The Language of Sisters (24 page)

I was soaked by the time I finally went back into my tugboat. Whoever has said that rain is emotionally cleansing has clearly not been a guilty secret keeper.

* * *

It was not a happy sisters night.

We decided to meet on my tugboat for dinner. Ellie arrived wearing jeans and tennis shoes, her hair in a ponytail. I knew she'd been crying, because her eyes were more green than blue. Valerie stomped in, tense and tight, still in her suit and heels from the trial.

I had done two interviews that day for home articles I was writing. One home had rooms decorated with “world themes.” There was an African giraffe living room, a Paris boudoir for a bedroom, a Chinese-themed family room, etc.

The other home was owned by a couple who had six kids and had remodeled their home to be kid friendly. The four-year-old twin boys had eardrum-busting temper tantrums when I was there. The fourteen-year-old told her mother that she was “ruining her life,” and the sixteen-year-old boy took off with the car after being told no. They definitely needed more friendliness in that house. I would not be mentioning that in the article.

We sat down to eat on my deck, at the table, all stressed and tired. I hoped the gentle sway of the river would infuse us with some peace. If not, I hoped the vodka would work.

I had made pancakes, eggs, and bacon.

Valerie said she thought the Bartons were going to kidnap her, then she said, “Why have you been crying, Ellie? Maybe it's because you're tired of wearing a paper bag over your face?”

I threw a piece of bacon at her. “That's enough, Valerie.”

Ellie threw a piece of bacon at her, too. “Shut up, Valerie.”

But Valerie wouldn't stop yakking her mouth about how Ellie should call off the wedding.

“Valerie,” I said. “She's not on the witness stand. Stop attacking.”

Ellie shoved her chair back and stood up, beyond frustrated. She stalked toward the edge of the deck, about an inch from the river, then spun around, her face red and furious. “You know what, Valerie? You are the most arrogant person I know. You think you know everything. You don't. You're bull-headed. You're Type A for asshole. And you lost your gentleness and kindness a long time ago. You're like a human shark, do you know that?”

Oh. My. Gosh. That was Ellie. Finally fighting back.

“I would rather be a human shark than a wimp.” Valerie threw down her napkin, her high heels tapping on the deck as she stood within a foot of Ellie.

“I am not a wimp. You're an overly ambitious, cold robot, Valerie. You like filleting people. You like the power. No one else can breathe around you. You suck the air out of the room. You're always talking about your job and murder and crime. You hardly ever ask anyone else what they're doing, and you get bored easily with their answers because it's all about you.”

Valerie's mouth open and shut, like a fish. “No, it's not.”

“I'm getting married, and I'm happy, and you can't be happy for me.” Ellie dragged in a ragged, rumbling breath. There was that “married” word again, which always triggered her. “I celebrated your wedding, the births of your kids, I go to all the parties, and now when it's my turn, all I get is you criticizing Gino, criticizing me.”

“That's because I'm worried about you because you can't even pick out a wedding dress without lying on the floor of the shop. You can't even set a date. You can't even talk to Aunt Polina about the flowers without bending over to vomit, yes, she told me that happened.”

“Damn it, Valerie. I am going”—
gasp, gasp
—“to get a wedding dress, and set a date, and order stupid flowers from Aunt Polina and get married!” She bent over and muttered to herself, “Calm down, heart, be still, go to your island of calm ... embrace your strength and courage and ... and ... rainbows and daffodils and ... breathe, please ...”

“Open your eyes, Ellie. You're making a mistake.”

Ellie flipped back up. She was angrier than I've seen her in a long time. “You want me to open my eyes?”

“Yes.”

“They're open. Now close yours.”

“What?”

“Close your eyes.”

Valerie closed her eyes. Dumb thing to do.

Ellie pushed Valerie right over the edge of the deck. She tumbled into the water. Luckily the Sergeant Otts were not swimming by at the time.

“She's going to lose her heels,” I said to Ellie.

“I could not care less. Thanks for the pancakes.” She turned and left, grabbing her last pancake to take with her, as Valerie bobbed sputtering to the surface, shoving hair out of her eyes.

“Wow,” Valerie said, treading water. “She is pissed.”

“Yep, she is.” I dropped a hand down to Valerie and helped her out.

“I hope I gave her something to think about.”

“I think you did.”

“I lost my heels.”

“Yep.”

“That was one of the best things that Ellie has ever done.” She pushed her soaking hair out of her face.

“I was glad to see it. Surprised that you didn't see that coming.”

“I saw it.” She twisted her silk shirt up and rung water out of it. “I wanted to see if she would do it, and she did.” She peered into the river, murky now, gray, blue, and black. “I'm going to miss those heels.”

13

We had two weeks before the launch of
Homes and Gardens of Oregon
. There were ads, but not a lot. Companies were waiting to see the magazine before they invested in it. They wanted to know we had readers and they wouldn't lose money. But the ads were Ricki's and the
Oregon Standard
's advertisers' problem. My problem was content.

I was writing two to three stories a week, interviewing people, checking out homes to see if they were beautiful/interesting enough to feature, writing my column, setting up photo shoots, and working with Ricki and the rest of the Hooters of Homes and Gobblers of Gardens.

An architect asked me out after I interviewed him about his own home. He gave me a list of 10 Reasons Why You Should Work With an Architect to Build Your Dream Home. Then he asked me to dinner. I said no.

He said, “Damn. Any chance you'll change your mind?”

I thought of Nick. “No, but thank you for asking.”

“Sure. But damn. You're beautiful.”

“Thanks.”

“Damn.”

Later, in the car, I thought how curious it was that I thought of Nick, not Marty, when I declined the architect's offer of dinner.

It gave me a sense of hope.

It made me feel guilty.

It turned my stomach upside down, but then my heart gave a pitter-patter.

I am emotionally screwed up, but I put on a front and fake it so I can function. Sometimes I wonder how many other people are doing the same thing.

I went to the mall afterward to practice Keeping The Monsters At Bay: Shopping Defensive Strategies.

I bought a red skirt with a side slit, a new pair of jeans, three bangle bracelets, and two dresses—one black, one patterned—for work.

I had a brief memory of feeling like a starving street urchin in Moscow. Then I remembered the bone-rattling chill of the winters, and the time that my shoes had a hole and the snow kept coming in until I stuffed it with a newspaper.

I bought a pair of warm boots, with faux fur, to remind myself I was not living in poverty anymore, slipping my hand around other people's wallets.

* * *

It was ridiculous.

My parents
had picked my husband out for me.
Marty's parents
had picked him his wife.

As my mother said later, after Marty had asked me to marry him, in a river, in our kayak, “I knew he be perfect for you, my darling daughter, and that what I want for you. I want perfect. I want a Marty for you. He remind me of, what the bird, Alexei? That right, the blue heron. He excite in bed, isn't he? Like your papa. He excite in bed. It makes lots of babies. I want the little babies, you know. Any in there now?” She leaned down and patted my stomach, staring at it as if she could see through my skin. It wouldn't have surprised me if my mother had that talent.

“No, Mama.”

“Humph. You no wait long time.” She shook her finger. “I want be grandmother.”

I rolled my eyes, and she laughed, and whispered, “His mama and I already planning wedding. You like it, I know you like. We do everything you like. She love you, too, like Grandmother love me. Mother-in-law, daughter-in-law, get along. Life better. I love you, my Antonia.”

My father hugged me, then cried. “Antonia, I want for you happiness. That what I want. And here, with Marty, you have. I am happy now.”

Being in love with Marty was peace. It was “excite,” like my mother said. It was the happiest time of my life.

And then it wasn't.

* * *

The neighborhood gang met at my tugboat to strategize how we were going to save our home.

“Heather Dackson is going to represent us,” Jayla said. “I gave her the deposit money and she's working on it.”

“I don't want to leave. I go from the hospital, tending to sick and hurt people,” Beth said, “to this dock, living in nature.”

“I leave the college, and my students, and my old brain is fried and here”—Charles swept a hand up—“I recharge.”

“Being on my tugboat has made me find a peace I didn't think I'd find again,” I said, then was surprised that I'd said something so personal.

They nodded, smiled at me.

“Ya,” Daisy said, a purple daisy in her purple hat, “I love it here, too. But you know what I love? I love you. You're my family on the dock. My family on the river. I'm getting crazy. Crazy Daisy, I call myself. Eighty-five years old, I think, and up here”—she tapped her head—“I get forgetful and confused, but I always know how to find my way home. I follow the river and I listen to the whales and they tell me where to go.”

“It is home,” Vanessa said. “And you make the dock special for all of us, Daisy.”

“Really?” Daisy's voice caught.

“Yes.”

“We love to listen to you sing,” Charles said.

“You do?”

“I look forward to it every day.”

“I can't help these dumb tears,” Daisy said, waving a hand at her face. “I never used to cry, and now I do. I think it's because of this river family. Black and white couple, like vanilla ice cream and chocolate chips, two loving lesbians, a hooker who wears glasses and reads books, and a lady who sits and cries in her kayak. That's you, Toni. And the sex god. He's not here. You're family.”

“You're the best, Daisy. Don't worry about being forgetful. I forget stuff all the time,” Lindy said.

Daisy straightened up, her purple daisy flopping. “So we have to shoot the creepy monsters who are trying to take our home away!” She grabbed a silver gun from between her boobs and held it straight up. “If they take one step on this dock—
kaboom
. They're gone. I'll disappear them. I know how to do that, you know.”

“We know,” we said together.

The thing was, we figured she probably did.

Daisy sang on the dock that night. The notes sailed around, like a song gift, then out to the rolling river, toward the thunder of the ocean waves. This time it was “Ave Maria,” followed by Elvis Presley's “Hound Dog,” “Silent Night,” and “I Will Always Love You.”

* * *

Valerie, Ellie, and I met at the restaurant about ten on Wednesday night. We sat upstairs, near a window, and prepared to eat what our mother decided we should eat. No arguing, no requests, no complaining. Ralph saluted us and smiled; Charlie saw us and started playing Beethoven's Fifth. He knows I love that one.

“I'm sorry I pushed you into the river, Valerie,” Ellie said.

“I'm glad you did.”

“Why?”

“I needed to cool off. You're right, Ellie. I am bull-headed. I am a human shark. I am a cold robot sometimes, and I do like the power in the courtroom over criminals. I'm sorry that no one can breathe around me and I suck the air out of the room. I'm sorry I'm not as gentle and kind as I should be. But you were wrong about one thing you said to me.”

“I know. I said a lot that was wrong—”

“There was only one thing you were wrong about. You said that I don't care about anyone else. You two, Dmitry, our family, Kai, the kids, you're my whole life.” Valerie teared up. “My whole life. And I do love and care about all of you, and I will listen more and shut my trap more.”

“Oh, Valerie,” Ellie squeaked.

We had a lovely sisters hug and, on cue, we said, “I love you more than Mama's Russian tea cakes.”

“Ack!” my mother shouted, bringing our dinner in on trays. “What? You no love my Russian tea cakes?”

* * *

Ricki and I poured over the first copy of
Homes and Gardens of Oregon
on the conference table in the middle of our office, along with Kim, Shantay, Zoe, Penny, and Jessie.

The magazine would come out next week. The first home we were featuring, which was also on the cover, was a home I had found driving through an older street in Portland. It was pink. It was small. It had a black-and-white checkerboard door, and black shutters with hearts cut out of them.

I'd knocked on the door and had been delighted by what I'd found. The husband was a master carpenter, the wife was an artist, and they had transformed their tiny home.

The kitchen island was a former apothecary table with tons of drawers and a granite countertop. An ancient card catalogue from a library was painted bright red. They kept spices in it.

The walls were different bright colors, the curtain rods were made from long tree branches sprayed silver, and three metal colanders dripping with crystals, turned into light fixtures, hung over the table. Old shutters, painted lime green, formed a table with a glass top. A wagon wheel on a wall held photographs. Three small antique tables were stacked on top of each other, painted blue, and used as a bookshelf.

People would love it, especially the woman's paintings, which could only be described as color-blasting dream scenes. It was eye-catching, but there were ideas there on how to inexpensively reuse and recycle to make new décor and furnishings.

Kim had a two-page spread featuring a garden in the country, complete with a blue bridge across a wandering stream, a koi pond, and a shed that had been remade into a reading room with a red couch. There was a seven-foot-tall blue woman made of wire, a collection of birdhouses, and cement blocks that had the words
LOVE, PASSION, DREAMING
” carved into them.

We also had stories on how to start your own vegetable garden, the world-themed home that I wrote, and a column by Ricki introducing
Homes and Gardens of Oregon
in which she didn't swear at all or mention tequila. Kim wrote a column on gardening that was funny and amusing and informative.

My column, “Living on a Tugboat, Talking About Homes,” was on the last two pages. There was a small picture of me in the corner, with a photo of my yellow tugboat, my kitchen with the glass backsplash, the wheelhouse and the red bench with the pillows, my bedroom with the French doors, my downstairs deck and view, the spiral staircase, Mr. and Mrs. Quackenbusch, and Dixie the blue heron in full flight.

We had a calendar of events, and a florist's bouquet of flowers that readers could win by signing up.

We were all exhausted. The hours had been relentless.

We stared at the pages in silence.

Finally, Ricki said, “Not bad, ladies.”

We all nodded. “Not bad at all,” I murmured. “Pretty dang good.”

“Drinks on me,” Ricki said.

We were ready for drinks on her.

* * *

Nick and I had dinner together, then we flopped into bed and talked about the book we were both reading. It felt very intimate. Book sex, I'd call it. I liked it.

* * *

I could hear Valerie in my head the next morning. One word:
Toni.

I called her from my desk at work. I was eating a donut hole for energy and nutritional value.

“The Bartons left a dead rat underneath my car.”

“Valerie,” I moaned, clutching my phone, that chilly snake wrapping around my spine again.

“Right behind the front wheel.”

“A dead rat.”

“Yes. It's disgusting. It's sad. Poor rat.”

We sat in silence, phones to ears. We both sort of whimpered.

“The police talked to all the Bartons. They all denied it. They know how to lie. They don't care about the law. The police are trying to prove it. The scary thing was that I was parked at the grocery store.”

“They followed you.”

“Yes.”

“You need security people around you at all times.”

“I'm getting it. Kai's on it. So is my boss. I'll be glad when the trial is over.”

Kai was a saint. He was also a police captain, and he would be raising the roof. “How's it going?”

“Relentless evidence. Tyler's going to jail for a long time.”

“If you could round up that band of merry sociopathic thieves who are following you, all the better.”

“I have never felt threatened like this.”

“I'm scared for you.”

“I hate being scared, Toni. I hate it.”

“I do, too. We had enough of that as kids.”

“And I thought this type of fear was over.”

“I don't think fear ever ends,” I said.

“I think you're right.” She paused. “But I will keep fighting. They will not scare me off this trial. I will get justice for his victims and their families.”

“I know you will. Love you.”

“Love you, too.”

* * *

On my way home from work, I drove by the white house with the red door. It was raining, but the husband was in his garage again working on the tandem kayak. It looked like he was still sanding it down, getting rid of the chipped red paint. I saw his boys running around in front, chasing each other, their black curls bopping about. The mom walked out with glasses of lemonade.

They were a happy family. I was happy for their happiness. But it hit me in the gut, again, so I stared straight ahead and tried not to think about them and their red kayak.

* * *

My mother called Sunday afternoon. “You girls, I need you to work at restaurant. Tonight. Got reservation I forgotted about.” Under her breath she swore in French.

“You forgot about a reservation?” I had to bug her about it. “You? Svetlana?”

“I forgotted. So, fifty people. Please. I beg on you, my love.”

I rolled my eyes. “I'll be there in fifteen. But punish Ellie and Valerie, too.”

“Ah yes. They come. No one say no to Mama, right?”

I saw my sisters thirty minutes later.