What Happened to My Sister: A Novel (34 page)

“Momma, I don’t know what you mean.” I choke on my sobs and that makes me cough. “What about Selma Blake’s husband, Momma?
He
killed Daddy. You were pinning clothes up out back when you heard someone banging on the front door …”

Momma shakes her head and as she gets closer I see a smile is lighting her face. “Y’all might want to look into extra help for this one—she’s not exactly the sharpest tool in the shed,” Momma says, passing in front of me.

“Watch yourself, ma’am.” The policeman’s hand is on the top of Momma’s head, making sure she doesn’t bump it getting into the squad car which I think is real nice of him. When he steps back I wriggle in close enough to hear my mother.

“Momma? I don’t understand, Momma.”

“You were small enough—with your daddy dead, I figured I could talk you into believing you made her up,” Momma says, staring ahead even though the car ain’t moving, looking at anything but me.

“I didn’t know what else to do,” she says. “You’d have called a telephone a banana if that’s what I told you it was called.”

“You mean …”

“Your daddy, well, he just plain never could get over the fact that she wasn’t his. Not only that—if he hated Dan White before, he nearly boiled over when I came home from Mother’s. When he saw that mark on her cheek, I’m telling you he nearly boiled over. You walked in when I was burning the family Bible with her birth date written in it—boy, that killed your daddy, when he saw I wrote that in there. I told him I’d get rid of it, if it bothered him that much I’d just get rid of it.”

“All right, kid, you best step back now,” the policeman says to me.

I guess it doesn’t hit her that she’s being arrested for real until the car door is shutting because that’s when Momma’s voice gets higher and she’d never admit to being scared but I can plainly see she is.

“Go on, now,” she says through the glass, motioning at me with her chin toward Mr. and Mrs. Ford.

“Momma!” I manage to push out of whoever’s arms are trying to hold me back so I can run alongside the car as it starts to pull away. I put the palm of my hand on the closed window.

Through the glass Momma says, “You got yourself a new life now.”

“Step away from the car, young lady,” the police officer driving says out his window.

I feel hands gently but firmly pulling me away.

“Momma!”

The police officer says something to Momma and the car moves forward.

“Carrie, honey,” Mrs. Ford is saying. “Come on, Carrie,” she’s saying. “Shhhh, it’s okay. Come on. Let’s go home.”

“Momma—Momma wait.” I try hollering over the engine, through the glass, past Mrs. Ford calling my name.

The police car pulls away slow as it moves from the parking lot into the road letting out a whoop of siren. Words flutter to my ears when the quiet’s restored:
let’s go on home now
. And
oh, sweetheart, it’s all going to be okay
. And
Caroline
 … followed by … nothing. Because really, what can be said to soften the blow of the moment your momma’s taken away by the police? What can anyone say to soften the blow of finally finding your sister only to learn she’s long been dead? No pillow’s
that
soft.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Three months later

Carrie

“Will somebody please pass the mashed potatoes before they get cold?”

“Wait, we forgot the cranberry sauce! Oh, I didn’t see it over there.”

“Caroline, honey, pass me that bowl, will you?”

I look from one to the other, trying to keep up, the talk reminding me of the alphabet songs on
Sesame Street
with the ball bouncing from letter to letter to help kids follow along.

“Yes, ma’am,” I say to Mrs. Ford.

“What’s the difference between white meat and dark meat?” Cricket asks.

“White meat’s for girls, dark meat’s for boys,” Mr. Ford says.

“The turkey’s just perfect, Honor,” Miss Chaplin says, dabbing the corners of her mouth with her napkin. “Nice and tender.”

“No way,” Cricket says, scooping first stuffing then turkey onto her fork. “Mom? Is that true?”

“Is what true, honey?”

“Is white meat for girls and dark meat for boys?” Cricket asks. “That’s not true, is it? Can you pass the salt?”

“Pass the salt …” Mrs. Ford raises her eyebrows and holds the saltshaker hostage until Cricket rolls her eyes and says:
“Please.”

“That’s better,” Mrs. Ford says. “And you know, girls, when you’re asked for either the salt or the pepper you should always pass both, even if the person only wants one.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I say.

“That’s just plain ridic,” says Cricket.

“Excuse me?” her daddy says.

“I don’t like that kind of language at the table, Cricket,” Mrs. Ford says.

“Miss Ruth, you need me to carve up some more white meat?” Mr. Ford asks Miss Chaplin.

“Ridic isn’t a bad word, Mom, jeez. It’s short for
ridiculous
. Everybody says it.”

“No, thank you, Edsil, I’m still working on what I’ve got here,” Miss Chaplin says. She’s starting to lose weight, and I think she’s finally getting used to the way her house looks now, without all the Chaplin stuff crowding it up.

I think the overtalking might be my favorite thing about the Fords and the Chaplins. Their voices blending together, making pretty music.

The doorbell gives us all a start.

“Oh, heavens, they’re early!” Miss Chaplin says. “Honor, help me up out of this chair please?”

“I’ll get it!” Cricket, smiling wide, leaps from the table, but Mr. Ford’s faster—he catches hold of her arm.

“Uh-uh-uh,” he says to Cricket. “We went over this, girleen, remember?”

I have no earthly idea what’s going on but that’s nothing new. There’s always stuff going on here that I don’t know about so I’m
used to it. These past months have been a whirligig. Helping pack up dolls, first in thin tissue then rolling them in the bubble wrap me and Cricket like to pinch and pop. Waking up to still more Charlies to send away, shelf by shelf emptying out. Tabletops clearing off. Trips to the post office. Loading up the car again. More trips to the post office.

Then, back-to-school shopping! And starting up at my new school. Cricket and me riding the bus there and back every day. New friends coming by, sometimes even sleeping over (but
not on school nights
).

Mr. Ford moving in with all of us, eating meals with us on nights he ain’t—I mean, on nights he’s
not
working. Surprise family outings. Picnics. The zoo.

I never saw the lady in the suit again but I did get to know her
colleague
, Arleen, who pops by for
unannounced visits
they make to all foster families.

Like I said, there’s always something happening at this house so when the doorbell rings and Mrs. Ford rushes out from the dining room to answer it, I don’t think much of it.

Until Mr. Ford tells Cricket to sit back down and then says he has something
real exciting
to tell me.

“Now, Caroline,” he says. Mr. Ford’s still the only one who calls me Caroline. “I thought we’d have a little more time to explain but this’ll have to do for now. Honey, we haven’t talked about it in a while but remember how we discussed the importance of family and roots and knowing where you came from so you can know where you’re going?”

“Yes, sir,” I say.

“We never finished working on it, but remember the family tree we started for you? Your grandmother—Gammy—she was a help with some of it. With her side of the family at least,” he says.

Gammy’s answered my letters, each and every one. She even
folded a five-dollar bill in the Halloween card she sent. I think she might feel bad about Momma being locked up, awaiting trial, leaving me all alone. I’ve told her a million times I’m happy here at Miss Chaplin’s, though. It’s the first real family I ever had but I don’t tell her that part because I don’t want to hurt her feelings. But soon, if the
paperwork goes through
like they’re saying it will, we’ll be a family for real!

I hear the low murmer of greetings and then footsteps approach us.

“Well, I did a little research of my own, wanting to solve a mystery,” Mr. Ford’s saying. He holds up a hand to someone behind me, wanting them to wait until he’s finished, “but not really sure where it was going to lead. Well, lo and behold, I found out something really amazing. It took some doing but I did it. We have a big surprise for you, Caroline …”

But the minute I hear the word
surprise
I whip around before he can finish.

They say it was like I was in a trance. They tell me they hurried to explain how it all came together. They say I even nodded like I understood them, but I don’t remember any of that.

I only remember staring at the two of them standing there in the doorway to the dining room, trying to figure out if my brain was again playing tricks on me. The red-haired lady wearing a sweater with fall leaves knitted on it, her arm around a little girl huddled so close to her mother’s skirt she was almost hiding. The lady smiled at me and bent to whisper to the little girl, who then moved forward, one step closer to me. The colors of the girl’s dress matched the leaf sweater the lady was wearing. She wore brown tights and polished dress-up shoes I knew probably weren’t comfortable. She stood there with her shoulder-length blond hair combed nice, parted on the side, a barrette neatly holding her bangs out of her face, blinking back at me.

“Hi,” she said, holding out her little hand to be shaken because that’s what she’d been taught to do. She’d been taught good manners.

I didn’t stare at the birthmark on her cheek. At least I tried not to. Because I was taught good manners too.

“I’m Carrie,” I said, taking her hand, holding it instead of shaking it, not wanting to let it go even for a second.

“I’m Emma,” she said.

They say we held hands the whole rest of the day. They tell me her adoptive mother was
just lovely
and
such good company
that Thanksgiving. They even say I insisted on sitting in the middle between Emma and Cricket—calling them
my two sisters
. But I don’t remember that.

I only remember that it was the day Emma came back into my life. And I will never let her go again. Ever.

For Cathleen Carmody

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

It would have been impossible for me to write this novel without the support and encouragement of Random House and my extraordinary network of friends and family.

My deep gratitude to Caitlin Alexander, my brilliant, eagle-eyed editor. Thanks, too, to Larry Kirshbaum and Susanna Einstein.

Throughout the three years it took to bring this book to life, whether they realize it or not, the following people lifted me up when I needed it most: Jim Brawders, Bill Brancucci, Fauzia Burke, Laura Caldwell, Cathleen Carmody, Jodie Chase, Mary Jane Clark, Edouard Daunas, Junot Diaz, Catherine DiBenedetto, Liz Getter, Kathryn Gregorio, Markie Hancock, Eamon Hickey, Heidi Holst-Knudsen, Linda Lee, Gregg Lempp, Ellie Lipman, Rick Livingston, Erika Mansourian, Wayne Merchant, Kathryn Mosteller, Joan Drummond Olson, Dotty Sonnemaker, Rosario Varela, and Andy Weiner. For unwittingly keeping me from slipping down a rabbit hole into darkness, I am forever indebted to them all.

My extraordinary parents, Barbara and Reg Brack, are easily the most devoted, loving, and supportive people I know. Without them I would crumble and disintegrate into the abyss. To thank them for all they have done for me would be to say the least of it.

Jill Brack is more than my sister-in-law, she is one of my best friends. I am always grateful for her steadfast love. To my brothers and my girls … my love and appreciation.

Thematically, this is a book about identity: about who we are, who we pretend to be, and why the two rarely if ever coalesce. This is a book about that thread of self woven into the fabric of the relationships we forge and the suffering we endure only to become entangled beyond recognition. It’s about family, the one we’re born into and the one we choose. But, really, this is a book about mothers and daughters. Though I don’t tell her this often enough, I hope my mother knows I love her most of all. I write because of her. I write for her.

And finally, my heartfelt thanks to the people of Hendersonville, North Carolina, for letting me take poetic license by turning their city into the tiny hill town that Carrie and her mother left behind when they turned the page.

ALSO BY ELIZABETH FLOCK

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