The Carson Springs Trilogy: Stranger in Paradise, Taste of Honey, and Wish Come True (106 page)

“Now, let’s see …” Monica pursed her mouth. “The Moschino? No, the stripes won’t work on camera.” She fingered a sleeve. “This one maybe? It’s a little bold, but the color is good on me.”

A dozen outfits later she wheeled herself over to the three-way mirror wearing a sleeveless cashmere top that was light as a whisper and matching peach trousers. “Perfect,” she pronounced. “Now for the finishing touches.” She gestured toward her jewelry chest but Anna was one step ahead of her, pulling out a velvet-lined drawer. Monica indicated a filigreed gold pendant. “What do you think?” she said when Anna held it up to her neck.

“Nice,” Anna said. “But I think the pearls might work better.”

Monica ignored her. She always asked Anna’s advice but seldom took it. After nixing all of her suggestions, she chose a simple gold choker and sapphire earrings that matched her eyes. The overall effect was stunning. Monica’s behavior might leave something to be desired, but when it came to her appearance, there was never a false move.

Back downstairs, Anna helped her sister onto the living room sofa, rearranging the pillows at her back until Monica was satisfied that she’d be shown off to her best advantage. She stepped back to study the effect. “I don’t know about the throw …” Draped over Monica’s legs, it was a touch too, well, Deborah Kerr in
An Affair to Remember.
Though she supposed that was the idea. “It might look as if you have something to hide,” she said.

“You’re right. I hadn’t thought of that.” Monica threw it off as if it were crawling with lice. Before the accident she’d been famous for her legs, and the idea that her fans might imagine them to be withered and ugly was intolerable. Now she turned her attention to Anna, eyeing her critically. “Is that what you’re wearing?”

Anna felt suddenly conspicuous in the navy skirt and pin-striped blouse she’d worn precisely because it would help her blend into the background. “What’s wrong with it?” Even as she spoke, she saw the answer in her sister’s disapproving gaze.

“Nothing. Except …” Monica frowned. “It looks like something Mom would wear. Also, it’s too baggy.” She studied her more closely. “Have you lost weight?”

So it’s taken you this long to notice?
“A little.” Anna dropped her gaze.

She looked up to find Monica smiling her patronizing little smile that made Anna feel as if she were biting down on tinfoil. “Which one is it this time? All the rice you can eat—or the one with all the eggs and butter but no bread? Please tell me it’s not the fruit juice fast again. You’ll be running back and forth to the bathroom all day.”

“I’m not on a diet. I just decided to cut back.” Anna spoke quietly.

“Well, it’s working. You look great.” Anna listened for the condescension in Monica’s voice, but she seemed sincere enough. “When you get to your goal, we’ll celebrate with a shopping spree. Rodeo Drive, the works. A whole new wardrobe, my treat.”

“That’s nice of you, but …” Anna didn’t want to get her hopes up. Monica was famous for making promises she didn’t keep, though you were supposed to fall all over yourself thanking her regardless. “I was thinking of bringing Mom’s sewing machine down from the attic.”

“That old thing? I didn’t know she still had it.” Monica’s expression turned wistful. “God, all those matching dresses she used to make us. One Easter she had us in these little blue pinafores with daisies on the bibs. You were probably too young to remember …” She gazed off into the distance, something dark flitting across her face. Then her smile switched on again. “Those were the days,” she said with a bitter laugh.

“They’re probably in a box somewhere.” Betty had saved every little memento, including the clothes they’d outgrown. She’d look for them in the attic while she was up there.

“Along with Dad’s things.” Monica’s mouth curled in disgust. “I can’t believe she didn’t throw out all that stuff after he died.” She cast a scornful glance at the framed eight-by-ten of their parents on the mantel, taken just before Joe was diagnosed with cancer. It was the sole photograph of them on display in the house, and the only reason it was there was because an absence of family photos might have looked strange.

Anna shrugged. “Sentimental value, I guess.”

“Yes, who wouldn’t want to cherish the memory of being beaten to a pulp?”

“He wasn’t like that
all
the time,” Anna felt compelled to remind her.

“Go on, defend him. Isn’t that your job?” Monica turned her hard gaze on Anna. She looked about to unload, then seemed to think better of it and sighed wearily instead. “Never mind. Why don’t you mix me a drink? It’ll calm my nerves.”

Anna glanced pointedly at her watch. Usually Monica held out until lunch. If she got started this early, well, God only knew what she’d be like by the end of the day.

Her worries were in vain, as it turned out. Monica was at her best, regaling Thierry, a short balding man with an annoying habit of drumming on his knees, with stories of her days as Hollywood’s reigning queen. He and the crew lunched on sandwiches provided by Arcela, and were given free rein to roam about setting up shots. Monica didn’t make so much as a peep when one of the men bumped up against the wall with his camera, leaving a scratch in the wallpaper.

It was nearly four o’clock by the time they had all cleared out. Anna was exhausted—she’d been on her feet all day—but Monica’s eyes glowed like the sapphires in her ears—and not just from being the center of attention. There’d been something more than soda in those Diet Cokes she’d been sipping all afternoon. As Anna helped her off the sofa, a glance into the carryall hooked over an arm of the wheelchair confirmed her suspicion when a silver flask, half hidden by a box of tissues, winked up at her.

“I just hope I don’t live to regret this.” Monica’s voice was more than a little slurred. “I wasn’t
too-too,
was I?” In other words, had they noticed she was drunk?

“You were fine.” Anna spoke more curtly than usual.

Monica eyed her with reproach. “Looks like someone took a grumpy pill.” Their mother’s expression, which sounded strange coming from her sister.

“I’m just tired, that’s all.” Anna ran a hand through her hair. This was probably the worst possible moment, but she
had
to get it off her chest. Or risk a repeat of last night’s binge. She cleared her throat. “Listen, there’s something I’ve been meaning to talk to you about.”

Monica’s eyes narrowed. “I’m all ears.”

“It’s too much, looking after you
and
Mom. I need to cut back on my hours.”

“Go on.”

The flatness of her sister’s tone should have signaled her to stop there, but she plowed on. “I’d like Saturdays off, for one thing. And … and half days on Thursdays.” What the hell. Why not shoot for the moon? “Also, I don’t think it’s appropriate for me to be washing your lingerie and clipping your toenails.”

Monica was silent for so long that Anna was momentarily lulled into thinking she’d pulled it off. Then the storm hit. “Appropriate? Christ Almighty. Who do you think I am, Steve Fucking Forbes? I’m stuck in this thing twenty-four seven,” she banged her fists against the arms of her wheelchair, “and you’re yammering about what’s
appropriate
?”

Anna had opened Pandora’s box and now it was too late to close it. She stood her ground even so. “It’s no good playing the sympathy card,” she shot back in a surprisingly calm voice. “I’ve heard it all before.”

“Oh, really?” Monica gave her a look that would have cut glass.

“Frankly, I think you’re being selfish.”

“
Selfish?
” Monica hissed. “Is that how you see me? Well, if I am it’s because of
this.
” She glared at her wheelchair as she might have at iron shackles imprisoning her.

Anna closed her eyes, but couldn’t shut out the memory. She was once more hearing the collective gasp that had gone up on shore. And seeing the boat in pieces, bobbing in the distance like a toy smashed by a capricious giant. It had happened in a heartbeat; one minute it was skimming over the surface, the next flipping up into the air. If the boat with the photographer and his crew hadn’t come to the rescue within moments, her sister would surely have drowned. Anna sometimes wondered what her life would be like now if Monica
had.
If instead of the ghastly days and weeks that had followed, shuttling back and forth from the hospital and then the rehab center, there’d been a funeral that would have allowed Anna to mourn, then move on. But such thoughts always brought a flood of shame. The difference was she no longer felt she was to blame just because it had been her idea—the one time Monica had listened to her—that the photographer snap some shots of Monica on her boat.

If anyone, Monica should blame herself for pushing to go at top speed. Even as a child she’d loved going fast, the faster the better. Speeding downhill on her bike, then later in muscle cars with boys eager to show off for the prettiest girl in school. Anna recalled a procession of Band-Aids, ice packs, Ace bandages, and casts. The wheelchair was only the last in a long line.

“Come on, Monica,” she cajoled. “It’s not like I’m asking for the moon.”

“And if I don’t give you what you want?”

Blood surged into Anna’s cheeks. She’d hoped it wouldn’t come to this. “That’s up to you.”

“You want me to fire you? You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Mean old Monica, once again cast as the villainess while poor Anna rakes in all the sympathy.”

“It … it’s not like that.” But Anna could already feel her resolve shrinking. In desperation she burst out, “I’m your
sister,
for God’s sake! And even if I weren’t, I’d deserve to be treated with consideration. Not like some … some medieval serf.”

“I see. So all I do for
you,
that doesn’t count?”

“If you mean Edna …”

“Who’s paying for Mom’s meds? And the taxes on the house? I suppose you take it all for granted—whatever you need, just ask Monica. She’s rich. She can afford it.”

“That’s not true, and you know it. We’re grateful for …” Anna bit her lip. Dammit, she was
not
going to get suckered into apologizing. “She’s your mother, too.”

“I don’t need you to remind me.” Monica’s tone was icy.

“Apparently, you do.” Anna forced herself to meet Monica’s glittering gaze. “She asks after you all the time. When is she going to see you, when are you coming to visit? Frankly, I’ve run out of excuses.”

“Maybe you haven’t noticed, but I don’t get around all that well.”

You do when it suits you,
Anna wanted to fling back. But she kept her cool. “It wouldn’t kill you to visit once in a while. You could even have her here.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. The minute our backs were turned, she’d be off God knows where.” Monica snatched up her glass and drained it. “Sure, let’s all feel sorry for poor Mom. Don’t mind me, I’m only a cripple.” She was breathing heavily, an unhealthy flush rising in her cheeks.

This was Anna’s cue to feel guilty. Didn’t she have two legs to walk on while Monica had to depend on others for every little thing? But something rebelled in her. She wouldn’t give in this time, even if it cost her her job. “Would you rather I resigned?” she asked quietly. “Would that make it easier?”

She steeled herself against the full onslaught of Monica’s fury. It would be a relief in a way because it would only harden her resolve, galvanize her like a blowtorch, from which she’d emerge gleaming and new. Why hadn’t she done this years ago? In her mind the future glimmered miragelike, the day she wouldn’t have to drag to work as heavy inside as she was out, when she could hold her head up and know that her wants and needs mattered as much as anyone’s.

But the expected blast didn’t come. Instead, Monica’s chin began to tremble and tears rolled down her cheeks. Not crocodile tears this time, real ones. “You wouldn’t do that to me? Not really? Oh, Anna, promise you won’t leave.” Her voice was small and meek. “I’m sorry I was such a bitch.” She was crying in earnest now, hunched over in her chair. “I didn’t mean all those things I said. I don’t know what gets into me sometimes. It’s this … fucking … thing.” She beat with her fists at the arms of her wheelchair. “I know, I know. I should’ve gotten past it by now, but I can’t.
I can’t!
Oh, God …” She slumped forward, covering her face with her hands.

If she’d been whacked behind the knees with a baseball bat, Anna couldn’t have dropped to her haunches any quicker. Later, when she’d had a chance to reflect, she would wonder how much of it had been because of Monica and how much because of her own need to feel needed. But in that moment all she could see was her sister in pain. And wasn’t it her job to take care of Monica?

“Shh … it’s okay. I’m not going anywhere.” She stroked Monica’s heaving back.

“Promise?” Monica lifted her head, her eyes red and swollen behind a tangle of damp hair.

“I promise.” Anna fished a Kleenex from the carryall. “Blow.”

Monica dutifully honked into the tissue. Anna was reminded of what many considered her sister’s finest role, that of the blue-collar wife dumped by her cheating husband in
Roses Are Red.
Except for once Monica wasn’t acting. “Do you hate me?”

Anna sighed. “No, of course not.”

“I hate myself sometimes.”

“You shouldn’t.”

“I know how I come across. I don’t mean to.” She managed a tremulous smile. “Remember that fairy tale Mom used to read aloud to us, about the two sisters? I’m the one with the toads jumping out of her mouth.”

You didn’t have any trouble being nice to Thierry and his crew,
said a voice in Anna’s head. “I know it’s hard,” she said gently. “It would be for anyone in your place.”

“But not you.” There was no sarcasm in her voice now. “You’d be the poster child for paraplegics. How do you do it, Anna? How do you stay so upbeat all the time?”

I eat. And eat. And eat.
“I don’t know.” She shrugged. “I guess it’s the way I’m built.”
Truer words were never spoken,
she thought, picturing the old Pontiac station wagon they’d had growing up, which ran on fumes and never seemed to break down.

Monica sniffed into the balled-up tissue. “Honestly, I couldn’t manage without you.”