When We Were Sisters (27 page)

Instead I changed the subject. “Donny said if I apologized, you and I would finally be on more or less equal footing.”

“Donny says a lot to you none of the rest of us can get away with. But for the record, we've been on equal footing for a long time, only you refused to see it.”

“I'm not enjoying this.”

“Get used to it.” She stepped forward and put her arms around me. And she held me when I started to cry.

32

Robin

Cecilia has always had more courage than I do. Last week she walked through the squalid rooms where her mother abandoned her as if she were a gracious first lady giving a tour of the White House. She grimly did five takes over two days, and she only broke down once.

On the final one she took us down the hall to the broom closet where as a child she hid when she needed to be safe. She showed us how she wedged the door shut from the inside so nobody could find her.

And she told us she slept in that dark, roach-infested closet as often as she slept on a filthy mattress on the floor of the apartment.

For anyone who questions whether my sister deserves the good things that have come her way as an adult? Take a look at the moment when she opens the closet door and bursts into tears.

Now a week later we were at the airport in Tampa, and Cecilia, who just got back from a quick trip to LA this morning, is on her phone in the parking lot talking to Hayley while I say goodbye to my daughter.

As a break from the more difficult scenes, Mick and crew spent a few days filming in this area, and even though I'd just seen her, the lighter schedule seemed like a perfect time to invite Pet to join me for a long weekend. Even Kris, who had to make more trips to the airport for pickup and delivery, agreed she would get more from being on a film set than from her class unit on messages in the media.

Ten is not too young to understand the inner workings of a parent. When I wasn't needed for photos, I drove Pet on a tour of homes I had lived in, including a drive-by of my grandmother's, a last-minute decision I was afraid I might regret.

When I left foster care I was presented with the life book with information about my childhood and education that had followed me from placement to placement. So even though I was a child when I left my grandmother's house, I had the address. Secretly I hoped the house had blown away in a hurricane, but as expected, when Pet and I pulled up it was still standing. The little bungalow looked as if somebody cared about it, because the shrubs were neatly trimmed, exterior shingles replaced and the shutters had been recently painted. Of course the house is smaller and more ordinary than the one in my memories.

I tried to phrase my own reaction in a way that would convey some of the truth to Pet without worrying her. “You know my mother was really young, and she left home for good while I was still just a toddler. When my grandmother was well enough she took care of me until she died.”

“What was she like?”

“Very orderly. Things had to be just so. And she was hard to please. Actually, nothing much pleased her, because nothing's ever perfect. That's a hard way to be and a hard thing to live with.”

“But you were her granddaughter. She loved you, right?”

I struggled to tell the truth without telling all of it. “I think she must have been tired and worried most of the time. She tutored Latin students after school. She made sure they really knew their stuff. There wasn't much energy left over for me.”

My daughter perked up at the mention of Latin. “Priests speak Latin. Do you?”

To this day, when I hear the occasional snippet in church, a cold chill streaks down my spine.

I didn't tell her that. “I don't remember much.”

“If she hadn't died, you would have stayed here. Were you sad to leave?”

I pondered the possible answers. “Scared more than sad, because I didn't know what would happen to me. But to be honest, I wasn't sorry to say goodbye to this house. We can't always love the people we're supposed to. Sometimes it's just not possible. My grandmother was very different from yours. I'm glad you have Maminka, and Táta, too. When you have grandchildren, you'll be just as loving.”

“I'm sorry your mother left you.”

Of course Alice had been on my mind since the day in Everglades City. How could I explain her to my daughter so Pet could sympathize, at least a little?

“I'm sorry, too,” I said carefully, “but she was still a child herself. Younger than Grace. She didn't know how to be a mom.”

“I don't want to talk about Grace.”

I tried not to smile. “I can't imagine being a mother at sixteen. Can you?”

Pet made a face that said everything.

As I put the car in gear to leave, the front door of the house opened and two young boys shot outside, followed by a young woman in shorts and a tank top, who was obviously their mother. She grabbed one by his T-shirt, swung him around and lifted him into her arms for a bear hug. I was grateful to see love in full bloom where it had never been planted during my childhood.

My grandmother doesn't haunt the house the way she still haunts me.

As we drove away we chatted about the things we saw until I parked in front of the Davis house, where Cecilia and I first met.

“We can't film here,” I told Pet. “The new owners said no, and apparently they've done so much renovation, it's not the same inside, anyway.”

“It's small.”

“It used to be a lot smaller. One bathroom, two bedrooms, but a big living room with a piano, which is the reason your aunt discovered she has such a gift for music. She'd never seen a piano she was allowed to play before, but she told me her first day in this house she sat down and after a few minutes began to pick out the melodies to songs from the radio and sing the words. The Davises knew how unusual that was and started her on lessons. By the time we left here, she'd sung solos in the school choir and starred in the middle school production of
Annie
.”

That had been typecasting, of course. The little red-haired orphan girl. Cecilia probably hadn't been above exploiting either the hair or the status to get the part.

“What about you?” Pet asked.

“They made sure I always had a camera and film, too, and even built a little darkroom in the laundry closet. That was back in the day when we still used film cameras, and Mr. Davis helped me develop whatever I shot. They were good people.”

“Did you and Aunt Cecilia get along right away?”

“We shared a room. The first thing she asked me was if I liked playing with matches.”

“That's weird.”

“The last girl who shared her room set Cecilia's bed on fire. Luckily it smoldered awhile before the blaze really caught, and she woke up in time.”

Pet's eyes widened, and I wondered if I had gone too far. Describing foster care to a child, the free fall from living at home to living with strangers, isn't easy. I decided to go just a little further.

“The Davises were really good foster parents. They tried to help her, but after the firefighters hauled the mattress outside, they found a whole stash of matches hidden in her closet. They realized she needed to be somewhere more secure where she could get serious help. So they took me in, instead.”

“What happened to her?”

I didn't know, but I could guess. Outcomes for foster children are often grim. Cecilia and I skew the graphs.

But then, we'd had each other.

“I hope she got the help she needed,” I said.

“If she hadn't done that—set the bed on fire, I mean—you never would have met Aunt Cecilia.”

“I can't imagine life without your aunt, can you?”

“You love her more than I love Nik. I wish you'd send Nik somewhere more secure.”

I laughed, because while they fight, Nik and Pet stand up for each other when the going gets rough. Once the storms of adolescence blow over, they'll be friends forever.

“The Davises were strict but always fair. And fun to be with. Cecilia hated my wardrobe. My grandmother had very plain taste in clothing. Everything I owned was either brown or gray, except for a red sweater that a previous foster mother had given me. I walked into the Davises' house wearing that sweater and Cecilia said I looked like a robin. Brown feathers, red breast. The name stuck.”

“Robin's not your real name?”

“I changed it legally when I turned eighteen.”

“What was it before?”

“Roberta Ingrid. My grandmother always used both. ‘Roberta Ingrid do your homework. Roberta Ingrid eat your dinner.' Long names for a little girl.”

She thought about that and came to the right conclusion. “You didn't want to remember your grandmother every time somebody said your name.”

“Do I look like a Roberta Ingrid to you?”

Another face, and we both laughed. “Anyway, Cecilia said
Robin
was close enough that I wouldn't forget who I was. She and Mrs. Davis took me shopping on my second day there, and Cecilia picked out new clothes for me and supervised a haircut.”

“Aunt Cecilia sure is bossy.”

I rolled my eyes. “Tell me about it.”

I'd finished the story as we went back to the mansion by the lake. “I looked like a new person, and that's what I needed. New name, new clothes, new hair, new place to live. New sister.”

“I wish I had a sister.”

“You're stuck with Nik.”

Now we were once again saying goodbye at the airport gate. My daughter, who would never be tossed on the winds of foster care, was heading back to Virginia, to Kris and Nik and the life she'd always known.

The gate agent asked families with children to come forward, and we both stood. Reassurance seemed important, even though Pet didn't look one bit flustered. “Your dad texted again this morning to say he'll be right there to meet you when you get in. And don't forget I'll be home in less than two weeks, and we'll have Christmas together.”

“Daddy said maybe this year we can go to a tree farm and cut down our own tree.”

“Did he?” I was as surprised as if Kris had promised a trip into outer space to find the perfect stars to trim it.

“He said we used to do that.”

“When you were really little.”

“I hope it snows.”

I didn't, but I smiled and gave her one last hug. “Now scoot, and don't forget to call when you get there. Or I'll worry.”

I watched her hold out her ticket to the agent and, after she was cleared, enter the Jetway. My daughter the world traveler was completely at ease.

Kris and I had spoken twice since our reunion. Maybe we share the opinion that a telephone conversation isn't the best way to dissect marital problems, or maybe we're both so tired of conflict we just prefer chatting about daily routines. But I was cautiously hopeful that our Christmas might be a good one.

When Hal drove in from the cell phone waiting lot, Cecilia had her eyes closed and her head—coiffed in loose corkscrew curls—resting against the backseat. While I was in jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt, she was dressed for the camera, a sparkly tank top that showed just enough cleavage, a silky turquoise jacket that seemed to float even when she was sitting absolutely still, calf-length skirt and sandals with ridiculous heels and colorful butterfly wings resting behind her ankles.

“Hayley okay?” I asked as Hal pulled away from the curb and I fastened my seat belt.

“As okay as Hayley can be. We need to move to Skype so I can see what she's signing when we chat.” She opened her eyes one millimeter per second. “I'm going to spend part of Christmas in Nashville so I can visit her.”

“At CFF?”

“Do you think it's a bad idea to bring her to my condo for a night? Not Christmas Eve, they'll have something special going on in the cottages then, but maybe the day after Christmas. There's always such a letdown after the holiday.”

“I don't know. It's tricky. It's like a promise, isn't it? A lot more than phone calls.”

“Yeah, but maybe it's just a promise I'll be there sometimes when she needs me.”

“She needs somebody all the time.”

“But she doesn't have anybody like that. Isn't something better than nothing?”

“Unless
something
sounds like it's going to be more than it is.”

“This is so confusing. I hate confusing.”

I realized how true that was. Cecilia likes to have everything neatly tied up. She makes decisions and doesn't look back. And even though she hasn't said so, Hayley is an unmade decision.

Today we were going to film a segment on adoption. The agency where we were headed hadn't been around when Cecilia and I were in foster care. Adopting Children Today, or ACT, specialized in finding permanent homes, with a success rate that was far above average. The director, Travis Simpkins, who I'd met yesterday, was young and enthusiastic. Travis and his staff worked tirelessly, and they wouldn't be happy until every child who needed a family found one.

Which meant a life of eternal disappointment.

“You'll like Travis Simpkins,” I said. “Maybe you can get him alone for a few minutes, tell him about Hayley and ask his opinion.”

“He'll draw up the necessary papers before I finish my first sentence.”

“I think he's more interested in finding the right parent than just any parent.”

“I am not just any parent!”

“Well, not everybody who comes looking for a kid is famous and gorgeous.”

“You know that's not what I mean.”

“Really? What else do you have to offer?”

She closed her eyes again. “I'm taking a nap.”

I laughed and closed my eyes, too.

ACT spends more time and money placing children than they spend on appearances. The agency is housed in a down-at-the-heels three-story building on the outskirts of downtown shared by insurance agents, podiatrists and a dog groomer, who has the entire first floor. Howls and barks echoed through windows flung wide-open as Travis, a barrel-chested guy in a tropical shirt and flip-flops, came into the reception area from an office the size of a powder room and enthusiastically embraced us both.

Mick and a bare-minimum crew had already followed Travis for a morning. Pet and I had taken photos at the same time and I was scheduled to come back tomorrow when a family who was working with Travis came in for their second interview.