-white blond only because mine is the opposite, a dark mousy brown that matches my eyes. But her face was fading in my memory. Then it was her voice that left me. I wanted so bad to hear her in my head but it was like someone was turning a knob on a radio real low, where you know there’s music playing but you cain’t make out what the song is. I remember feeling terrible. Like I was betraying my sister. Leaving her to die or something.

After a few more times like that where the state lady asked if the name Emma
rang any bells
and who did I play with when I was growing up, they said I didn’t have to go to see her no more. Momma said she was
this close
to putting me in the loony bin for good and back then I didn’t know what a loony bin was so Momma drew a circle in the air by her ear and told me it’s where they lock
up crazy people. She said they have loony bins for kids and that I’d fit in perfect there. I haven’t had a peanut butter and jelly sandwich since I stopped meeting with the state lady, but at least I don’t have to go to the loony bin.

I count to a hundred with
Mississippi
in between just to make sure Momma’s good and gone across town to find a job, but I don’t need to—she never doubles back. Once she’s gone, she’s gone. It’s brighter outside than I thought it’d be and I have to blink a few times to get my eyes used to the sunlight. I take care to keep as far from the edge of the road as I can and I will myself invisible just in case someone from the Loveless happens to see me. I’m hungrier than a sow full of babies. Momma only brought the whiskey home last night but it was okay because I still had four ketchups I saved aside thinking she might forget food again.

Ketchup’s free at this place down the road called Wendy’s. I couldn’t believe my eyes when I first went in there the other day. They got hundreds of packets of ketchup plus millions of paper napkins, which come in handy for toilet paper when we run out—Mrs. Burdock won’t give out more than
our fair share
. And Wendy’s has food just out there for anybody to take. Bowls of all kinds of vegetables and lettuce and stuff.

Any day of the week you’ll find at least ten ketchup packets in my pockets, thirty if it’s a good day. It’s not like I’m stealing or anything but I do try to hurry about it when the businesspeople dressed real nice line up for lunch. Or when the moms come in for early supper with their strollers, hand-holding little ones. It’s always so busy no one notices me taking fistfuls of ketchups and plus I’m small because I haven’t yet had my
growth spurts
, which if you ask me sound like something that’d come out of water guns. Some kids have the spurts all in one summer so when they come back to school it’s like they’re strangers. Candy Currington had
bosoms when she came back for fifth grade. Ever-one knew she got her period that year too because Mason Brawders—who was named after a mason jar because when they filled in his birth certificate his momma looked up at his daddy drinking sweet tea from a mason jar, and that was that. Ever-one called him Jarhead. Anyway, Mason Brawders found
evidence
of Candy’s
menstration
in the purse Candy hugged close to her chest. I never knew whether she slumped that way because of the bosoms or the period
evidence
. I won’t walk that way when I get bosoms or my period, which I hope I never do.

Today I’m gonna grab even more packets than yesterday. I’m trying to get through thirty-five ketchups in four minutes which I bet is some world record or at least I pretend it is. Most I’ve done so far is thirty-one. I have to cup my hands around my eyes to be able to see clearly through the glass and near as I can tell it’s good and busy right now so I might could get a handful of olives this time. Maybe even some of those crunchy little bread cubes. But the ketchup’s what makes paper taste like it could be real food so it’s got to be the
first order of business
. Like my daddy used to say when he’d come in from being away from home. He’d walk in the door and, before Momma even, he’d hug me and say “getting a kiss from my little princess is my
first order of business
.”

The Burdocks get loads of free catalogs in the mail and what they do is they leave the ones they’ve already gone through on the front desk. That way, if you happen to want anything from Plus Size Woman or Gander Mountain or Johnny T-shirt, all you’ve got to do is stop by the front desk and the catalog’s yours for the taking.

“Now what on God’s green earth would
you
want with Orvis?” Mr. Burdock says when I ask him if I can have it.

“I like the pictures” is all I can come up with.

“Have at it,” he says, laughing at a joke I guess I’m too young to understand.

It’s true, I do like the pictures. But not the way he thinks. Here’s what I do. I take the catalog to the room and when Momma’s in her whiskey sleep, I cut out pictures with scissors I borrow from Mr. Burdock. Then I swish them around with my finger in a cup of water, until the paper gets to where it almost tears. Then I eat each picture. One by one. It sounds weird I guess but it fills up an empty belly as good as anything else I’ve tried. When I cut enough pictures out, I mean. With the Orvis catalog I start with the fish. I pretend each picture is a real fish, cooked in a cast-iron skillet like Momma used to fry up catfish. I pick it out of the water gently and flatten it and cut it into tiny pieces, like I’m cutting bites for a baby. That way I can fool my brain into thinking it’s a real plate of food. The trick is to chew real slow. Last week I squeezed ketchup on every bite I could and I swear it tasted so good. I try not to do that every time, though, because I don’t want to get to where I
need
the ketchup for the paper to taste good. I’ve decided that adding ketchup will be a special treat. Like going out to a restaurant like I will someday I bet.

There are plenty of Burdock catalogs that don’t have pictures of things I’d like to eat so lately I been having a problem training my brain to pretend I’m
not
eating a Plus Size Woman. Or Needlework. Paper is paper, I tell myself. Today I noticed the only catalog on the front desk is something called ExpressURWay, so I better get extra ketchup in case the pictures are super-gross. And this time I remembered to bring the plastic bag I fished from the trash so I can load it up with olives and fried bread cubes. If no one’s looking.

CHAPTER NINE

Honor

“Cricket, go on and get a table, I’ll bring the tray over when the food’s ready,” I say.

Wendy’s is ridiculously busy today. With all this time in line you’d think everybody’d know what they wanted to order by the time they reach the front, but they stand there deciding at the last minute, like it’s all a big surprise.

“Here you go”—I put the tray down in front of Cricket—“I’ll be right back. You want me to get you anything from the salad bar? I can put it on the side.”

“No, thanks,” she says, popping a French fry in her mouth.

By the time I get up there, most of the people making salads have finished so it’s just me and a red-haired woman in a pantsuit hogging the tongs to pick through the mixed greens for the iceberg lettuce. I’m waiting on her to move along and that’s when I see it: across the sneeze guard is a little girl elbow-deep in the croutons. Taking fistfuls of them, for goodness’ sake.

“Oh, my word.” I tap the red-haired woman. “Excuse me, but I think your daughter might be needing a bowl.”

She looks up and across the plastic at the girl, who’s now taking as many cherry tomatoes as she can grab and shoving them into a dirty plastic grocery sack she has looped over her arm.

“Oh, that’s not my daughter,” the woman says, shaking her head and shrugging as she spoons sunflower seeds into her bowl. “I saw her here the other day doing the same thing. I think she’s here on her own. Disgusting …”

Well, that is just not acceptable. The girl hasn’t seen me watching her because she’s too busy checking over her shoulder, so I make my move easily. I cross around and catch her in the act, holding her at the wrist right over the croutons.

“Excuse me, young lady, but you’re old enough to know better than to use your hands. Who are you here with? Where’s your mother?”

“Please, ma’am,” she says, trying to wriggle out of my grip.

When she looks up at me all full of worry, I am thunderstruck. I am face-to-face with a ghost. The resemblance is uncanny.

“Please, I’m sorry—I’ll go now—please,” she says in a thick accent I can’t quite place.

I try to hold myself together. Cricket’s right over there—I’ve got to hold it together. Maybe I’m just seeing things. Maybe I’m losing my mind. I look again at this child, with her chocolate-colored hair and deep brown eyes—maybe I’m imagining it.

“Let’s step over here for a minute,” I say.

“I’m real sorry,” she says again. She’s given up trying to wrestle her arm free and lets it go limp in defeat. When we’re out of the way, she starts crying.

I’m looking around for an adult who might be looking like they lost sight of her, but it seems everyone’s accounted for. There’s Cricket using her eyes to will me to come back so she can start eating—we have a strict rule about waiting until everyone’s seated
to begin. And believe you me, it’s like swimming upstream trying to teach kids manners these days. In a futile attempt to find a friend for Cricket, Mother invited the daughter of a neighbor over for supper the other day and half of that girl’s meal was finished by the time I sat down.

“Honey, what’s your name?” I ask the little girl whose wrist I’m still holding.

I squat down to help dab her tears and to see her eye to eye. It takes my breath away—the resemblance is spooky. I choke on words, and I’m aware that she’s watching me carefully.

“Are you here with anybody?” I manage to squeak out.

The little girl shakes her head and sniffs but the crying continues.

“Are you in trouble, honey? I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to hold on to you so tight. Oh, sweetheart, it’s okay. Did you get separated from your family? Don’t cry, sugar, it’ll be okay. Are you lost?”

Hold it together, Honor. Seriously. You’ve got to hold it together. You’re a grown woman with a daughter yards away and a crisis staring you in the face. God only gives us as much as we can bear. I honestly don’t know what to do here, so I start asking anybody walking past.

“Excuse me, does she belong to you?” I ask a woman struggling to keep her toddler in his stroller. She shakes her head no.