Sister Dear (6 page)

“Still think you're better than us?” the woman sneered, spittle
dotting the edges of her cracked lips. “I'll fix that pretty face for good. Then we'll see—”

Guards yelled, attempting to press and wrestle their way through the crowd. Other catfights broke out, each officer fending off dozens of angry women surrounding Allie and her assailants.

Allie stared at the inmate crushing her ribs. “Go ahead.”

The woman scowled in frustration. “You're too stupid to be scared.”

As her attacker's hand came down to cut a second time, Allie channeled all of her focus and energy. She grabbed the woman's wrist, imagining it belonged to Sheriff Lee Gaines, and turned the bones until they snapped. The inmate yowled in pain and twisted away, allowing Allie an escape. Shifting her weight, Allie rolled upright, pinning the woman facedown on the concrete with one knee.

“Don't ever touch me again,” Allie breathed close to her ear, then let the woman's limbs drop. She had everyone's attention and wasn't about to let the moment pass. Seconds later, Allie was yanked to her feet by a group of guards, the other woman dragged away by her elbows.

In the safety of the infirmary, after being cleaned and stitched, Allie collapsed into shivering convulsions on her gurney. No one had won. She was sickened at having to harm anyone, but she had been in the fight of her life. Allie had never been so frightened—not even in the courtroom on the day of her sentencing.

The warden ordered forty-eight hours in the SMU, the special management unit, or lockdown, for fighting. Allie used the time to put the day's events in perspective. Her limited knowledge of human anatomy and show of false bravado had saved her. She wondered if it was enough to keep her alive the next time.

It seemed a good time as any to pray, though Allie had never
been particularly religious. Saying the words—talking to the air above her head—somehow comforted her. Her breathing slowed. Allie closed her eyes tight. There'd be proof soon enough if anyone up there actually listened.

Lord, help me survive this. Keep Caroline safe until I get home. I'll do anything.

The mantra became like a heartbeat. It kept her sane. Human.

One wish. One promise.

Every moment. Every day.

One step closer to Caroline.

2016

“Allie?” Her mother touched her arm. “Everything okay?”

Swallowing hard, Allie bobbed her head.

“Well, what do you think?” her mother asked.

Overwhelmed with gratitude, Allie faced her parents. “This is all . . . so much.” Her voice cracked. She couldn't finish talking and pressed the back of her hand to her mouth. The little place was sparse, but it was hers. And she would be here tonight, alone. For the first time in ten years, a human or computer wouldn't monitor her every move.

“Thank you. It's wonderful.”

“I'm so glad you like it.” Her mother smiled.

“How in the world did you have time?” Allie asked, wide-eyed.

Her mother hesitated, her eyelashes fluttering in her husband's direction. Her father, face reddened, shifted from one foot to the other. “We sold the office,” her father admitted.

Smothering a small cry, Allie covered her mouth with one hand. She couldn't speak. Sold? Just like that?

“To a young vet and her husband,” he continued. “They have a son who's seventeen.”

Allie's head swam. The vet office was an integral part of their lives, or so she had thought. For as long as she could remember, it was where her father worked—it was how people knew him, and his office was the place she spent summers and every day after school. Had her return to Brunswick caused this?

“It's a lot to take in, dear.” Her mother clasped her hands together, trying desperately to look upbeat and cheerful. “But it was time to hand over the reins.”

Allie's eyes met her father's. Even being away from the business for years, she knew the sale and transfer of a large animal vet office wasn't simple. Letting it go, giving it up, had to be like cutting off a limb.

Her father shrugged and gazed at the floor. “It was time,” he echoed, as if he'd rehearsed the lines to himself until he believed them.

Allie's lips parted, but she couldn't think of a single thing to say.

“Get some rest,” her father added gruffly. “I'm sure you're exhausted. From the drive. And everything . . .”

Allie blinked. They were leaving. It had been all of forty-five minutes. Maybe less. And still, no Caroline. Her heart thudded against her chest well.

“What about Caroline?” Allie asked slowly. “I-I thought she'd be here by now.”

At the mention of her daughter's name, her father set his jaw.

Her mother stiffened and avoided Allie's gaze. “She had to stay after school. Homework—or something? She's so busy.” Her mother's voice tightened, trying to sound light.

“You know teenagers,” her father added, then stopped himself. A thin sheen of perspiration appeared across his hairline.

The words stabbed at Allie.

No, she thought. She did not know teenagers. She did not know anyone anymore. She didn't have friends, or a bank account, or a
vase for fresh-cut flowers. Allie hadn't had a long, hot shower in what seemed a million years. She never slept through the night, and couldn't remember when she'd felt the sun on her skin without a barbed-wire shadow falling across it.

Her mother squeezed Allie's hand. “Just give her some time. She'll come around.”

Allie tried to smile. She nodded as her eyes filled with tears.

She had to believe it. Believe she could prove what had really happened that night. And that Caroline would give her a second chance.

It was all she had lived for.

EIGHT

EMMA

2016

“Caroline,” Emma repeated. She knocked again, beginning to lose her patience.

The music cranked louder.

Emma raised her voice. “Caroline, answer me!”

A second later, her niece jerked the door open three inches. Music blared at Emma's face, pushing her back. Startled, Emma gripped the door frame and caught her balance.

Caroline was a beautiful girl, dark hair and long eyelashes—but when angered, her face vacillated somewhere between fury and pain. Her creamy skin was pale and blotchy, eyes red-rimmed. She'd showered and changed, traded her school uniform for shorts and a faded Ramones T-shirt that smelled of baby powder.

Body prickling with concern for her niece, Emma motioned for her to turn off the song.

After a beat, Caroline pursed her lips and pressed the volume on her phone. When the room was silent, she twisted an earring, unable to meet her aunt's gaze.

“I know you're upset,” Emma said, keeping her voice calm. She
reached out, pushed the door open farther, and tucked a strand of loose hair behind one of Caroline's ears. “But we need to talk about your mom, and you might as well eat while we're doing it.”

There was a long pause before Caroline answered. “I'm not hungry.”

“Honey.” Emma sighed. She knew what was best for Caroline. She'd raised her since she wore smocked dresses and matching hair bows. “You have to eat. We've talked about this.” Emma wouldn't allow Caroline to turn into one of those anorexic girls who ate only lettuce and thought skin and bones looked beautiful.

“I can't. I'll be sick,” Caroline protested, crinkling her forehead and punctuating the last two words with emphasis.

Emma swallowed back another reproach. She would jot it down in Caroline's food diary, the one she began when her niece hit puberty. Though Caroline didn't know it, Emma kept track of everything. What she ate, her moods, her menstrual cycles. There was nothing that escaped her. It was for Caroline's own good.

“And I've got homework.” Caroline gestured to the large stack of books on her bed.

After a beat, Emma nodded. It did look like a lot of homework, and Caroline had eaten breakfast. Skipping one meal was okay. She would allow it.

Caroline murmured a “thank you” as Emma backed away and shut the door. The lock clicked into place. Seconds later, music started playing, blaring from her speakers. Emma stood still, one hand pressed on the wooden edge of the door frame, as if it were a connection and not a barrier to her niece. Emma would figure out another way of coaxing her out tomorrow.

For now, Caroline's unhappiness was apparently going to include a tribute to Druery, a band out of Athens, Georgia, that sounded like a millennial version of The Doors. The homework
excuse was doubtful. Caroline was a good student and had likely finished any assignments at school.

When the song started over, seemingly louder, Emma gripped the door frame and pressed her ear to the center of the smooth polished wood, where a peephole might be, imagining she heard her crying. Emma thought about her niece staring at the wall. Rocking on the bed with her arms wrapped around her knees.

Emma stilled the breath in her lungs, almost willing her own heartbeat to stop. She strained to listen, but there was no sound, other than the lyrics.

The world, in all its bitterness, sighs. It's the end of everything we tried to hide. You'd rather run; I'd rather die.

Emma hugged her arms tight to her chest, squeezing her rib cage, her fingers pinching her own skin. She hoped it would leave a mark. A reminder of how much she loved Caroline. How much she had sacrificed for the girl.

They'd been through hell and back with Allie's trial. She could live through a few days of this—both of them could. If it got much worse, she'd talk to Caroline's school counselors or an adolescent psychiatrist.

It was a fact: there wasn't any
good
time to reacquaint with a mother who'd been gone for a decade. No feel-better poem or Hallmark card saying. There wasn't any advice that would make a bit of difference.

Caroline needed stability. The sort of stability only Emma could provide.

In the kitchen, Emma uncorked and poured a Merlot-Syrah blend that boasted hints of cherry and chocolate on the tongue. Then, as she'd done more than a hundred times before, she logged on to the Internet and typed the URL she knew by heart and stared at the screen.

Emma took a long sip of the wine, allowing the velvety liquid to slide down her throat. She swallowed and examined the screen. Even in her mug shot, Allie was beautiful. Sea-glass eyes staring serene and cool at the camera. Sleek blonde hair grazing the tan collar of her prison-issued uniform. A face that belonged in a Rembrandt painting.

The exterior existed for everyone to examine, like taking turns with a science lab microscope. Allie was like a drop of blood between two slides. Something to be coded, checked, and recorded. Anyone could do the research, find the Lee Arrendale State Prison home page, and enter her name or inmate number. Allie's color photo would appear, along with her height, weight, birth date, information about her incarceration, and current sentence.

Emma scanned the details she knew by heart. Nothing had changed, except the release date had been verified. Added. And made official.

Allie was home. Allie, who used to be perfect in every way. Allie, the A student. Allie, the great mother. The favorite daughter.

But in the ten years Allie had been behind bars, Emma had become the good daughter, the one everyone counted on and respected for her sacrifices. She'd taken care of Caroline as if she were her own. She'd worked hard, done everything she was supposed to. She was now the shining star, the example to follow.

And Emma wasn't about to let that change.

No one—not Allie, not her parents, not the people in Brunswick—would ever make her feel inadequate again.

March 2006

Allie and Ben were lying in the backyard hammock, heads on opposite ends, swaying to make any breeze in the still, Georgia
afternoon. For a Saturday in late March, the unseasonably warm weather, above eighty degrees, had drawn everyone in Brunswick outside to enjoy the weekend. Allie's small black lab, Molly, still just a puppy, with her shiny coat, dark eyes, and large paws she'd grow into, lay under the knotted ropes, dozing and shaded from the sun while Emma flipped through the latest issues of
Vogue
and
Cosmo
.

“Your MCAT scores are stellar. You're going to get in,” Ben said to Allie. He waved a hand as if to dismiss her question. “We could pack a lunch and go to Driftwood Beach. Forget about medical school, for a few hours at least.”

Allie smiled. “Thanks. Wish you were on the admissions committee.”

“What are you worried about?” Emma asked, raising her head an inch to look at her sister. She propped herself up in the chaise lounge on one elbow, grabbed the bottle of sunscreen, and squeezed a creamy dollop onto her open palm. As she rubbed it into her skin, warmed by the sun, the lotion scented the air with coconut. “You just mailed off the applications yesterday.”

“I know.” Allie wrinkled her nose. “Even applying this early, replies can take a year. I might get a call in September for an interview to join next year's class.”

Emma finished coating her skin with sunscreen and dropped back into the lounge chair. She stared up at the canopy of leaves, tracing the shelter of thick branches and gnarled trunk. Why couldn't her sister just be normal? Couldn't she relax for one day?

“What are the numbers for a first-year med school class at Emory?” Ben asked.

“Five thousand students apply, more or less.” Allie paused. “They interview seven hundred, give or take. From there, they pick one hundred and forty, half of them women. Not exactly a slam dunk.”

“If anyone can do it twice, you can,” Ben argued. “Besides,
you've got the single mom thing going. You're twenty-six years old, you're smart, you're a hard worker.”