Two Sisters: A Novel (27 page)

Blanca flicked her black hair toward the back of the house. “Miss Pia is on the sunporch. You know the way? I’m making iced tea.”

Feeling effervescent, Muriel left her purse on the island chair and set out for the far side of the gangling house. She passed a powder room tiled in clear mosaics and a guest room with a moss-colored gingham paint treatment. Root Beer scampered ahead to settle on his microfiber bed in the media room, circling around and around it until he sensed the ideal moment to plop down. Wide footed in her black loafers, Muriel felt light. Brick by brick, the burden of keeping her sister’s secret from their mother was knocked off her shoulders. She skipped down a long hall adorned with photographs of the picturesque Winston clan. There was Emma, tanned and chopstick legged, romping through waves; Will in a sports car with the top down, his hair as thick as mink. Stunning Pia peered at the camera from beneath the rim of a beach hat. In a totem-pole pose, all three Winstons grinned with their ample lips and straight teeth. The last time she’d seen those photos she’d scoffed.
How clichéd,
she’d thought. As if they were the photogenic people you’d find in a store-bought frame before you inserted yourself.

“Petty,” Muriel muttered, ashamed that she’d ever been so judgmental.

Continuing down the hall, she walked by Will’s leathered man cave and Emma’s ballet pink bedroom suite that was larger than her whole apartment. It was messy in a rich girl’s way—carelessly strewn with shoes and electronics and designer bedding.

At that moment, an odd sensation descended upon Muriel. It felt as though she had imagined Pia’s illness entirely. Never had it been real. Instead, it was the product of a night sweat and the fitful dreaming that followed a winter’s awakening in an old brownstone with an unpredictable boiler. Without warning it turned on late at night and blasted steam into the radiators. Sleepers awoke in the headachy discomfort of a steam room and fell back into a restless hothouse sleep, cooled only by frosted air swirling in from a window they rose to crack open. Come morning, the temperature had righted itself but the sleep cycle was nonetheless askew.

Women like Pia didn’t die and leave women like her behind. Muriel was now quite sure of it. The universe wouldn’t allow such folly. It would rebalance before things spun too dangerously out of control. With each footfall deeper into her sister’s home, she felt the planets realign, once again orbiting the sun in an orderly fashion.

At the farthest end of the house—their “West Wing” as Will called it—Muriel turned toward the backyard and saw two white-paned French doors. They were both open wide. Above them were the accordion pleats of custom silk Roman shades.

“Pia?”

More of a question than a greeting, Muriel thought it unlikely that the child-size head cresting the back of a slatted wood chaise belonged to her larger-than-life sister. Stiffly, a neck swiveled. A silk scarf, white with a gold-chain pattern, was tied in a knot at the nape of the neck. Two skinny legs clad in black pencil jeans swung onto the floor. Hunched shoulders draped in a cashmere shawl faced her and Muriel saw her sister for the first time since their shopping trip at the vertical mall.

“Muriel!” Pia’s hollow eyes opened wide. “What a delightful surprise!”

Speechless, Muriel quickly swallowed her shock. She had never seen skin so ashen, eyes so deeply sunk into a person’s head. Pia’s lips were two strips of flesh the color of old panty hose, the hollows in her cheeks could house a stack of tea bags. When her sister reached her hands out, Muriel saw every vein, every tendon, every striated ligament.

“You look beautiful,” she lied.

“This scarf makes me look like a cancer patient, I know. If I’d known you were coming, I would have worn my wig.”

“No, you look great. Really. The scarf looks great. Really.” Muriel exhaled a nervous laugh. Her sister was a skeleton. A world of lonely peered out from her eyes. Muriel could barely look at her without bursting into tears. “I meant to bring cake,” she said lamely, having briefly considered swinging by the village bakery so as not to arrive empty-handed.

Pia laughed gaily. “Cake? We should have
champagne
. You’ve come on the best day of my life. My cancer is gone. What shall I return to the Lord for all His goodness to me? Those horrid treatments finally worked.”

Letting the shawl slide off her shoulders, Pia raised both ropey arms over her head and said, “Ah, Muriel. I’m back.”

Muriel wanted to ask, “You mean you’ve been worse than this?”

“Jesus spared me,” said Pia, beaming and looking heavenward. “ ‘He that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live.’ ”

Awkwardly shifting her balance from her right foot to her left, Muriel lost the ability to control her tears. In heavy droplets they fell to her cheeks. “I’ve wanted to call you. I . . . I didn’t know what to say.”

“Shhh, shhh. It’s okay now.”

“I never said a word to Mama. I swear. I kept your secret.”

Rising with difficulty, Pia retrieved a clean tissue from her jeans’ pocket and handed it to Muriel, who pressed it to her eyes.

“I’ve been such a jerk. So selfish.”

Pia cooed, “It’s okay. Truly.”

As Joanie had done, as a loving mother would do, Pia wrapped her spindly arms around her sister and held her close. Muriel shut her eyes and let her soft body melt into her sister’s frail frame. For the first time, she let the baggage go. In Pia’s embrace, she released the tension she’d always felt around her. Was her hair combed? Her breath sweet? Her muffin top contained? Her thighs smooth beneath their Spanx? Was she good
enough
? In the warmth of Pia’s arms Muriel let the remaining words go unsaid, confessions unconfessed. To say anything else would ruin it. Pia was going to be okay. That was all that mattered.

Pia pulled back first. She smiled as she ran her hands down Muriel’s unruly mane. “Soon,” she said, “my hair will be as thick as yours.”

T
HEY SAT ON
the sunporch all afternoon in the cool current of the overhead fan. Emma was at ballet day camp, Will was at work. Blanca carried in a pitcher of iced tea, two glasses, mini red velvet cupcakes, and a big bowl of blueberries.

“I eat them like popcorn,” said Pia. “Nature’s cancer killer.”

Muriel couldn’t even
imagine
eating blueberries as if they were popcorn. Yet nestled into the chaise next to Pia, overlooking the spectacular expanse of their professionally mowed New England backyard, tossing blueberries into her mouth, sipping iced green tea, and chatting as if they were bona fide friends—real sisters—never had she felt so very nearly normal.

“Will’s firm is hosting a black-tie New Year’s Eve cruise on the Hudson,” Pia said.

“Ooh.”

“Midnight. Right past the Statue of Liberty.”

“Ah.”

“He was all nervous telling me because, you know, he
has
to go and schmooze with his clients.”

Imitating Lidia’s voice, Muriel said, “Stop talking Jewish, you’re a Catholic, for God’s sake!” Pia laughed out loud and ate a mini cupcake in two bites. With her mouth full, she continued, “This morning I said to him, ‘Honey, I need something from you.’ His eyes got all serious.”

“Aw.”

“He says, ‘You don’t have to go. I understand.’ So I say, ‘No, you
don’t
understand,’ and he goes all hangdog. Like I’m going to tell him how hellish chemo is, like he doesn’t already know. That’s when I move in for the kill.”

Giggling in a girlish way Muriel had never seen before, Pia leaned close to her and said in a low voice, “I put my lips right up to his ear and whispered, ‘I’ll need your credit card. Mine doesn’t have enough limit to buy the sexy dress I’m going to wear for you.’ ”

Feeling free and funny, Muriel tilted her head back and sang from the Broadway show, “ ‘We’re your Dreamgirls, Dreamgirls will never leave you.’ ”

Grinning, Pia said, “Will lifted me off the ground and practically broke every bone in my body.”

Muriel beamed.

“Aside from Emma’s birth, it was the happiest moment of our lives. Thanks be to God who giveth us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ.”

Muriel took a sip of iced tea.

Truth be told, Pia’s recent evangelical leanings had unnerved Muriel. Burrowing so deeply into the Bible seemed inconsistent with a woman who bought new Louboutins each season at the flagship store. And Pia had never taken religion too seriously in the first place. One Easter, years ago, when the entire family watched
The Greatest Story Ever Told
on TV, Pia fliply said, “John the Baptist would have had
way
more converts if he’d added shampoo.”

After a breath’s silence, the family erupted in laughter.

Owen (
Owen
!) quipped, “But then he would be known as John the
Bathist
.” Lidia roared.

Even silent Logan had a contribution: “The Jordan River Spa?”

Muriel never forgot that night, the way they were like a real family. Sitting in one room together, undivided by twos, laughing, united, normal. The utter simplicity of it! Too soon, however, that feeling was drowned out by others in which so much was left unsaid.

But now she understood. Seeing how close Pia had come to the end of her life, it made sense that she would wrap herself in Scripture. Leach strength from the teachings of those who had been through so much pain. If the word of God couldn’t soothe you when your earthly body was breaking down and heaven’s light was in sight, what was it all for?

On that porch in Connecticut, as the sunlight darkened into late afternoon, Muriel kicked off her loafers and tucked her feet beneath her. She felt the fan’s breeze on her face and silently thanked
whomever
was out there for this second chance with her sister. No longer could she see Pia’s shocking appearance. It blended into the image she had in her heart. As ever, she was her perfect sibling, the one who romped on beaches and slow-danced with boys on stair landings and successfully wore white and looped scarves around her neck with French flair. She was Pia, the “it” girl, teen, woman,
person
Muriel had longed to be all her life.

“I never meant to hurt you,” Pia suddenly said, out of the blue.

Taken aback, Muriel didn’t respond.

“Well, I suppose I did back then,” Pia said. “God forgive me. But honestly, Muriel, I can’t believe I was so vicious.”

“You were only the messenger.”

“Still.”

The waning sun turned the backyard grass the color of spinach. Pia poured both of them a refill of the iced tea Blanca had made. Her hand wobbled with the weight of the pitcher. In a clacking rush, ice cubes tumbled into the glasses. “Emma will be home soon.”

“Oh! Do you need me to pick her up? I’d be happy to—”

“Blanca gets her. It’s not far. Wait till you see her, Muriel. She’s—” Pia put the pitcher down. Her head rested against the wooden chaise. “Well, she’s
everything
, that’s all. She’s my heart. The absolute best thing I ever did, ever could do. One day, when you’re a mother yourself, you’ll know.”

“If I ever become a mother.”

“Oh, Muriel.” Pia leaned forward and took her sister’s hand, squeezing it hard. “Of course you will. You
must
. Having a child is the closest you’ll come to seeing God on earth. It’s the truest love imaginable because it literally grows within you. From the moment you feel the flutter of that tiny heart, or a foot poking you from the inside—can you imagine it? A
live
foot the size of a peanut kicking inside you! It’s unlike any feeling in the world. You can’t help but marvel at the miracle of it. The process of falling in love begins at that moment. There is nothing you wouldn’t do for that child. And by the time your baby is born, oh my lord, those tiny fingers around your finger will flood you with such intense love you’ll drown in it. Blissfully! You won’t know how you ever took a single breath without it.”

Muriel looked away. Not all mothers, she knew well, felt such bliss.

“Sometimes I look at Emma and I can’t believe God could be so good to me.” A sigh traveled through Pia’s body. “That’s why, after all these years, I can’t understand how Mama could do that to you.”

Muriel curled her fingernails into her palms.

“Why did she write those awful things about you? A child. Why would she call her
child
a liar?”

The one biblical verse Muriel knew by heart swirled around her head.
You will know the truth, and the truth will set you free.
That, she also knew, was a lie.

“I never told Mama I read her diary,” Pia said. “I know it didn’t seem like it at the time, but I felt ashamed of what I’d done. Both to her and to you. That’s why I’ve never said anything all these years. I’m so sorry, Muriel. Can you ever forgive me?”

“Of course. Yes. I forgave you ages ago.”

Again squeezing Muriel’s hand, Pia said, “Thanks be to the Lord.” Then she asked, “Why would Mama do such a thing? Why, in God’s name?”

The sweet Connecticut air filled Muriel’s lungs. She thought about her mother and Father Camilo. About sin. The affair she witnessed was so long ago, it seemed like someone else’s life. As if she had imagined it after all. At the time, Muriel hadn’t been mature enough to truly process what she’d seen; now that it was so far in the past, she was quite sure God had forgiven them both. Still, hiding somebody’s secrets takes its toll, she’d come to believe. Sometimes it feels as if you’ve been gripping something so tightly for so long you forget how to let go at all.

“I have no idea why Mama wrote those silly things,” Muriel said. “I was just a kid.”

Never would she tell. She’d made a promise and that was that. Besides, it was a beautiful day in Connecticut. Why darken it?

As orange striations of sunset stretched across the sky, Emma bounded onto the sunporch wearing a white cotton shift over her ballet pinks. She squealed when she saw Muriel, kissed her aunt and her mother, and pirouetted for them twice. Her cheeks were reddish from exercise, wisps of blond hair spiked out from her ballet bun. She snatched two mini cupcakes and scampered off to her room. Emma was so stunning, so innocent, Muriel couldn’t bear to imagine her motherless. Instantly, she shook her head to jostle the thought out through her ears.