Forbidden Sister (19 page)

“Are you all right?” I eyed her carefully.

Her lips quivered, and she nodded quickly, patted my hand again, and rose. “Just a little tired. I’ll get to sleep early tonight,” she said. She leaned over to kiss me and then walked out.

I could feel the darkness seeping in behind her, following her out of my room. It made my heart skip beats. Here I was feeling sorry for myself when it was Mama who should have all the attention. I was young. I would survive. Roxy survived, didn’t she?

Or did she?

Maybe she was more unhappy than it appeared. Maybe that was why she stayed away. Maybe she didn’t want us to know how bad things really were for her. Just maybe, she was ashamed of who and what she was, too ashamed to face her mother. Perhaps I had been too quick to condemn her.

Never did I dream that I would be lying in my bed thinking I was too hard on Roxy. Was my desperation for a sister, for more family, so great that I would overlook so much, even the way she had treated my
parents? I had tried to forget her. I was still trying to hate her, but for some reason, I just couldn’t do it. Somehow, my vague memories of her grew stronger and more vivid. I could see her smile, hear her voice again. It was as if a door had been nudged open in my mind and memories were slipping out.

There was one in particular that I hadn’t recalled until now, the memory of Roxy holding my hand as we walked on an avenue. It seemed we were alone, returning from some errand she had completed. Maybe Papa didn’t know that Mama had permitted Roxy to take me along. I remembered her being very careful and protective, guiding me along, her grip on my hand so tight that it actually hurt a little. But I didn’t complain, because I was so happy to be treated like someone older. Other pedestrians looked at us and smiled.
Look at how responsibly that older sister is behaving.
I felt very proud, too.

The memory brought a smile to my face, but that was followed by a deeper sadness.

It was a precious moment, and it was gone forever.

I turned over and buried my face in my pillow.
I don’t want to think about her. I don’t want to remember her.

Papa was right to disown her and forbid my even mentioning her name. How could she leave us like that? How could she be so stubborn and mean?

There was another thought. Was it selfish to think it?

If it was, I couldn’t help it. It was the thought that took me to sleep.

How could she leave me?

Maybe I was dwelling too much on myself, soaking myself in a gray pool of self-pity. I was walking through the school day with blinders over my eyes, not seeing or caring about anything or anyone else. I sat like a granite statue, barely changing expression, no matter what my teachers said. Finally, after weeks and weeks of this, one of my teachers, Mr. Collins, pulled me aside after class to talk about my work. He was very tall and stout but almost always pleasant with an almost impish smile. I really liked him. Right now, he hovered over me like the shadow of my conscience.

He was the first to do this, but I knew that teachers talked about their students in the faculty lounge, and my other teachers probably would follow his lead shortly. I couldn’t say I didn’t expect it. This was, after all, a private school, where students had their teachers’ full attention. Two of my classes had fewer than fifteen students in them. Mr. Collins, who taught math, had one of those classes.

“I know you and your mother have been through a very difficult time, Emmie,” he began, “but I also
know how proud your father was about your grades. You and I know you can do much better than you’re doing.” I looked down as he spoke, and when I didn’t respond, he said, “Let’s just leave it at that, but you know I’m available anytime to help you. Just ask.”

I nodded, but I didn’t even say thank you. I was still drowning in self-pity. He had thrown me some rope. All I had to do was take hold, but at the moment, I didn’t care. I was still angry about Papa’s death, confused about Roxy, and annoyed with my classmates. Doing well at school had lost all attraction for me. It was unfair to treat my teachers with such indifference, I knew, but I seemed incapable of changing. I didn’t mind the silence and the self-imposed solitude. For now, staying to myself and pulling my head in like a turtle were more comfortable than anything else. It was truly as though my face had forgotten how to smile. Laughter was a thing of the past, a distant memory. Even when I heard other students joking with one another, I looked at them as if they were Martians.

I did get a similar short lecture from most of my other teachers over the next two days, and finally, Dr. Walter, our school dean and counselor, called Mama and told her to consider sending me to a therapist. At first, all that did was get me angrier. I was angry at myself more than at anyone else for letting this happen and hurting Mama, but for now, it was more convenient to blame the school. Mama, of course, blamed herself.

“I should have been paying more attention to you. Your father was always more involved in your
schoolwork than I was,” she said after she told me about the call she had received. She had been waiting for me in the kitchen when I returned. This particular day, she had gotten dressed. Lately, she had our food delivered most of the time, and as far as I knew, she rarely left the house. I was sent out to the store whenever something was missing.

“I’m not failing anything, Mama. I don’t know why he had to call you and make such a big deal of it.”

“It is a big deal, Emmie. You know your father would never have been satisfied with your just passing everything, and you wouldn’t have been, either.”

She was sipping some tea. Now that she was wearing one of her nicer dresses, I could see how she had become much thinner. She had put on some makeup, but she still looked pale and wan. Her eyes were sleepy all the time, but now they were even duller, her lids quivering to stay open. Everything, even the smallest thing such as lifting a teacup, seemed to require a greater effort.

“I know you are not happy at the school,” she continued, “but I thought you would do the good work you always have done until we could find another school for you. You can’t go on like this, Emmie. You don’t have any friends or talk about anything at school the way you used to. Maybe it’s not a bad idea for you to see a therapist.”

“I don’t need a therapist to tell me what I should be doing in school, Mama. I’m sorry I let it go this far. I’ll work harder.”

“But you won’t be happy, will you?”

“I’ll try,” I promised.

She nodded softly, but I could see there was something else. I could always tell when Mama had a secret. She had a way of shifting her eyes so that she was looking past me and not at me.

“What is it, Mama? There’s something else,” I said, thinking that perhaps Roxy had finally contacted her, perhaps had even been there.

“I don’t want you getting nervous and all worked up, especially now.”

“Why would I?” I leaned forward. My heart, which had been almost hibernating in my chest, came to life and began to thump.

She pressed her lips together and took in a long breath through her nose. “I didn’t have a good result on a test.”

“What test?”

“I had my annual exam last week.”

“I didn’t know you were having that done.”

“It was scheduled some time ago, and you know how it is with some of these doctors, you don’t want to postpone. It would take months to get rescheduled.” After another pause, she said, “I didn’t want you having something else to worry about,” she said.

“What test?”

“The Pap smear. They’re doing it over. Lots of times, the first result can be an error.”

“What if it’s not?”

“We’ll deal with it,” she said firmly. “Let’s not think the worst of everything.”

“When do you do the test again?”

“Soon,” she said. She smiled. “It’s going to be just fine.”

“Oh, Mama, with all this on your mind, I’m sorry I gave you something else to worry over. I’ll do better in school. I promise.”

“Sure you will,” she said.

I hugged her. We held each other a little longer than usual, and then she began to prepare our dinner. She tried desperately to get me to think of other things while we ate. She told me about her family in France and how Uncle Alain had called her twice that week already.

“He’s always asking after you,” she said.

The way she described him and Paris told me how much she longed for family now, longed to go home. Whenever she described a place, she would break into a warm, deep smile, the smile of someone who cherished a memory.

“We should go soon,” I said.

“Yes, we will. As soon as . . . as soon as we get a few things straightened out,” she said. I knew she was talking mainly about her health but also about me.

I told her to go rest after dinner while I cleaned up. By the time I was finished and looked in on her in the living room, I found she was asleep on the sofa, her right hand on the arm of it the way she had kept it there when Papa was sitting beside her in his chair. Sometimes they had held hands while they watched television. I didn’t wake her, although I wanted to. I couldn’t stand the look of exhaustion on her face. I needed to see her smile and hear her voice. She had the television on, but the volume was low. I went upstairs to get my homework and then returned and sat in Papa’s chair doing it and waiting for her to awaken. When she did, she looked terribly confused.

“Oh, I fell asleep,” she said, realizing. “I’m sorry.”

“Why should you be sorry? You’re tired, so you slept. Good,” I told her. “I wanted to finish all this anyway,” I added, showing her my books and notebooks.

She nodded, holding her smile. Then she remembered something and rose like a woman years older. “I have to do a few things our accountant told me to do. Get some numbers together. Your father did all of this for us, but he made sure to show me how.”

“Can I help?”

“No, it’s nothing terribly complicated. Just finish your work. I won’t be long,” she assured me.

I completed my homework and took my books back upstairs. After I dressed for bed, I checked to see if she had come up. She hadn’t, so I went down to the office to look in on her. She was asleep in Papa’s desk chair, her head in what looked like a very uncomfortable position.

“Mama!” I cried.

She looked as if she had gone beyond sleep, her mouth slightly open. Her eyes fluttered, and she sat up. “Oh.” She looked at the papers on the desk. “I finished everything and just . . . I took a pill earlier,” she said.

“What kind of pill?”

“A pill the doctor gave me to stay calm. It’s nothing,
but it does make me a little drowsy. I’ll just go to sleep. Wash that worry off your face,” she told me, smiling, and stood up. “Come on.
Allons.
We’ll both go to sleep.”

I walked alongside her and then behind her as we climbed the stairs. She turned to hug and kiss me good night and went to her bedroom.

What ages someone faster than deep sorrow? When people were together as long as my parents were, what happens to one, happens to the other in subtle ways. It was as though sadness was as contagious as any disease, and death didn’t just slip in and out silently. When it touched someone close to you, it left its mark on you, too. A little of the darkness slipped in and settled on your soul, waiting patiently for the rest of it.

I was afraid for Mama, but I channeled my fear into an almost obsessive determination to do well in school during the following days. Suddenly, coming to life again seemed to be the best way to help Mama get healthy and stronger. My hand was up in every class, answering questions almost before my teachers asked them. I aced one quiz after another and put smiles on the faces of my teachers. My new energy and efforts attracted everyone’s attention. Some of my classmates began to talk to me again, joining me at lunch or walking with me in the hallways.

Chastity watched timidly from the sidelines, unsure of how I would react to any attempt she made to reconnect with me. I didn’t discourage her, but I didn’t pursue her, either. Nevertheless, she soon began to
attempt some small talk, hesitant to have longer than a ten- or twenty-second conversation because I didn’t appear that interested. I just didn’t want things to get back to the way they were. I wanted her to understand that I wouldn’t tolerate any more talk about Roxy.

One afternoon, I let her walk home with me after school. She parted with “Maybe we can do something together this weekend.”

“Maybe,” I said, but I didn’t pursue it or bring it up again.

Of course, I was eager to get home every day to find out how Mama was and what her doctors were telling her. She told me everything was good. I shouldn’t worry. She did seem a little more energetic. She even began talking about our trip to France when my vacation began. Buoyed by this, I even flirted a little with a tenth-grade boy, Richard Erikson. He had dark brown hair, eyelashes that would make any model jealous, and an infectious smile. He wasn’t part of Evan’s group and was quite shy himself. Right now, that seemed to be the safest type of boy to know. We sat at lunch together a few times. He was a good student and a very good reader, and he seemed to know something about almost any subject I mentioned. But he was far from an egghead or a nerd and very humble about his brilliance.