When We Were Sisters (4 page)

“A lot of it was exhaustion,” she said. “I chopped the old candle into a thousand pieces and burned every one of them at both ends. There was a doctor there I liked, a woman, Dr. Joan. She said that anybody who works as hard as I do is always avoiding something.”

“What were you avoiding?”

“You know better than anybody. Where I come from. Who I was. Who I am now. What I never had. The whole nine yards.”

“Most people would find even one of those topics intimidating.”

She laughed a little. “Devoted to making everything as momentous as possible. That's me.”

Even without makeup, even wearing a man's loose dress shirt, Cecilia is beautiful. She hasn't always been. She grew slowly into her quirky, oversize features, but by the time she turned eighteen her carroty hair had darkened to a spectacular auburn and her figure had ripened into something astonishing. She's lovely up close, but onstage? Onstage she's a goddess.

“How are you now?” I asked, because to look at her, no one would know she'd ever experienced turmoil, much less recently.

“Determined.”

“You're
always
determined. You've been determined since the day we met. You always have a plan.”

“This is a little different.
Before
I was determined to remake myself, to pretend I was somebody else.
Now
I'm determined to let the world know who I really am.”

I was puzzled. Mystique is a part of celebrity, and Cecilia already shares so much with her audiences. She's loved for her energy and her ability to make her fans feel as if they know her. But, of course, they don't know her at all.

She stood and went to the railing, turning to face me. “Almost two years ago a film producer named Mick Bollard contacted me. Do you know the name?”

“The same Mick Bollard who makes the award-winning documentaries?”

“I figured you would know.”

Once upon a time I was a professional photojournalist. But even if the path of my life veered away from the profession I once loved so well, I do keep up with my colleagues.

“I may not have seen everything, but I've seen most of his work,” I said.

“He told me he was doing a documentary on the foster care system, and he was looking for someone to narrate, someone famous to feature. He wanted a celebrity who had been a foster child, somebody to convey what the experience is like from a child's point of view. He thought that would be a draw for the audience, but also a testament to how foster children can triumph.”

Cecilia has never flaunted her past, but neither has she hidden the basics, partly because it's not easy to hide anything when hungry journalists are looking for a story. I'm always impressed by how well she feeds information to the press without whetting their appetites or lying outright.

“What did you tell him?” I asked.

“I said no.”

That didn't surprise me, and it probably hadn't surprised Mick Bollard. “Did he refuse to take no for an answer?”

“Actually he was understanding. That was the end of it until I got home from my Australian adventure. I started thinking about confronting my demons, and I got back in touch with Mick. We got together. I told him my entire history.”

I whistled softly. That alone had to be a first.

“Yes, I know,” she said. “He was fascinated. He went back to his hotel, and the next time I saw him he had moved well beyond what he'd first asked for. Now he wants to focus a large portion of the documentary on my childhood. Since you know his films, you know how that will work. We'll go back to the places that were important in my personal story. I'll be on camera, telling the audience what I remember. He'll intersperse those segments with footage he already has, historical photographs and videos, interviews with social workers and the directors of innovative programs, and then he'll shoot more footage, closer looks at the child welfare system I grew up with and where it is now.”

I could picture it. And having Cecilia sharing her own life on camera? What it had been like to be an actual foster child, maybe even what her life had been like before the state took over? Done well, this could win awards. And nobody would do it as well as Mick Bollard.

“Will this help or hurt your career?” It was the next logical question.

“I don't know.”

“What does Donny say?”

“Donny says what matters is whether I think it will help or hurt
me
.”

I've always liked Cecilia's manager, who isn't quite the shark his colleagues are. I liked him more now. “And what do
you
think?”

“I think I need to do this.” She leaned forward. “And Robin, I really think you need to do it with me.”

5

Kris

I'm the younger of two children; my sister, Lucie, is six years older, and we rarely fought. Lucie doted on me and thought it was hilarious when I tried to argue. I was the crash-test dummy for the parenting skills she would need later in life with her own four children. Consequently, when my children fight, I have no clue how to respond. My usual reaction is to respond badly.

“Cut it out,” I said when the shrieking in my car reached a painful pitch. “What's wrong with you two? Can't you just let go of this and move on?”

Pet, who looks enough like Robin to confirm that the hospital sent us home with the right baby, was close to sobbing. “But that's
my
notebook, Daddy. Nik stole it from my desk.”

“I didn't steal it. You took it out of the supply cupboard and hid it, and I had to go into your desk to find it. But it's not really yours, because you aren't even using it. I need it.”

“Put the damn notebook on the dashboard. Now!” I took a breath and lowered my voice. “Really? A spiral notebook is so important you're screaming at each other? Put it on the dashboard right now, Nik.”
Or else
was clear.

“Whatever.”

My son's voice is deepening. I hadn't noticed this until yesterday, but he is moving from childhood to adolescence, and not gracefully if today is any example. He and Pet both realize they nearly lost their mother two nights ago, but neither has said a word about it to me. Instead their fighting has gotten worse, as if their mother's brush with death was a hiccup.

The coveted notebook thumped against the dashboard, and Nik, in the seat beside me—the death seat, according to Cecilia—folded his arms. I glanced at the notebook and understood the fight.
Rock Star
was emblazoned across the front.

Cecilia again.

I sighed and glanced at my son. While Pet resembles her mother, Nik has my dark blond hair and greenish eyes. I'm not sure where his features come from, but even at twelve, they work together nicely.

“When we get home, we'll flip a coin,” I said, adding when they began to protest, “Or I will dump the notebook in our recycling bin. Got it? You two decide.”

Stony silence ensued until we were just a couple of miles from home. I broke it. “What kind of pizza do you want tonight?”

“We had pizza last night.” These days Nik has turned sullen into an art form.

“We had pizza last night because your mother is in the hospital. Remember your mother? The woman who normally cooks for you? We had pizza because she wasn't there to cook for you yesterday, nor is she there to cook for you today. And since we live too far out of town for any other kind of delivery, we will happily eat pizza again so we can leave early enough to visit her at the hospital. Since I couldn't get you there last night.”

Now
I
was close to screeching. I let seconds pass before I spoke again. “Look, I'm sorry. It's been a tough couple of days.”

“Sure. All that work and kids to take care of, too. Who could stand the pressure?”

“You're such a turd, Nik,” Pet said from the backseat. “Leave everybody else alone, okay? Can't you be miserable on your own?”

“Stop it, both of you.” I tried again. “Whether either of you has said a word about it or not, I'm sure you're both worried about your mom.”

“She's going to be fine. You said so,” Nik said, as if this was the most boring information in the universe.

“She is, but the whole thing is a shock. The accident. Mrs. Weinberg.” I didn't know what else to say. Feelings are not my strong suit.

“Yeah, well, it's all over and done with. Can't we just move on?” he said in imitation of me.

I had an inkling, just an inkling, of why parents snap and hit their children. I tried again. “I know you were there when the police called Michael—Mr. Weinberg. It must have been hard.”

“Yeah, that's what you said the night it happened. It was harder for Mr. Weinberg, don't you think? And for Channa?”

“Hard for everyone, Nik, of course, but especially them.”

“Channa didn't even cry,” Pet said.

“She was in shock, stupid,” Nick snapped back.

“Well, I was in shock and I cried anyway.”

I let the name-calling pass this once. “In a crisis everybody reacts in different ways. There's no good or bad way.”

“What's your way?” Nik said in a tone that made it clear he really didn't care. “Staying away from funerals? Working harder?”

“You're about one second away from a week without television.”

“Who cares?” Nik turned his head toward the window to watch the passing scenery.

Nik has never been an easy kid. As a baby he had colic, and by the time he grew out of it Robin swore she would never give birth again. We skated on smooth ice through age two, which is why Pet was conceived, but three was a nightmare. That's been Nik's pattern, a good year or two, followed by a dark period when nothing feels right to him. He's a sensitive kid and notices everything. And he lives for justice. Robin says
he'll
be a lawyer, too.

If he is, I hope he loves the work more than I do.

“We'll go to shivah tomorrow.” I had already explained that Talya's family would stay at home for seven days to receive guests and we would be expected to be among them. “I wish I hadn't missed the funeral, but we'll let Mr. Weinberg and the family know how sorry we are tomorrow night.”

“I don't want to go,” Nik said.

“Me, either,” I said. “But this isn't about us—it's about them.”

For once he didn't argue.

The rest of the trip was blessedly silent. I parked in the garage that Robin and I added when we extended the house. Those days, far behind us now, were golden. Redesigning with our architect, watching the future come together one expanse of cedar at a time, imagining the years in front of us. Robin was right on-site through the noise and confusion, but she made friends with our crew and insisted she didn't mind. Sometimes when I came home in the evening I found the men still sitting around our temporarily relocated dining table, going over plans for the next day while they drank a well-deserved beer.

Robin seems shy at first, but she loves anybody who loves her back. That's not hard to do.

“We can do wings with the pizza if you'd like,” I said as we got out of the car. Concessions can work wonders at home as well as the negotiating table.

“Maybe we should get a salad?” Pet asked.

Nik whistled. “Wow, Mom's little helper. And she's not even home to know how good you are.”

Only she
was
home. We opened the door, and Robin was right there, waiting for us. For a moment I didn't know what to say.

“They let me out for the funeral,” she said, holding out her arms. “And here I am.”

Pet leaped forward for a hug. If I'd had any doubts my daughter cared what had happened, they were allayed immediately. She was sniffing back tears.

“Hey, I'm okay,” Robin said. “Really. How are you?”

Pet pulled away. “Mad at you!”

“I'm sure. And, Nik, you're okay?”

“Why wouldn't I be?”

I stopped staring at my wife to glance at my son. His voice had cracked, just a little, and his expression wasn't as steely as he probably hoped.

“Indeed,” Robin said lightly. She finally looked at me. “Cecilia's here. She baked a file in a cake and sprung me.”

I really should have expected that, but I had been so busy absorbing everything else I hadn't gotten around to processing details.

Cecilia. Of course.

I made what passed for a protest. “You were supposed to stay in the hospital until tomorrow.”

“Yes, and isn't it nice I'm home instead?”

“If you're actually well enough to be.”

“I'm standing here smiling at you, aren't I?”

She was expecting something, and I realized it wasn't an apology for missing the funeral. At least not yet. I moved forward to hug her, too. She felt like a bird in my arms, her robin namesake, fragile and ready to take flight.

“I'm just worried about you, that's all,” I said, stroking her hair. “And who did Cecilia pay to get you out ahead of time?”

“I don't even care. I'll do the rest of the tests as an outpatient this week, but there's no reason to worry. Everything looks fine.”

“We're having pizza for dinner again,” Nik said. “And we even get to pick what kind.”

I was still holding Robin, but I could almost hear my son rolling his eyes.

“Actually we aren't,” she said. “Donny's been set loose to find and retrieve dinner. And he'll pick up food to take to the Weinbergs' while he's at it.” She pushed away. “Were you planning to go next door tonight or tomorrow?”

Only then did I finally note the anger simmering behind her smile.

“I got held up in traffic, Robin. I tried to get to the funeral in time.”

“You got held up in a meeting first.”

“You were checking on me?”

“Oddly enough I needed reassurance that one of us would be there for the Weinbergs.”

“One of us
was
. Even though she shouldn't have been.”

“One of us felt strongly enough to make it happen.” She closed her eyes a moment, as if to wipe out the anger. “Come say hello to Cecilia. She's flying out tonight, so she'll only be here for dinner.”

The kids had already galloped off to find her. They love my sister, Lucie, but Cecilia's their favorite aunt and Pet's godmother to boot. And why not? She never arrives without posters signed by the pop group of the month, CDs not yet released to the public, swag from her Grammy gift bag. One year she gave Nik glasses with a frame of blinking lights that she swore Elton John had worn on tour.

“I'm sorry,” I said, now that we were alone. “I'm dancing as fast as I can, but I should have walked out of my meeting sooner.”

“You're going to have to learn how to, Kris. Because you're going to be needed at home for the next few months.”

“I do my best.”

“Well, you'll have to do even better. Because it's possible I won't be around for a while to take up your slack.”

Before I could ask what she meant,
she
disappeared, too.