Secret Sister (22 page)

“I never agreed to have a baby now,” I’d shot back at him. “What’s your hurry?”

“You never know what’s going to happen tomorrow, Cathy. One of us could drop dead. I think we need to get started on being grown-ups.”

“What’s that mean?”

“You need to watch our money better. Stop spending so much on junk for the house, and on going out to eat all the time. Be more responsible and stop partying and shopping every chance you get with Roxanne. Just because she’s irresponsible, you don’t have to follow her around like a groupie.”

When he said that I immediately thought of my mother, dying in the hospital when I was nine. When I was ushered in to kiss her goodbye, I saw agony in her eyes. She was in physical pain, but more than that, she was horrified to be leaving me alone in the world.

Remembering that helpless look on my mother’s face made me realize now that what I had feared most that day, six months ago, was becoming a mother. I feared risking the loss of a child. How could I take the chance and love another person that much, and lose them, or leave them, like my mother had left me?

But that day I had not understood that. I had screamed at Nick. “I’m not ready to be a mother. And it’s not your decision to make for me, Nick. To tell you the truth, at this point in my life I don’t know for sure if I ever want children with you.”

Nick snapped his suitcase shut. “Great. When the hell were you going to tell me that? I thought we were ready, Cathy. And what time of life is this, anyway? The ‘flirt around, think about leaving your husband’ time? Is that what you’re saying to me? You don’t want to be married anymore?”

I threw the magazine I was holding across the room at him. My face heated, my mouth drying with anger . . . but Nick was wrong. I wouldn’t willingly leave him until I died.

“Yeah. That’s it. I want to sleep with another ten or twelve guys I know. Have a nice trip, asshole. And don’t bother to call me when you’re gone because I won’t be home. I’ll be out partying with Roxanne. And having a lot more fun than I ever do with you!” I’d stormed out.

Nick left by cab for the airport. And that night I’d gone out drinking with Rox and Michael and flirted with ruining my life because I was feeling cornered. Thankfully I’d come to my senses on that beach and not succumbed to my impulse for self-destruction.

Across Roxanne’s living room, the phone jangled as the memories of the fight with Nick all those months ago dissipated into the air like smoke, leaving just one question in my head.
Had Nick betrayed me?

I walked to the answering machine and listened as it recorded the message. It was Betty.

“Roxanne? Are you there?”

No. Roxanne is not here
.

I grabbed my purse and left the apartment. I had to see Nick. I could go to him now without feeling guilty that I’d betrayed him, but I had to know the facts about what had happened between him and Roxanne.

The only way I could build a future with him would be to know the whole truth about the past.

Chapter 19

Monday, August 1, 4 p.m.

Cathy & Nick

I pulled up in front of Nick’s twenty minutes later. I had planned to sit and think and watch for my husband to come home, but his car was already parked in the driveway.

Why was he home at four in the afternoon? Was he inside, drunk again?

Maybe he was drinking because of guilt, not grief. On the way over, I had vacillated between believing Nick incapable of adultery and then being certain he and Roxanne had betrayed me.

Furiously I kicked open the car door and hurried up to the house. I tried the doorknob, but the house was locked up. I hit the bell, over and over.

“Nick!” I yelled. “Nick, open the door!”

I knew I should probably call Seth and talk out my feelings, but I was near to bursting with the need to confront my husband. I pounded on the door. “Nick! Nick! Let me in!” I felt crazed. Let Zoë or the neighbors call the police, for all I cared. I was going to stand here until someone opened the door.

After five minutes, my elderly neighbor, Mrs. West, glanced at me when she came out to get the mail. I waved, but realized too late she didn’t see Cathy Chance. She saw Roxanne.

As soon as she went back into her house, I walked around to the rear yard and tried to think where we had hidden an extra key. I couldn’t remember. I looked under the cushion on the patio chairs, under the lemon tree planter. Damn, where would I hide the key? I sat in the chaise and tried to think, but nothing came.

I got up and peered into the kitchen, which was a mess. Dishes piled everywhere, pans on the stove. Pitty was lying on the kitchen chair. She stared at me through the window. “Hey Aunt Pittypatt,” I whispered, tapping the window. The cat blinked and rested her head on her paws, her ears perked.

I decided Nick must not be in the house. I’d go back and sit in the car. And when he returned, we were going to talk. I headed back to my rental.

A few minutes later, Zoë Chance drove into the driveway.

“Nick . . .”

I heard my name being called as if I stood at one end of a tunnel and the person yelling “Nick” was at the other end. I looked over at the clock; it read four thirty-five.

In the morning?

I rolled onto my back and tried to focus. I felt as groggy as if I’d taken sleeping pills. My bedroom was warm with sunlight drizzling in the edges of the windows, which meant it was four in the afternoon. What day was it?

Monday.

I had called in sick and gone back to bed, filthy sore from the beating I’d taken a couple of days ago. I got up and stumbled toward the front door, opening it to find Zoë halfway back across the lawn headed toward the driveway.

She turned at the sound of the squeaking hinge. “Why didn’t you answer the doorbell?” she asked, hand on her hip.

“Why didn’t you use your key?” I countered.

“I left it at Mom’s.” She nodded at the sedan in the driveway. “I borrowed her car and her keys to drive over so I could take Pitty to the vet. I didn’t know you’d be
passed out
in the middle of the day.”

I sighed. “I wasn’t passed out, Zoë. I was sleeping.”

We stared at each other for a full minute. We used to do this when she was a little kid. I always turned away first.

I turned away. “If you’re coming in, do it now.”

My sister brushed by me and stomped across the living room. I shut the door with a little too much force and followed her to the kitchen. She called for the cat, which was nowhere to be seen.

“Why are you looking for the cat?” I asked.

“I just told you I’m taking her to another vet. The lady over by Mom’s house, Dr. Nelson. I want to get a second opinion about that thing on Pitty’s leg.”

I rubbed my eyes. My mouth tasted like something had died in it. “Let me throw some clothes on and I’ll go with you.”

She frowned at my ripped UCLA tee shirt and baggy boxers, topped by three days of bruises, stitches and an unshaven face. “Why not go like that? We’ll get
you
a rabies shot. In case someone hits you on the head again with a whiskey bottle.”

I counted to three. “Look, I told you and Mom on Friday that I’m still firmly on the wagon. Buying that bottle the other night was a mistake. A bad mistake. I’m not going to do that again.”

“I’ve heard it before. When I was a kid and believed most of the BS you told me.”

I remembered Seth’s words, about how my welfare was a heavy burden for my sister. It kept me from saying some pointed things about eating disorders and pot smoking.

“I know I’ve let you down, Zoë. I’ve let myself down. But give it a rest. I’m going to be okay.”

“You think?”

“Yes, I do ‘think.’ Occasionally, anyway. And for your information, it’s a
tetanus
shot I’d need for broken glass. Rabies is if I get bit by a vampire bat.”

“That could happen.”

I grinned and was rewarded, finally, with a small smile in return.

“Okay, go get ready,” Zoë said. “I’ll keep looking for the cat.”

“What time is the appointment?”

“Five. It’s the last one of the day.” Zoë opened the French door to the patio and called Pitty. The cat darted from where she’d been hiding under the kitchen table, scooted past her through the back door and ran under the gardenia bush.

Zoë called her, but the cat halted, then ran for the side of the house when she saw me.

“Go away, Nick. I’ll try and coax her in.”

“Leave the door open. Put some fresh food out and she’ll come. I’ll go get cleaned up.”

Zoë nodded and reached out to pinch my arm. “Why are you home already, by the way?”

“I’m stiff and sore as an old man today, thanks to the beat down, so I took a couple of days off.”

“Oh, God, you didn’t get fired?” Zoë was very good at imagining the worst in any given situation.

“No, I didn’t get fired. We can still buy groceries and pay for the freaking cat.” I thought about telling her I was quitting my job, but if me taking sick leave rattled her, that would be too much.

I gave her a quick hug. “How’s it going with you, kiddo?” I felt her ribs through her shirt. “Are you still looking for a car?”

“Yeah. My friend Ramon has a cool VW I might be able to get for three grand. Did you mean it the other night when you said you would loan me the money?”

“Yeah. What year is the car?”

“1990-something. It’s way cool. Ramon and his brother put in a new engine. It has fabulous speakers.”

Ramon, huh?
“It’s a
1990-something
and it’s three
thousand
?”

“Yeah, isn’t that a good deal?”

I smiled. “I’ll run it past Mom.”

“Okay.” Zoë crammed her hands into the pockets of her jeans. “I’m going to stay with her at the house for a couple of days. While you’re recovering. Unless you want me to come back?”

“That’s cool. Whatever you want to do. I’m going to go get cleaned up. Oh, and I think I saw the cat carrier in the living room. By Cathy’s desk.”

I hurried through a shower and shave, tossed on the jeans and shirt I’d worn to see Seth, and found Zoë in the living room. While Pitty meowed inside the carrier, my sister sat beside her, staring at a folded piece of paper.

“I’m ready. You want to drive or you want me to?”

“Nick, look at this,” Zoë replied.

I made calming noises at the yowling cat, and perched on the sofa next to Zoë. “What is it?”

She handed me a yellow sheet that looked like a bill of some kind. I looked it over; it was a car rental agreement, made out to Roxanne Ruiz several days ago. “Where did this come from?”

“I found it sticking out from under the ottoman.”

“What’s it doing here?” I turned it over and saw a list of items written in pen on the back of the contract. ‘Underwear. Jeans. Tops. Watch. Purse. Deodorant.’

‘Nightie’ was crossed out and ‘Men’s undershirts’ was written next to it. “Where’d this come from?”

“Roxanne must have left it the other day. I told you she was here when the police came. She was sitting at the desk.” Zoë looked flushed, as if she had a fever.

“Okay, well, send it back to her, or throw it out.” I tossed the paper on the sofa and it missed and hit the floor. It was obvious Zoë was ready to freak out again about Roxanne acting weird, and I didn’t want to get into that whole line of discussion right now. “Come on. Let’s go.” I stood up.

Zoë grabbed the paper and held it up to my face. “Nick. Look at the writing.
The handwriting.
Look at the signature and the phone number!”

The skin on the back of my arm suddenly crawled, like there was a bug on me. I slapped at it with one hand and took the paper with the other. I scanned the list again, and then flipped it over to the rental contract side.

“Honestly Zoë, I want you to let go of this whole thing about Roxanne. I know you were upset about how she was acting, but . . .”

Then I stopped talking. Inside my head, a low, dull buzz of recognition morphed into understanding as I blinked at the signature. It said ‘Roxanne Ruiz,’ but it was in very familiar handwriting. The phone number listed under ‘home phone’ was mine.

“What the hell?” I mumbled. The list was in the same loopy, messy writing as the signature. Big letters, quickly written, a little childish in their form.

Cathy’s writing.

“Jesus Christ, you’re right.” I looked at my sister who was staring into space like an alien child in a movie, listening for the mother ship.

She turned her blue eyes back to me. “I told you she was trying to be Cathy.”

“But this is crazy. Do you know if Roxanne’s writing looks this much like Cathy’s?”

Zoë slowly moved to the desk. She pulled out a stack of greeting cards and sorted through them, then handed one to me. On the front of the card were two little girls in bathing suits, big floppy hats partially covering their faces. Their arms were around each other’s chubby shoulders. ‘Happy birthday, Sister,’ it read.

I opened the card. Inside, written in a neat, almost anally perfect penmanship, were the words, ‘Cathy—Happy 30 from your Secret Sister. Simone’s at 8 p.m. Champagne for everyone! XXOOX Roxanne.’

Then I remembered that Cathy depended on Roxanne’s help to print names on the student folders for her classes. Cathy’s printing was so sloppy she was embarrassed, so she always had Roxanne do them. “Roxanne prints like a calligrapher. It takes forever but it looks perfect,” Cathy had said more than once.

“I told you Roxanne’s crazy,” Zoë said. “I think she thinks she
is
Cathy.”

My chest tightened as my head filled with static, like a radio slightly off channel. Pitty started howling inside the crate. “Zoë, get Pitty to the vet. I’m going to take care of this.”

“How? What do you mean? Don’t do anything dumb. I think maybe Roxanne should go back to the hospital.” Her voice sounded hollow.

I took out my checkbook. “I don’t know yet what I’m going to do, but I have to talk to her. Here’s a check for the doctor to examine the cat. Don’t let her operate or anything. And bring Pitty back when you’re through, okay? If I’m not here, I’ll call you at Mom’s later.”

“Why wouldn’t you be here? What are you going to do, Nick?”

I picked up the cat’s cage and gestured for Zoë to move toward the front door. “Come on. Don’t worry. You don’t want to miss this appointment.”

I walked her out to Mom’s car and put the carrier on the front seat, then watched Zoë drive away. I had a pang that maybe I shouldn’t have let her drive, but she looked okay and was already back to worrying over the cat.

My fuzziness had worn off, replaced with a throbbing anxiety.
Something’s happening here, and it isn’t fucking clear.
Rewriting the classic line from Buffalo Springfield didn’t help anything.

As I headed across my lawn, I glanced up the street. Three houses away, under the drooping branches of my neighbor’s weeping willow, a compact black sedan was parked at the curb. I had seen the car before; last Friday when Roxanne showed up at the hospital. My pulse pounded in my ears and I took a couple of steps up the sidewalk.

The car door opened; Roxanne got out. Slowly she pulled off her sunglasses. Despite the distance between us, I saw she was a wreck, with a blotchy face and red-rimmed eyes. Even her hair was messy, and in all the years I’d known Roxanne, I’d never seen her go out with her hair half stuck in a ponytail and the rest falling around her face.

“Nick, I need to talk to you.” She sounded desperate. “Please, it’s very important.”

“Are you stalking me, Roxanne? Do I need to call the police?”

“Just give me a few minutes, please.” She crossed her arms over her chest, as if waiting for a blow.

A wise man would have run. But as my recent behavior suggested, wisdom is something I have often aspired to and seldom achieved. “Come inside. You’ve got five minutes to explain what the fuck you’re up to.”

I walked into my house, and couldn’t say what I wished for more at that moment, for Roxanne to follow me so I could tell her off, or for her to disappear forever.

Roxanne sat at the table in the kitchen. Despite her appearance, she seemed in control. I felt her eyes on me as I poured myself a glass of water.

The kitchen was a mess. For a second I was embarrassed by the dirty dishes, the soured milk on the counter. Then I got a grip. This wasn’t a social call and Roxanne wasn’t someone I was trying to impress. Every time she walked into the room, she did so with an agenda.

I turned around. “Do you want something to drink?”

She shook her head.

I sat across from her. She was pinching the back of her hand, like Cathy used to do.