When We Were Sisters (14 page)

Downstairs I realized I had never eaten dinner, and I made a sandwich. There was nothing on television I wanted to see, but there was someone I wanted to talk to.

I took my sandwich out to the garden, lit by softly glowing floodlights. I sat on a bench Robin and I had installed before there was even a garden to enjoy.

“I see things this way,” she said the first time we'd sat here. She swept her hand to indicate our wide expanse of grass. “We'll divide the space with hedges and trees. Then we can work on it a little at a time.”

I can't remember exactly, but I probably said something like, “I don't think Singer's going to take kindly to me leaving early to turn over sod so we can plant flowers.”

“We'll have weekends together, and evenings. I'll do a lot of it, Kris. But can't you just imagine how beautiful it will be someday?”

The garden
was
beautiful. The innate ability for framing and visualization that made Robin such a talented photographer had been put to use here, too. She called each section a garden room, and the description was perfect. These
were
little rooms, framed by shrubs or pathways of mulch or white stones that looked iridescent in the moonlight. As I sat there I almost expected to see each room come alive with fairy people sitting down to dinner or putting their children to bed.

I set down my plate and pulled out my phone. I smiled a little because Robin never remembers to carry hers. A phone is not the lifeline for her that mine is for me, but these days it's our best hope of connection, and she promised hers would be on and with her every minute.

The phone rang five times, then a recording of her voice began. She wasn't able to answer the call. Yada, yada, yada.

I clicked End without leaving a message and slipped the phone back in my pocket.

What other promises would fall by the wayside before Robin came home again?

15

Robin

I work most Saturdays but no arrangements were made for the children. I've taken care of it. K

Really, once the book about this documentary is complete, should I contract for a book of my own? Something with a catchy title like, say,
Love Notes from Angry Husbands
?

When I opened my eyes Sunday morning and picked up my phone I had hoped for something a little more enlightening—or enlightened—than Kris's latest text. Now I set the phone on the bedside table and got up to stretch. Breakfast at the inn is an hour later on weekends, and the rest of the day promised to be busy, so I had slept in.

I was tied in knots and the text wasn't helping. By not hiring a sitter for Saturdays I'd hoped Kris would find ways to work from home. Of course closing himself in his study isn't as good as interacting with the kids, but it might have been a step in the right direction.

Now he'd taken care of it. Well, applause from Pennsylvania, but I wasn't inclined to do anything else. What could I say to him that he'd want to hear?

Cecilia's suite was right next door, and for the first time I heard Roscoe yap. Superstar or not, Cecilia was Roscoe's new owner. She even had a door to an outside porch to make house-training jaunts easier.

Fresh out of the shower I was just wrapping myself in a terry-cloth robe when someone knocked. Apparently I had forgotten to lock the door, because Cecilia and Roscoe trooped in before the last sound wave died away.

“I should take a photo of you,” I said.

“Isn't he adorable?” Cecilia held up Roscoe as if I hadn't already seen him. “The cutest little guy?”

In truth Roscoe isn't cute. He is, at best, pathetic. Two days with the vet took care of fleas, ticks and parasites. He got his first round of shots and a prescription for anti-inflammatories while his leg heals, but he's missing large patches of wiry gray fur, and his eyes are still inflamed. He needs at least two more pounds on his thin little frame, and even the slightest noise sets him trembling. Beyond that, even 100 percent healthy, Roscoe is never going to star in his own television series.

Cecilia was advised to make sure he rested as much as possible and stayed off the sprained leg. I have a feeling Roscoe is going to spend a lot of his new life cradled in her arms.

I watched her cooing to him. Roscoe won the doggy jackpot.

When she looked up I asked, “How's the house-training going?”

“He's a natural. Not a puddle anywhere.”

“How many times did you take him out last night?”

She shrugged.

Brow raised, I waited.

“Maybe five, okay? Maybe more.”

“We're filming today. You remember that, right?”

“Of course I remember. We filmed yesterday, too.”

Not only had we filmed the town yesterday and a slate dump where the local children used to have rock wars, we'd partied afterward. The men at the American Legion Post got word Cecilia was visiting, and they threw her a surprise party. Her grandfather was a legionnaire, and our whole crew was invited. Mick's enthusiasm for this chunk of genuine local color meant that clips of the party will almost surely make an appearance in the film.

At some point during the evening, as polka music screeched over a vintage sound system, Kris apparently tried to call me. I didn't hear my phone, and he didn't leave a message. Now I figured I'd caught a lucky break. The missing message would have been about Saturday child care and why I hadn't made arrangements. This morning, by the time I realized I'd missed his call, I had already gotten his text.

“There's supposed to be some kind of surprise at the cemetery today,” Cecilia said.

“Bigger than the party last night?”

“The biggest surprise last night was that they didn't ask me to sing.” She smiled thinking about it. “They were happy to have me there, not just because I'm famous, because I'm Frankie Ceglinski's daughter, and Stan and Cammie Ceglinski's granddaughter. Although, let's face it, nobody mentioned Maribeth.”

“Somebody did, actually. To me.”

“Do I want to know?”

“I think so. An old woman—and I'm sorry I didn't get her name—said you look like your mother. She said your mother and father were so much in love they married younger than they should have. She knew them from the high school. She worked in the cafeteria.”

“Beginning of their junior years. They both quit school. I do know that much.”

“She said if things had been different, if your father had lived and Maribeth's parents hadn't pulled up stakes and disappeared, then Maribeth might have made something of herself. But she said Maribeth was like...” I tried to remember the old woman's surprisingly poetic words. “Like ashes in the wind. Everything good inside her shriveled and died, and after his death she went wherever the wind blew her.”

“And thoughtfully took me with her.”

“Mine
didn't
take me, remember? That was no better.”

“So many ways to screw up a kid. So much time to do it. Eighteen whole years. Who can't make a success of that if they really try?”

My own children came to mind, and I hoped I was doing more things right than wrong.

Cecilia understood what I was thinking from my expression, as she usually does. “Your kids are great. And considering our long history of crazy, we didn't turn out that badly, did we?”

“Look at us. Amazing.”

With a spurt of maternal instinct, she cuddled Roscoe closer. “And speaking of your kids, how are they?”

I checked the clock. “I'm going to call. I have just enough time before breakfast.”

“Roscoe and I will see you down there. He tells me he likes bacon.”

“CeCe, we have another night here. Don't push it with Roscoe, okay?”

She left laughing.

While I knew Kris might answer, I was guessing Pet would be first to the phone. Kris has an extension in his study—where I could see him in my mind's eye—but he usually lets someone else answer the house phone. Work calls go to his cell.

Nik answered on the fourth ring.

“Hey,” I said. “I wasn't sure you'd be up this early. Without me right there to drag you out of bed, I mean.”

“The Weinbergs are moving. There are, like, two big trucks and lots of people shouting under my window.”

I wasn't sorry my son was awake, but I was sorry we were losing Michael and Channa.

I thought about Talya's vanity. “They'll be bringing over a piece of furniture Michael wanted me to have. Will you make sure the guys carry it up to my bedroom? I made a space for it on the wall by the window. I'm going to save it for Channa. I think she'll want it someday.”

“Yeah, I guess.”

Apparently there's a twelve-year-old boy code that states no enthusiasm is allowed when asked to do a chore, particularly if a parent makes the request.

“I appreciate it. You'll be around?”

“I'm going over to Brandon's tonight.” He told me about a project he and his friend had finished for their science class, something about gravitational potential energy, which I understood not a word of, then he launched into a thorough dissection of the middle school athletic program. When Nik gets started thinking out loud, I just sit back and listen. Even long-distance.

He finally came up for air, and I cheered from the sidelines. “You are so busy!”

“Yeah, well, I'm busy at home, too. Miss Elena made me do my laundry yesterday. Like I don't do anything else around here.”

“Really?” I tried to sound surprised. “By the way, what
do
you do around there?”

“Answer the phone, for one thing. Even when I shouldn't, like now.”

I thought about what he'd told me. “Elena was there yesterday?”

“Well, she won't be again, which is great. Dad's looking for somebody else for evenings and Saturdays.”

If Kris tried hard enough, maybe he wouldn't have to be home at all.

Nik, who never likes being lectured, said he was going downstairs to get Pet, and that was the end of our conversation.

While I waited I wondered how a mother teaches a son empathy. Was he absorbing it now, from the good role models in his life, so he could express kinder thoughts when he was more mature and in control of his tongue? Could I change anything long-distance? Wasn't dealing with Elena's relationship with Nik up to Kris now?

Would he give it a single thought?

“Mommy!” Pet came on, clearly delighted to talk to me.

“Hey, sweetie! It's so good to hear your voice.”

We chatted for a while, and she told me everything she had done since our last phone call. “And I'm going over to Jody's later so we can practice our duet for the recital next Saturday.”

I made a mental note to remind Kris that no matter what else he had to do on Saturday, he had to hear his daughter perform. Missing the recital was not an option.

“Are you practicing at home, too?” I asked. “You can play your piece over the phone for me on Friday.”

“Miss Elena says I play pretty.”

Score one for Elena, at least with my daughter.

“I cut roses this morning and brought them inside, just like you always do. I set them on the piano, and I put some in Daddy's study, on his desk.”

I pictured my little girl—who was quickly outgrowing that description—trying to take my place and found it disturbing.

“If you like cutting roses, that's wonderful. But if it's a lot of trouble, you don't need to.” I struggled to find a graceful way to make my point. “You don't have to take my place. You know that, right? You have so many things of your own to do—you don't have to do mine. Does that make sense?”

She lowered her voice so I had to strain to hear her. “I know, but Daddy seems lost. Or mad, or something. I wanted to cheer him up.”

Did Kris need cheering or simply more people carrying his load? I couldn't ask my daughter, but I did reassure her. “Daddy will be fine. You don't have to worry about either of us. Things are just a little different and it takes time to adjust.”

“I'm glad you're coming home for Thanksgiving. I wish Táta and Maminka were going to be here, too.”

Both children use the Czech words for father and mother for their grandparents, since that's what their father calls them. Kris's parents are wonderful with Nik and Pet, demonstrative and casual in a way their son is not. They always come to Virginia for Thanksgiving and go to Lucie's family in Chicago for Christmas. When possible, we all go to Ohio for Easter. Even without my husband.

“We'll miss them,” I said.

“Will Aunt Cecilia come this year?”

I was sure Kris would rather have a convicted felon at the table. “We'll see when the date gets closer.”

We chatted a little more. Then she asked if I wanted her to get Kris.

“I can hear him talking to somebody,” she said, before I could answer. “He's in his study.”

“I'm sure whatever he's doing is important. I'll talk to him another time.”

We sent pretend hugs and kisses through the phone lines. I would email Kris later. Something like:
I suppose I could have hired a live-in nanny. Then you could work all the time.

Or maybe not.

My son is rude and lazy. My daughter is taking the burdens of our family on her fragile little shoulders. What had Cecilia said? So many ways to screw up a kid?

I have a feeling that might be my new mantra.

16

Robin

By now I've caught on that Mick specializes in surprises. After all, what's more interesting on camera, unrehearsed emotion or lines read from a cue card? Nobody understands a documentary filmmaker's thinking better than a photojournalist who looks for that one perfect moment when everything comes together for the subject, when reality and even truth slip out of the photograph and into the hearts of those viewing it.

Of course a lot of so-called television reality shows are scripted, but Mick's films never are. At last night's party he told me he's never sure what he's looking for when he's filming, so he lets the subject and the players guide him. But he does look for opportunities and ways to ratchet up the tension and emotion.

Today, as I stood not far from Jerry and watched my sister at the Miners Memorial Cemetery, I could testify that Mick knows what he's doing.

“I'm a big fan of yours,” a woman named Thea Garland was telling Cecilia. “It's been an honor to research your family.”

Locals and perhaps gawkers from farther away were already gathering outside the cemetery gate, but sheriff's department personnel and two security guards hired by Mick were keeping them quiet enough. Most of the crew was standing on a hill surrounded by wind-twisted oaks and gravestones, many in sad disrepair. A breeze twirled fallen leaves in festive clusters, but the sun kept us just warm enough. Roscoe hadn't been forgotten, either. Wendy had the puppy in her arms and was standing far enough away that if he barked, he wouldn't disturb filming.

Instead of the puppy, Cecilia was clasping a slender clothbound book that Thea, a professional genealogist from Pittsburgh, had created for her. In front of the whole world—or, more realistically, the tiny percentage that would see Mick's documentary—Cecilia was about to go from a pathetic foster child, whose family tree had toppled to the ground decades ago to a woman with deep roots in the soil of Pennsylvania, Ireland and Poland.

“You actually found information worth putting in here?” Cecilia held out the book in question.

Thea was shaped like an apple with a gray ponytail stem at the top of her head. Before handing Cecilia her family history she had explained that she had trained as a genealogist so she could find out more about her own family. Since her ancestors had lived in southwestern Pennsylvania for centuries, the area was her specialty.

“Your family is as interesting as any I've researched,” she said. “What do you know about them?”

Jerry, camera cradled at his waist when he moved, was catching every nuance of this conversation on film. He had come earlier with the gaffer to set up what lights he could, and now he was quietly working with the sound tech, too, often with hand signals.

Mick was standing to our left using a smaller camera, which surprised me but shouldn't have, since directors often get their start shooting film. At one point he handed the camera to Fiona and pointed to a cluster of headstones far to the right that he wanted her to film. Yesterday she'd taken one of the larger cameras on a skateboard ride through town, a unique way to get a moving shot. The documentary was turning out to be a family affair. Cecilia and me. Mick and Fiona.

I had snapped a few shots of Cecilia and Thea as we walked up the hill, but I was waiting for something more. I wanted to capture not just their interchange but the intent expressions on surrounding faces, as well. My job is to document the making of the film as well as the way Cecilia's story unfolds. I'm still working on what I know, rather than what I feel, and sometimes I wonder if I'll ever find my rhythm again. Maybe at some point between my roses and the photo booth at the elementary school fair, rhythm floated off to provide the beat for someone more worthy.

Thea was trying to draw out Cecilia. “I know a little of your background. Since you didn't really grow up with your family, you weren't around to hear the stories your grandparents told, or your aunts and uncles. The kinds of stories people repeat at funerals and holiday dinners.”

Cecilia isn't shy; she leaves that to me. But neither does she talk about everything. This much she seemed prepared to handle.

“The last time I was in Randolph Furnace I was five. My father was an only child, but I remember an aunt—probably a great-aunt because she was the age of my grandparents, or at least that's how it seemed to a little girl.”

“Do you remember her name?”

Cecilia smiled, which brightened my mood because it was genuine. “Anchor. But that must have been a nickname?”

“You're almost right. Anka. It's Polish, and so was your great-aunt Anka Ceglinski, your grandfather's sister. She was named for a distant ancestor of hers and
yours
, Anka Dubicki, born in German-occupied Poland in 1852. Anka Dubicki was your great-great-great-grandmother, among the first of your father's family to move to Pennsylvania.”

“Why? What brought them here?”

“Poverty, plain and simple, with a side helping of oppression. They had no rights, no land, no education, and they knew to get any of those things, they had to leave Poland. Moving goods down the Ohio River was big business in this area, so they worked as boatbuilders. They settled on the south side of Pittsburgh with other Polish immigrants. Without a lot more effort I could probably find distant cousins whose families stayed in the area.”

Cecilia was imagining this. I know her well enough to recognize her expression. She was putting herself in the shoes of those long-departed family members. That's exactly what she does onstage when she's singing. She becomes the person in her song, the woman who can't find a lover to suit her or the one who's gunning for the poor guy who disappointed her. She's more than a mimic, she's a shape-shifter.

Now her eyes were shining. “So the name Anka has a real history.”

“That first Anka's granddaughter, who was the second Anka from your family in Pennsylvania, was born at the turn of the twentieth century and married your great-grandfather. He was a blast furnace operator in a steel mill.”

Cecilia made a face. “Boatbuilding sounds easier.”

“Getting a job in a mill would have been a slam dunk. Poles were chosen because they were so willing to work. Twelve hour days, seven days a week. When the jobs rotated between shifts every two weeks, the men had to work eighteen to twenty-four hours in a row on the day the change was made.”

Cecilia whistled softly, and instinctively I got that shot. I had a feeling I would be glad when I went back over everything tonight in my room.

“Would you like to see your great-aunt Anka's grave?”

I could tell Cecilia was unsure by her expression. Thea was no longer telling stories; she was about to ground this one in reality. Cecilia remembered her great-aunt, if only vaguely.

“Of course,” she said, recovering quickly.

They walked a short distance as Thea told her that this third Anka, Cecilia's grandfather's sister, had never married. She had worked most of her life in the miners' store as a bookkeeper, issuing scrip and credit that tied the miners even closer to the town where they worked.

“There's one interesting story I discovered about her,” Thea said when she stopped beside a grave. “When Anka was twenty-two she was attacked with an ax. Luckily she managed to fend off her attacker. But the story made the Pittsburgh paper, which was lucky for
me
. That's how I found it.”

“Why was she attacked?”

“Apparently she was single but not exactly unloved. The
woman
with the ax happened to be married to the object of Anka's affections.”

Cecilia laughed. I caught that moment, too, but she stopped when she gazed at the headstone. She reached down to rub her fingertips along the inscription. “Are my grandparents buried nearby?”

Thea started farther up the hill. “Most of your grandmother's heritage is Polish, but some of her mother's family came to Pennsylvania from Italy.”

“Really?”

“You've never craved lasagna for no good reason?”

That drew another welcome laugh. They chatted about the Ceglinskis and those first Rosas, who had been stonemasons in Abruzzi and helped construct arches for bridges used by the Pennsylvania Railroad.

Cecilia was touched by the sight of her grandparents' graves. She couldn't hide it, and maybe she didn't even want to. But I knew she wasn't acting. Another revealing photo. Maybe I was finally catching fire.

“They were good to me,” she said. “My life would have been different if I could have stayed here with them.”

Mick was no longer filming, but Jerry hadn't missed a word. No matter what else was cut from the film, that would stay. Cecilia kissed her fingertips and gently tapped both her grandmother and grandfather's headstones, simple granite markers placed side by side.

Thea gave her a little time, then she asked, “Before we move on to your mother's family, Cecilia, do you want to visit your father's grave? It's here, if you're ready.”

“Of course.”

Mick signaled, and the crew moved away. They had set this scene earlier and would take up filming once Thea and Cecilia were standing at her father's graveside.

Mick stayed behind, and I noticed he was holding his camera again. The compact digital SLR looked like an extension of his body.

“I wonder why he wasn't buried here beside my grandparents.” Cecilia gestured to what was either an unmarked grave or an empty plot.

Thea looked torn, as if she knew and wasn't sure how to answer.

“Oh...” Cecilia looked down again. “There wasn't room for Maribeth.”

“After your father died, your family bought sites over that hill so your mother could be with him when the time came. And at the time, that's the way she said she wanted it.”

Cecilia's voice was tight. “Did they buy one for me, too?”

“Your mother probably knew you wouldn't stay in Randolph Furnace long enough to be buried here.”

“Or she didn't think about including me.”

Thea's nod was noncommittal. “We can only guess what lurks behind decisions made such a long time ago.”

“My mother died in Savannah. I imagine she's buried there.”

“It shouldn't be hard to find out. There's still a place for her beside your father.”

“Not as long as I live there isn't.”

Thea didn't look surprised.

Mick captured the exchange. Still filming intently he moved into my line of sight, and I raised my camera and caught him leaning forward, with Cecilia and Thea just beyond him. Another photo I might be glad to have.

Cecilia and Thea started up and over the hill, and Mick waited to walk with me. He was dressed in jeans and a beat-up denim jacket, and he looked as if he'd sprung from the ground. He was careful never to become part of the story.

“She's amazing,” he said. “Thea, of course, but I mean Cecilia.”

“I've always thought so.”

“You were nine when you met?”

“And she was a month from turning thirteen. It was a therapeutic foster home. We were both a mess.”

“I'm guessing the one thing you could hold on to was each other.”

He was encouraging me to talk, and I didn't mind. Mick was comfortable to be with, understanding and unafraid of emotion, unlike the man I'm married to. I was struck by how appealing an attractive man who wants to talk about my feelings can be.

“We were lucky,” I said. “Siblings, real biological siblings, aren't always able to live in the same foster home because there isn't enough room, or the age difference is a problem. The fact that our caseworker kept us together when we were moved, even without blood ties, is something of a miracle.”

“Today's the easy day. You know that, right? Whatever we get here will be shown later in the film. But we wanted to start shooting with something happier, something to help Cecilia feel she does have roots, before we start exposing how much went wrong in her childhood.”

There weren't many happy chapters in Cecilia's childhood and adolescence, but she was known here. Not simply because of her superstar status, but because she was a citizen of this town. And maybe it was just a fading coal patch, but a part of her belonged here and with the distant family she would likely never meet.

I stopped walking, and he stopped, too, lifting one brow in question. I decided to be blunt. “You recorded what she said about not allowing her mother's body to lie beside her father's. Was that wise? Won't that make her seem unsympathetic?”

“Her anger is understandable, don't you think?”

“Of course. But will the audience think so, too?”

“Do they need to? Do
you
need them to?”

And there it was. One of the many times my attachment to my sister might color my judgment.

Mick didn't wait for me to acknowledge what was obviously true. “But yes, they
will
understand. Because we'll take them to the place where her mother abandoned her, so they can imagine that scene. And we've already talked to a former social worker who still remembers Maribeth Ceglinski, even tried to help her and couldn't. This isn't a documentary about happy endings, Robin, although we'll try to find bright spots.”

“Like this one.”

He moved a little closer. “What about you? Were there bright spots?”

I held up my new Canon, encased in a sound blimp that mostly silenced the clicking of my shutter so it wouldn't be heard on film. The camera and the new Sigma lens I'd gotten were quickly becoming old friends.

“Cameras were my bright spot.”

“You have no living family?”

“I probably have a mother somewhere, unless she followed in Maribeth's footsteps.”

“You've never searched?”

People rarely understand this, but my mother takes up no real estate in my heart. I don't remember
her
, but I do remember that she left me in the care of her own mother, knowing, even as the teenager she was, that Olive would try to destroy me.