When We Were Sisters (16 page)

19

Kris

Pet's fall piano recital is at three this afternoon, and yesterday I made absolutely certain to clear my schedule. Robin warned me I had to deliver our daughter ahead of time for the rehearsal and not waltz in when she was about to perform. To show Pet my support I was to sit through the entire concert, preschoolers punching out two-fingered “Twinkle, Twinkles” and high school prodigies trilling mind-numbing Mozart sonatas. I know this matters to my daughter. The fact that Robin will check to be sure I made the recital in time is immaterial.

Grace was happy to babysit Friday evening, so last night I stayed at work until late, finishing what I could. Pet was asleep by the time I got home, but Grace said the evening went well, and she'd listened as my daughter played her solo, the Bach “Invention in C Major,” over the telephone for Robin. Last year Pet told me that she particularly likes Bach for his crisp symmetry and careful construction. Maybe the words are Miss Cartwright's, her piano teacher, but I was impressed enough to remember them.

I'm stupidly proud that I found and hired Grace, even though, let's face it, that's the kind of job any father should be able to do. Still, my choice was good. Grace is never late when I need her, and the house looks just as clean when I return as it did when I left. Even Nik says she's okay, which is as good as saying she may be his first adolescent crush. Grace is easy on a preteen's eyes, and her twin, Gil, a good-looking kid in a broody, Eminem sort of way, ensures Grace's popularity with their female classmates.

Parenting is not a competition, but for once I'm glad I'll be the parent who actually showed up. I'm beginning to think I need to score a few points with my daughter, who never seems to be available when I am. I don't worry as much about Nik. My son is a complete mystery, and for all I know, showing up in his life between now and college graduation might ruin what's left of our relationship.

This morning I spoke at a men's club breakfast, one of those public relations events that might bring our firm more clients. Grace arrived right on time, and I left Pet a note promising I would be home to take her to the assisted-living facility where the recital is to be held. Miss Cartwright is a fan of captive audiences. Between students' families and residents, Pet would be performing for a crowd.

My daughter is not an inspired pianist, but she practices with enthusiasm and carefully follows direction, so she's easy to listen to. Pet probably won't be courted for Juilliard, but her enthusiasm for decorating the world means the Rhode Island School of Design might come calling.

I arrived home just ten minutes after I'd said I would—and in plenty of time to get her to the recital—to find the house empty. Pet had scrawled a few lines under my note on the counter.

I don't want to be late. Grace is taking me to her house so I can go with Jody. Nik is at Brandon's.

I may not spend enough time with my daughter, but I know Pet well enough to understand what she was really saying in those short sentences.

Dear Dad. You're a failure. You can't be counted on, not even on a day like this one that I've practiced and practiced for. Sure, you said you'd come home in time, but when have you actually made it? I didn't see you at all yesterday, so all I have is this stupid note. Anybody can write a note. Anybody can say they're going to do something and then find something more important to do instead. So I've taken matters into my own hands. Miss Cartwright is making a recording of our recital. You can listen to it the next time you drive to work and not even bother coming to see me in person.

Well, okay, that was laying it on a bit thick, but recrimination did ring through every word on the crumpled paper in my hand.

I don't need Robin pointing an accusing finger to know I'm failing at fatherhood. I was glad I had the rest of the day to make this up to Pet. I didn't need to be at the retirement home immediately, since the actual recital didn't begin for another hour. But I did know something I could do to let Pet know the recital was a special event.

I found the list Robin had left and zeroed in on Brandon's number. He's a relatively new friend, and when Brandon's mother answered I couldn't picture mother or son, but I introduced myself before asking to speak to Nik.

“Yeah?” he said when he answered.

“That would be ‘Hello, this is Nik,'” I said.

“Hello, this is Nik,” he repeated back in a singsong voice.

“Hello, this is your father, and I'll be by to pick you up in fifteen minutes to go to your sister's piano recital. You've had lunch?”

“I'm not going.”

“Of course you are. How many soccer games has she sat through for you?”

“I've sat through her games, too.”

“Nobody's keeping score. You will do this. What are you wearing?”

“Clothes.”

“I am not happy with this conversation.”

Maybe there was something in my voice that alerted him I meant it. Whatever the reason, his tone changed. “I look okay,” he said after a long pause, as if he'd just glanced down to check.

“I hope that's true. I'll come inside to thank Brandon's mother. Be ready.”

“I hate piano recitals.”

“You won't be the first or last person to say that. But you do love your sister.”

“That sounds like something Mom would say.”

I hung up and realized I was smiling. I had channeled my inner Robin. It actually felt good.

* * *

My daughter is a star. Before taking her seat on the piano bench Pet walked to the front of the stage and bowed. Then, settled at the piano, she played the “Invention” without significant mistakes and remained composed throughout.

Her flair for decoration extends to fashion. She wore shiny black shoes and carried a matching purse onstage to set beside her on the bench, as if to say no outfit was complete without one. The dress was new to me, but she looked adorable, swathed in royal blue with a frilly hem so short it made me wonder if she was trying to pull one over on me again. Then I noted that every girl in the recital was wearing one equally as short.

I apparently have a lot to learn about not-so-little girls.

As a finale she and Jody performed a Scott Joplin duet that received a standing ovation. Of course it's entirely possible the seniors and families were just tired of sitting and more than ready to leave.

Afterward we celebrated her accomplishment at a nearby restaurant that specialized in gourmet hamburgers and a French fry bar. Who knew there were so many unhealthy options for smothering French fries?

“I hope you're happy,” Nik told her as we drove home. “Brandon's mom rented the first two Jurassic Parks for us to watch today.”

“You can see movies anytime. You don't always get to see a virtuoso.”

He made a gagging noise.

“It's still early,” I said. “Why don't we rent a movie on cable and watch it together?”

“Not
Jurassic World
,” Pet said.

Nik gagged again. “Like I'd watch that with
you
. You'd squeal through the whole thing.”

“Wait until we get home and we'll see what's available.” I punctuated that by pulling into the parking lot of our local grocery store and turning off the engine. “Ice-cream sundaes okay with you? Pet chooses the ice cream, Nik chooses the toppings.” I paused. “Or you can consult each other and compromise.”

By the time we got home we had two cartons of ice cream—I'd added Rocky Road after they chose Bubble Yum. By the time the final Harry Potter movie, which they'd already seen twice, was finished, the sundaes were memories and my children looked the way they had years ago, when I had to carry them upstairs and tuck them into bed because they were too exhausted to make the trip on their own.

“Great night,” I said, flicking off the television. “And late. You guys go on up and I'll come up to say good-night in a few minutes.”

Pet, who had moved ever closer to me on the sofa until she had finally cuddled up with my arm around her, roused herself to stand. Nik was already on his feet.

“I don't need to be tucked in,” he said, his voice squeaking on the last word.

“Of course you don't.”

“Just so you know.” He trudged up the steps, and Pet watched him go.

“Thank you for coming and all.”

“I wouldn't have missed it. But for the record, I was home in plenty of time to get you there for the rehearsal.”

“I just didn't want to take a chance.”

“I know.” I stood and hugged her. “Now scoot, okay?” I turned her toward the stairs.

“I think my blue nightgown got washed. My other one's dirty now. I need to get it.”

I did know that Elena folded their laundry when it came out of the dryer but left it in the laundry room for them to find and put away. Apparently Pet hadn't gotten to hers yesterday. “I'll get it. You brush your teeth. I'll bring it up in a minute.”

“Thanks, Daddy.” She kissed my cheek and left.

I've won battles in the courtroom, so I recognized my feelings as I watched her trudge up the stairs. Tonight I'd turned the tide with my children, though I didn't know for how long. We'd had fun. I didn't want to think about the last time I'd been able to say that.

It's odd for anyone to look forward to visiting their laundry room, so I won't go that far. But ours is a good place to drop in from time to time. Robin worked her usual magic here. The walls are a serene gray-green with framed photos of our garden on the walls, and the shelves and cabinets are painted the muted pink of her favorite roses. A hand-lettered sign says Laundry Schedule, and the list ends with Iron: Ha, Ha, Ha! Despite that, there's an ironing board above the dryer that flips down from the wall, and Robin has been known to iron my shirts.

Have I ever really appreciated that a talented photographer was spending her days decorating laundry rooms and ironing shirts without complaint? I usually thanked her when she ironed for me, but at what point had I begun to see those things as her job, even her duty? At what point had I assumed that what I wanted was exactly right for everyone in our family?

Some days I wasn't even sure it was right for me.

Pet's short stack of laundry was neatly folded on a dark green table along one wall. I scooped it up, along with a tall pile of Nik's. I wondered what he was wearing to school these days since almost everything he owned was right here.

I turned off the light and started back through the house to the stairs, arms piled high. Nik was on the phone, so I stacked his laundry on the top of his dresser and ran a finger across my throat to tell him to cut the call short.

I could hear Pet brushing her teeth in the bathroom, so I went into her room uninvited. My daughter's room is almost compulsively neat and everything is so perfectly arranged that dropping even a few shirts on her dresser seemed like sacrilege. I lifted her nightgown from the top of the stack and set it on her bed. Then I opened her middle drawer to set the T-shirts inside. The drawer was already crowded, and I moved a few things to one side to make room.

I stared, for just a moment not quite making sense of what I saw. On the bottom of the drawer, where the shirts had first hidden it, was a clear plastic bag cinched with a rubber band, and unless my daughter has just taken up Italian cooking, I was pretty sure I knew what was inside.

I was sitting on her bed, the bag resting in the palm of my outstretched hand, when Pet came in from the bathroom. She took one look at the expression on my face and the bag in my hand, and began to cry.

20

Cecilia

“I Will Survive” could be my theme song, only I didn't write it, never recorded it and I'm not partial to disco. I was only four when the song topped the charts, and while it would have made a peppy choice for my short-lived barroom Shirley Temple act, Maribeth probably figured that lyrics about rotten men and take-charge women weren't going to go over well with my audience. Not even as a joke.

I do think of my mother, though, whenever I hear Gloria Gaynor belting out those lyrics. Because several years after the song skyrocketed to glory, “I Will Survive” became my personal mantra. By then I had decided that surviving my chaotic childhood would be plenty good enough, at least until I was an adult and able to manage my own life. That's what I must have thought on the day the good people from Children and Family Services here in Jamestown, New York, decreed that singing in bars to support my mother's drinking habit wasn't likely to have a happy outcome.

Of course, considering how I turned out and what I do? Who knows?

Mick Bollard really is brilliant. He filmed the scene of me walking into the Chelsea Lounge and sitting down at the bar to tell my story four times before the content, lighting and sound met his standards. But every single time he and Starla used a different lead-in to get me started, so I wouldn't be parroting things I'd said during the last take. Since I mentioned the song and my personal attachment to it every time, I'm certain that when and if this segment appears on the screen, Gloria will be singing away in the background.

“You okay?” As the film crew packed, Donny came up behind me and dropped my favorite hoodie over my shoulders. I hadn't even noticed I was beginning to shiver.

I slipped my arms into the sleeves. Robin gave me this hoodie. It's hand knit of cashmere and mohair in an unusual shade of golden-brown that she knew would look good on me. She realizes I have more money than any person is entitled to, but that's never stopped her from buying me thoughtful gifts at boutiques and craft fairs.

“This hasn't been fun,” I admitted.

“I can imagine, but we're done now. In fact Mick just told me we're probably done in Jamestown for good. He'll send Jerry back to get scenes of your foster home when there's snow on the ground, but you won't need to be here.”

There
had
been snow on the ground the day I was dragged from my mother's loving arms, or what passed for them, and placed in foster care for the first time. I remember being so cold my skin was turning blue. I had left my coat in some bar or strange man's apartment, and Maribeth had never gone back for it. I remember being taken by a faceless social worker to an old house with a blazing fire in a stone fireplace. Someone settled me in front of it with an afghan tucked around me and brought me hot cocoa. At some point I learned that I would be staying with these strangers because I had no family to take me in. My grandfather had died, and my grandmother was too ill to care for me.

Funny the things you remember.

The couple who served that hot cocoa, and later bought me a coat and boots, are in their sixties now and reside in Canada. They've agreed to be interviewed, but I won't need to be there. I was with them for six months, but I don't remember them, and frankly, I doubt they really remember me. Mick tells me that fifty-three children passed through the doors of that old house, often for the briefest of stays. They sent him a snapshot of a drawing I'd made, preserved all these years in one of their scrapbooks, and the drawing is more enlightening than their foggy memories.

I was in first grade. I drew a table overflowing with food and a little girl gazing at it from the sidelines. More or less. That's what Mick thinks it looks like, anyway.

I never could draw. Still can't.

Donny was searching my face the way he does when he wants to see how I'll react to something he's about to say. “There's a woman here from the
Times
. Mick would like you to talk to her about what you hope to accomplish by helping with this film. Are you willing?”

On the East Coast the
Times
means the
New York Times
, not to be ignored or dissed. “Right now?”

He inclined his head toward a group of people who were sitting along the bar and at the few tables scattered around the floor to make the scene look real. Most of them were friends of the hotel proprietor or connections of Mick's. Apparently Donny had slipped the
Times
reporter into the mix. “She just wants to meet you today and set up an interview for later.”

“I can do that.”

Robin had been photographing the bar by kneeling on a stool and leaning over it for a fresh perspective. Now she headed my way. Since I returned from California she seems more comfortable with her job and happier doing it. Mick seems more comfortable working with her, too. She told me that one day they went out in the rain together to shoot old factories. Whatever they did, it's working.

“You were great,” she said. I could tell she believed it, because Robin is not an accomplished liar. I always know when she's not telling the truth. On the other hand, she's not exactly objective.

I was trying to think of a reply when she cocked her head to examine me. “This is harder than you thought, isn't it?”

I managed a smile-on-wry with an extra slice of ham. I'm good at ham.

Donny reappeared with a middle-aged woman with unnaturally black hair pulled into a low ponytail, and bright red lipstick.

“Zilla Atkins,” she said, extending her hand. “Thanks for letting me sit in today.”

I didn't explain I hadn't known. I was pretty sure that was old news to her. “Zilla, this is my sister, Robin,” I said. They shook hands.

“I didn't know you had a sister. How did I miss that?”

“We're foster sisters,” Robin said.

Zilla dropped Robin's hand as if disappointed. “Not real ones.”

I took over, an edge to my voice. “As real as it gets.”

“I'm sorry.” Zilla knew she needed to get on my good side to interview me, even if she did write for the
Times
. “I just meant you're not
biologically
related.”

“Joined at the hip and the heart,” Robin said. “Best kind of biological.”

Zilla scrunched her face like someone doing hand-to-hand combat with boredom and turned back to me. “I'll look forward to hearing more. You'll have time to talk?”

“Donny can set that up. He has what passes for our schedule.”

Donny, who had remained silent, touched her arm to lead her away.

“I get tired of that, don't you?” Robin said when they were out of earshot. “Maybe after the film debuts people will realize there are all kinds of sisters.”

“I liked that ‘joined at the hip and the heart' comeback.”

Donny returned without Zilla, who was gathering her things to leave. “I think the two of you need to go somewhere alone tonight. No crew. No conversation you're too tired to have. You can sit and stare at each other if you can't think of anything to say. Starla or I will take the pup.”

“I'm not sure we can be alone anywhere,” Robin said, “now that Cecilia's been discovered.”

My presence in Jamestown hadn't remained secret for long. Anticipating this, Donny and Mick had hired security for the hotel, and Hal was my constant companion. Hal's been with me awhile, and he's good, but sometimes too good. He even checks the bathroom before I use it, although there's not a lot of room behind the toilet for paparazzi.

“I have that part covered.” Donny outlined a plan worthy of the CIA. I love a man who can lie and cheat without blinking an eye. I guess I
am
my mother's daughter.

“I'd rather just carry a gun,” I said, once he finished. Robin's eyes widened. She thinks I'm kidding, but I know for a fact I could use one if I had to.

“Self-defense only,” I promised. “But I once came within inches of smashing a rowdy fan over the head with my guitar.” I was immediately sorry I had brought that image to mind.

Donny, unlike my sister, didn't seem surprised. “No guns
or
guitars. But this plan should work without either. I have to take care of my girl.”

My smile inched toward something more genuine. I'm not Donny's girl, but it
is
nice to have a man in my life I can trust.

“You up for this?” I asked Robin.

“I can call home from the car.”

This meant, I'm sure, that she didn't expect to talk to Kris, because I would be sitting right there. I don't know what's going on with the two of them, but I get the feeling they haven't had a real conversation since Robin left Virginia.

I nodded toward the corner where Wendy and Starla—Roscoe in her arms—were going over notes. “I'll say thanks to all the extras and pet my dog. Then I'll change. Grab Wendy, will you? She'll need to change, too.”

Ten minutes later I left through the back door with Robin. Hal met us in the alley driving Donny's rental car, and Robin and I chatted as we slid inside, our arms heavy with equipment, as if we were in no hurry. I saw a couple of men lurking, but I had on baggy sweats, a heavy jacket and a watch cap complete with long dark hair streaming from the bottom edge. I ignored them; they ignored me.

Inside the bar Wendy was now wearing a wavy red wig, and the skirt and top I'd worn during filming today. She had to roll the skirt at the waistband so it didn't drag to her ankles, but a quick glimpse as she slipped into the BMW that had brought me to the lounge would probably convince anybody I was on my way back to the hotel.

Hal is a black belt, a former army sniper and an amateur race-car driver. By the time he finished winding his way through Jamestown's scenic streets, anyone who'd had an inkling they ought to tail our car would have been left behind.

I removed the cap and shook out my real hair. “Fancy or not?” I asked Robin. Donny had given me restaurant options.

She didn't hesitate. “Not.”

“Hal?”

“Got it,” he said.

Robin was scrolling through something on her phone. “You'll be recognized without the cap.”

“Donny thinks of everything.” One of the bags I'd carried to the car had a different wig, and I held it up now. “I make a fair to middling blonde. He put in granny spectacles, too. Beyond awesome.”

She glanced at the straw-colored wig with the bad eighties perm. The style was mullet-on-steroids. “I don't know if I can be seen with you.”

“My hair is this frizzy naturally, remember? You've seen me look worse.”

We reminisced about past fashion and hair disasters as she held the phone up to her ear. No one answered, and eventually she stopped reminiscing and left a message, all about Pet's recital today. Yesterday I'd had the pleasure of hearing my goddaughter play her piece over the phone when she performed it for her mother.

She dropped the phone back in her purse and stretched her legs to one side. “Maybe Kris took the kids out afterward. That is, if he went, and if he corralled Nik and made him go along.”

I can be devious. “Didn't you tell me Kris said he was going?”

“He hasn't told me anything since I left. We've missed each other when I've called home, and I missed him once when he called the night of the Legion party. I didn't return that one. I'm pretty sure he was calling to lecture me.”

“I'm sorry.”

“We fight. We're normal. It's just that this feels different. I don't think we've gone more than a week without speaking since the day we met.”

“He's probably never been this busy before. Job. Kids. House.”

“He has Elena and another babysitter doing the home stuff.”

“Does he hold grudges?”

She hesitated before she answered. “Kris struggles hard to be fair.”

I thought if he was really trying to be fair he would be on his hands and knees begging Robin for forgiveness. But what do I know? I was only married a year, and Sage and I probably spent less than a third of that time in each other's company.

We fell into a comfortable silence. As darkness descended I watched glimpses of Chautauqua Lake, a sapphire gem, move in and out of view as we drove toward a small town just north of the city. Nothing was familiar. I was in foster care here for just six months before I was returned to Maribeth—along with the Social Security survivor's benefit I was entitled to.

Maribeth had fooled everybody in charge. She took parenting classes, was absolutely sober when visiting me or talking to my caseworker. Even my young foster parents thought she was great—temporarily misguided and depressed, but worth a second chance. After I was returned to her, she found another “perfect” boyfriend, who moved us to West Virginia, where he promptly abandoned us.

I was feeling nostalgic. “Do you ever think that if just one thing had changed when we were growing up, we wouldn't be sitting here together? If Maribeth had left me in Randolph Furnace or here in Jamestown instead of coming back for me? Maybe I would never have been so determined to have a better life or worked so hard for one. Maybe nobody in my schools would have encouraged me to sing or act.”

“Or if my mother had actually taken me along. Who knows where I would be now?”

In fact, I knew one possible answer to where, although now wasn't the right moment to tell her. “You and I are living proof of silver linings or, at the least, consolation prizes. We each traded a mother for a sister.”

“This from the woman who doesn't know a single ballad with a happy ending.”

“As much as I love you, I hope
you're
not my happy ending. I'm not ready for an ending of any kind.”

“Amen.”

The restaurant was definitely informal. There were no lake views, since it was inland, and it looked as if it had been constructed in phases. Someone decided another room was needed, so they cheerfully plopped one here and then there. Judging by the parking lot the place was crowded, which meant we would blend right in.