My Sister's Prayer (24 page)

She had been so wrong on all accounts. Here she was in the same village as Jonathan, and he'd done worse than not set the record
straight—he had abandoned her altogether. Her heart heavy, Celeste trudged toward the inn. The rat-a-tat of the drums continued in the background. Somewhere, Jonathan drove on in his pretentious carriage with Miss Vines.

Loneliness nearly overwhelmed Celeste as she stopped by the physician's residence and left a message, asking him to examine Berta, and then continued on to the inn and around the side to the kitchen door. Her pace slowed with each step as she wondered how she could possibly manage to oversee Berta's care and fulfill her duties. Hope for any sort of meaningful life of her own was entirely gone. Forget her dreams of having a husband and children. She no longer even had herself, her own freedom. For the next four years, she was owned by another.

Celeste stopped for a moment outside the inn and thought of studying her catechism under her mother's direction as a young girl.

Her mother would ask: “
What is the true and right knowledge of God?
” And Celeste would answer: “
When He is so known that due honor is paid to Him.
”

“What is the method of honoring Him duly?”
her mother would ask. Celeste would answer,
“To place our whole confidence in Him; to study to serve Him during our whole life by obeying His will; to call upon Him in all our necessities…”

Celeste hadn't obeyed God when she took the ruby ring and fled to America. She'd dishonored both God and her parents and put her sister in a horrible situation. She didn't feel as if she had a right to call upon Him now.

“You're back.” Mr. Edwards stood at the corner of the inn, a bucket of scraps in his hand.

“Yes,” Celeste said. “I was just catching my breath.”

“Well, catch it in the kitchen. Sary needs your help.”

“Yes sir.” But instead of heading that way, she paused for a moment, met his eyes, and thanked him for giving her the time off. “Mr. Horn had misspoken. It wasn't my sister who died but a different maid.”

His eyes widened, and he actually seemed relieved on her behalf.

“Unfortunately, Berta is quite ill. But I was able to bring her back
with me. Currently, she is being cared for in the home of Monsieur and Madame Petit.”

Avoiding his questioning gaze, she dug at her waistband for the pouch under her skirt and took out the money he'd given her. Celeste had paid for their passage with the money from the ring instead. As she handed him back his loan in full, his bushy eyebrows rose.

“I had more resources than I thought,” she explained, her face growing warm as she realized perhaps that didn't sound as she meant it.

He didn't seem to take it wrong. “Resourceful, you are.” He put the money into his own pouch. “You remind me of someone I held very dear.”

She guessed he was referring to his daughter, but she didn't want to bring up the girl's name in their conversation, not when he hadn't.

Celeste simply nodded. He handed her the bucket. “Take care of the chickens first. Be quick.” He turned and headed back toward the inn.

Celeste called out, “Mr. Edwards?”

He stopped and took a step backward.

“I'd like to see my sister when I can.”

“Of course. Just as long as you keep up with your work.”

“I promise I will. Thank you.”

Celeste started toward the coop. She was grateful for the man's help, but she needed to remember not to expect too much. He was kind, but he wasn't her father. She quickened her step. According to her parents, God was a Father who always cared. No matter what. Could she call upon Him to help?

She tried to form a silent prayer but nothing came. She didn't feel she had a right to ask for anything after what she'd done.

C
HAPTER
S
IXTEEN

Maddee

W
hen I arrived home from church, the smell of baked goods greeted me even before I opened the front door. Stepping inside, I spotted a tray of what looked like homemade crescent rolls on the stovetop, their flaky layers gooey with some sort of cinnamon fruit filling. I followed sounds of laughter to the living room, pulling back the curtain to see Miss Vida perched on the side of the bed and facing Nicole, who was sitting up against the pillows, her hair on top of her head in an elaborate updo. Beside them sat the rolling tray table, covered with an array of tubes and bottles and brushes and more.

My sister looked up at me and smiled, her face radiant if overdone in pink rouge, coral lipstick, and dark gray-blue eyeshadow. Gaping at her, I couldn't decide if she looked ready for a runway or a clown show. It was kind of halfway between the two.

“Good timing, Maddee. Miss Vida was just finishing up my makeover.” Though Nicole kept a straight face, I could tell she was trying not to laugh.

“Wow,” I replied, stepping closer. “That's all I can say. Just…wow.”

“Hey, Maddee, did you see the rugelach we made in there?” Miss Vida asked, dabbing a thick brush along Nicole's cheekbones. “Help yourself.”

“I will, once I've changed out of my church clothes. They smell amazing.”

“They taste even better,” Nicole replied.

Miss Vida gave one last swipe of the brush before turning to gauge my reaction, her eyes sparkling. “Well?”

“Like I said. Wow.”

“Thanks.” She seemed quite pleased with herself. “That was fun, doing makeup on a young woman. Your skin is still so perfect. At my age, all I can do is slap on some foundation and hope it fills in the nooks and crannies.”

She rose and stepped back to take a final look, nodded in satisfaction, and then turned her attention to the table, rolling it off to the side and gathering up her supplies. I stepped closer to the bed, resisting the urge to reach out and tug on one of the ringlets in Nicole's hair.

“She looks great,” I said. “Like something out of
Vogue
.” Or maybe
Circus Monthly
.

“I told your sister if she'll keep off the crank for good, her skin will stay this beautiful a lot longer,” Miss Vida said as she placed the items one by one into a large, zippered makeup bag. “Not to mention her teeth. She's lucky she caught all this nonsense in time. Trust me, there's nothing uglier than meth mouth.”

Meth mouth? Crank? I glanced at Nicole, startled that not only had the topic of drugs come up between them, but that they both seemed so casual about it now. Leave it to Miss Vida to walk right up to the elephant in the room and call it by name.

“I was telling your sister that I did what she's doing, though to a much lesser degree, of course. Back in the eighties, when I had to have my gall bladder out, I decided to use that as an opportunity to quit smoking. I mean, why not? I knew that by the time I got out of the hospital I would have already gone a couple days without a cigarette, plus I was going to feel rotten anyway from the surgery, so I might as well get all the pain over with at once.” She glanced at Nicole and gave her a smile. “Right, baby? You're
just going to get all the pain over with at once, aren't you?”

“Sure am,” Nicole replied, and in that moment she sounded utterly sincere.

“Seems like you two had a good time,” I told her once Miss Vida was gone and I had changed into jeans and a comfy top. “I should have guessed y'all would get along. You're both blunt and hardheaded.”

“Hey!” Nicole replied, scooting to the edge of the bed so I could help her out. “At least she knows how to make a girl feel pretty.”

“Um, okay. That's one word for it.”

We got her in the chair and then I rolled her to the bathroom, where I hoisted her up so she could see herself in the mirror, giving us both a good laugh.

Nicole seemed happy but exhausted from her busy morning of baking and a makeover, and I could tell she needed a nap. We shared a light lunch first, and then I gave her her pills. But before transferring her back into the bed, I insisted on snapping a few pictures first. She tolerated it, though she threatened to punch me if I posted a single one of them to Instagram.

Back in the living room, she grew quiet as I helped her into the bed and pulled up the covers. The windows were open, and a crisp breeze rustled the curtains and filled the room with the scent of leaves, of a hint of wood smoke, of fall.

“I meant it, earlier,” she said softly.

“Meant what?” I replied, distracted by the electronic controls as I pushed the button to lower the head of the mattress.

“What Ms. Vida was saying, about quitting. I've been sober now for forty-eight days, Maddee. I want to stay that way.”

My pulse surged. Those of us in Nicole's current orbit—me, Nana, our parents, the doctors—had been saying this since the accident, that her drug habit needed to end now, for good. And though she'd paid lip service to the notion, this was the first time she'd actually brought the matter up herself, or said it quite like this.

Like she actually meant it.

I knew sobriety was a tenuous thing, and that all the determination and
commitment in the world still didn't guarantee success. But I also knew that if it were to happen at all, this was where it would have to start. She had to want it for herself, or she would never stand a chance.

My heart full as I met her eyes, the best I could manage was a quick, “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” she replied, looking back at me, peaceful but determined. “I really do.”

Nicole slept for the next two hours, time I spent up in my room, laying out my clothes and accessories for the week and generally getting organized. As I worked, my mind kept going over our conversation. I felt as though I were on a balance beam, teetering precariously between wanting to believe in my sister a hundred percent and knowing I had to remain skeptical at all times. Addicts could talk a good game. That's why the rule was to believe their actions, not their words. Even if I had to tell myself that over and over again, I was determined to remember it. I was also determined to see her get the treatment she needed. As a psychologist, I knew that the only way Nicole would ever stop doing the kinds of things she'd been doing on the outside was to first fix the ways she was hurting on the inside.

In the distance, I heard the children at the park. They must have been playing hide and seek, because one of them counted down loudly from ten to one then called out, “Ready or not, here I come!”

Ready or not, my sister had been handed a rare opportunity the night she survived that accident. The enforced sobriety. The reminder of her mortality. The very tangible love and support of her family. These things had all come in the wake of that disaster.

Truly, she might never be in a better position to change her heart and her life.

When Nicole awoke, she looked like a raccoon who had stuck her finger in an electrical outlet. And though I threatened to snap more
pictures, I didn't have the heart. Instead, I just helped take down the updo, brush out her hair, and remove the makeup.

Deciding we could both use some fresh air, we spent the next two hours out on the patio, playing Uno, a favorite game from our childhood. Then we came back in and made goat cheese and spinach pizza for supper. Nicole was in high spirits, though as the evening wore on, I could see her growing weaker and more tired. We'd planned to watch a movie together after eating, but she was ready for bed by eight thirty and fell asleep before I could tell her good night.