What Happened to My Sister: A Novel (29 page)

Cricket looks down at the giraffe in her lap and traces circles around his little glass eyes.

“That’s how much
you
know,” she says, still fooling with the giraffe. She looks up at me. “You’re not the only one with secrets. You think I have a lot of friends?”

I nod at her and she snorts.

“Yeah, well, I don’t,” she says. At first I figure she’s trying to make me feel better but then she goes on. “I’ve got, like, none. Zero. Zip. Caroline—my sister, Caroline, I mean—she was, like, my best friend. When we were growing up I copied everything she did so, like, if she wanted to go swimming at the Y, I did too even though deep down I’ve never really liked putting my head underwater. She was a fish, she loved it so much. Any music she listened to, so did I. I copied everything she wore, her handwriting, the way she talked—she had this way of making everything funny, you know when people do that? Like if Mom said she was going on a diet but we knew she was still eating whatever she wanted, Caroline would say
how’s that workin’ out for ya?
and Mom would
laugh, but if it were me, I’d probably have said something awful like
but you’re still eating like a horse
and then I’d get in trouble for being mean.

“Anyway, Caroline was the popular one,” she says. “
Everyone
loved Caroline. She had so many friends her room at the hospital was practically wallpapered with get-well-soon cards and posters everyone in her class signed. I didn’t get to see her that much when she was in the hospital at the end because my parents were trying to protect me or whatever—like I didn’t know she was going to die.”

She pauses, then her eyes water up and she looks away to try to keep from crying.

“I knew. Of course I knew,” Cricket says, sniffling. “All anyone did in our house was whisper and if I walked in a room they’d stop and make these fake smiles to try to cover up what everybody knew, including me. Lots of times my parents would leave me at the Cutlers’ house because their daughter, Lucy, was in my grade at school and you know how grown-ups think just because you’re the same age you’ll be instant best friends? Well, I hated Lucy mainly because Lucy hated me. She couldn’t say so because her parents told her to be nice to me because of Caroline, but when we were alone it was like I was invisible. I’d start trying to talk to her about something—not something about Caroline but just, you know, anything—and she’d literally pick up a book and pretend to be really engrossed in it. I spent the night over at the Cutlers’ lots of times and they were polite to me but we were all relieved when my mom or dad would pick me up. I’d have to hug them to say thanks and goodbye and Lucy would just stand there with her arms down at her sides, not hugging me back to make me feel even stupider. I never told my parents I hated going over there because I knew they needed me to be out of their hair so they could be with Caroline. When she died, you know how many kids
from my class came to the funeral? Two. And that was just because one was the son of the school principal and the other had an older sister in Caroline’s grade so their whole family came.”

I don’t know what I can say to help Cricket feel better so I just blurt out the first thing that comes to mind.

“
I’m
your friend.”

She looks up from the giraffe with tears in her eyes. “You
are
my friend,” she says, not smiling. “You’re like my
only
friend. And since we’re confessing, I’ve been wanting to tell you I’m sorry about yesterday. I told you I had a doctor’s appointment but really I was going over to my dad’s and I didn’t want you to come but I didn’t want to hurt your feelings.”

“That’s okay,” I say.

“It’s not that I haven’t wanted to bring you to my dad’s,” she says, “I totally have! And obviously, as you could see, he’s like in love with you. It’s just that it’s so
sad
over at his place, you know? It’s like he doesn’t know how to take care of himself without my mom. Half the time I’m cleaning up for him—doing the dishes he’s got piled in the sink and wiping the counters, throwing out empty pizza boxes, stuff like that, but I have to do it when he’s busy or not paying attention because I know he’ll feel bad if he sees me, like, pity him or whatever. Plus, all he wants to talk about is my mom and does she ever talk about him. I mean, he doesn’t come right out and ask point-blank like that. He thinks he’s being cool about it. Like, we’ll be talking about summer school and out of the blue, as if it’s just occurred to him, he’ll say
hey, by the way, how’s Mom doing? What’s she been up to this summer?
So anyway, it’s just that I didn’t want you to see him all broken like he is. I don’t want you to know that version of my dad. He’s so great when he’s, you know, regular.”

“You think they’re gonna get back together, your momma and daddy?” I ask her.

“I want them to,” she says, “but I don’t know. I wish they would.”

Seems like this is a good time to tell Cricket the last part of my story and I figure the best way to do it is to show her.

“What’s that?” she asks me as I carefully put the picture on the bed facing her.

“That’s Emma,” I say. “My sister.”

“But, wait, I thought you made her up?”

“That’s what my momma says but then I found this and there’s this other thing I haven’t told you yet. See, I get these pictures? In my head? I been getting these flashes of memory or something—I don’t really know what they are but they show a baby being shook hard and a Bible in flames. I know it makes me out to sound crazy but when I found this picture Momma was hiding from me suddenly I knew.”

“What? What’d you know?”

“The flashes are of Emma,” I say, waiting on Cricket to understand. But she’s staring at me like she doesn’t. “Get it? The flashes of the baby—they’re of Emma. She
was
real! I didn’t make her up after all! I think she died and
that’s
why Momma says she was only imaginary and not to talk about her. I think Momma’s covering up for something.”

“Whoaaaaa.” Cricket finally has the face I thought she would have: shock mixed with scary mixed with wow-what-a-story. “You think your mom killed her?”

“What? No! I mean I don’t know.” I cain’t think of what to think and plus I never thought of it so simple like that. Did Momma kill Emma? Or Daddy? No. No way. “Is that what you think? I mean, from what all I told you, is that what
you
think happened?”

Cricket hops down and gets a pad of paper and a pen from her desk. Then she climbs back onto the bed.

“Here’s what we should do,” she says. “Let’s make a list of all the facts we have now, then we can figure out what we need to search for online. Wait, how come you didn’t tell the police about this?”

“They’d never believe me,” I say, hoping she’ll leave it alone and get back to the list making.
Please leave it alone Cricket please please please
 …

“How do you know? You could tell my dad—he’d totally believe you,” she says, holding her pen ready above the paper. “We should tell my father. I’ll stay with you the whole time so you don’t have to be scared and plus my dad’s not scary at all so. Wait, what’s the matter? Why’re you crying?”

I’m crying because now I’ve got to tell her about Richard and I may be stupid but even
I
know she’s never going to look at me the same way again.

“What is it?” she asks, scootching closer to gently pat my back. “You can tell me.”

I sniff and wipe my snot and tears with the back of my hand.
She is never going to look at me the same way again
.

“There’s something else,” I say. But I hold off because maybe there’s a way to answer her without telling about Richard.

“Tell me, Carrie,” Cricket says.

I wish I could wave a magic wand and disappear from here into a time machine that could take me back to the car ride, back to before I went and opened my big fat mouth and got myself trapped in the truth. Or it could fly me into the future, way after today, when Cricket and them are long past the part we’re at now. When they’ve learned to not think of me as a murderer. But my own momma hasn’t learned that yet and she’s my momma. So I’m a super-idiot for thinking Cricket will ever get past it.

“Carrie, seriously,” she’s saying. “You’ve got to tell me what it is.”

All of a sudden it hits me. She’s right. I’ve
got
to tell her because she’s
got
to know ever-thing because I’ve
got
to find out what happened to my sister.

“Okay, well, there was this man”—I start from the beginning—“and his name was Richard.”

The sun’s starting to go down when I finally come to the end of the story. Cricket’s laying on her belly, chin in her hands, feet making lazy circles in the air behind her. I’m still cross-legged and I’m pretty sure both my legs are asleep by now. It’s going to be pins and needles when I stand up.

“Aha!” she says. “So
that’s
why you say the police won’t believe you.”

I nod and wait for her to give me that I-didn’t-realize-you-were-a-murderer look. But she goes and surprises me again.

“Okay then,” Cricket says, sitting up then hopping off the bed. “Let’s get started.”

“Huh?” I ask, watching her turn on the computer. “Ow!”

My legs are asleep after all. Cricket pats the pillow on my desk chair for me to come set beside her. I don’t tell her
thank you for not looking at me different now that you know the truth about me
. I don’t tell her that I’m so lucky she’s my friend. I don’t burst into baby-tears and hug her.

I want to do all that, but I don’t.

“Come on, we’ve got work to do,” she says. “Wait, where did you say your mom came back from when she came home with Emma?”

“I think she was at my gammy’s house,” I say. “I don’t remember much about where I was when Momma was there. Maybe I went and stayed there too, but I don’t recall.”

“Where does your grandma live again?”

“A small place near Asheville is all I know. She used to send us stuff from a store in Asheville she drove to all the time so it’s somewhere near there.”

“Okay, so, let’s try this,” Cricket says, clicking on something. “I think the county site is our best bet. Shoot. I don’t know why they don’t have anything under ‘Public Records.’ Seems like it should be—Wait! How come I didn’t see this link? It was right there all along.”

I’m excited because she’s excited. That’s why Cricket’s so great. She knows this is something I need so it’s like
she
needs it too, now.

“Here it is!” She says it like she’s won a prize, twirling in her desk chair with her arms waving in the air, singing. “I found it, oh yeah, I found it I found it oh yeah …”

I rub my eyes and read it again to be sure I ain’t seeing visions.

“And that’s the only thing they got with my momma’s name on it, right?” I ask her.

“Yup. Just the birth record. Nothing else.
Anywhere
.”

And then I copy it down in my notebook, word for word.

CERTIFICATE OF BIRTH

Buncombe County Hospital
Buncombe County
North Carolina

This certifies that Emma Margaret was born in this
hospital at 9:33
A.M
. on Tuesday, the seventeenth of February.
In Witness Whereof this birth certificate has been duly signed
by the authorized officers who have caused the Corporate
Seal of this hospital to be hereunto affixed
.

“Now we can go to my dad with this,” Cricket says, bouncing in her seat while I’m racing to get the words right. “My dad’s the best police officer there is. He can find out what really happened to your sister. Hey, I’m starving. Have supper with us tonight, will you? Please?”

“What time is it anyway?” I ask her, putting the cap on my pen and closing the notebook.

From out of nowhere it hits—I’m so tired I feel like I could sleep standing up. Saying my whole life story out loud sapped me of my syrup and now all I want to do is crawl into Cricket’s bed here and sleep till I get it back. But I cain’t risk spending the night—it could be the one time Momma comes home before dawn. “I kind of need to go back now.”

“Okay,” she says, making a frown. “You sure?”

I nod and follow her down the stairs to the kitchen to find Mrs. Ford for a ride back.

By the time we pull up to the Loveless my legs feel like they’ve been dipped in wet cement and dried into blocks. The door to the front office seems like it’s locked shut, it’s so heavy to open. Now I know what Momma means when she says she’s
bone tired
.

When Mr. Burdock opens the door and sees it’s me he hurries to close it so Mrs. Burdock doesn’t catch sight but not before I hear her hollering at him from somewhere in the back. He looks as tired as me and I’m betting he’s losing whatever fight they’re having. Instead of mussing my hair or singing some weird song at me, he just shakes his head, points in the direction of room 217, and says, “I think ya got company.”

What?
Momma’s home from work already? I knew it! Oh Lord, am I gonna get it. I get to the top of the stairs just in time to see a man in cowboy boots coming out of our room, still buttoning his rodeo shirt closed. He hurries past me, down the stairs, carrying a whiff of Momma with him—cigarettes and Jim Beam and the old lily of the valley perfume Momma’s almost used up entirely. I watch him from the balcony railing. He looks over his shoulders, right then left, before getting into a brown car, revving the engine, and pulling out into the night. I get the feeling he didn’t want to be seen here at the Loveless.

I try to come up with a reason why I wasn’t there when Momma
got home, listening at the door before knocking to be let in. Momma unlatches the door but leaves it to me to push open. She’s at the sink when I step in, ready for whatever she’s got in store for me. But she doesn’t seem to notice I’m standing there in the middle of the room.