The Other Sister, page 6
Martin shook his head slowly. “There is no out. Home never lets you go. So you have to be the one who owns it.” He tucked his hand into her hair again and wound one long lock tight around his finger. “Besides, you don’t really want to leave. I can tell. No matter what you’re saying.”
“You’re nuts.”
He laughed. “You want control, Stacey. You want your sister to do what you say. You want this house to be yours, not hers.”
She tried to muster the strength to argue. The problem was, she was ready for him again. Her body screamed that he did know all about her. More than that. He understood her.
“Trust me, Stacey.” Martin slipped his hands around her bare waist. His voice was soft and controlled, even though she could see his erection and feel the sweat on his palms.
“Why should I?” she whispered back, in one last attempt to keep from being dragged away by her own needs.
“Because I know everything.”
“Everything?” she asked.
“Everything,” he agreed. “You better remember that, too.”
3.
Later, Stacey would say what happened was Trish’s own fault. If her sister hadn’t been such a raging bitch when she came home and found them together. If she hadn’t tried to treat Stacey like she was a baby. If she hadn’t tried to totally take over Stacey’s life and threaten to kick her out unless she stopped seeing Martin. If Trish had let Stacey make one single decision about her own life, she never would have run away with Martin Monroe. At least, not like she did, not without even finishing high school or anything. There would have been another way out. She and her sister could have at least stayed friends, and none of the rest of it ever would have had to happen.
For a long time, Stacey was able to believe that. But not quite long enough.
“Next Sunday you must come out to me. I have already invited guests. I will make a trail of ashes, so that you can find your way through the woods.”
—“The Robber Bridegroom” from Kinder und Hausmärchen Vol. 2, Jacob and Wilhelm Grimm, 1812
MARIE, PRESENT DAY
THE ROSE HOUSE
1.
My hand hurts.
That’s my first thought when the dark, dreaming fog lifts away and I have to wake up. My bedroom is full of dawn’s dull light. I don’t need to see the clock to know it’s about five a.m. Time to be up and moving. I have work to do.
I sleep on my side, I always have. It’s a holdover from when I was a little girl and I had the top bunk bed. I was always afraid I’d fall off, even though there was a railing. So, I propped myself up against the wall where I felt sure I was safe.
What’s the matter, Marie? David asked the first time we woke up together. It was in this room. This bed, in fact. Even though we were married, there’d never been any real question about living anywhere but the Rose House. At least, not for me. Well, not for Dad. You think I’m going to sneak up on you? And grab you…like this? He wrapped me tight in his arms and rolled us over and I shrieked and beat on him with both fists, and eventually remembered that he must be joking, and let him kiss me and make love to me. I was even able to laugh for him.
He always let me sleep next to the wall after that, starting right when we left on our honeymoon the next day. He thought it was cute, until he stopped thinking anything about me was cute. Until he went the way of all Monroe spouses.
My hand really hurts. The stain on my bandage is black. I feel the skin on my palm pull and the unseen scab breaks. The stain spreads, fresh darkness under the neutral beige of the bandage. That’s probably symbolic of something. Maybe I’ll ask Geraldine about it when I see her.
Yesterday’s barbecue ended without additional incidents. I was able to wait out Geraldine’s thirty-minute exile and come downstairs, smiling. Just a cut, I was able to say. Nothing to worry about.
I spent the rest of the evening helping Carla keep the plates of side dishes and desserts filled. I took Grandma Millicent her tea. I smiled at Robbie whenever he barged through the kitchen, trying to pretend he wasn’t checking up on me.
Dad, of course, didn’t bother to pretend.
“You’re sure you’re all right, Marie?”
“Yes, I’m fine. Really.”
“I just want to be sure Geraldine didn’t upset you.”
“How could she? Where is she, by the way?”
“She left before you came down.” He says it slowly, concerned, I’m sure, that the news might worry me. “I’m afraid she didn’t say where she went.”
No. She wouldn’t. Not to Dad.
I wonder where she spent the night. I hope that she didn’t do anything foolish. I should not think that way. I have to trust her. It is too late to do anything else.
I climb out of the bed, tug the covers back into place, plump the pillow, and turn down the hems so there’s a tidy collar of sheet over duvet. Geraldine left the box of gauze pads and more bandages on the sink. I wince at the mess, although I am glad I don’t have to do any extra rummaging around. It’s awkward to work one-handed, but I strip away the old gauze, press a fresh pad onto the cut, and tape it down.
It hurts, but I work quickly. I wonder if I’ll have a scar and if it will stay red, like Geraldine’s. That idea hurts worse than the actual cut. Scars make you vulnerable. They show the world that you can be broken.
Just in time, I remind myself that Geraldine is home now. We are together. My sister can teach me how to live with scars, and I will let myself learn.
I wash, I dress, I dry my hair and brush it out. I take a deep breath and I lift my gaze to the mirror.
And there she is.
Marie Monroe smiles back at me. She is not pretty. She is not ugly. She is middle-aged and middle-sized. She has fair hair cut in a practical bob. Her face is still smooth, except for a few crinkles around her eyes, and the tiniest bit of crepeing under her chin. Her brows are perfectly plucked, and her mouth is refined by a hint of gloss and liner. She wears no perfume. Her deodorant has no scent. She shopped around for years to find a soap that’s got no odor. It’s a brand made especially for people with allergies.
Marie Monroe’s shoes are soft flats. Her sleeveless navy-blue top and beige pants skim her figure, which is still quite good, for a woman her age. Otherwise, she’s no one you’d look at twice.
I fully committed myself to perfecting this reflection when I was still seventeen, just after Geraldine’s first major escapade, the one where she hauled us up to Aunt Trish’s for a week, forcing Dad to come to drag us both home.
Bring, I mean. Rescue, maybe. Find, of course. Not drag. He didn’t drag me home.
Us. I mean us.
But that is all the distant past. Aunt Trish died in this house and was removed, and then Mom died and it was all left to Marie to manage. And here she is, rested and ready. It’s time to begin her day. Routine is important. She cannot let little upsets like a cut throw everything else out of kilter.
Household comfort and efficiency is found entirely in the little details. My bedroom door, for instance. I’ve oiled it and polished and planed it so it opens noiselessly. The carpet in the hall is soft pile. It cost a mint, but it doesn’t crunch underfoot.
I feel the hallway strain and shift around me as I walk, but I keep a straight line down the exact center, and I make no sound.
Dad took over the master suite as soon as we moved into the house. Even David didn’t think of asking him to move during the time we all lived here together. I’ve treated his door exactly like I’ve treated my own. The knob turns, the door opens, but unless you felt the ghost of the draft against your skin, you’d never know.
Dad sleeps on his chest, arms and legs all sprawled out under the white sheets. Always white. The walls are a very pale blue. It’s colder in here. This room has a separate thermostat so Dad can adjust the temperature to his personal specifications. His life needs to be seamless. That way, there’s no reason for him to stop and look around, and maybe decide things have to change.
David shouldn’t have tried to insist we move out. It didn’t matter if we could afford it. Dad needed me to stay here. He depends on me. I’m his baby girl. If David hadn’t kicked up a fuss, Dad wouldn’t have decided David needed to leave. We could have stayed married.
The white bedroom carpet is the same make as in the hall. Dad doesn’t shift as I come to stand at the bedside. I lean across, carefully, so my shadow doesn’t fall across his eyelids.
Dad sleeps with three down pillows spaced evenly against the headboard. That way, no matter which way he rolls over, he doesn’t have to adjust anything. He will always be comfortable.
I smell tobacco and beer. I know my mother’s shadow waits just beneath the cool, blue walls, watching to see what I will do.
I lift up the nearest pillow. I hold it over my father’s head. His eyes twitch underneath their lids. There’s a catch in his breathing. I make myself count to ten. I grip the pillow. My scab cracks. My heart bangs against my ribs.
Dad’s breathing evens. I lower the pillow, smoothing it carefully back into its place. There’s no stain on the white case. I back away, I close the silent door. Dad does not wake up.
Even with the bandage and the bloody hand, I can manage whatever needs to happen. Just as soon as Geraldine and I are ready.
But, goodness, there’s so much left to do.
2.
By the time Robbie comes thudding down the stairs, I’ve finished breakfast and I’ve spent an hour in the front room on my laptop, checking, ordering, organizing. There’s all the usual lists for the houses I’m staging. Our family business involves managing properties for the elite families who consider Whitestone Harbor their second home. My job is to furnish the houses. That means I spend a lot of time scouring the internet for exactly the right accessories.
Still, I do find a moment for a little online me time. There’s a new Tiffany vase up on eBay, and the Potawatomi art tiles I’ve been searching for have finally surfaced. The bids are already ridiculously high, but I put in a new one anyway. There are last-minute emails to be sent about Sunday’s graduation party, and bills to be paid. Other things—other accounts and lists and little details of interest to no one but myself.
When I close the final window of my web browser, I pause and sit very still, just breathing. Stillness allows me to savor this rare moment where no one is watching me. Robbie is in the kitchen, whistling and beat-boxing to the rhythm of clinking china and glass. I hear the rattle of the cereal box and the squeak of sneakers against tile. The muffled pop as he opens the refrigerator door and then the healthy glug of milk.
He’s being himself, relaxed and undisturbed. I do not need to intrude. I do not have to play a role. I can just listen and feel my love for him, without hesitation or correction.
Of course it can’t last. I need to speak with Robbie. I close the laptop and take a moment to make sure I’m wearing the right expression. One that is concerned but not judgmental. Only then do I start for the kitchen.
Robbie’s in the fridge a second time. He’s got one earbud in his ear and the other dangling loose. He’s puffing out his cheeks and bobbing and boxing to whatever he hears. The bowl’s in the sink, because he’s considerate like that, but he’s bringing out the milk again.
He doesn’t hear me.
“Robbie?”
It takes him a minute to realize I’m not just more noise in his head, but he does turn.
“Yeah, Mom?”
“I need to ask you something.”
He pulls the other bud out of his ear and tucks it into his pocket with his smartphone “What?”
I look up at my tall, perfect son. No, not perfect anymore. Adolescence came down hard, and left scars on his skin. The sight of them makes me feel better about my aching hand. It is not right that my son is scarred when I am not. His are small, thankfully. Not enough to ruin his dramatic good looks or keep the girls at a distance. It’s the wariness in his eyes that hurts me. It runs deeper than it should, and nothing I do now can smooth it away.
“I’m not going to be mad, I promise.”
Robbie shakes his head and pours milk into a tall glass. The cover’s off the plated coffee cake I set out last night, and two pieces are already gone. “Mom, I’m not twelve. Whatever this is, just say it, all right?”
So, I do. “Did you take the money? Aunt Geraldine’s money?”
“That’s what this is about? Shit.”
“Robin.”
“Sorry,” he mutters mulishly. “Why shouldn’t I take it? She gave it to me.”
“I know. But your grandfather…”
“Is a control-freak bastard.”
“Robin!” The shock is real this time and I can’t help the way my eyes dart toward the stairs. Dad could be up there, listening.
Robbie sees. Robbie knows. He grew up in this house with his grandfather. Of course he knows. I watch him make his decision and my heart twists beneath my ribs.
“I’m…it’s true! You gotta stand up to him, Mom! You gotta get out of here.” He leans across the counter. “Come with me.”
Oh, no. Oh, no, Robbie. You’re not supposed to say that.
All at once, it’s Geraldine I’m staring at, not Robbie. She’s stick thin and pale and her eyes and arms are bruised. I’m about to get married, and she’s half-dead but she’s still talking to me like I’m the prisoner.
Come with me, Marie! Fuck Dad. Fuck all the Monroes and every last horse they rode in on. You need to get out of here. Fuck David too if he can’t see that!
I cannot breathe for the love and guilt and fear. I cannot tell whether I’m proud or terrified at Robbie’s poorly timed attempt to make me agree to the kind independence he can recognize.
“I know you care, honey.” Smile, Marie. The bright, self-deprecating smile. You can do it. “But you don’t want your old mother hanging around you at college, trying to make sure you eat right and dress warmly enough.”
Robbie must see something in my eyes, because he snaps his jaw shut and looks away, the picture of a young man’s stubbornness. “It’s not fair. You’re just staying because Granddad likes having someone to order around.”
“Robbie, you know things are complicated with your grandfather…”
“No, I don’t! Because they’re not. He’s a bully and a bastard and he just keeps you here because he can!”
Fear closes over me. It oozes out of the walls, sliding thick and cold from the deep shadows. It’s heavy and resists being shaped into words.
“Robbie, your grandfather has been looking after his family for a long time. He can be overprotective, and that’s hard for a young man. Just remember you’ve only got another couple of months, and then you start your new life.”
Oh, when did my son learn to hoard so much anger? I tried to protect him. I’ve tried so hard. What did I miss?
He opens his mouth to tell me the truth. I don’t want to hear it, whatever it is.
Please, I try to tell him. I need time. Please, Robbie. Please…whoever can hear me. Just a little more time, and it will all be better. I promise. I do.
Does he understand my silence? I don’t know. But the moment breaks anyway.
“I gotta go,” Robbie tells me. “Chuck’s band is playing this graduation thing in Petoskey. I promised I’d help set up the equipment and stuff.”
“Will you be back for dinner?”
“Chuck’s having his thing the day after, so I was just gonna stay over, be back Wednesday night.” He stops again. “You know I don’t care about the stupid graduation party Granddad’s making you put together for Sunday, right? As far as I’m concerned, you can tell him to stuff it.”
“Yes, I know.”
“But we’re doing it anyway.”
“Yes, we are. And you’re putting on a clean shirt with a collar, and you’re going to smile at everyone and talk about how excited you are to be going to the University of Michigan.”
A thousand expressions flicker across my son’s face, too fast for me to read, but not too fast to understand.
Robbie gulps his milk, shoves a third piece of coffee cake into his mouth, mumbles an apology for cramming, and grabs his car keys off the hook on the cabinet.
“I didn’t take the money,” he says over his shoulder.
“I know,” I say, but only because he’s already left.
The garage door slams and I listen to the familiar noises of the car engine starting and the slight rattle of the automatic door opener. My son is gone.
I close my eyes, and I breathe, deeply, steadily. When I’ve finally stopped shaking, I get to my feet.
I have to get out of this house.
I’m supposed to be here when Dad wakes up, smiling and ready to demonstrate that nothing’s wrong. I’m supposed to hear his gentle reminders and loving criticisms, and all those special little last-minute requests he makes in his most offhand manner. Dale Watts and his wife are coming to dinner tonight. And tomorrow we’re going out with Jack and Margot Spitzer.
But some days, it is better to take a little time out until one is completely calm again. This is slightly self-indulgent, but I can’t risk any careless mistakes. I’ll tick some items off the to-do list: some party shopping, some visits, a few necessary conversations. I can check up on Geraldine.
Yes. That will work. I take my own keys off their hook and curl my good hand around them so they don’t rattle. No one will even notice I’m gone.
3.
“Marie!”
Aunt June waves with her free hand. Her other arm is wrapped around Grandma’s, supporting and guiding her, but with dignity. Grandma Millicent always commands respect.
I’m coming out of Trey’s bakery, where I’d stopped to pick up some of Dad’s favorite almond macaroons, while Grandma and Aunt June are coming out of Haabs Restaurant.
“Oh, hello!” Cheeks are kissed. Both of them are wearing sun hats. June’s is pale pink straw with a dark pink ribbon and pink rhinestones for trim. Grandma Millicent’s is navy blue, like her skirt, and very plain, like her sleeveless white blouse.
