Two Sisters: A Novel (26 page)

A mother like Pia had.

In gulps of air Muriel opened the spillway and let the secrets surge. Some of them, anyway. About Pia’s illness. The gray satin dress. The way she found out how her mother really felt about her. The crushing hurt of it all.

It’s not your fault. Siblings are mean.

“Jesus Christ,” Joanie said, embracing her more tightly.

“I feel so helpless about my sister. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. What do I do?”

Without hesitation, Joanie stepped back and wiped the wetness off her friend’s damp cheeks. First one, then the other as the air conditioner blew back the curls in her wild hair.

“You go back into that bathroom and splash more water on your face. Swish around a little mouthwash while you’re at it . . . just saying. Then you grab your purse, wait for the elevator, and take a cab to Grand Central. Get the hell out of here, Muriel, and catch the next train to Connecticut.”

T
HE VERY NAME
of the state made Muriel feel inadequate. Connecticut’s summers didn’t feel as miserable as the sweaty mangle of humanity in Manhattan did; its winters inspired poetry. Somehow, the state seemed immune to mess and crankiness. At least the parts of it Muriel had seen, which were the sections of Connecticut that housed Pia and her family. To Muriel, the nutmeg state felt like a Broadway set. Vignettes of white-steepled churches; lime green trees; stone retaining walls stacked like craggy puzzles; mansions set back from the street atop manicured knolls; children in Converse sneakers riding bicycles along quiet country roads, their reflective helmets strapped tightly beneath their chins. Even the lone time she’d taken the east side bus with Joanie to the Connecticut casinos, it felt as if they were on the yellow brick road from
The Wiz
the moment they left the interstate.

On the train north, Muriel came close to throwing up. She’d never had motion sickness before, but that morning her glands flooded with saliva, her stomach felt roped into a knot. Using a sanitizing wipe to open the latch to the lavatory, she stood over the stainless steel toilet bowl with the chugging train jostling her violently from side to side. Vainly, she tried not to inhale the stale urine smell. Did male commuters even
try
to hit the bowl? Bracing her legs in a wide stance so as not to touch the wall or sink or, God forbid, the toilet itself, she hung her head and spit into the bowl. How had she let Joanie talk her into this? Pia had made it clear she didn’t want to see her. She’d left explicit instructions.
Natural polish and lips. Don’t let them restyle my wig.

Barging in unannounced and uninvited, well, it wasn’t something a Sullivant would ever do. Not a Muriel Sullivant, anyway. Pia’s housekeeper, Blanca, would probably turn her away at the door. “Miss Pia is out,” she’d say in a practiced way that left no room for discussion. Only Muriel would know why the car was in the driveway. She’d look up to see the sheer curtain fall closed on Pia’s bedroom window.

“Family doesn’t need an invitation,” Joanie had said to her before she left New York. “Not at times like this. Now go.”

In her vulnerable state, with her puffy red eyes and mottled neck, she’d believed her. “What do I say when I get there?” Muriel had asked, sniffing. “What do I do?”

Joanie was clear. “Empty the dishwasher if it’s full, scrub the toilets if they’re dirty, pick Emma up at school, buy groceries if the fridge is empty, recycle junk mail piled on the kitchen counter, make tea, flip through
People
magazine with Pia, hold her hand. Be her
sister
.”

Muriel burped up a laugh.

“If she wants to be left alone,” Joanie added, softly, “leave her alone. But don’t let your sister pass without her knowing you were there. That you cared enough to show up. Even if it means squeezing her hand and saying nothing. If you don’t, you’ll never forgive yourself.”

Of course she was right. Of course.

While Muriel struggled to maintain her balance over the train’s toilet bowl, she shook her head at the very notion that she would need
instructions
on how to care. Wasn’t that something families learned naturally?

Not her family. Not from the very beginning.

“You should spend Christmas with your family,” Babcia Jula had said to her only daughter, Lidia, the first holiday after Pia was born. They had already moved to Queens. Lidia hadn’t bothered to buy a Christmas tree.

“We are, Mama. We’re coming home the Saturday before.”

“Your
new
family.”

Lidia was taken aback. “What are you saying?”

“
Nic, nic.
I’m just saying.”

“You don’t want to see your granddaughter?”

“Of course I want to see your little
niemowlę.
It’s not me. You know how open minded I am.”

“Papa?”

“That man is as stubborn as a hedgehog.”

Lidia felt a flush rise in her cheeks. “He’s going to have to accept my husband sometime.”

“Hedgehogs don’t always agree.”

“So I can never come home? Is that what you want?”

“Not what I want,
kochanie
, but the way it is. You made your bed with an Irishman, now you must sleep in it. I only tell the truth because I care.”

“
Care?
How can you say you care when you refuse to see your only grandchild?”

“Don’t be dramatic, Lidia. I’ll see little Pia one day in New York.”

“One day? It’s her first Christmas!”

“You’ll understand when your baby grows up. Your father cares so much about you he can’t bear to see a Sullivant in your arms. And me, I care too much about you and little Pia to allow such an upset on Christ’s birthday. If we didn’t care, you could bring
anyone
home. Have a premature child with any man. But we care too much to witness the ruin of your life.”

Care.
In her family it had always been a four-letter word.

Over the loudspeaker the conductor announced, “Westport. Next stop. Westport.” Muriel spit into the bowl once more, then used a fresh Sani-Cloth to unlock the lavatory door and let herself out moments before the train lurched to a stop at the platform. Once outside, the fresh air made her feel slightly better. At least her stomach stopped its cartwheels.

Westport, Connecticut, seemed to be zoned for escalating elegance. In the two-mile stretch from the station to Pia’s home, the houses closest to the petite station were humble and overgrown with untended shrubbery. Up a hill, the brown facades lightened to pale yellow. The hedges were flattened into a military crew cut. Around a bend, the houses became homes; farther up, the homes became mansions. By the time she entered her sister’s neighborhood, the
estates
were erected in stone, their shutters painted French blue or white linen. Balletic weeping willows stretched over the wide avenues in drippy arches. Save for the loud buzz of leaf blowers, the streets were silent. At this hour of the morning in this part of Connecticut, it seemed the only living souls were gardeners.

“It’s going to be okay,” Muriel whispered to herself in the backseat of a cab so clean she didn’t even use the bottom of her shirt to open the door. Still, she fretted over what she might see. Would Pia be bald? Skeletal? Would the veins in her beautiful hands rise up like green tributaries? Would she be too weak to lift her head off the pillow?

At the foot of her sister’s circular driveway, Muriel’s hands shook slightly as she paid the fare. Her stomach made its presence known again. She pulled herself up and stood there, rubbing her hand gently across her belly. “Deep breaths. One in, one out.”

“The right address?” asked the cabdriver, staring at her. Only then did she notice she’d neglected to shut the back door.

“Oh, yes. Sorry.” Muriel quickly closed the door and watched the driver accelerate, his tailpipe belching a puff of white smoke.

Be a sister,
she told herself.
This is what sisters do.

The Winston estate was a regal stone goddess with white shutters and tiny dormer windows inserted into the gray-shingled roof. In the clear Connecticut sunlight it glowed like a retouched photo. Pristine. Manicured. Flawless. Like Pia herself. (
Was she still?
) Feeling hopelessly mass market, Muriel climbed the steep driveway. The rough pavers felt warm beneath her feet. Her heart pounded against her sternum. By the time she reached the shiny red front door, she was chuffing for air. For a moment she stilled herself.
It’s called
composure
, Muriel. Look it up. Live it.

Before she had a chance to
tap, tap
and turn the knob, she heard Root Beer barking and footsteps on the interior marble. The heavy wooden door swung open and the Winstons’ housekeeper, Blanca, stood there, drying her hands on a dish towel. Muriel opened her mouth to speak, but it took a moment for her lips to wrap around the right words. In the interim, Blanca stunned her by throwing both arms around her.

“Miss Muriel! You’ve come on the perfect day.”

T
HAT VERY MORNING
, with the early sun still lemony, Pia awoke confused.
Am I in heaven?
she wondered. Her bones didn’t scream at her, her lungs didn’t clutch with each breath. When she turned her head to see God, she saw her husband, Will, asleep. His familiar breathing sounds—soft in, hard out—filled the air. His muddy smell clung to the sheets. For the first time in months, she inhaled him without choking. Slowly, Pia sat up in bed and stretched her arms overhead, gingerly at first, waiting for the stab of pain to curl her in on herself. Instead, she felt the elastic comfort of elongated muscle. Her neck, though stiff, didn’t sound like crushed tortilla chips when she swiveled it back and forth. When she lifted her rib cage, the bones felt supported by cartilage for the first time in months. The shooting pain was gone. The queasiness was replaced by hunger. It felt as if a high school buddy had suddenly appeared in her bedroom. They hadn’t spoken in years, but the moment they saw each other, their running conversation resumed. Fresh and limber, they fretted over inconvenient pimples and oafish boys and the unfairness of having to try out for cheerleading squad in a premenstrual bloat. Like it would
kill
them to wait five days? Magically, Pia felt herself return.

I thank my God through Jesus Christ,
Pia silently prayed. “Will?” she whispered.

“What’s wrong?” He awoke instantly.

As she had so many times before she became ill, Pia slid into the warmth on Will’s side of the bed and kissed his furry chest. She pressed her bone-thin body flat against his.

“God answered our prayers, my love. I’m back. It’s me.”

Chapter 26

E
VERYTHING IN
P
IA’S
home was shiny. The milk-white marble floor in the entryway was buffed to a glassy finish, the chandelier overhead sparkled like a Tiffany display case. Floor-to-ceiling windows reflected a bluish shimmer. It resembled a model home. Or, Muriel realized for the first time, the lobby of the Plaza Hotel. Too elegant to live in. Unless you were Pia Winston.

“The Lord has given us a miracle,” Blanca said. “Come, come.”

“What’s happened?”

Blanca made the sign of the cross over her chest and hurried into the kitchen where a teakettle was whistling. Muriel scuttled behind. In Pia’s airplane hangar of a kitchen, a giant island sat in the center like a square spaceship. Its black granite top mirrored the huge silver fruit bowl that sat upon it; creamy white cabinetry and stainless-steel appliances around the perimeter of the space didn’t have a single smudge. Muriel had to laugh at Joanie’s advice. The mere thought of cleaning a dirty toilet was unthinkable. Her sister never had to ready her home for guests. The limes in the countertop bowl were always plump and juicy. She had a machine that made club soda on the spot. A dirty dish in the sink? Yeah, right.

“The worst is over,” Blanca said, lifting the steaming kettle off the stove. She poured boiling water over several tea bags in a thick glass pitcher. “Our Pia is better today.”

“Better?”

“She’s back from the very edge.”

Every vein, artery, and capillary in Muriel’s body seemed to widen its borders. She felt a physical surge of relief. Her skin pinked; her eyes drew water. Until that very moment she hadn’t understood how scared she really was or how shallowly she’d been breathing for weeks. After a lifetime of yearning to be like her sister, how could she navigate life without her? However could she possibly know whom she was supposed to become without Pia’s example in the world?

Muriel exhaled a moan of deliverance. She’d always assumed there would be time to fix what was broken between them. Now there was. Her eyelids briefly fell shut.
Thank you, God,
she silently prayed. Was this one of His mysterious ways? Never would she have comprehended the urgency without this close call. Again, she blew a deep breath out. From now on, she would stop being such a baby and be a
sister.
Whatever that meant, she would figure it out.