When We Were Sisters (5 page)

6

Robin

I'm not sorry I can't remember details of the crash that killed Talya, but I would be devastated if I couldn't remember the day I met Cecilia.

I was nine, and Cecilia was thirteen. My grandmother had just died, and while therapists tell you that children mourn the loss of even the worst caretakers,
I
can tell you it's not always true. Yes, I was frightened my new life might be even harder. I was so frightened, in fact, that once again I lost the power of speech. But I wasn't sorry that Olive Swanson was gone from my life. I can't remember my mother, who vanished before I was two, but I'll never forget my grandmother.

Years after Olive's death, when my case manager decided I needed to know about my past, I learned why my mother hadn't wanted me. Details are sketchy, but it seems likely I was the child of date rape, not that the term was often used in 1978, when I was born. But from information a social worker gleaned as my grandmother lay dying, at fifteen my mother, Alice, sneaked out of the house to meet a boy, who reportedly refused to take no for an answer.

My mother was almost five months pregnant before my grandmother figured out why she was gaining weight. By then it was too late for an abortion, but Olive wouldn't have allowed one anyway. Clearly Alice needed to suffer the full consequences of her disobedience, and Olive demanded she continue to attend school until I was born, even though the other kids probably made that hell.

Afterward, when Alice wanted to place me for adoption, Olive took custody instead, most likely so I would be a constant and visible reminder of her daughter's sin.

I don't think Olive believed my mother would have the courage to leave home, but immediately after graduation Alice disappeared for good. Olive transferred her disdain from her daughter to me.

The foster home where I was taken the day Cecilia and I met wasn't the first I'd lived in. Olive was ill for almost two years before she died, and at the first sign of cancer she had surgery. Since there was no family to take care of me, I was placed in care until my grandmother was able to resume custody. Each subsequent time she was hospitalized I became a foster child again until she was well enough to claim me once more.

Prior to Olive's illness, I slowly became mute. Normal speech, which my medical records claim I developed as quickly and normally as any child, almost disappeared. To combat this, my grandmother did her best to scare words out of me. I was sent to doctors and speech therapists, but any progress I made disappeared at home.

Of course the explanation is simple. Nothing I had to say was welcome or correct. Why speak when I would be instantly challenged or shamed? Selective mutism was a simpler solution.

To make matters worse I was painfully shy and terrified of new situations, even though I badly wanted to escape my daily life. I was frightened that everyone would treat me the way Olive did, so I rarely made eye contact and preferred escaping to places where nobody could judge me, often inside my head.

Olive was a great believer in diagnoses but not in therapy. She simply wanted an excuse for the way I behaved. One psychiatrist labeled me autistic, but once I began first grade I excelled at written work and scrupulously followed the most complicated directions, disproving that diagnosis, which was then traded in for the more generic “depression.” This one, with its finger pointed straight at my grandmother, surely pleased her less.

Rather than being traumatized during Olive's hospitalization, I began to interact with other foster children and to slowly speak again. Not often or fluently, but well enough to get by. Each time my grandmother underwent more treatment, my speech temporarily improved. Each time I went home again I regressed.

My grandmother died when I was nine. I had been placed in emergency care two weeks earlier when she was rushed to the hospital. Just before she passed away I was taken there to say goodbye. I brought flowers the sympathetic foster mother and I had picked from her garden. Olive took one look at them and me, then turned toward the wall to block out the sight of such a common gift and useless child. My foster mother explained that my grandmother was too sick to know what she was doing. But I knew better.

None of the homes I had stayed in previously were available after Olive's death. The county looked for mature, experienced parents committed to helping me and thought a therapeutic foster home with one other child would be helpful.

The right parents were Dick and Lillian Davis, and the other child was Cecilia Ceglinski, nearly thirteen. Within moments of our meeting Cecilia demanded that the speechless me call her CeCe. By then she had already decided that someday she would be famous enough to jettison her last name.

On the day I was taken to the two-bedroom concrete tract house in an older neighborhood of Tampa, Florida, social workers were still attempting to find my mother, whose rights hadn't been formally terminated. I knew from conversations I overheard that my chances for adoption were slim to none. I was too shy, too withdrawn, and while authorities no longer believed I was autistic, that diagnosis remained as a question in my records and was guaranteed to give even the most enthusiastic adoptive parents pause.

I was all of nine, but the people in control believed it was enough at that moment that I was safe and well fed. After their own children left, Mr. and Mrs. Davis had welcomed more than a dozen children into their home. They were strict but fair, affectionate but not demanding, and they were happy to work with other professionals to provide the best for their kids.

Cecilia had already lived with the Davises for four months before I arrived to take the place of an eleven-year-old girl who had wreaked havoc. Cecilia claims that no matter what was wrong with me—and in her estimation there was plenty—she saw right away that she could finally sleep with both eyes shut. If I was too scared to get up and use the bathroom at night, I was unlikely to murder her in her sleep.

Cecilia isn't prone to downplay anything in her life. In the retelling a casual date becomes a marriage proposal. Polite applause becomes a standing ovation. I'm one of the parts she doesn't have to exaggerate. She saw something in me that convinced her I needed her. No one but Maribeth, her drugged-out mother, had ever needed her for anything.

Cecilia looked at me and saw a project that might have a happy ending. That was enough.

My grandmother had named me Roberta Ingrid after two maiden aunts who had raised and molded her into the woman I feared. Cecilia was the first to call me Robin. The day we met I was wearing a red sweater. With my pale brown hair and red breast she thought I looked exactly like one.

When I turned eighteen I petitioned the court to make Robin official. By then Cecilia had been there first to remove Ceglinski.

Kris claims I've always allowed Cecilia to make the important decisions in my life. If he knew how hard she lobbied me not to marry him, he might feel differently.

I thought about that now as the house grew quiet and I heard Kris turning out the lights downstairs before he came to bed. Earlier Donny came back from town with enough takeout to last for several days and casseroles to carry next door tomorrow. My children devoured rotisserie chicken and sides. Kris finished a beer and picked at whatever was in reach, and the rest of us enjoyed vegan dishes from an Indian restaurant. Then, after sisterly advice on how to take care of myself for the next few days, Cecilia and Donny left to fly back to Arizona.

I'm sure my husband is delighted they're gone. Kris is always polite to Cecilia. Cecilia is always polite to Kris. Their pseudotolerance comes down to insecurity. Neither of them is sure who will win if I'm forced to choose.

I was carefully smoothing a nightgown over my hips when Kris came into our bedroom. His wheat-colored hair was standing on end, as if he'd run his fingers through it repeatedly, and he looked exhausted, which was no surprise.

“Did you tell Nik he could stay up and read?”

I had expected something a little warmer, but I wasn't surprised by his question. Even when Kris arrives home early enough to see his kids, he's usually on his computer or the phone and they're already asleep by the time he comes upstairs.

“He's always allowed to read if it's a real book and he's in bed.”

“I asked him what he was reading, and he said, and I quote, ‘A book. Can't you tell?'”

“He jumped on the one Cecilia gave him tonight. He started reading the moment he got into bed.”

“Let me guess. A rock star biography.”

“Boy band. It's a Horatio Alger story updated for the twenty-first century. Kids from a tough neighborhood who find their way out through talent and drive.”

“Well, he needs sleep more than he needs fairy tales.”

I didn't remind him how close the book was to Cecilia's life story. “I'm sure you made a hit if you called it a fairy tale.”

“I've already had more conversations with our son today than I needed.”

I tried to sound pleasant, although it was getting harder. “Is that how it works? We get to choose a number? Because some days one is too many.”

“He's hostile and rude. Oh, and let's not forget sarcastic. What's come over him? Or do you even know?”

“I have some good ideas.”

“He seems to think he can get away with it.”

My head was starting to throb again. “I hear an indictment of my parenting skills.”

He didn't answer directly. “What are you doing to change things?”

I swallowed a reminder that the decision to have these children had been mutual. “Truthfully, nothing seems to work. He's never made transitions well, and becoming an adolescent's a big one.”

“We need to set rules and stick to them.”

“
We
, Kris?” I sat on the edge of the bed and reached for the jasmine-scented hand cream I use at night.

“We can figure them out together.”

“And I can enforce them.”

“Well, according to your little zinger earlier, you're not going to be around. What was that about, anyway?”

“Do you really want to get into this now?”

“I have to leave early in the morning, and I won't be home until it's time for shivah. So now makes sense.”

He sounded angry, or rather, controlled, as if he were afraid the anger would erupt in unpleasant ways and he was working to contain it.

I capped the hand cream and lay down facing his side of the bed, propping myself up so I could see him better. I waited until he changed and got in beside me. All these years of marriage, and I still find my husband attractive. Kris has strong Slavic features that accent wide-set hazel eyes. Despite hours at a desk he usually finds time midday to go to the gym, and he watches his diet.

I would have preferred a more romantic homecoming, but the only fairy tale in our house tonight was the one Nik was reading down the hall.

“Cecilia is coproducing a documentary about foster care with a well-known filmmaker named Mick Bollard. We watched one he did on Ronald Reagan, remember?”

“No.”

In truth
I
had watched it, and Kris had walked in and out of the room with his BlackBerry. I wasn't surprised he didn't remember.

“Well, he's amazing. For this one he wants a celebrity who actually
was
a foster child to be part of it. Cecilia's...” I tried to figure out how best to explain this. “She's come to realize she needs to tell her story. For herself as much as her audience. So they'll be filming in places where she lived, and she'll talk about what her life was like there. Of course it'll all be interspersed with history and facts about child welfare. You know how that works. But she may do a lot of the narration, and her life will be the thread that's woven all the way through.”

“Why does that have anything to do with
you
?”

“Cecilia wants me to be the production stills photographer. They'll need photos for publicity, and Donny's already spoken to publishers about a book on the making of the documentary. The right photograph can convey the point of an entire film. It's an exciting challenge. She showed my work to Mick Bollard, and he's enthusiastic.”

“There are a thousand photographers who could do that. A million.”

I tried not to let him see his words had hurt. “Of course. There may be that many, and, who knows, all of them may even be better than I am. Although if somebody like Mick Bollard thinks my work's good enough, that's a pretty good sign I have talent, wouldn't you say?”

“You know I didn't mean it that way.”

“How
did
you mean it?”

“There are other photographers who have the credentials besides you. And a lot of them would probably kill for this opportunity.”

“So why me?”

“Listen, it was rhetorical, okay? I know why
you
. Cecilia's been trying to get you to work for her as long as I've known you. Longer, even.”

“And I have carefully not done so. Not because I'm not good enough, but because my life has gone in other directions.”

“And...”

I knew what else Kris was referring to. Years ago, during my college internship with famous celebrity photographer Max Filstein—an internship Cecilia had arranged for me—Max had given me some sage advice. In between critical tirades he'd admitted I had talent, yes, but he had insisted I should never focus it on my sister. Because even though I had a gift for exposing souls, when it came to Cecilia, I was clueless.

Max still calls regularly and rants about the way I'm wasting the skills he taught me. These days I take photos of my flowers and shrubs for gardening magazines, and sometimes I do photo shoots for local families or school fund-raisers. Once I opened an envelope to find magazine photos of my old roses torn to shreds with Max's business card nestled among them.

“I think enough time has passed that I can do this and do it well,” I said, hoping it was true.