Other Shepards (3 page)

Geneva stands still for a moment, then picks up a mug of coffee, steps lightly to the kitchen table, and roosts on the edge of the banquette. Victorious, I jump to clear off the books.

“There are plates above the stove, Annie, if you want to set the rolls on them. Where should I put your designs? We have half-and-half, too, in the side of the fridge, on the shelf with the jelly and mustard.” I’m chatty to hide my surprise. Geneva will stay. No running upstairs, no locked door. What a relief to avoid the usual scene.

The three of us assemble naturally, as if we have always shared coffee and rolls after school. The old, well-grooved routines are blinked out in a moment: Geneva and me arriving home and treading upstairs to our separate bedrooms on the third floor, closing our doors and starting our homework or talking to friends on the telephone. Later, the muffled sounds of the parents home from work and checking the answering machine messages, then opening the mail in the living room.

Annie settles back in her seat and sighs comfortably. “I took a tour earlier, and I saw all the kid portraits in the living room. Geneva is the one holding the doll, right? And you’re the one in the picture hat?”

“Yeah, that’s us. Mr. Kintsler painted us. He’s a famous portrait painter. He even painted some presidents.”

“He painted
all
of us,” Geneva adds.

I give Geneva a warning look. “Our dad is old school friends with him, so Mr. Kintsler painted a portrait of each of us on our seventh birthdays. The sittings were so long. I remember Dad kept feeding me butterscotch candies so I’d stay still.”

“Mmm, once I attempted painting a watercolor of my brothers. Believe me, I’d rather paint pumpkins or trees.”

“Well, you could put a lot of trees on our walls for your mural,” I suggest. “Even a whole forest, like I saw in one of your books. Our kitchen’s pretty big. Don’t you think a forest would look cool, Geneva?”

“Three of us are dead.”

I knew she would do it. I hoped she wouldn’t, but she can never resist the drama. Geneva picks up her coffee and sips it long and slow, lowering her eyes to block out my reaction, letting the rising steam film her face. I could almost slap her. Instead I decide to steal her favorite story and tell it the wrong way. My way. I turn to Annie, who is staring at Geneva and probably trying to figure out what she just heard.

“Our two brothers and our sister died before either of us were born,” I begin quickly, and Annie looks away from Geneva to give me her attention. “It’s very sad, obviously, except we never knew them. I mean, we wish they were alive, but not the way you would if you had real memories to miss them with.”

“It was a terrible accident,” Geneva adds, attempting to rekindle the mood that I am working to squelch. “It was all over the newspapers.” Geneva usually finds a grim comfort in telling the tale of our family tragedy, as if by spreading the information she can temporarily redistribute its weight. Make it someone else’s horror, at least for a little while.

“But it happened a really long time ago, before we were born, like I said,” I explain. “Eighteen years ago.”

“During Christmas vacation,” Geneva adds. “A drunk driver crashed into their jeep. Kevin and John died instantly, but Elizabeth was in a coma for three days.”

Annie allows a moment of respectful silence, then she shakes her head sadly and says, “Mmmph.”

Over the years that Geneva and I have had to tell this story, we have witnessed hundreds of different reactions. We have seen faces clench into lines of pain, eyes that instantly wet in sympathy or glitter with curiosity or agitation. We have had people, sometimes strangers, buckle over us with crushing hugs and kisses. I usually dislike the reactions almost as much as I hate broadcasting the story, but now, suddenly faced with a stranger’s “mmmph,” I realize I have come to expect the sympathy, and its absence bothers me.

“It’s horrible, we know it’s horrible for us,” I tell her encouragingly.

“For you?” Annie asks.

“Well, I mean, sure it is. But of course, especially for our mom and dad. Nothing could be worse for parents.”

“It’s parents’ worst nightmare, having their kids die,” Geneva adds, a fact beyond dispute, as sure a comment as “it’s raining.”

Still, Annie is silent. Geneva presses up bits of glazed cinnamon-roll sugar from the table onto her fingertip, then flicks the sugar onto her plate. Under the table, my feet tap impatiently. We are waiting for Annie to agree with us, but the length of her silence bewilders me, and I know Geneva must feel a little surprised, too.

“True. Everyone feels awful for the parents,” Annie finally says with a shrug, and in a voice that is empty of emotion. “But it seems to me your mom and dad got a great second chance, right? Another start, blessed with two more kids. Lucky for them.”

“I guess … but I don’t know,” I say. Her words make me twitchy, and I have to hold back an urge to laugh, although I don’t know what I find so funny. It is strange to think of the parents as blessed and lucky. People almost never describe them that way.

“The parents had a whole family before us.” Geneva’s tone is quarrelsome, insistent on a little compassion. “They’ll never be truly happy again.”

“Don’t forget, some people can’t have any children. That’s as sad a story as any,” Annie says in that same voice that contains nothing.

“It’s not wrong or selfish for them to miss those other kids.” My eyes heat up in defense of the parents and the burden of our family loss. “They probably feel grateful for what they have
and
sad for what was taken from them.”

Annie pushes aside her mug and leans toward the pile of sketches heaped on the floor. “I didn’t mean to upset you. It’s better to concentrate on the living, that’s all I meant,” she says. “The paintings of those other kids should be stored away if they always start conversations like this. You girls never even knew those kids, and they’ll never know you.”

“The paintings have a right to be up,” I say. “You don’t get how it is, to be our family.”

“True,” Annie answers. “So let’s consider this conversation closed.”

After the initial shock, most people circle the story of the other Shepards like scuba divers exploring a sunken ship. They creep in slowly with cautious questions but soon become entranced by the tragedy, and so they dart farther and deeper, searching for details.
How did it happen?
A drunk driver was speeding and hit them.
When?
Late at night, Kevin was driving them back in his jeep from a clambake on the beach.
Where were they?
They were on vacation in Saint Germaine, an island in the Caribbean.
Were your parents in the jeep?
No, just one other kid. He survived.
How old were they?
Kevin was eighteen, John was sixteen, Elizabeth would have been fifteen the following week.
Were they buried over there?
No, the bodies were flown back home. They’re all buried together at our church, St. Luke-in-the-Fields.
Is the drunk driver in prison now?
He died in the crash, too.

And so Annie’s lack of interest in the accident is baffling. It has to be a first.

“Good,” I say to her now, “because Geneva and I don’t want to talk about this anymore. It’s very personal.” Stubborn, stupid words, but closing this conversation should be my job. Even if I sound like a dork.

Annie holds up a sketch. “Let’s get back to business. What do you think of this one? Kind of an Impressionist style.” Penciled lines curl into tendrils of flowers and wild plants. The sketch is smudged, messy and wild. “Of course, there are other styles: Cretan, Etruscan, I think I have a book of paintings by Uccello around here somewhere. We need to pick an inspiring theme.”

“How about someplace beautiful and far away, like Tahiti?” suggests Geneva. My eyes follow her fingers tracing raggedy pictures in the air. “Paint red and orange and yellow flowers. With snapdragons and lilies. And a parrot and … like that!” She raps her knuckles over a picture of a bird displayed in one of Annie’s books. “Only with more feathers.”

“Good, great. Like Gauguin.” Annie nods in agreement. “You talk like a real artist.”

I listen, surprised, as Geneva lifts off into a story of how she really likes art but not Mr. Tegal’s art class at school because he plans too many paper-cut collage projects, and she prefers paints. It’s common knowledge that Geneva is the artistic one of the two of us, but I have never heard my sister talk about school, or art, so energetically.

“What’s your favorite medium—watercolor, acrylic, or oil?” Annie asks, which throws open the window of another conversation about oils, Andrew Wyeth, and the best way to get turpentine out of your hair. (Annie’s recommendation is to shampoo with white vinegar and a tablespoon of salt.) It is so rare, and so enjoyable, to hear Geneva talk to a stranger that I myself keep quiet.

We finish our coffee, and Geneva and I tear the last cinnamon bun in half.

“Oh, my gosh, look at the time!” Annie taps her watch and springs clumsily out of her chair. I am amazed that she hasn’t spilled or broken anything yet. “I better go. These sketches are for your dad to give your mom. Sort of as the birthday appetizer before the main dish. She decides what she likes best, and you can report back to me. You’ll help me out, right? See you, then.”

Annie swirls into her coat, an oversized linen blazer that is too lightweight to be of much use in March, then she grabs her knapsack and is gone, clattering out the kitchen door, the clop of her shoes fading as she walks down the steps and through the alleyway.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen that window open,” I remark as we carry our mugs and dishes to the sink.

“Such a funny lady,” Geneva says. “Although I kind of doubt she had an appointment anywhere; her watch was way off. She was just finished being here is all.”

“Most painters keep their own schedules,” I say. “I wonder how Dad even heard about her? Maybe she’s from the art department of the University?”

“Maybe. How old do you think she is?”

“Early thirties, I’d guess. She acts younger, though, like a kid. The way she was so interested in our school, asking us all those questions. Except for she’s wrong about Elizabeth and Kevin and John not being our real family. That was mean.”

“She didn’t say it the way you heard it. You never like when people aren’t talking polite enough. Same as Mom.” Geneva steps closer to the window, and a breeze catches a wave of her heavy brown hair. Her mouth is a sealed smile, and her fingers—usually knotted together or jammed under her arms to protect her from stray germs—gently press against the outline of her jaw as she leans out, breathing the spring air. It is not a Geneva thing to do, considering she often refers to breezes as drafts.

“You okay?”

“I feel good.” Geneva’s voice is soft and confiding. “This afternoon wasn’t so bad after all, in fact it makes me think …”

Only she loses her thought to the fresh air, stretching herself deeper out the window and letting the wind smooth over her face.

“S
O CLEAN AND SMOOTH.”
Brett raises his wine glass and tilts it. The liquid inside catches an identical shade of light from the chandelier.

“Like springtime,” Carla adds. At the other end of the table, Mom nods and raises her own glass.

“Cheers to spring,” she says. Dad picks up his glass. Geneva and I reach for our water goblets, and I make a silent bet.
If you can count to one hundred in a single breath, then baby Freddie will wake up and you can be excused to take care of him.

“And to the ides of March, and Lydia’s fifty-sixth,” Dad adds.
Clink, clink.
Geneva’s heavy water goblet tips dangerously. I take a huge breath and start counting,
one, two, three …

The vase has been presented, air kisses exchanged. We brought out and unrolled the vellum paper, too, and explained our choices for what Geneva calls the “birds of paradise” design. Mom looks surprised by the idea of painting a mural in the kitchen. Her face is quizzical but guarded. She stares across the table at Dad and mouths secret sentences to him, something she would not normally do because she considers it impolite.

“This is a big project,” Dad says to me with a funny, freeze-dried smile after viewing the sketch selection.

“Annie’s a professional artist.”

“You girls seem very excited.”

“She says we can help. She says she’ll be the supervisor.”

“Ah.” He winks at me, a wink that seems filled with conspiracy, and I am struck by the idea that perhaps Annie is not an artist after all. Maybe Dad has hired another psychiatrist to try to help Geneva.

My sister has been in and out of therapy ever since she could crawl. Holidays are often recalled as they coincided with Geneva’s phobias and compulsions. ‘Was that the Thanksgiving that Geneva had to floss her teeth ten times a day because she got fixated on tartar?’ ‘Remember, it was the same summer that Geneva had to line up everybody’s shoes in a row before she could go to sleep.’ The occasional bouts with counseling never seem to do anything to change her, but the parents like to get updates on her psyche from time to time.

Annie the undercover therapist. The plan makes sense, especially in light of the parents’ subdued and slightly mortified approach to Geneva’s problems.

“She knows a lot about art. She’s going to transform the kitchen,” I gasp, trying not to lose too much air, while my fingers keep count—
fourteen, fifteen, sixteen
—and I wink back at Dad.

“We almost never use the kitchen,” Mom says in an explaining, slightly ashamed way to Carla. “I think it’s a hint that the girls are trying to get more home cooking out of me.” Suddenly it occurs to me that Mom might not want the kitchen mural.

“It’ll be beautiful,” I promise, but Mom’s answering smile does not erase the concern from her eyes.

“We’re going to help Annie every afternoon.” Geneva lifts her eyes from her slice of birthday cake as she speaks. Her sudden connection to the table is jarring. Even the usually dignified Carla looks startled as Geneva starts talking about paint primers and chalk outlines.