The Good Sister (27 page)

That was shocking for many reasons.

Meek Ruthie was newly licensed and had never even driven alone yet. She certainly wasn’t allowed to take the car without permission, let alone at night, in a snowstorm.

Angel wasn’t particularly worried, though—just impressed at Ruthie’s bold move.

Father, it seemed, was neither worried nor impressed; he was furious. He muttered something, slammed the door, and strode up the stairs. Angel heard him up there talking to Mother.

Angel tried to eavesdrop, but it was too hard to hear. Eventually, the boring book and all that snowball tossing and log carrying and the warmth of the crackling fire took effect and drowsiness set in . . .

The next thing Angel knew, Mother was screaming that Ruthie was dead.

“But I didn’t know why,” Angel ponders aloud. “Not then. I thought it was an accident. I didn’t know whose fault it really was. I didn’t know what really happened to you. If you hadn’t written it down in the notebook, I never would have known.”

Of course Ruthie doesn’t answer. Not out loud. But Angel hears her voice, clear as day.

Thank you, Angel.

That was the nickname Ruthie had bestowed from the moment she became a big sister.

“You’re my little Angel,” she used to say. “I’ll always take care of you.”

But she didn’t. She left Angel all alone in that awful house with their parents. All those years, Angel believed that she hadn’t meant to leave. She never would have abandoned her little Angel.

And now that you know the truth . . .

“I’m still your Angel, Ruthie. Your guardian angel. I promise I’ll make them pay for what they did to you. Two of them already have, and the third will be soon.”

Now, Angel. Don’t wait any longer. Please. It’s been long enough.

Angel sets aside the breakfast plate, now empty, and turns to Ruthie, propped on the window seat.

“Tonight.” Patting the rotted, blackened flesh clinging to her skeletal hand, Angel assures her, “I promise I’ll do it tonight.”

U
nder any other circumstances, Jen knows, Carley and Marie Bush would have hit it off very well. But today, when at last her daughter shows up in the kitchen, she walks into a somber conversation about Taylor Morino’s shocking death.

“Carley!” Jen’s mother is the first to spot her standing there in a bulky sweatshirt and jeans that look too snug. Her hair appears to be blown dry but not styled, pulled back in a barrette that’s parked crookedly at the nape of her neck. Her eyes, behind her glasses, betray too little sleep; too many tears.

“Hi, Grandma. Hi, Grandpa.” Carley dutifully hugs one, then the other, and turns to Jen. “Dad said I needed to come downstairs.”

Yes. That was before the world tilted even more crazily. Longing for ordinary Saturday mornings of not so long ago—when the worst imaginable disruption was her parents popping in with doughnuts—Jen introduces her daughter to a subdued Marie.

“Ms. Bush is here to talk to you about piano lessons, but we just got some news that’s—”

“I already know,” Carley cuts her off. “About Taylor Morino, right?”

“How did you hear? Were your friends talking about it online already?” Jen asks, before remembering she’d changed the wifi password.

“I’m not allowed to be online anymore,” her daughter says pointedly, “and I don’t have any friends.”

“Don’t be silly.” Jen’s mother brushes strands of hair back from her granddaughter’s face, out of her eyes. “Of course you have friends. Why aren’t you allowed to be online?”

Carley glances uncertainly at Jen, who gives a slight shake of her head to indicate that her grandmother doesn’t know about the trouble at school.

There’s no need to tell her, either—not now anyway, with Marie here and everything else that’s going on.

“The Internet is a dangerous place for kids,” Jen’s father declares. “On
60 Minutes
, they said—”

“Aldo,” Jen’s mother interrupts him. “We’re not talking about
60 Minutes
right now.”

“We were talking about the Internet, Theresa, and I said—”

“What’s going on?” Thad asks from the doorway, dressed for work in khakis and a trench coat and carrying a satchel.

Silence falls over the kitchen.

Carley is the one who breaks it, telling her father, “A girl from my school killed herself last night.”

Thad’s blue eyes widen. He looks at Jen, then back at Carley. “Did you know her?”

“Not really. I just know who she is.”

“Who is she?”

“Her name,” Jen tells Thad, “is Taylor Morino. Her father is Mike Morino.”

“Mike Morino—he’s the one you—”

“Yes.”

Thad nods. “I didn’t know he had a daughter who went to Sisters.”

“Neither did I, until—”

“I didn’t know Taylor Morino’s father was your old boyfriend,” Carley cuts in—accusingly, as though Jen deliberately denied her something of great significance.

Her head is suddenly throbbing.

“That was a long time ago, before your mom met your dad and fell in love with him,” Jen’s mother needlessly informs Carley.

“For what it’s worth, I never liked him,” Jen’s father says. “Wouldn’t trust him as far as I could throw him.”

“Aldo! His daughter just—”

“That doesn’t change—”

As her parents begin to argue, then find the self-awareness to shush themselves and each other, Jen presses her fingertips to her temples.

She looks at Carley, wishing they could have this conversation alone. “How did you find out about Taylor?”

“Emma told me. She heard you talking about it. About how you used to go out with Mr. Morino and how Taylor had killed herself.”

Jen didn’t even realize Emma was awake yet today. She must have snuck downstairs, probably searching the house for her cell phone or the wifi password. Well aware that their younger daughter has a tendency to snoop, Thad locked both her phone and Carley’s into the trunk of his car, and they probably should have done the same with the password.

A long moment of silence is broken by Thad pulling his keys out of his coat pocket. “I have to go,” he tells Jen apologetically. “I have a client coming in. I’ll call you from the office.”

He quickly says his good-byes and heads out the door, casting one last, helpless-looking glance over his shoulder at Jen, as if to apologize for leaving her to deal with the fallout.

She shrugs at him. What else is new?

Her father jangles his own keys. “We should get going, too, Theresa, if you want to stop at the supermarket.”

“I can’t even remember what I needed to get. You’re still coming to help me with the cooking, Genevieve, aren’t you?” her mother asks. “You and Frankie and the girls?”

“Oh . . . I . . . yes. We’ll be there as soon as we can.”

What else is there to say? In the end, Taylor Morino’s death isn’t going to impact the day’s plans, and yet it’s left Jen chilled to the bone.

Leaving Marie and Carley alone together in the kitchen, she walks her parents to the door. Her father kisses her on the cheek and heads outside, but her mother, flustered, lingers.

“I needed something from Wegman’s, but for the life of me, I can’t remember what it is. I’m getting old.”

“It’s okay, Mom. I’ll go and pick up whatever you need before I come over. Just call when you remember what it is.”

“You’re a good daughter, Genevieve.”

“And you’re a good mom.”

Her mother smiles. “So are you. A good daughter
and
a good mom.”

The words catch Jen off guard. If her mother only knew that both her girls have been in serious trouble and are barely speaking to her.

Maybe she should tell her. Mom raised five daughters and made it look so easy.

Maybe it was easy back then. The world was less complicated. Kids weren’t faced with distraction and temptation to the extent that they are now . . .

Or were they?

“Mom,” Jen begins—only to be interrupted by the sound of a car honking outside.

Her mother sighs. “Your father is losing his patience. I’ll see you in a little while.”

Jen swallows against the ache in her throat as she closes the door and rests her forehead against it for a moment, feeling utterly abandoned. Reminding herself that she isn’t, not really, she offers a silent, familiar prayer for strength.

Then she returns to the kitchen, where Marie and Carley are having what sounds like a painstaking conversation about piano. The ordinarily effervescent Marie is clearly preoccupied by the news of Taylor’s death, and Carley—Carley isn’t herself this morning, by any means.

She hasn’t been herself in so long that maybe, Jen finds herself speculating, this is who she really is now. Maybe she’s always going to be this brooding, dejected soul capable of volatile behavior like last night’s explosion; capable of God only knows what else.

No!

Not my daughter. Not my daughter.

“Sweetie . . .” Jen reaches out to rest a hand on her shoulder, feeling the tension emanating from her body. “Do you want to take piano lessons again? Wouldn’t that be fun?”

“Maybe. I . . . maybe.” Carley attempts to shrug away her mother’s touch along with the question.

“You don’t have to decide right this minute.” Marie checks her watch and reaches for her coat. “Think it over.”

“I will. Thank you. It was nice meeting you,” Carley says politely, and turns abruptly to face her mother, succeeding in shaking the hand from her shoulder. “Can I go back upstairs?”

“Don’t you want breakfast?”

“I’m not hungry,” Carley tosses over her shoulder, already on her way to her room.

Marie pulls on her coat and wraps a filmy floral lavender scarf around her neck. “She seems like a sweet girl.”

“She is. She’s . . .” Jen finds herself swallowing hard. “She’s very sweet.”

And she’s hurting and I can’t reach her and I can’t help her.

“Why don’t you give me a call later this week? We’ll talk about lessons then. Right now, I really have to get going.”

Jen walks her to the door and touches her arm as she reaches for the knob. “Marie . . . wait. What we were talking about before my parents showed up . . . I can’t stop thinking about it.”

“Debbie and Mike.”

Jen nods. “If they really were—really are—connected in some way, then what happened to Taylor is either a tragic coincidence or . . .”

“Or it isn’t,” Marie says simply. “You’re thinking she might have been influenced by what Nicki did?”

“I’m not sure what I’m thinking.” Jen rakes a frustrated, confused hand through her hair. “I think I’m going to talk to Debbie about it. Maybe if we both went over there right now and—”

“Even if I thought that was a good idea,” Marie cuts her off, “I can’t. I have back-to-back lessons for the rest of the day, and I’m late already. I’m sorry to run out on you like this, but . . .”

“No, it’s okay. I understand. Thank you for coming to talk to Carley. And Marie . . . I’m sorry to hear about Taylor. When you see Mike . . . please give him my sympathy.”

“You won’t come to the wake?”

Jen hesitates, then shakes her head. “I don’t really know him anymore. That was all so  . . .”

“Long ago and far away?”

“Exactly.” And that’s exactly how Jen had expected it to stay. “I just—I feel bad about assuming he was still married.”

“He
is
married. Again. Wife number three,” Marie adds with an ironic little smile and nod. “Good-bye, Genevieve. Take care of yourself—and take care of your daughter.”

Marie’s parting words seem to linger ominously after Jen closes the door after her.

“Was that Mom and Dad?”

She looks up to see Frankie at the top of the stairs behind her, pulling a sweatshirt over her head.

“They left a few minutes ago. That was Marie Bush.”

“I would have loved to have seen her after all these years.”

“I’m sure she would have, too, but this probably isn’t the best time.”

Frankie nods, descending the flight. “I heard what happened.”

“Did Emma tell you, too? I didn’t even know she was down here listening.”

“No, Carley told me.” Frankie puts her arm around Jen. “Are you okay?”

“I’m . . . I’m just so glad you’re here. Come on. I’ll get you some breakfast.”

Frankie winces. “Maybe just some strong black coffee.”

In the kitchen, Jen pours her a cup, then quickly loads the other ones into the dishwasher, starts it, and sinks wearily onto a stool beside her sister.

“I didn’t realize you’d even seen Mike Morino in years,” Frankie tells her.

“I hadn’t, until Nicki’s wake. He was there,” she says simply, opting not to get into her suspicions about him and Debbie, “and that’s when I found out his daughter is at Sisters with Carley. What are the odds that two girls who are connected to her—two girls with everything going for them—would do something like this in the space of a week?”

“Higher than you might think.”

Frankie’s response catches her by surprise. “What do you mean?”

“Kids who kill themselves sometimes trigger other kids who have been thinking about it to take action. There have been quite a few high-profile teen suicide rashes—I went to a seminar a few years ago where we studied the case in Minnesota where nine kids in the same school district killed themselves. Most of them had been bullied in one way or another.”

The word sets off shrill warning sirens in Jen’s brain.

“Carley was tortured by what happened with the Spring Fling princess election, Frankie, and ever since . . .”

“I know. She told me about it last night. I didn’t let on to her that I already knew about it. It broke my heart, hearing her trying to articulate the pain . . . but I thought it was good for her to talk it out.”

“I’m glad you were there for her. I keep praying she’ll let me be there for her, too, but she’s shut me out.”

“It’s because she feels like she’s let you down.”

“Why? I’ve let her know every chance I’ve had that I’m with her and I’m proud of her. I’ve tried to do everything right, but . . .” Jen trails off helplessly, flailing in a tidal wave of emotion.

“She’s disappointed in herself, I think. She feels weak. And it’s not just that, Jen.” Frankie glances at the doorway, as if to make sure no one is there, and lowers her voice. “She told me what happened in math class. She didn’t take it upon herself to cheat on that test. Those girls set her up. It was more bullying.”