Secret Sister (12 page)

Chapter 11

Wednesday, July 27, 7 p.m.

Nick’s House

“Nick?”

I was dreaming that Cathy was outside the house, sweating in the garden, her hands dirty. I couldn’t make out all she was saying, but she wanted my help with something.

“Nick,” Cathy called. “Nick.”

“Cathy,” I whispered in my sleep.

“Nick, wake up. It’s after seven!” Zoë’s voice cut through my dream and I woke with my heart racing. Cathy’s presence was so real I reached out for her, but clutched only rumpled sheets and blankets. I turned to the doorway and saw my sister watching me.

“Hey,” I said.

“Hey, yourself. You okay?”

“Yeah.” I looked at my watch, and then dropped my head back onto the pillow. “What do you want?”

“What?” She took a few steps into my bedroom. “Jeez, two hours ago you said I had to stay home tonight because you were going to take me out to dinner. So I didn’t go out with Amy and now all you’re doing is sleeping. Get up and throw some water on your face. I’m hungry.”

How can she be hungry? Cathy is dead
. I rubbed my eyes and tried to focus on the now. My sister needed me tonight. She was ready to go out.

I lifted my head and squinted. “Are you wearing a dress?” She hadn’t even worn a dress to my wedding.

“Yes. Do you want me to change?” Zoë looked down. “Does it make me look fat?”

Shit. It’s her birthday
. “No, you look great. Very foxy.”

“Foxy? Is that good or bad?”

“It’s good. Are you saying ‘foxy’ is an outdated compliment?”

“Not if you’re fifty.”

I threw a pillow at her, which she gracefully sidestepped. “Okay. You look hot. Or cool. Or sick. Whatever you guys say now.” I rested my head in my hands. “Where do you want to go tonight, birthday girl?”

“I don’t care. Where do you want to go?”

I felt like a hundred-pound anvil was sitting on my chest, but I forced myself up out of bed. “You’re legal eighteen, little sister. That calls for a celebration, right?”

Zoë smiled. “After that scene at the lawyer’s on Monday, I didn’t know if you would still feel like celebrating tonight.”

“Monday’s over. I’m fine, and I hope you are, too.” I glanced at the dresser—where the check from the insurance was half-covered by my shirt—and took a step back, as if it were a rabid dog. “Really, Zoë. I’m good. Don’t you want to go out?”

“Yeah, I do.”

“Good. So we’ll do it. Tonight is your night.” I headed to the bathroom. “Just let me shower. Is Mom coming?”

Zoë followed a half step behind me. “No. She’s got that literacy thing tonight in L.A. The mayor or something is going to be there or she said she would have bugged out. She’s cooking dinner for us Friday night. She told me to remind you when she called me at work this morning. Can you believe she sang “Happy Birthday” over my cell?”

“Yes. She always sings “Happy Birthday” to people on their cells. Despite the fact that she can not sing.”

We laughed.

“And she sent me balloons and cookies. With M&Ms in them, no less.”

“In the balloons?”

Zoë punched my arm. “No. In the cookies. Most of which I ate. But can you believe her? Fuck, I’m eighteen, for Christ’s sake.”

“Hey, watch your mouth.” I gave her my fake stern look and pulled back the shower curtain. She was a woman, yet still that little bratty kid she’d always been. But for the first time in a long time she looked relaxed. Her eyes were shining, and she was excited about her birthday.

And about getting presents. In the back of my closet, wrapped in brown paper, was a framed poster of
Gone With The Wind
.
She and Cathy loved that movie, and made a point of watching it together at least once a year.

Cathy had bought the poster for Zoë at an online auction a couple of months ago. Last week I doubted the wisdom of giving it to Zoë, and I still wasn’t completely sure. I didn’t know if she could take it. I didn’t know if
I
could take it.

“Give me ten minutes, then we’re off. Feed Pitty, okay?”

Zoë nodded but leaned against the bathroom door, keeping me from closing it, not cutting me much slack.  When she was little she used to follow me around like this, like a duckling afraid to let its mom out of its sight.

“Ah, I’d like a little privacy, okay?”

She grinned. “Okay. Wear deodorant.”

“Hey, you saying I smell?”

“No. You always smell nice. I’m just kidding with you, bro.” She looked serious. “You sure you’re okay? You were having a nightmare, I think. I came in your room because I heard you.”

We stared at each other. “I’m okay.”

“If you don’t want to go to Simone’s, I understand,” Zoë said. “But I kind of want to go because I’ll feel like Cathy is there, too.”

A jolt of adrenaline coursed through my body. “No problem. Simone’s it is.” I pointed toward the kitchen. “The cat. I hear her wailing at the door. See if you can get her to actually come inside.”

Zoë left and I took a deep, weary breath. I didn’t want to go out. And I certainly didn’t want to go to Simone’s. But we always went there for birthdays. Zoë loved the place, ever since Cathy had insisted we take her there when she was thirteen. We’d gone every year since then.

I got in the shower and turned it on a full, icy blast. But I couldn’t make it cold enough to freeze out the sound of my dead wife’s voice saying my name inside my head.

A half hour later I held the front door of Simone’s open for Zoë and followed her inside.

“Nick! And Zoë! How wonderful to see you both.” Jen Landau, the pretty café owner, and youngest daughter of the original Simone, hurried toward us. As she walked, she glanced quickly over her shoulder into the main dining room, as if she were worried.

“Hi, Jen. How are you?” I kissed her cheek, which smelled of gardenia.

“Wonderful, Nick. Just wonderful.” She turned to my sister. “You look more beautiful than ever tonight, Zoë. I adore your dress. Where did you get it?”

“The Rose Bowl swap meet. It’s vintage. From the Sixties.” Zoë blushed and answered a few questions while I glanced around.

Simone’s looked the same as it had the twenty years I’d been coming here. Well cared for and elegant, but casual enough that I didn’t feel out of place without a tie. It was busy tonight. Good thing Jen had made standing reservations for my family for all our birthdays. Mine in December. Zoë’s tonight.

Cathy’s on March 4th.

“Let me show you to your table, and I’ll send the waiter in with some drinks.” Jen took my arm and Zoë followed us to one of the two vacant tables in the dining alcove off the main room.

I sat and Jen leaned close to me and smiled. “You’re looking well, Nick. I am so glad to see you out and about.”

“Thanks. It’s good to be here.”

She knew I was lying. It was horrible being here. Dental work horrible. My body ached as memories flooded through my veins like warm wine. Cathy loved Simone’s. She had discovered it when she was looking for her first job, a million years ago.

Jen had given Cathy a job as hostess the first summer Cathy had moved out on her own. In a flash like a knife cut, I recalled the first time I came here.

I’d promised Cathy I would come ‘incognito’ and pretend I didn’t know her. When I walked in, I felt like the teenage geek I was, until I saw Cathy. She was prim and proper in a black skirt and white shirt, her blonde hair tamed into a bun on top of her head. She had on sparkling silver earrings and high heels and pink lipstick. She’d looked like an angel.

“It is just the two of you tonight, yes?”

“Yes. Mom was going to come, but she has a thing in L.A.,” Zoë said. “So it’s just us. Can I order the chocolate soufflé for dessert?” She grinned. “I know you need extra time for that.”

“Yes, of course. And how about for you, Nick? Chocolate soufflé for two?” Jen looked as if she realized her gentle question drew too much attention to those missing tonight, missing forever.

“Sure. My little sister only turns eighteen once. We’ll go nuts.”

“Eighteen! I thought this was the milestone.  Congratulations, Zoë. Eduardo will be your waiter. Nick, watch him carefully. He has quite an eye for the ladies.” Again, Jen looked over her shoulder at the main dining room.

I followed her glance. “Is something wrong, Jen?”

“No. We’re just unusually busy tonight. Enjoy. I’ll see you both later.”

She hurried away and I focused my attention on Zoë. “So, what did Mom get you for your birthday? Aside from the balloons and cookies, which I’ve not had any of, by the way.”

“The balloons?” she replied with a giggle.

“The cookies. You didn’t eat them all, did you?”

“No, I ate two giant ones. The rest are at home. You can have them for a midnight snack. Pitty still cries at the back door at midnight, right?”

“Yes, but tonight I’m not getting up. I’ve decided I’m forcing that damned creature to come inside during the day and sleep. I’m tired of her avoiding me.”

Zoë picked up her menu and perused it as the waiter appeared at my shoulder. He was a new kid, very handsome, with a dark tan and a ponytail. This must be the Eduardo Jen had warned me about.

“Good evening,” the young man said. “I am Eduardo, and I will be your waiter tonight. Would you like to see a wine list, sir?”

“No. I’ll have a club soda with lime. Zoë?” My mouth felt dry and for the first time in many years I wanted,
really wanted,
a drink.

“I’ll have diet cola. With a cherry.” She blushed.

“Very good.” Eduardo rattled off the specials for the night. I guzzled my water and realized I was sweating.

After Zoë ordered, Eduardo turned to me. Without looking at the menu I said, “I’ll have the chicken and mushroom crepes, the Caesar salad, and we’ll both take the chocolate soufflé. Jen may have already told the chef.” I gestured to my glass. “And could I get some more water?”

“Certainly.” Eduardo gave Zoë a little bow and hurried off.

I finished my water and drank Zoë’s. She was cutting her eyes toward Eduardo, who was introducing himself to the only other patrons in the room, a trio of women in their forties.

I smiled at my sister, preparing myself for a push to leave the handsome young man a more than generous tip. “So, eighteen big ones? How’s it feel, kiddo?”

She shrugged. “The same, I guess. Twenty-one will be a much bigger deal.”

“Why? You can vote now.” I clutched my throat. “God help us.”

“I’m not interested in voting. Who is there to vote for, anyway? Mostly rich old white men? Assholes.”

“Hey. Stop swearing. Ever heard of a man named Barack? And there are lots of women to vote for. Your senators are women.”

“Whatever.” She took her water glass and glared at me, wiping the rim with her napkin.

“I don’t have cooties,” I said.

“Right.” She drank a big gulp.

“So, what do you think will be so great about twenty-one?”

“I can buy a car on my own. And liquor.”

I frowned. I’m an alcoholic. My dad was, too. My mom has never had a drink that I know of, and she and I have given Zoë plenty of stern lecture-rants about the evil of booze. “You can buy a car now. If you save enough money.”

“I’m saving. I’ve got enough. But the car I want isn’t safe, according to Mom. And she won’t sign for a loan to get a good car because she says, ‘No one in high school should have a car loan hanging over her head.’ Jeez, I bring home over five hundred a month. I can afford a car payment.”

“Five hundred whole dollars? Well, there’s car insurance. And repairs, gas, registration and inspections.”

“Don’t.” She held up her hand. “It’s bad enough I’ll end up the oldest one in my senior class. Do you know how embarrassing it will be to not have a car?”

I thought of the huge check lying on the dresser at home. I couldn’t conceive of it being real money. Cathy and I had daydreamed about winning the lottery—who hasn’t?—but our plans usually centered on moving to Paris so she could study art, or to a little farm in Ireland, places we’d never been and had no idea if we’d like. Of course, now Zoë’s college education would be no strain for anyone.

“I’ll loan you some money to buy a good car,” I said. “You can pay me back a little, until next summer. Then you can work two jobs and pay off your brother.”

“Really?” Zoë brightened. “Okay. All I need is about two thousand dollars. Then I’ll have three thousand, two hundred. That’ll be enough for a really safe car.”

“Your idea of safe and mine might differ there, kid.”

“Let’s argue about that later. We can talk to Mom on Sunday about you loaning me some money, okay?”

“Yeah. On one condition.”

“What?”

“No drinking.”

“Ever?” Zoë’s eyes widened. “Look, I know you have a problem with it, but that doesn’t mean I will. I’m adopted, remember?”

I crossed my arms. “Dad had a problem, too, don’t forget. There’s a lot of evidence of a genetic pre-disposition toward alcoholism, but also socially acceptable alcoholism, which rubs off on adopted kids.”

“I’ll be good, I promise.”

“Here’s your drinks, folks.” Eduardo sat the club soda in front of me and gave Zoë her diet cola, adorned with half a dozen cherries impaled on a stirrer shaped like a sword. “Your salads will be right out.”

Zoë picked up her coke and took a sip, then removed the cherries and popped them all in her mouth. She chewed, looking for all the world like a ten-year-old instead of young lady of eighteen. She grinned. Somehow she’d managed to stick two of the cherries onto her front teeth.