What Happened to My Sister: A Novel (7 page)

“Y’all have only been living back here a few weeks and already you’re renovating a house that’s been just fine and dandy through
three generations
of Chaplins thank you very much. Four, if you count Cricket. How on
earth
has it survived without you, I wonder?”

“Mom, first of all, I’d hardly call replacing a cabinet a
renovation
. And anyway, what’s the alternative, waiting until we all have hacking coughs from black lung or whatever it is you get from that disgusting fungus inching across all the walls into our beds?”

“Are you finished, Bette Davis? You really are a Chaplin with all the dramatics you have swirling around in your head,” she says.

“If Eddie weren’t, I mean if Eddie and I were, well,
you
know what I’m trying to say. I’d have him come over and take a look at it but I can’t so let’s get the plumber in here.”

“Oh, fine.”

“You know, if you just did a little planning these things wouldn’t happen.”

Now
that
got her attention but what the hell was I thinking?

“Since we’re on the subject of things that need fixing,” she says.

“Forget it, Mom, it’s nothing,” I say. Too late.

She emerges from the refrigerator. Dang it all. Now she’s going to go off on me about my thing. Again. For the millionth time. She’s wiping off her hands, closing the icebox, making her way to the Big Chair for yet another lecture. I’ve never known what else to call this habit of mine. It’s not an obsession or OCD or whatever they call it. It’s just … it’s just that I hate surprises. Lots of people hate surprises—I’m not the only one. I am, however, the only
smart
one, because when life throws you curveballs
—and we all know it does
—I will be prepared. I like to say that with careful planning I’ve taken the
un
out of
unexpected
. Which basically means I’ve wiped out any chance for a surprise to catch me off guard. It’s not easy, you know. And hardly anyone appreciates the tremendous effort that goes into it.

I’ve always been a “doer.” That’s what my daddy called me. “You’re a real doer, Honor,” he’d say with a wink. According to Daddy, there are two types of people: diners and doers. Doers go out and get the job done while diners sit and eat supper, figuring they’ll get to work the next day. I never did get the comparison—don’t doers have to eat too?—but I did learn that
doing
something was the better way to go in Daddy’s eyes. And in mine too. I’ve always liked projects of any kind but I wouldn’t say my
thing
started that far back. If I had to pinpoint when it started taking up my focus, I’d have to say it was high school.

Back then Patty Werther was in charge of the senior prom but I did all the work, which meant the dance was surprise-free and therefore a flawless success in my humble opinion—
one of the greatest in the school’s history
, Mr. Kipper, the principal, said. He said those exact words:
the greatest in the school’s history
. He gave the thank-you flowers to Patty Werther, mind you, but I didn’t care. All I cared about was getting through the night with no calamities.

At community college I went to every single class, I took copious notes, and I didn’t even mind photocopying them for whomever
missed class, just so long as they signed my petition to ban touch football on the quad (you know how much it hurts when you get hit by an errant football? A lot, trust me. It hurts like H-e–double hockey sticks).

After college I worked as a secretary at the local television station, and Larry Diesel, the weatherman, once told me it was common knowledge that
if anyone needed something done well and fast they should give it to Honor
.

And frankly, I don’t think it’s a crime to sleep with a notepad and ballpoint pen by your bed. I don’t know about anybody else, but for me it’s not uncommon to wake up halfway through the night with a scenario that would require a set of skills or equipment I haven’t yet considered. So in the morning when I see a word or two scribbled down in that middle-of-the-night handwriting, I remember what I have to do. For example: one time I wrote “frying pan” and I knew that meant I had to get a new one because the Teflon was peeling off my old one something awful and what if a houseguest requests pancakes? Another time I wrote “red ribbon” to remind myself I needed to pick up more at the dollar store in case mine runs out on Christmas Eve after all the stores are closed. Okay, so maybe it was July when that happened, but you can’t put a time line on preparedness. Mother will run out of red ribbon and guess who will have the last laugh. That’s right. Little ole
prepared
me.

Our older daughter’s diagnosis came on a Tuesday afternoon. By Thursday I had the three-ring binder color-coded and collated, and I firmly believe the decision of which chemo to do was made easier because we had all the information right there at our fingertips. Plan A tab = red, Plan B tab = blue. Plan C (the clinical trial) = yellow. Later, by the time the search for a bone marrow donor was under way, I’d turned our dining room table into a grid of neat piles of research I could easily cross-reference. We had no way of knowing how it would all turn out, but we did the best we
could under the circumstances and anyway no amount of preparedness can help you when you go through what we did. Cricket was nine when her older sister died, almost exactly three years ago. An anniversary I’ve come to dread so much I very nearly block it out.

On September 11, 2001, before the second tower fell, when the TV people started saying things like
act of terrorism
, I didn’t panic or run to the store for supplies. I felt terrible about the whole thing, mind you—just horrible. But I knew I had emergency backpacks under the bed, and because I have an inventory list I know they’re each packed with two flares, an army green canteen, a Swiss Army knife, three bottles of water, four packs of matches and a lighter, a jar of peanut butter, MREs, iodine tablets for water purification, a large bag of raisins, a ball of twine, a map of the United States, a compass, two hundred dollars in twenties with the Andrew Jacksons all facing out, and, at the very top, gas masks I got at the Army-Navy store some years back. So even biological warfare won’t catch me off guard. Last night I finally finished updating an identical backpack for my mother, and today I let her know it’s back where it’s supposed to be if she ever—God forbid—needs to use it, and you’d think I’d tried to ax-murder her, the way she’s acting right now.

“Honor, honey, listen to me for a minute,” Mother says. “Don’t make that face, just listen. Now, I’m your mother and I can say what other people who shall remain nameless can’t. You’ve gone a little too far with this
being prepared
thing. You can’t plan life, honey! Things happen.
Life
happens. You know that. No one knows that better than you and Eddie. You need to show Cricket life throws punches but you get back up and you go on with your life. You don’t—”

“I refuse to see how an emergency backpack filled with flares, bottled water, a little cash—”

“Cash?” Now it’s her turn to interrupt. “Now, what’s
that
for?”

“It’s for when the ATMs go down, but that’s not the point.”

“Then what
is
the point? And when, by the way, do ATMs go down? I’ve never heard of that happening.”

“As a matter of fact, on nine-eleven the ATMs all ran out of money,” I say.

“But they didn’t
go down
,” she says.

“No, I guess if you’re going to split hairs they didn’t
go down
, but they might as well have because everybody ran to get cash in case the terrorists invaded and there was none and safety experts said afterward that it was a good idea to keep some money on hand, just in case.”

“Just in case what? Just in case the terrorists need to buy something at the Gap?”

“Ha ha, very funny. I’ve got to go pick up Cricket in about two minutes, just so you know.”

“Honey, this is too much,” Mother says, her face serious now. “It’s gone too far. Cricket’s finally doing better. She’ll start making some new friends soon, I’m sure. And you’re, well, you’re getting up every day. That’s a start. You’re trying—I see you trying, honey, and I’m so proud of you for it. I’m fine. Your brother—well … he’s about as good as he’ll ever be, God help him. Everything’s getting somewhat settled finally, and you’re convinced the world’s about to end. Can’t you see there’s something wrong with that, honey?”

“I don’t think
the world’s about to end
,” I tell her. “I like being prepared for emergencies is all.”

“You really need a comb in a Tupperware container? What kind of emergency would require a comb?”

“I’ve got my reasons.” I say this with little conviction because, now that the kidding has stopped and she’s focusing, Mother’s going to tick off all the things she calls crazy and there won’t be a word I can get in edgewise.

“Okay, so, what’s the reason for the comb?” She calls my bluff.

The chair creaks as she settles back into it. The Big Chair. That’s what Eddie and I secretly call it because that’s what it is:
Big
with a capital
B
. Mother was always on the heavy side, but when my father died, ten years ago, she started eating and never stopped. I’d find candy wrappers everywhere—jammed into the glove box, stuffed under the couch cushions, under her bed. Literally, everywhere. At first we thought it was a phase, that she would even out or taper off when the grief subsided. I tried talking to her about it gently, telling her we just worried about her eating habits for health reasons, but she got really defensive and teary and over time began cutting me off with a raised hand and “don’t even start” any time I broached the subject.

When it became clear Mom’s fat was here to stay, I had Eddie remove the arms of one of the kitchen chairs and reinforce the legs with thick pine spindles interspersed between the delicate existing ones. The whole thing looks like a chair version of Frankenstein’s monster. But it will hold Mom’s weight, so at least I don’t have to worry about her crashing onto the floor.

“All right, fine.” I give up. “What if Cricket comes home from school with lice? Someone’s going to have to comb through her hair and all the other kids’ hair to check if they’ve spread and they’ll need a comb to do it and guess who’ll be there, ready and waiting.”

“Honor, honey—”

“You know how many kids are in this neighborhood?” I ask her. “There are eight on this block alone, and that’s not even counting the missionary kids, who, if you ask me, are the exact ones who’ll probably get lice. Where are they now? Nicaragua or something? Shoot, I’ve got to hustle if I’m going to get Cricket on time. Can we talk about this later, when I get back?”

“Oh well fine,” she says. “Go on and go. By the way, they’re in Guatemala not Nicaragua, and that’s mean to say about a family out there doing God’s work …”

We both know she agrees with me on the do-gooder neighbors but feels she has to pay them lip service.

“I love you so much,” Mother says. She reaches out, and I can tell she wants to push some hair behind my ears—she hates it when my hair gets in my face—but because of her size she can’t get close enough, so I lean forward so she can mother me because that’s what she loves to do. She loves to mother me. And her granddaughter, Cricket.

“I worry about you is all,” she says. “You’re the best thing I ever did with my life, you know that? You are, don’t roll your eyes. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“Well, you won’t have to find out,” I say. “I love you too, Mom. Look, I’ve got to go. Call me on my cell if you need me to pick up anything on my way home.”

“Help me up before you go, will you?”

Mom holds the edge of the table while I get behind her to help her out of the chair. She rocks back and forth to get some momentum going.

“Hold on now. Hooold on—okay, I’m ready. Chair, be good to me, y’hear? One two three …”

And she’s up to standing. Every single time it’s a triumph.

And then she catches my arm, looks meaningfully at me, and, for the fourth time today, she asks, “You
sure
you’re doing okay, sugar?”

Like I said, she is one strange woman. I love her to death, but boy oh boy is she strange.

CHAPTER FIVE

Honor

Last year was not my best year.

Every December I go for my annual checkup with my psychic, Misty Rae, and every year, even though I tell her not to give me any bad news even if she sees it heading my way, she still always ends up telling me about some horrible calamity that will befall me and my family in the coming year. I spell it out clear as the Carolina sky—in fact, I
beg
her not to tell me—but it comes tumbling out anyway, and then it’s burned on my brain just the same as if I was cattle-branded. What can I do? You’ve got to take the bad with the good, I guess.

Last year on December 30, just like always, Eddie helped me get ready for the trip to see Misty Rae. Even though we’re estranged, he fusses over me, and I don’t let on as much but deep down I don’t mind it. So there he was in his driveway wearing that crummy old Cabela’s ball cap, lecturing me to turn off my cell phone but leave it on the passenger seat in arm’s reach, wear my seat belt, keep the radio down low. It comes with the territory I
guess. Eddie’s a police officer at Precinct 140 across Hartsville, over in what I call the
sad section
, though most people think of it as the
bad section
. Eddie comes from a long line of law enforcement—his daddy, his granddaddy, even his
great
-granddaddy were all on the force, and his brother is a firefighter, not that that’s law enforcement but still. Anyway, last year, just like always, Eddie came by, got my car all washed up and filled with regular unleaded (on the radio they said there is
no discernible difference
between super unleaded and regular unleaded so why spend that extra money), and put a note in the glove compartment: “for later,” it said on the front. Turns out he had Cricket write me instead of his usual “good luck and don’t let the bastards get you down” note I always secretly hated (because it made no sense! For one thing, I’m only going to see one person, one
singular
person not plural, and the second thing is—just because Misty Rae sees into the future, she is not a bastard. And plus, I’m not so sure women can be bastards. I’ve always thought of the word as being masculine).