My Sister's Voice (13 page)
Authors: Mary Carter
“Very funny, Dad,” Monica said. “It was my tenth birthday present,” she told Joe. “Can you believe that?”
“You loved it,” the Colonel said.
“I wanted a Madonna poster,” Monica said.
“We gave you a poster,” the Colonel said.
“Of a woodchuck with a target on its heart!” Monica said. Her father chuckled and picked up the bucket of eggs.
“Let’s go,” he said. “I like mine scrambled; how about you, Joe?”
Monica entered the cabin, grateful her father ended on a nicer note with Joe. The main entrance to the house opened directly into a large living room. The logs that made up the house had also been flattened, sanded, stained, and put down on the floors. Directly across from the front door stood the centerpiece of the living room, a huge stone fireplace that rose all the way up to the ceiling, ending just underneath the overhang of the second floor. A large buck was mounted on the fireplace, and as usual, Monica tried not to look into his enormous glassy eyes.
How many people had they invited? It seemed more like a wedding than a birthday. She didn’t even know half the people. Her mother was no doubt in the kitchen; Monica could smell the sweet aroma of a stove that had been in use all day, and guests were already nibbling appetizers off little china plates. On every single surface, Monica could see her mother had put down lace coasters. She picked one up as she moved through the room. She’d forgotten her mother’s obsession with lace. It had been a while since she’d seen the whole collection: tablecloths, coasters, shams. What a pair, her parents. Rifles and lace.
To the left of the living room was the dining room, and just beyond that the kitchen. Monica made her way to the swinging door. Her mother came out just as she’d crossed the threshold of the dining room, wearing an apron and wielding an oven mitt. Monica waved and smiled. Relief flooded her mother’s face as she swooped in and wrapped her in a hug.
“I was so worried,” she said.
“Hello, hello, hello,” Monica said. “The food smells delicious.” Monica pulled back and kissed her mother on the cheek. Katherine Bowman brought her wrist closer to her eyes and squinted at the tiny watch adorning it.
She’s so delicate,
Monica thought.
I could snap her in two.
She’s so delicate,
Monica thought.
I could snap her in two.
“Did you run into traffic?” her mother asked.
We certainly didn’t stop for a quickie.
“Just the usual,” Monica said. “But I forgot Aunt Grace’s gift.”
“Did you get my e-mail?” her mother said, ignoring her present-less plight. Monica followed her mother into the kitchen, hoping to busy herself for the lecture that was about to come. She rued the day her mother learned how to use the Internet. Her mother, the worrywart, sent her daily barrages: jokes, chain letters, and horror stories. The latest was how to stop a raging kitchen fire with nothing but a bag of flour and a sporty sock. The truth was, Monica had been deleting her mother’s e-mails lately; she was swamped, and getting rid of them gave her little stabs of joy.
Monica said hello to the women helping out in the kitchen, kissing the ones she knew, politely shaking hands with the ones she didn’t, and praying her mother would have enough food to stir, and poke, without doing it to her.
“I want to say hello to Aunt Grace,” she said when her mother insisted she didn’t need any help.
“She’s in the back den,” her mother said. Monica started to head out when she felt her mother grab her arm, squeezing her to the point of pain. “Wait,” she said. “There’s something I have to tell you.” Her voice dropped to a low whisper.
“What?” Monica said.
“She’s having one of her spells.”
“A migraine?”
“It’s more than that. She seems very confused. She’s mixing things up in her mind.”
“She’s only in her forties, Mom—”
“I think she might be off her medication.” Monica didn’t know exactly what medication Aunt Grace was on; anytime she tried to figure it out, the conversation was always slammed shut. Bipolar, schizophrenic, simply depressed? Monica was dying to know, but her father’s family prided itself on keeping secrets. Katherine leaned even closer to her daughter.
“Your father is thinking about finding her a home.”
“What?”
“I don’t want to get into all of this right now. I just wanted you to know—in case—she doesn’t seem herself.”
“My God,” Monica said. “She’s so young.”
“She’s spoiled, if you ask me,” her mother said.
“Mom.”
“I’m sorry. I know it’s her birthday and all, but here she is making a scene again.”
“She’s not feeling well. You said it yourself.”
“I know, I know. And maybe she’s not. I can’t help but think it’s a cry for attention.”
“I’m sure it wasn’t easy growing up in Dad’s shadow,” Monica said.
“Stop blaming everything on your father.”
“Mom.” How was it she was only in the house a few minutes and they were already on each other’s nerves? Were all families like this?
“Ask her if she’d like a cup of tea, or lemonade,” her mother said, turning back to the stove. “God knows she’s not going to ask for it herself.”
Chapter 11
T
he back den, with windows overlooking the backyard and woods beyond, had always been Aunt Grace’s favorite spot. Monica found her there, dozing alone on the love seat. Monica sat on one of the chairs next to her and watched Aunt Grace sleep. She looked peaceful, so young. She was tall, like the Colonel, and a woman Monica always thought of as handsome. She had a strong face, high cheekbones, and unruly, dark curly hair that used to trail down her back, but the past few years she’d taken it to a bob just below her chin. She’d never been married or had kids. Was it because of her depression? Was she a lesbian? Or was it because her older brother never let anybody near her?
he back den, with windows overlooking the backyard and woods beyond, had always been Aunt Grace’s favorite spot. Monica found her there, dozing alone on the love seat. Monica sat on one of the chairs next to her and watched Aunt Grace sleep. She looked peaceful, so young. She was tall, like the Colonel, and a woman Monica always thought of as handsome. She had a strong face, high cheekbones, and unruly, dark curly hair that used to trail down her back, but the past few years she’d taken it to a bob just below her chin. She’d never been married or had kids. Was it because of her depression? Was she a lesbian? Or was it because her older brother never let anybody near her?
Put her in a home? That was ridiculous. If she was depressed, it was because she was off her medication, and she would just have to go back on. As far back as she could remember, whenever Monica had a fight with her father, Aunt Grace had always taken her side. Now she was going to take hers. As if sensing her presence, Aunt Grace opened her eyes and lit up with a smile.
“Monica,” she said, holding out her arms. Monica wrapped Aunt Grace in a hug.
“I hope I didn’t wake you,” Monica said.
“Not at all,” Aunt Grace said.
“Happy birthday,” Monica said.
“Don’t remind me,” Aunt Grace said. She patted the spot on the sofa beside her. Monica sat next to her. They held hands.
“You were smart to sneak away,” Monica said, jerking her thumb toward the living room. “It’s overpowering when we’re all in the same room.”
“Yes,” Aunt Grace said.
“How are you feeling?” Monica asked softly. Aunt Grace laughed.
“Who told you? Your mother?”
“What do you mean?”
“Did she tell you he’s threatening to put me in a home?”
“Did you two have a fight or something?” Monica asked. She wasn’t going to come out and ask Aunt Grace if she was taking her medicine. Aunt Grace was a private woman, and it certainly wasn’t Monica’s place to bring it up.
“I’m reading your book,” Aunt Grace said.
“Oh,” Monica said. “I was going to give you a copy.” She felt guilty she hadn’t done it sooner. She didn’t think Aunt Grace needed the advice in the book, but of course she should have known she would buy it anyway.
“I particularly identified with the chapter on cleaning out the clutter.”
“Oh?” Monica said. She didn’t want to talk about the book. It was getting harder and harder to drown out the thought that it was really Joe’s book. Although Joe had suggested “Cleaning House” as the title for that section, and Monica changed it to “Cleaning Out the Clutter.”
“There’s a lot of clutter in this family,” Aunt Grace said. “We should have cleaned it up years ago.”
“Well, it’s never too late,” Monica said. Although if Aunt Grace was talking about her relationship with the Colonel, the book wasn’t going to be of any help at all. Monica knew her father: He wasn’t the type to willingly engage in emotional discussions; he definitely wouldn’t be up for healing any sibling rifts.
“Monica,” Aunt Grace said, grabbing her hands and looking her in the eye. “I want you to know I’m terribly ashamed of myself.”
“Aunt Grace,” Monica said. “What a thing to say.”
“Listen to me. I’m sorry. I am so, so sorry.”
“Sorry for what?” Aunt Grace pulled her hands away. She seemed to age ten years.
“For everything,” she said, looking out the window. “Absolutely everything.”
“Don’t talk like this,” Monica said. “It’s your birthday.”
“I don’t care if he does put me in an insane asylum. You have to know the truth. You deserve to know the truth.”
“What truth?”
“Your sister should be here,” Aunt Grace said.
“What?” Monica said. Aunt Grace was definitely off her game. Was she talking about her mother’s sister? Aunt Betty? “Betty died five years ago,” Monica said softly.
“I’m sorry,” Aunt Grace said. “They’re all going to hate me. Dicky is never going to forgive me now, is he?” Aunt Grace was almost in tears. She was the only one of them who called Monica’s father Dicky, for obvious reasons.
“The Colonel isn’t mad at you,” Monica said. “In fact, we’re all here today because of how much we love you.” Monica put her hand around her aunt’s shoulder.
“Do you remember her at all?” Aunt Grace said.
“Remember who? Aunt Betty?”
“Monica.” The door opened and Katherine stepped into the den. “There you are,” she said as if she hadn’t just left her daughter. Monica smiled at her mother, although she really wanted to scream. Why did her mother have to be so nervous? Was she ever going to stop hovering? “What are you two young ladies talking about?” Katherine asked.
She’s using her fake voice,
Monica thought.
Who is she putting on the big act for? Aunt Grace?
She’s using her fake voice,
Monica thought.
Who is she putting on the big act for? Aunt Grace?
“Aunt Grace was talking about Aunt Betty,” Monica said. Then she felt immediately guilty, bringing up her mother’s older sister. She’d died five years ago, and her mother rarely talked about it.
“I wasn’t talking about your aunt Betty,” Aunt Grace said. She looked Katherine in the eye. “I’m tired of lying,” she told her. “You and Dicky have burdened all of us with your lies. We’re going to clear out the clutter! Right, Monica dear?”
“Right, Aunt Grace,” Monica said.
“Monica,” Katherine said. “Why don’t you get Aunt Grace a glass of water?” Monica stood. Aunt Grace grabbed Monica’s hand.
“Do you really think you can hide this forever?” Grace asked Katherine. Monica’s mother hesitated, teetering in the doorway.
“It’s okay, Mom,” Monica said. “I’ll stay with Aunt Grace; you get her the water.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” Katherine said. “I need to speak with Grace alone.” With surprising speed and strength, Aunt Grace stood up.
“Let’s go,” she said, tugging on Monica.
“Where?” Monica asked.
“To the woods,” Aunt Grace answered. “Before it’s too late.”
“The woods?”
“That’s where you need to go. Maybe you’ll remember.”
“Remember what?” Monica asked. Aunt Grace didn’t answer. She headed out of the room. Katherine stepped in front of the doorway, blocking her exit.
“We’re going to eat soon,” her mother said. Monica looked helplessly from her mother to Aunt Grace. She hated to admit it, but it looked like her parents were right this time. Aunt Grace looked almost—crazed. Her face was flushed, her nostrils flared, and her eyes were definitely darting from place to place. Furthermore, she’d never showed an interest in the woods before; on the few family trips they’d taken into the woods, Aunt Grace was always the first to turn back with a “That’s enough of the great outdoors for me!”
“Mom’s right,” Monica said. “It’ll be dark soon.” Aunt Grace stepped up to Katherine and squared her shoulders.
“Lacey,” she said, looking Katherine directly in the eyes. “Lacey, Lacey, Lacey.”
Katherine cried out; her hands flew to her mouth.
“Mom?” Monica said. “Are you all right?”
“I can’t handle the secrets anymore,” Aunt Grace said. “Do you hear me? I can’t handle them.” Her voice was ragged and growing in pitch and volume. Monica looked from Aunt Grace to her mother. Her chest tightened. Gibberish suddenly filled her head, insistent and nonsensical. It was so loud it was drowning out Aunt Grace, who was shouting something. What was she saying? Why couldn’t Monica hear? What was this noise in her head? Monica slapped her hands over her ears and bent over.
“Monica?” It was her mother. She put her hands on her back. “Now look what you’ve done,” she said to Aunt Grace. Monica wanted to yell at her mother not to talk to Aunt Grace like that, not on her birthday, but she couldn’t speak. She pushed past her mother and Aunt Grace and almost ran to the living room. She just needed to get some air—maybe go out on the porch.
She almost rammed into Mike and Tina, who were standing in the middle of the living room, looking lost.
“Lacey, Lacey, Lacey,” Aunt Grace said, following her. Katherine stumbled behind with her hands still covering her mouth. Mike caught Monica’s eyes and held them.
Save me,
Monica thought. His eyes didn’t leave hers for a second.
Save me,
Monica thought. His eyes didn’t leave hers for a second.
“Hey there,” Tina said.
“Are you listening to me, Monica?” Aunt Grace said. “Are you listening to me?” Monica looked at her mother and mouthed,
Get Dad.
Get Dad.
“Lacey, Lacey, Lacey,” Aunt Grace said. The crowd in the living room began to part, and quiet, as they tuned into what was sure to be a family fight.
“Who is Lacey?” Monica said. It was barely a whisper, but the name burned in her throat. She saw her mother’s jaw start to quiver.
“Grace!” At the sharp sound of the Colonel’s voice, everyone turned. Even Aunt Grace fell silent.
“Thank God,” Monica heard her mother whisper.
“That’s enough nonsense,” the Colonel said. “It’s time to cut the cake.”
The blazing birthday cake stole everyone’s attention. Monica tried to catch her mother’s or father’s eyes but they didn’t glance her way once. Neither did Aunt Grace. She was staring at the flames on her cake as if she was considering diving into them. Joe put his arms around Monica’s waist, nuzzled her neck. Her father must have been semi-nice to him. Then, everyone started to sing. Everyone but Monica, who moved her lips but couldn’t find her voice. Someone yelled, “Make a wish!” and finally, Aunt Grace looked at Monica.
“I wish,” she said.
“Aunt Grace,” Katherine interrupted in a high, tight voice. “Don’t say it out loud or it won’t come true.” Aunt Grace closed her eyes and clasped her small hands below her chin. She took a breath, bent down, and blew on the candles with thin, quivering lips. The effort made her cough. The crowd applauded. All but two candles stuck in the middle were extinguished. Aunt Grace looked at them and once again raised her gaze to Monica.
“Why, look,” she said, pointing at the two candles. “My wish will come true.” She smiled at Monica. The Colonel stepped up and extinguished the last two flames with his thick fingers. Aunt Grace snatched them up and held them to her lips.
“I’ll get the plates,” Katherine said. She disappeared into the kitchen. Monica extracted herself from Joe and followed. Her mother was hunched over the kitchen sink.
“Mom,” Monica said. “Who’s Lacey?” Katherine turned. Her eyes were red, her makeup smeared. She inhaled, wiped her nose with the back of her hand. “Mom,” Monica said softly. She went up and put her arms around her. After a moment her mother put her hand on Monica’s back and gave it a pat.
“You had a sister,” Katherine said.
“What?”
“Her name was Lacey.”
“What?”
“She died at birth.”
“Oh my God.”
“I don’t ever want to speak of this again.”
“Mom, I’m so sorry.”
“I can’t listen to that woman say her name anymore!”
“Shh, Mom, it’s okay.” Katherine opened the cupboard and began taking down little plates. Duty comes first, always. Monica stepped in to help. The door swung open and the Colonel stepped in.
“They’re waiting,” he said. “Monica, what have you done to your mother?”
“It’s okay, Richard,” Katherine said. “I told her about Lacey.” Monica had never seen her father stand so still. “How she died as a baby,” Katherine said. Monica hated the pained look on her mother’s face. The plates were shaking in her mother’s hand. Monica had so many questions, but it wasn’t the time or the place. A sister? Who died as a baby? It was so sad. Why hadn’t they ever told her? Monica always wanted a sibling, especially a sister to share her life. Once she’d even yelled at her mother for not having more children, a memory that now filled her with shame. She was constantly letting her parents down. Had the wrong child survived?
“Monica, would you take the plates to the table?” The Colonel took the plates out of Katherine’s hands and handed them to her. When she left the kitchen, her parents were standing by the kitchen sink, and her father looked concerned. Good. Hopefully he’d make her feel better. Monica couldn’t imagine a parent losing a child. Sure, she’d lost a sister, but it wasn’t the same. Had she been older or younger? Was it way before she was born? Monica would give it some time, wait until her mother was up for the conversation. Maybe she’d talk to her father instead. He handled things better, less emotionally. By the time the plates were passed out and everyone was eating cake, Monica found she couldn’t even take a bite. She had the beginnings of a tummy ache. She needed to lie down. She put down her fork. She’d wait until people finished their cake, then get up as if to help clean up, and sneak out.
“Why aren’t you eating? ” Joe whispered in her ear.
“I don’t feel well,” she said.
“I don’t like Tina’s new boyfriend either,” Joe said. Startled, Monica looked over at Mike. He’d been watching her, but when she looked up, he immediately looked elsewhere.
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