The Other Sister, page 2
“But your father thinks—”
“What do I think?” asks Dad from the threshold.
Carla and I both freeze. We both see my father’s cheerful smile, the one that says, Gotcha.
2.
“Oh, great, more watermelon. Thanks, Carla.” Dad gestures toward the terrace buffet with his half-empty martini glass. “They’re running low out there.”
Carla hesitates just long enough to let me reach for the platter if I want to get away. But of course I don’t. Dad wants Carla to be the one who leaves.
“Would you mind, Carla?” I ask her. “It’s like a swarm of locusts landed out there.”
“Sure thing.”
I pretend I don’t see her sympathetic look as she heads out the door toward the terrace.
Now that Dad’s here, I am suddenly aware of how messy I’ve let the kitchen become. There are Whole Foods bags, empty bakery boxes, an empty plastic container that used to have grape tomatoes in it. Crumbs are scattered all over the counters, along with some lemon halves and a few crisscrossed celery ribs. It’s as if the room itself is an indictment of my management skills. I shouldn’t feel that way, of course. It’s a complete overreaction. I’m always doing that. It’s one of the things I need to work on.
“Marie?” Dad asks.
I rip a length of plastic wrap off the roll bolted to the underside of the cabinets and bundle up the leftover celery like I’m afraid it’s going to escape.
“What were you and Carla talking about? What do I think?”
“I have no idea. You’ll need to ask her.”
“Carla’s got enough on her plate right now.”
I can’t turn away fast enough to hide my surprise. “What’s the matter?”
Dad arches his eyebrows. “She didn’t tell you?” He sips his martini, inviting me to fill the pause. When I don’t, he sighs. “Typical Carla. Talks about everybody else when she’s the one…”
I will not be led down this road. I can already tell it’s nowhere I want to go.
“I don’t think Geraldine will be delayed too badly,” I say firmly.
This is a clumsy and transparent change of subject. It’s also exactly what Dad was hoping for. I can tell by the timbre of his fresh sigh and the tilt of his head.
I have learned so much over the years from my father, but the most important thing is how to really pay attention. You have to remain aware of all the details, no matter how tired you are. That’s how I’ve become such a good hostess and a good manager, and, of course, a good daughter. I really owe him everything. If it wasn’t for Dad, I might not even have my son. After all, it was Dad who stepped right in as male parent and role model for Robbie when my husband, David, walked away.
“Marie, I hate to bring this up now, but even if Geraldine doesn’t make it, you’re still going to have to talk with her about the old house.”
There it is. Carla was right. Dad does suspect something.
“She’s never going to stay, Marie. You can’t keep hanging on to that decrepit old place hoping she’ll change her mind.”
“There’ll be plenty of time to talk houses after Robbie’s graduation.” I wet a dishrag and start wiping counters. “And Geraldine will be here soon.”
“I know you love your sister,” Dad says behind me. “It breaks my heart to see how many times she’s disappointed you, and Robbie. You have to—what is it they say these days?—you have to try to distance yourself.”
“Dad, please,” I say softly, and with the pleading little smile that he enjoys seeing so much. “Let’s just put it aside, all right? This is Robbie’s week. When it’s over, we’ll talk about the old house and Geraldine and everything else.”
Sadness and patience gather behind my father’s eyes. He is always so understanding. You can see it in the way he nods, and in the warm, paternal kiss he presses against my forehead.
“All right. We’ll do it your way, baby girl,” he says, because I will always be his baby girl. I am forty-three. My son is graduating high school. I was married, am divorced, have been troubled, but even when I’ve been on the edge of disaster, I’ve remained my father’s baby girl. That’s how much he loves me.
My hands are shaking.
Slowly, so I can concentrate on each separate motion, I undo the flaps on the bakery boxes and flatten them out. I am fully present. I feel the brush of thin cardboard under my hands. I feel the warmth from the stove at my back. I feel the tackiness of watermelon juice on my fingers and my feet. I will not be distracted by thoughts of the past, or my own absurd ideas about how the universe works, or even my mother’s shadow beneath our clean white walls. These things only confuse me and worry Dad.
I do not want my father worried.
Fortunately for us all, he’s focused on one of his favorite themes.
“You have to buy Geraldine out, Marie. These constant delays aren’t fair to her, or to the property. As long as you let her dither, the place will just sit there empty, and Geraldine won’t be able to move on.”
“It’s a house, Dad, not an ex-boyfriend,” I say, lightly, of course. Just teasing.
Dad smiles a little and tips his now-empty glass from side to side. “You can have a bad relationship with a house, too. Look at Patricia Burnovich and this place.”
Patricia Burnovich. That’s how Dad likes to refer Mom’s sister. It helps emphasize the distance that must be kept between us. He never calls her “your aunt,” let alone “my sister-in-law.” Acknowledgment of those sorts of relationships is reserved for the poised and practiced people he brings into this house. People who know just how much they owe, and to whom.
My aunt June and her daughter Amber are a perfect example. Both wear twinsets (June blue, Amber green) and strappy sandals. Amber’s finally given up on her third husband, which puts her just one shy of her mother’s total. Each holds a cocktail in one hand, and uses the other to wave and point. Diamonds flash on wrists and skinny fingers.
Aunt June remembers appearances and the importance of keeping up the family reputation. June would never go crazy. She would never starve to death alone in an empty ruin of a house because she was too stubborn to sign it over to people who could manage it properly.
June would never, ever kidnap her vulnerable adolescent nieces in the middle of winter.
But I am not thinking about that. I am in the present. The present is a cutting board to be wiped down, a discarded knife that should be in the dishwasher. A houseful of Monroes to keep fed and lubricated.
“You know that’s what your sister is really coming to do,” Dad says.
“Please be quiet.”
“What did you say?”
I don’t even know. Why don’t I know? But I am saved from having to answer.
“Hey, Mom! Look what I found!”
Robbie. My tall, beautiful, golden, cheerful son, the star of the day. He strolls into the kitchen and then abruptly steps back.
“Surprise!”
It’s my sister. Geraldine’s here.
3.
“Geraldine!”
Robbie dodges so my sister and I can hug—Geraldine with one arm and me with both and all my might. My sister is short and soft and scarred, but she’s strong. I can hug Geraldine as hard as I want and she will not complain or wince away. She smells like sweat and outdoors. Her hair is snarled, her black skirt is too tight, her top and jacket are too loose. She’s wearing a pair of ridiculously high-heeled boots and carries a battered bucket-sized purse slung across her shoulders. But she’s here. She made it. Relief rushes up from the bottom of my heart. Everything’s going to be all right. This time it all comes true.
“She was sitting in the car.” Robbie smirks. “It was like she was trying to sneak a smoke or something.”
“Or something,” Geraldine agrees sheepishly. Then, she smacks his shoulder. “And you, you can just stop being taller than me.”
“Too late!” Robbie rests his chin on the top of Geraldine’s head. “Oh, snap! Aunt G, you’re getting shorter!”
She shoves him off. “Go away, whippersnapper, or I’ll bite your kneecaps.”
“I’ll get a ladder.”
I am so happy to see them together, something is going to burst.
“I’m sorry I’m so late, Marie. Really. I…” She holds up a squashy green cardboard basket. “I brought strawberries.”
“Thank you.” I take them and I notice her blunt finger ends are all stained red. There is probably a second, and now mostly empty, carton in her car someplace. Geraldine has always adored fresh berries. I look down my nose at her and she puts up one finger, right across the puckered scar that runs from her nose to her chin. Shhh.
“Hello, Geraldine.” Dad straightens up.
And just like that, the switch is flipped. The cheerful little moment is over, and we all remember we are on display. Aunts and cousins and plus-ones are peering into the kitchen, waiting to see what Geraldine will do now that she’s face-to-face with my father.
I mean our father, of course.
“Hi, Dad.” Geraldine’s mouth twists uncomfortably around the scar. She fell hard against the stairs one winter when she was fifteen and it left a permanent mark. I’ve always suspected she could have done something about it if she wanted to, but that’s just not Geraldine’s way.
“So glad you finally made it,” Dad says. “We were starting to worry.”
“I had some car trouble.”
“That’s what Marie said.”
This could become awkward. Fortunately, Robbie is too focused on Geraldine to let that happen.
“So, what’d you bring me?” He bumps his shoulder against hers.
“He’s asking for a present?” Geraldine bumps Robbie back. Neither of them notice the tiny wrinkles that appear at the corner of Dad’s eyes as he watches this display. “What kind of manners have you taught this kid, Marie?”
Bump. “Not her fault.” Bump. “I take after my aunt.”
“Explains where you got the good looks.”
“So, what’d you bring me?”
“Your graduation’s not even ’til next Sunday!”
“Awww…Come on, Aunt G! Please!”
Geraldine sighs and rolls her eyes and digs into that bucket of a purse. “Let’s see…nope, nope, what the heck is that? Oh, never mind. Nope…” Robbie is grinning. What’s-in-Aunt-G’s-Purse is a game they’ve played since he was little. “Hello, George, you still here?…Nope…Well, I guess this’ll have to do.”
She pulls out a fat, brown-paper package about the size of my fist.
“It’s not a gift card,” she says as she hands it over.
Robbie tears off the paper. It’s definitely not a gift card. It’s a roll of bills. Twenties. My son’s jaw drops. So does mine.
“I…but…Aunt G…that’s…”
“Pizza, video games, movies, whatever.” She waves her hand.
“Thank you, Aunt G!” Robbie throws his arms around her and hauls her right off her feet. “Thank you!”
Geraldine shrieks and laughs, and tears prick the back of my eyes. “Congratulations, Robbie! You earned every bit of it.”
Dad picks the roll of bills up off the counter and turns it over. “Wow. This must be, what? A thousand?”
“Two,” says Geraldine. “Graduation gift adjusted for inflation. Besides, I didn’t know what he’d need.”
I’m startled, I admit it. Where did this come from? Geraldine doesn’t earn much money.
Dad puts the roll back down. For a moment I think he’s going to wipe his fingers on his khakis. “Robbie, you can’t accept that. Geraldine can’t possibly afford that kind of gift.”
“If I couldn’t afford it, I wouldn’t have done it,” she says. “Robbie’s only going to graduate high school once, and it’s different these days. You need a lot of stuff. Who knows? He might even buy books.” She digs both hands into Robbie’s fair hair, which contrasts so sharply with her dark waterfall of curls. “Feed this head!”
“All that is taken care of, as Robbie knows perfectly well.”
“Come on, Granddad.” Surely, I just imagine the hitch in Robbie’s voice. “It’s up to her, right?”
The white noise of muted conversation has faded. Heads and eyes flick toward us, and away, but no one comes into the kitchen to say hello.
“Yeah, it’s up to me, Granddad,” Geraldine says through clenched teeth. Her scar is a burning red thread across her pale mouth. “This is my money.”
“I understand you want your nephew to know you care, but this is much too much.” He says this to Robbie. He says it to me, but most of all, he says it to Geraldine. Patiently, of course, but firmly and finally. “Robbie, give the money back.”
“It’s my present.” Robbie straightens up. “It’s my call.”
“You’re a grown man now, Robbie,” Dad reminds him. “I’ve always taught you that actions have consequences, especially where money is involved. You don’t want to hurt your aunt, or your mother, or me.”
“Wow. Just jumping right into it, aren’t you, Dad?” says Geraldine softly. “Couldn’t let me say hi or get a drink…”
“Robbie already knows you care, Geraldine. You don’t need to hurt yourself to prove it.” Dad’s smile is soft and sad.
Say something! Do something! I shout at myself. I should take the money and give it back to Geraldine myself. That will end this trouble before Dad feels he’s forced to take action. But I’m paralyzed. He, she, they, he, couldn’t give me even five minutes to be happy that my sister is home. To see her and my son laughing together. Not five minutes.
My hand hurts. I look down. My hand is on the cutting board where Carla was slicing watermelon, but the red runnels on the oak board are too bright to be melon juice.
“Oh my God, Marie!”
Geraldine’s grabbed my wrist. The paring knife clatters to the floor.
“Mom!” shouts Robbie. “Jesus…!”
Geraldine snatches up the dishrag and shoves it hard against my palm, holding my hand up over my head so the blood runs down my arm.
I wrapped my fingers around the knife blade without even noticing. The blood is hot and it tickles as it drips down my raised arm to the sleeve of my tank top. That’s going to stain.
“Robbie, is there a first-aid kit? Bandages? Anything?”
“Yeah, yeah. Hang on.” My son thunders up the kitchen stairs.
Now Monroes are crowding around the doorways, come to see the blood and hear what this new shouting is about. Even Grandma Millicent is on her feet. Carla tries to squeeze past Walt, but he’s shoving her back.
Now Dad moves.
“It’s okay, folks,” he says cheerfully. “A little accident. Walt, nobody’s got any drinks. Help me out here. June, can you close the terrace doors? It’s getting chilly.”
He’s smiling and shepherding people away. He has to keep the party going and not give anybody a chance to be upset by my clumsy little mistakes.
“Shit.” Geraldine’s pressing on the cut. “Come on, Marie, let’s get out of here. You still in the old guest room?”
Geraldine leads me to the back stairs. I look over my shoulder at my bloody kitchen and ruined family party, and I can’t help noticing that the roll of bills isn’t on the counter anymore.
It is worth noting that the German title of the Brothers Grimm collection is Kinder und Hausmärchen, literally “Children and Household Tales.” The emphasis here is not on the magic, the fairies, or the exotic monsters in the woods. These are stories experienced by the children, from inside the house.
—Out of the Woods: Musings on Fairy Tales in the Real World,
Dr. Geraldine Monroe
GERALDINE, PRESENT DAY
THE ROSE HOUSE
1.
Welcome home, Geraldine, I think as I drag my bleeding, stupefied sister into her bedroom.
It’s so damn clean, I think. I never get used to that. Even up here, away from public view, there’s nothing left of the gloomy, grimy magnificent house where Aunt Trish died.
Marie’s in what used to be the biggest guest room. It looks like a picture in a Pottery Barn catalogue. Dad, of course, has the master suite down the blank, white hall.
Dad. I grind my teeth down. Can a whisper ring in your ears? Because I keep hearing his parting shot.
Get her cleaned up before somebody sees.
I bet he doesn’t even remember all the other times he said that to me. Only then, of course, he was talking about Mom. So maybe he does remember and just doesn’t care.
“It’s okay.” Marie’s whiter than her brushed cotton sheets. Robbie’s out in the hall, swearing as he digs through the linen cupboard to find something better than a box of Band-Aids. Downstairs, I just know our father is busy explaining things to the family. It’s a minor accident. Marie is so clumsy. Geraldine is overreacting. Some things never change. Walt, that steak looks terrific. Oh, hey, Greg, let me freshen that up for you.
I shove Marie into her bathroom and yank her hand down so it’s under the faucet.
“It’s not that bad,” she whispers. “Really, it’s not.”
“Shut up.”
“Got it!” Robbie tries to jam himself into the little bathroom behind us. He waves an ancient white plastic first-aid kit.
“Disinfectant. Gauze,” I tell him. “Shit,” I add because I’ve just peeled back the dish towel and gotten a look at my sister’s cut. It’s straight and deep and runs right across her palm. Dark blood wells up fast and only turns scarlet once it mixes with the water.
My scar blazes with a kind of sympathetic heat. I am remembering the winter cold and the way my feet shot out from under me on the icy steps as I tried to run away from Dad. The step’s edge strikes like an axe. My teeth rattle. Shock numbs mind and nerve. The screams only start when I bring my hand down from my face and stare stupidly at the bright red river pouring between my fingers.
Here with me now, Marie doesn’t make a sound.
Robbie dumps disinfectant onto a gauze pad. I pull Marie’s hand out from under the water and grab the gauze so I can press it against the cut. Marie sucks in a breath, but clenches her teeth so she won’t let out an accidental shout and alarm her son.
