The Language of Sisters (17 page)

She pulled out a pink, plastic toy gun from her purse, aimed at a duck in the sky, and pulled the trigger. Then she searched the sky, twirling in a circle, to see if a duck was falling through the clouds. No duck. “Bad shot. I'll try again.”

“Bye, Daisy.”

“Bye, honey.” She shot off her gun again.

* * *

The next morning I had a cake—white frosting, with a yellow duck—on my front porch. Daisy might call herself Crazy Daisy, but she still had the same generous heart she'd had forever.

* * *

Putting together a magazine, inside a newspaper, once a week, is a ton of work. Everyone has to get their stories in on time, written right. The stories are checked and rechecked by the copy editors and Ricki. The photographer has to get photo shoot assignments, and the photos have to come in with the right lighting and composition. The design people have to lay it all out, headlines must be written, the ads have to be added in, and the cover has to be designed, with the “tempting titles,” as I call them, on the cover so people will want to open the magazine.

“We want to inform, educate, and entertain,” Ricki said to all of us in a short meeting. “Don't screw this up. It's gotta be friggin' beautiful. Write like your butt is on fire.”

I felt myself smile more the longer I was away from crime, criminals, and the justice system. Writing about homes, home décor, and remodeling projects is simply ... more joyful. Easier. I liked the group of ladies I was working with. Yes, all women, except for the photographer. Ricki said, “Someone could smash my ass for only hiring women, but hell, men did it for hundreds of years. Who are they to whine? Besides, the women were all far better candidates than the men. Bring on the estrogen, leave home the testosterone.”

We moved fast, without ego. We worked together, efficiently, friendly.

We worked long hours.

Our meetings were quick. We e-mailed extensively.

I actually started to get excited. I was helping to launch a homes and gardens magazine.

It was fun.

That work could now be slotted into the “fun” category was a revelation. Amazing what happens when bullets and knife wounds are no longer a part of your daily life.

* * *

I wrote my first column, on my tugboat, in bed, starting at ten one night. It was my goal to have at least five in the pipeline before we launched. I didn't know what the title would be, so I wrote, “What will the title be?”

Ricki called me the next morning. I was on my way out to interview two sisters who had designed their home to look like a hobbit home. I had caught a glimpse of two Sergeant Otts swimming by. They stared right at me and I waved. I had also seen, on the far bank, Big Tooth the beaver. Lucky morning.

“I am bustin' my mind, lovin' your first column. Personal, lets the reader get to know you, to know us, we're not a corporation, we're fun, high-heel-wearing women and we have someone quirky and odd who lives on a tugboat. Zippy awesome job, Toni, and I love all the photos of the tugboat that Stefano took. We'll have you write the captions when we get it laid out.”

“Thank you.”

“Did Stefano take your head shot? We'll put it in the corner of each column. What's the title of your home column?”

“I don't know.”

“Think quickly. Kim's calling her column ‘Gardener's Delight. ' ”

“How about ‘Living on a Tugboat, Talking About Homes.' ”

“Wet. Strange. Doesn't Fit. It's fantastic. We'll use it. See ya tomorrow. Ten o'clock meeting. Meetings will never be before ten. I don't want to see anyone before nine. It should be illegal to start working before nine. Too early for sanity. Bye.”

She hung up.

* * *

The dad, mom, and kids were inside the garage of the white house with the red door. The boys were jumping up and down, tossing a ball over the kayak; the mother was sanding it; and the dad had a hammer.

They were a happy family with a kayak.

I tried to buck up before my tears blinded me.

* * *

“She's pr—”

“What?” Ellie, Valerie, and I asked at the same time.

“My daughter is ...” Our cousin JJ clutched her throat.

“Here, wine,” Valerie said, filling her glass and pushing it across my dining room table. Outside it was raining, the drops slashing against the windows of my tugboat, the wind whipping around the corners.

“She's pregnant!” JJ howled, then covered her mouth with both hands, as if she wanted to shove the words back inside. She opened up her hands, like a book. “Pregnant. Knocked up.” She closed her hands, opened them again. “A bun in the oven.” Tears streamed from her eyes.

My sisters and I didn't move. We were three shocked sister statues.

JJ opened her hands/book again. “A baby.” Hands closed, keep those words in.

We three sister statues were speechless.

“She's expecting.” JJ's voice cracked. She was losing it. “She's in a family way.”

JJ's mascara was smeared down her cheeks.

“I'm sorry, JJ,” I finally stuttered out. I thought of her daughter, Chelsea. Black dyed hair. Black eye shadow. Black fingernails. Black clothes, black leather. Drummer in a rock band with other teenagers. She snuck into clubs. She snuck out of the house at night. She snuck into bars. She hid joints in her jewelry box.

As JJ had told me, “Chelsea needs a chastity belt and a leash. The leash needs to be wrapped around her neck and locked to a load-bearing wall in my house so she can't escape at night.”

“That is bad news,” Valerie finally said.

“I know, I know!” JJ drank an entire glass of wine, head slung back. “Give me another glass of wine. Get the scotch out, Toni.” I gave her a straight shot of scotch. She tossed that back, too.

“How are you doing?” Ellie asked, which was a bit inane, because JJ was breaking down piece by piece, her hair a mess. If someone walked into her salon like that, she would shout at them, “Did you deliberately put your head in a weed whacker?”

“How am I doing?” she snapped. “I have a pregnant daughter. She is not out of high school. She is not married. She is a teenager. I am out of my head, that's how I'm doing.” She slammed both hands on my table. “I am panicked. I am pissed. I am worried about her.”

My sisters and I adored Chelsea. She was a rock-and-rolling rebel, but she was charming and smart and musical and loved us right back. She hugged us all the time. When she was a little girl, she would cry when we left and beg us to live with her.

“How is she feeling?” Ellie asked.

“She's hysterical. Scared to death. I thought I might kill her. I thought Jax was going to have a heart attack. He put ghosts to shame, he was so white. Jax and I have had two more dates where we pretend we don't know each other and meet at a bar and pick each other up, and things have been all hot and heavy again. I even wore a blond wig last time and now this! This! We are going to be grandparents. How do you pick up a grandfather at a bar?”

“I'll call Chelsea and tell her I love her,” I said. As soon as I could get my mind around this.

“Me too,” Valerie said. “I love Chelsea, that wildflower child.”

“We'll support her,” Ellie said. “Kozlovsky family, lots of love.”

“Oh. My. God,” JJ said. She put her refilled wineglass down too hard. I was surprised it didn't break. “Does no one listen to me? It's not Chelsea who's pregnant!”

“What are you talking about then?” I asked. “Who's pregnant?”

“Are you pregnant?” Ellie asked.

“You're pregnant again?” Valerie said, incredulous. “Now that is a slip-up. You're pushing middle age and you're knocked up. Haven't Jax's sperm wings been clipped?”

“It's all those dates that she and Jax have been going on when they pretend they don't know each other and shack up for the night,” I said, happy for JJ. “You got carried away and voila. A new Kozlovsky. Congratulations!” I held up my glass.

“It's not me!” JJ shouted. “It's
Hope
. Hope is pregnant.”

What?
Hope?
My sisters and I were stunned down to our bones. Straight A student. AP classes. Played volleyball, basketball, ran track. The rain lashed the windows, streaming down.

“Yes. Hope. The academic star. The athlete. She's pregnant.” JJ covered her head with her arms.

“You're kidding,” I said.

“That can't be,” Valerie said.

“How?” Ellie said.

“If you have to ask how Hope got pregnant, Ellie,” JJ said, “you should not be getting married.”

“I meant—”

“She meant,” Valerie said. “Well, hell's bells, we were not expecting it to be Hope.”

“No one did. But, she is, she is.” JJ put her hands over her mouth, once again.

“Is she keeping the baby?” Valerie asked.

“Yes. She's keeping the baby,” JJ said. “She's about six weeks along. She told me she already loves it.”

We sat in that for a while. Teenagers should not be pregnant. It was a disaster. But there it was.

“Well, we all love Hope and we're all going to love the baby,” I said.

“Yes, we are,” Ellie and Valerie said.

“I wanted college for Hope, travel, a career. And now ...” JJ cried and we hugged her, a four-way hug.

“She can still go to college,” I said.

“It will be so much harder,” JJ said.

“She can still travel,” Ellie said.

“How? With a baby in her backpack?” JJ said.

“She can still have an exciting career,” Valerie said.

“Let's be realistic. She's a teenager having a baby,” JJ said. She rubbed her face. Exhausted. Devastated. “She's a mother. She has no husband. It's a wreck. The whole thing. A wreck.”

Why pretend? Why be sickeningly positive, how irritating. Why try to gloss over it? We loved Hope, we would love the baby, but teenagers should not be pregnant.

“Here, have another straight shot, JJ,” Ellie said. “I'll drive you home.”

Off in the distance I heard thunder. Of all nights, thunder, as if on cue.

* * *

There was a lot of talk about Hope that next week within the Kozlovsky family. Tearful phone calls with JJ. Phone calls with other members of our family. Shock. Disappointment. More tears.

Jax was beside himself. “First he had to get his mind around his daughter having sex, his
little girl
having sex,” JJ said, slamming down a shot of whiskey at the bar at Svetlana's Kitchen, “and now he has to get his mind around her being pregnant. His mind can't get around that, so it's about to combust.”