My Sister's Husband

by Marsh, Nicola

  I send Hope off in search of Riker in his workshop and watch out the window as she knocks and waits as she’s been taught to do. If he’s welding he doesn’t like to be disturbed and we all know it. When the barn door opens, I see his face light up and a breath I’m unaware I’m holding whooshes out. Hope says something, he beams, takes hold of her hand, and leads her inside. I love him even more for how he loves Hope.

  Only then do I turn to Lizzie, who’s pacing the kitchen. “What’s up?”

  She stops and fixes me with a no-nonsense stare. “I’m worried about Mom. I think she’s getting worse.”

  We’ve had this conversation before, usually when Lizzie has to spend alone time with Alice and can’t take a break. She thinks it’s time we move Alice to a nursing home. She hates having Alice locked in her room, and wants her free to be able to roam around where there’s more space.

  “Lizzie, we’ve talked about this. I work in the place where you want to put your mom so I know what it’s like. While the level of care is excellent, we’re understaffed and overworked. Patients don’t get the same level of care we can give Alice here. And patients with this kind of dementia can present as weak but can have bursts of strength combined with aggressiveness, so I’d rather manage that here at home than have some stranger who doesn’t really know Alice do it.”

  “But she’s so confined here.” Anguish darkens her eyes. “I hate seeing her locked up. She never wants to leave the room even though she can walk.”

  That’s news to me. We’ve been using the wheelchair whenever we take her to the bathroom.

  “She’s walking?”

  Lizzie gives me an odd look. “Of course, I make sure of it. I get her out of bed every day and we do laps of the room. She’s frail and shuffling but is getting better.”

  “That’s great.” I sound too perky and immediately tone it down. “If I had more time I would do it with her too. The more active she stays the better.”

  “She’s so out of it most days I don’t think she realizes what she’s doing.” Lizzie nibbles on her bottom lip, worry evident in her rigid shoulders. “I thought if she’s surrounded by more people all day she might be more inclined to focus and at least try to remember who we are. Brooke and I have been discussing it and she’s worried too.”

  Brooke. Of course. I should’ve known she’d try to take over like she always did.

  It annoys me that Lizzie has been happy to go along with my opinion regarding Aunt Alice before now, but the moment Brooke pokes her nose into our business, Lizzie sides with her.

  Their closeness had always got under my skin and I’d often felt like a third wheel growing up alongside them. Brooke has been AWOL for over a decade. How dare she waltz back into our lives and profess to know what’s best for Aunt Alice, better than I know myself?

  But I can’t let my resentment toward Brooke show. Lizzie can be stubborn and she’ll dig her heels in if she thinks I’m pushing to keep Aunt Alice at home because Brooke wants the opposite.

  “Lizzie, I know this is heartbreaking.” I cross the kitchen and pull her into my arms for a brief hug before I release her. “Let’s consider it, okay? See how she goes over the next few weeks? It will be nice to have her here for the wedding and then we can re-evaluate?”

  Lizzie appears satisfied when she nods and some of the tension holding her rigid eases. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m indebted to you for all you do for Mom, but I want what’s best for her.”

  “We all do,” I say, unable to shake my annoyance that Brooke is interfering when she has no right to.

  Thirty-Three

  Alice

  THEN

  I don’t have the heart to tell Toby I rarely drink when he says he’ll pick up some wine on the way to my place so will be about ten minutes behind me. Still high on my uncharacteristic forward behavior, I don’t want anything to spoil tonight, and as I thank Marie and pay her for the last week’s nanny duties, I try not to rush her out the door.

  She’ll judge me for inviting a man I barely know over for dinner and I harbor enough doubts without her adding to them. I shouldn’t have done it and as Freya wails in hunger, and Brooke and Lizzie argue over who gets to use the red crayon first, I’m tempted to call Toby and tell him not to come.

  If I had his number.

  “Idiot,” I mutter, stomping around the kitchen to prepare the girls’ dinner, grateful to Marie yet again for her cooking skills in whipping up meals and portioning them into small containers and freezing them. She also makes lasagnas and casseroles for me, so I pop one of the lasagnas into the oven to heat; I’ll make a salad when my guest arrives.

  Cam will be here any moment… I stop dead in the middle of the kitchen and press my hands to my cheeks. I mean Toby. This is wrong. I am projecting onto him and it’s not fair. I may not know Toby well but it’s not right to use him as some kind of warped stand-in for Cam because I’m still yearning for the love of my life.

  Obsessing over Cam isn’t healthy.

  Cam is dead.

  Because of me.

  And no amount of sobbing into my pillow at night or rallying against a god I don’t believe in will change it.

  Maybe I need this dinner with Toby as a distraction? I’m too young to feel this jaded. I need a dash of excitement in my life, something just for me that has nothing to do with caring for three young girls.

  Twenty minutes later the girls are fed and Toby still hasn’t arrived. I don’t know whether to be relieved or annoyed. The girls are lined up in front of the TV, even Freya, who’s kicking her chubby legs in time to the music of some educational program for toddlers. Brooke and Lizzie are engrossed so I whip around the kitchen, cleaning up, wondering what Toby and I will talk about over dinner and wishing I had time for a shower.

  I hear a car pull up and my pulse goes into overdrive as I peek through the blinds and see him get out of the car, all long, loose limbs. He walks around to the passenger door, opens it and grabs a few bags off the seat, before kicking it shut and loping toward the house.

  I’m beyond nervous, completely out of my depth. I’ve never dated. What will I say? All I can converse about is the girls: the best educational programs and books, the healthiest meals. Not exactly riveting dinner conversation for a young guy, even if he has got nieces and nephews. At the café he’d done all the talking, telling me about himself: Toby Lundgren, twenty-five, graphic designer, traveling the west coast in search of a place to put down roots. My wishful thinking wonders if he’d like to stick around Martino Bay for a while.

  My palms grow clammy and I swipe them down the sides of my dress. I changed after Marie left into a simple black shift, the only decent dress I own, with a pink cardigan over it—and head for the door.

  Toby knocks and Brooke and Lizzie’s heads swivel toward the door. “Who’s that?”

  “A friend of mine,” I say softly. “So I need you to behave.”

  “You don’t have any friends,” Lizzie says, with a disapproving frown, “and they never visit.”

  “Well, this one does.” It hurts when I realize she’s right. Marie is the only person in this town I can class as a friend and even then, would she be if I wasn’t paying her? “Be good, okay?”

  The girls ignore me and turn back to the TV so I take a deep breath and let it out before opening the door.

  “Hey,” Toby says, and I wonder how one small syllable can make me so nervous. I stand there like a silent dummy, until he clears his throat.

  “Come in,” I mutter, and hold the door open.

  “I brought something for the girls along with the wine.” He brandishes a large paper bag. “Is it too forward if I greet you with a kiss?”

  Before I can respond, Lizzie yells, “Yuck,” and embarrassment flushes my cheeks.

  Toby laughs. “Guess it’s time for me to meet your girls.”

  I’m impressed, as most guys wouldn’t want to hang out with a single mom of three, let alone want to meet the rug rats. Then again, he sounded like
he enjoys his uncle duties earlier and it’s a relief that he’s used to kids.

  “Let’s take that bag into the kitchen then I’ll introduce you.”

  “Sure.”

  He follows me into the kitchen and when he places the bag on the kitchen bench, I sneak a peek. He’s brought a bottle of red, a store-bought carrot cake, and a packet of chocolate farm animals Lizzie and Brooke will love.

  Touched by his thoughtfulness, I say, “Come meet my girls.”

  “My nieces think I’m the best uncle ever so hopefully your girls will be equally impressed.”

  However, as we squat next to the girls and Freya spots Toby, her face crumples into an expression I know well: she’s about to yell the house down.

  As if sensing an incoming meltdown, Toby averts his gaze to Brooke and leans in close. “Hey there. You must be Brooke. Your Aunt Alice has told me about you and—”

  “Don’t you touch my cousin!” Lizzie screams and we jump. “Get away from her! We don’t know you.”

  I’m mortified but Toby takes Lizzie’s animosity in his stride, easing away with his hands held up.

  “Lizzie, it’s okay,” I say, kneeling to give her a kiss, mouthing, “Sorry,” to Toby.

  “No, it’s not okay.” Lizzie’s face is red and she’s jabbing her finger at Toby. “We don’t want him here.”

  “Toby’s a friend—”

  “No, he’s not. He’s a stranger.” She glares at him. “Stranger danger, Mommy, you taught me that.”

  She’s right and in that moment I know I’ve made a mistake. What was I thinking, inviting a man I barely know into my house? Am I that needy, that desperate, I fall for a sweet-talking guy who reminds me of Cam on my first outing alone without the girls?

  I press a kiss to Lizzie’s forehead to calm her. “You’re right, sweetie, I did teach you that, and I’m proud of you for remembering.”

  Mollified, Lizzie casts one last malevolent glare at Toby before turning her back on him to refocus on the TV.

  I risk a glance at Toby and he’s bemused. I don’t blame him. I gesture at the door. “Perhaps we can do this another time?”

  “Sure,” he says, but I know it’s a lie.

  I can’t do this; pretend like I’m a woman who can date and invite guys back to my place without a thought of the consequences. I chose to care for these girls and that’s what I have to do. Their needs must come first. That’s what Cam would want.

  I walk Toby to the door and open it. He pauses, his smile rueful. “Kids are unpredictable and, for what it’s worth, I think it’s great you’ve taught them about stranger danger. It’s stuff they need to know. So don’t feel bad, okay? We can have dinner some other time—”

  “I shouldn’t have invited you. I’m sorry.” My gaze flicks to the girls, who are angelic now, of course. “Those kids are my world and right now, I don’t have room for anyone else in it.”

  He’s surprised by my curtness, but nods. “Okay.”

  His easy-going response reminds me of Cam and I fight back tears. I’m so conflicted. I want a man to love me, to make me feel like a woman. My identity has become so wrapped up in the girls I don’t know who I am anymore. I’m twenty-three going on forty. I don’t have fun. Then again, did I ever? I’m staid and responsible and I brought this on myself. I want to raise Cam’s girls the way he would’ve wanted me to. Their needs come first.

  Toby reaches out and touches my arm, a fleeting brush of his fingertips that makes me feel worse because I know it won’t happen again. “If you change your mind—”

  “I won’t.” I shake my head, needing him to leave before I break down completely.

  “For what it’s worth, Alice, you need to have a life too.”

  With a funny little salute, he’s gone, loping back to his car. I wait until he reverses out of the drive before closing the door, leaning my forehead on it, and willing the sobs simmering in my chest to dissipate.

  I can’t cry in front of the girls. So I do something I’ve been thinking about for a while, a coping strategy I read about online, a way to pour my frustrations out.

  I need to offload for my mental health and, without any friends or family to talk to, maybe journaling is it?

  I march to the dining table, flip open my laptop and open a program I downloaded last week. After registering, and entering a password I’ll never forget, I start typing.

  Thirty-Four

  Brooke

  “You’re wrong, Lizzie is not my sister.”

  My response to Amy’s outrageous claim is quick and instinctive. She has to be wrong. Because if her supposition is right and Lizzie is my sister, not my cousin, everything I ever believed about my aunt is a lie.

  Amy shifts in her seat, uncomfortable with my outrage. “All I know is, Di got pregnant to Cam the first night they met and her mother arranged for her to go away for the duration of her pregnancy, then have the baby adopted. Di told everyone she was going to college in Long Island but only I knew the truth.” She presses a hand to her chest. “She trusted me like a sister. We were closer than her and Alice ever were.”

  I can’t comprehend the enormity of this. “But why would Aunt Alice lie?”

  “Why would Alice do half the things she did?” Amy rolls her eyes. “Look, it’s no secret I never liked your aunt but I’m not making this up. There’ll be birth records, certificates, stuff you can look up for confirmation.”

  I press my fingers to my temples. I came here in search of answers that could hopefully bring peace to my aunt. Instead, I’ve stirred up trouble and I’m left doubting if I know Aunt Alice at all. As for Lizzie… what will this mean for her? How will she feel? What a mess.

  I have so many questions, but I’m not sure I want answers anymore.

  “If my mom came back to town and got back together with my dad again, why wouldn’t she reclaim her child?”

  “Your mom wasn’t the same when she returned to Verdant.” Amy gives a little shake of her head. “She confided in me how devastating it was to give away her child, how conflicted she’d been right up until labor, but her mother insisted she couldn’t bring a baby home.”

  Amy tapped her temple. “It messed with Di’s head. She wasn’t the same vibrant, bubbly girl any longer. She’d drift off at the oddest of times and she smiled infrequently. And she didn’t want your dad knowing what she’d done because she feared it would tear them apart.”

  If anyone understands the devastation of losing a child, I can, and this tenuous connection to my mom bonds us in a way I never anticipated.

  “I’m surprised she didn’t confide in my dad if they loved each other so much?”

  Amy shrugs. “I don’t think she expected to hook up with Cam again, to have him pursue her so relentlessly. They really only ever had eyes for each other, couldn’t keep their hands off each other either, which is why she fell pregnant again with you so soon.”

  “Contraception was still popular back then,” I say, but Amy doesn’t acknowledge my dry response.

  “Have you ever been so in love with someone that nothing else matters? Like nothing exists around you and you don’t care about anyone else? That’s what it was like for Di and Cam, and when they found each other again I don’t think she wanted to ruin it.”

  My head is spinning but I need to know more.

  “How did Aunt Alice end up adopting Lizzie if my mom already gave the baby away for adoption years earlier?”

  “That, I don’t know, you’d have to ask Alice.”

  I would if I had any hope of getting a straight answer and I realize now more than ever how imperative it is I gain access to that diary. Regardless of what I’ve discovered, Aunt Alice raised me, loved me, supported me. I’m honor bound to defend her.

  “Whatever my aunt did, she took on three young kids that weren’t her own. She must’ve done it out of love.”

  Amy quirks an eyebrow, as if she can’t believe I’m so naïve.

  “Or she hated your mother so much she did it to sp
ite her.”

  I must look incredulous because Amy laughs, a harsh sound devoid of amusement.

  “Alice’s way of giving your mother the finger from beyond the grave. A ‘look what I’ve got and you don’t’ kind of thing.”

  “That’s harsh,” I say, appalled by Amy’s supposition.

  “You don’t know Alice the way I did and from what I saw back then, she was so jealous of your mother she was capable of anything.”

  Thirty-Five

  Freya

  I hear Brooke pull up just before midnight. Riker’s snoring softly beside me and I slip out of bed trying not to wake him. I pull on a dressing gown and leave his cottage, flicking the lock and pulling the door shut behind me. It feels illicit, naughty, visiting each other in the dead of night, and I hope we never lose this sense of fun. I don’t have enough of it in my life.

  I’ve always been the staid one, the sensible one; everyone said so when Brooke and I were growing up. In fact, people who didn’t know us often mistook Lizzie and Brooke for sisters with their similar coloring, and I was the odd one out. I hated that.

  When Brooke left I envisaged Lizzie and me becoming closer but it never happened. She didn’t come home for the main holidays like Thanksgiving and Christmas, and when she finally returned from college, she fell in love with Hope, but our bond didn’t change. Sure, we went to the occasional movie together, shopped in LA for Aunt Alice’s birthday, that kind of thing, but we were never as close as the relationship she’d shared with Brooke. Living on the same property meant the three of us often shared meals occasionally, but Aunt Alice and Lizzie were in the main house and I felt like an outsider in the cottage Riker now occupies. I’d liked my independence when it was just Aunt Alice, Hope and me, the privacy of having my own place. But after Lizzie returned, I wished I’d been in the main house too.