My Sister's Husband

by Marsh, Nicola

  “No.” I thump the table and my teacup overturns. Brooke’s staring at me, wide-eyed, and I know my behavior is only going to push her buttons further, so I temper my outburst with, “Once the wedding is over, we’ll sit down and discuss this as a family, okay?”

  I see her mulling this. She used to hate confrontation and I’m hoping my placating her to revisit this in another few weeks will do the trick.

  After an eternity, she nods, reluctant. “I only want what’s best for her. We owe her, Freya. She was our mom and she was amazing.”

  I try to appear suitably repentant. “I know, and I’m sorry, I get overprotective when it comes to her. After you left and Lizzie was at college, it was just her and me for years. She helped me be a good mom to Hope. She stood by me when nobody else did.” I pretend to dash tears from my eyes. “I’m closer to her. I see how fast some patients deteriorate once admitted to our nursing home and I don’t want that for Aunt Alice.”

  A spark of compassion lights Brooke’s eyes. “Why didn’t you say that in the first place?”

  I shrug, grateful she’s accepted my excuse. “Because you and I have always had a problem communicating. I guess we need to work on that now you’re back.”

  “You know it’s only until the wedding, then I’m off again?”

  She made that perfectly clear when she accepted my wedding invitation and I’m counting on it.

  “You do what you need to do.” I move toward her and lay a hand on her shoulder, giving it a brief squeeze. “I’m glad you’re back, Sis, for however long it is.”

  She covers my hand with hers and we enjoy a rare relaxed moment.

  She trusts me.

  She’s done that a lot over the years. Maybe she shouldn’t have.

  Fifty-One

  Alice

  THEN

  I’ve never been an overprotective parent. I want Lizzie, Brooke and Freya to make their own mistakes, their own decisions, and live with the consequences. But this is Brooke’s night and I won’t have Freya mess with it.

  Seeing her in Brooke’s dress, wearing the lipstick I bought Brooke specifically for tonight, is the last straw. I’ve been patient with Freya. I haven’t lectured her; instead, I’ve given her calm, rational advice because I empathize. But I won’t have her ruining Brooke’s special night.

  I watch from inside, only venturing into the backyard occasionally with a new tray of quiches hot from the oven or freshly baked brownies. The kids aren’t doing much, mainly sitting around chatting in groups or dancing to the too-loud music pumping from portable speakers set up around the periphery. Everyone seems to be having a good time.

  Everyone except Freya.

  I love Brooke for inviting her sister to join her get-together. Brooke’s warm-hearted and generous so when the party transferred here she wouldn’t have thought twice about asking Freya. She even didn’t react when Freya strutted outside wearing her dress; I saw Brooke point at it, laugh and hug her sister, like she wore it better than her. But this is Brooke’s crowd, and she’s the queen at the center, with Eli her king. I see the two of them put on their prom crowns at times, laughing and jostling and enduring good-natured teasing. Freya doesn’t think it’s so funny.

  Brooke is basking in the adulation of her friends, not in a conceited way but in delightful acceptance they like her as much as she likes them. Eli rarely leaves her side. He’s a doting boyfriend and a good kid. I assume they’re having sex. The girls trust me but we don’t talk about stuff like that, though I made sure the first thing I did when Brooke started dating Eli was to discuss birth control and make her an appointment with our doctor.

  She shied away from the conversation, said she wasn’t thinking that far ahead, but I know she kept the appointment. They’ve been dating for a few months now and I hope she’s being sensible. I don’t pry so I’ve never searched her room for a pill packet, but I know Brooke weighs decisions carefully, like me, and she’ll do the right thing.

  Freya on the other hand… she’s flirting with Eli’s best friend and I wonder if she’s doing it to get Eli’s attention. Greg seems like a good kid; he’s been here a few times when Brooke has held study groups before exams. He’s tall, with a ready smile, and plays football with Eli. Freya has never paid him attention before so when I see her sidling up to him, refilling his cup, feeding him brownies, while casting sly glances at Eli, I know what she’s up to.

  It’s warped thinking because in what universe does she actually think Eli will leave Brooke for her? I’ve been there, done that, and no matter how much I played the attentive friend or loving sister, Cam only had eyes for Diana. Though I can empathize: look how far I’d gone in an attempt to get Cam all to myself. There’s no disputing young love and with Freya’s heart unwittingly captured by Eli, I can’t reason with her.

  I’ve broached the subject a few times but by her behavior tonight she’s hell-bent on forging her own path; one that leads directly to disaster. As a slow song blares from some kid’s playlist, a few of the couples start dancing. Freya doesn’t take much notice until she sees Brooke and Eli plastered together—her arms looped around his neck, his around her waist—then she grabs Greg and drags him into the center of the lawn. She presses against him and starts writhing in time with the music. I see Greg’s goofy grin, like he can’t believe his luck, but I don’t like when one of the boys wolf whistles.

  I need to stop Freya before she embarrasses herself as well as Brooke, and I grapple with a plausible excuse to get her back inside. That’s when I notice Eli has disappeared, probably to the bathroom, so I seize my chance.

  I walk across the lawn, thankful when the songs transition. Greg’s disappointed by the change in tempo and my sudden appearance, but Freya doesn’t care as her gaze sweeps the backyard in search of Eli. I reach her and grasp her arm.

  “Eli’s inside. Do you want something to drink?”

  Predictably, she believes my lie, her face lighting up at the prospect of some one-on-one time with the object of her affection. The moment we reach the kitchen, I flick the lock on the door and place my back against it.

  “What you’re doing out there? It’s not good.”

  She widens her eyes in faux innocence. “I’m having a great time. Greg’s a nice guy.”

  “You’re right, he is, and that’s why using him in the vain hope Eli will notice you isn’t proper.” My tone is flat, unimpressed. “You’re an amazing girl, Freya. Surely you know what you’re doing is wrong?”

  I notice the shift in her expression from amiable to sly. “You wanted me to move on from Eli.”

  “I do, but not like this.” I press a hand to my heart. “I know what it’s like to have the guy I adore not notice I’m in the room because of my sister. I know how it feels, believe me, but what you’re doing out there?” I shake my head, glad she hasn’t erupted and seems to be listening. “I already told you this is Brooke’s night. Let her enjoy it. Please.”

  I see the change in mood and when it comes it’s swift and terrifying.

  Her eyes narrow and her expression twists into ugliness. “You have no idea what it’s like to be me so don’t you dare patronize me by comparing us.”

  It’s not what she says but the way she says it, like she wishes I’d disappear.

  Tonight settles it. She has to see someone.

  “I’m making you an appointment with—”

  “Don’t even think about it.” She’s in my face before I can move, eyes blazing, spittle flying from her mouth. “I’m not talking to a shrink so you can feel better about yourself as a parent.” She jabs a finger into my chest, hard. “You’re my aunt, not my mother, so butt the hell out and leave me alone.”

  She storms to her bedroom and slams the door hard enough the windows in the kitchen rattle. I’m shaking, my stomach churning with nerves. Freya needs help but she won’t accept it. I’ve tried the gentle approach, I’ve tried the direct one, and neither has worked.

  I’m at a loss and for the first time since I
took custody of these girls I wonder if I’ve done the right thing.

  Fifty-Two

  Brooke

  I lied to Freya.

  I’m not leaving after the wedding, not until I ensure Aunt Alice gets the best care. Freya has done a great job looking after Aunt Alice and I feel bad, breezing in for a short time then leaving again. I want to do more, to ensure my aunt is well taken care of before I go.

  Freya thinks I’m butting in. She’s the expert, considering her job, so it’s not surprising she’s defensive when I question her about Alice’s care. But I hadn’t expected her to explode that last time. I’ve been patient with her tantrums in the past, and held back many times. What good would it have done to provoke her when I knew she had a short fuse? Besides, I often bit back my opinions because I didn’t want to hurt her feelings but now, I’m not holding back. Aunt Alice getting the best care is too important.

  Aunt Alice used to bear the brunt of Freya’s moods when we were growing up. She’d deflect and distract Freya and more often than not it worked. If it hadn’t been for Aunt Alice’s gentle but firm guidance I think my sister wouldn’t have turned out to be the upstanding citizen she is. She owes Aunt Alice as much as I do.

  I accept her rationale for keeping Aunt Alice at home. She’d know how fast people deteriorate when admitted to a nursing home considering she works in one and she doesn’t want that for our aunt. But what about all the benefits Dr. Hesham mentioned? I may have agreed to wait until after the wedding to get Aunt Alice assessed but that doesn’t mean I can’t make a start on some of that reminiscence therapy the doc had recommended. I need to do my share. Perhaps it’s the weight of responsibility on Freya that’s made her impatient.

  I enlist Lizzie’s help in finding our aunt’s favorite objects, including anything from the past to jog her memory. Our aunt has never been sentimental so the task is a difficult one but we finally have a few things: a photo of her and our mother lazing around a pool, a small pink toolset she kept for odd jobs around the house, locks of our hair pressed into an album along with our class photos from every year from kindergarten to seniors, and her beloved laptop.

  I think it best Lizzie and me don’t do it together—it might confuse our aunt more and Lizzie’s still overwhelmed with Alice not being her mom—so I take first dibs. I also ask her to keep this between us, after telling her about Doc Hesham’s advice and Freya’s defensiveness. Considering Lizzie has tried quizzing Freya about Alice’s treatment before, only to be met with condescending responses, she agrees to keep this quiet until after the wedding when we can hopefully get more answers regarding Aunt Alice’s prognosis.

  Evening is the best time for Aunt Alice. Lizzie said the opposite when I first arrived home but I find her too sleepy in the mornings. She still rambles a lot in the evening but she’s better than the mornings when she seems drowsy and totally out of it.

  I grab the key hanging beside the phone, unlock her door and let myself in. She’s dozing and my gaze is drawn to the locked cabinet beside her bed where her medications are stored. Only Freya has a key to open it and for a moment I resent her proprietorial care. I want to see what Aunt Alice is taking because I can match it to what Dr. Hesham said. Maybe the doctor who assessed her initially isn’t half as qualified to prescribe treatment as Doc Hesham?

  I realize I’ve become a tad obsessed with my aunt’s treatment but I only want the best for her. She deserves it after all she did for me. It’s strange, how fast we’ve come to terms with the lies Aunt Alice told, how she withheld the truth about Lizzie being our sister all these years, not to mention her bizarre disclosure she killed our mom. But I trust Alice. She stood by me when I needed her the most and she must have a rational explanation for her lies.

  If she was lucid, I wonder what she’d reveal? The last time she saw me she’d pressed a thousand dollars into my hand and given me a card to access a bank account she’d set up for me. She fully supported my decision to make a new start far away from Martino Bay and I’d loved her for it.

  What she didn’t know was that I’d come to harsher decisions in the hours I spent alone before that. Decisions involving cutting all ties with my family, including her. I could never return to Martino Bay, not when the guilt of what I’d done sat like a stone in my stomach. I thought they’d be better off without me, but I realize now how much I’ve missed and how much I could have been helping Aunt Alice.

  I also wonder how my life could’ve been different if I’d had the support of my family after my baby died? Rather than grieving alone, I could’ve turned to them. I wouldn’t have spent the last decade drifting, searching for… something, to make me feel better. Though considering Freya had been pregnant at the same time, it might’ve been too heartbreaking, watching Freya raise her child.

  Blinking back tears, I pick up the first photo, the one of Aunt Alice and my mom sunbathing by a pool, and approach the bed. I touch her arm.

  “Aunt Alice, it’s me, Brooke.”

  Her eyes snap open, startling me, as the vacant stare I’ve come to dread fixes on me. “Brooke,” she mimics, more out of hearing me say it rather than any comprehension of who I am. “Sister.”

  “No, Aunt Alice, I’m your niece.” I hold the photo in her line of sight and point to Diana. “This is your sister.”

  Something akin to fear shifts in her eyes before she averts her gaze. “Too many secrets.”

  Secrets I would love to get to the bottom of, so I persist. “Diana was my mother. She’s Freya and Lizzie’s mother too.”

  A tear seeps out of the corner of Aunt Alice’s eye and my heart aches for her, how frustrating it must be not being able to communicate.

  “Do you remember where this photo was taken?” I move it into her line of vision again. “It’s a pool. Was it your house?”

  Though from what she’d told us about her past, she and my mom grew up fairly poor so I can’t imagine them having a pool. Her gaze is drawn to the photo again and this time a small smile tugs at the corners of her mouth. “Cam.”

  This is huge progress. For the first time since I got home she’s reacting to her surroundings, understanding me. Then again, I hadn’t known about using reminiscing as a tool to hone her memory.

  I nod and offer an encouraging smile. “Cam was my dad.”

  “Brother-in-law. Love. Secrets.”

  Again with the secrets, something she’s repeated every time I sit with her that I’ve almost dismissed it.

  “You loved my dad,” I say, hating to think how much pain she must’ve had to hide, being in love with her sister’s husband.

  “Loved. Cam.”

  Another tear seeps out and I feel horrible, dredging up uncomfortable memories for her, until I remember this is part of the therapy Dr. Hesham said could actually help. But I decide to move on to the next object to see if she remembers the toolbox.

  “You wouldn’t let us girls touch this,” I say, holding the toolbox out to her. “We loved the mini screwdrivers, hammer and wrenches, but you wouldn’t let us play with them.”

  “Mine.” Her voice is barely above a rasp as she makes a grab for the box, cuddling it against her. “Brakes. Car. My love.”

  She’s merging the photo of my mom with this toolbox somehow. My parents died in a car accident, brake failure. I reach for the toolbox but she grips it tighter so I flick the album open to the first page, with the locks of our hair pressed between the plastic sleeves.

  “This is our hair. Lizzie, Freya and me.”

  “My girls… mine,” she says, decisively. “My birthday girls.”

  I have no idea what that means so I hold up her laptop.

  “Secrets.” She stabs a finger at the cover. “Birthday girls. Secrets. So many secrets.”

  Pleased we’re still talking of sorts, I continue to delve. “You know you can trust me, Aunt Alice. I’m good at keeping secrets.”

  “No, no, no.” She shakes her head from side to side, suddenly agitated. “Bad secrets. Sister secrets. My Cam.
Love. Birthday girls.”

  I’m losing her. Her fingers clutching the toolbox unfurl and it slips off the bed cover. I catch it before it can slide to the floor and when I look up she’s opened the laptop.

  Her forehead is crinkled, her mouth pursed as she concentrates, trying to remember the password.

  “Here, let me.” I type it in for her and she beams when the home page, a photo of her, Lizzie, Freya and Hope, pops up.

  I wait, wondering what she’ll do, hoping she’ll access her online diary and I’ll finally be able to make sense of her ramblings. But she sits there, propped in bed, staring at the home page, confusion mingling with frustration in those eyes that were once so expressive. After a minute, she gives up and pushes the laptop toward me.

  “Is there anything you want me to look up for you, Aunt Alice? Do you want to watch a movie? Read something?”

  A small part of me hopes that the longer the laptop is open the more chance she’ll remember something to tie together everything she’s been saying.

  “Go.” She turns her head away from me and I gather up the laptop, clutching it, along with the album and toolbox, to my chest.

  “I love you,” I whisper, leaning down to press a kiss to her forehead.

  I’m almost at the door when I hear the softest response, “Love you too.”

  For now, it’s enough.

  Fifty-Three

  Alice

  THEN

  I have no idea if Freya knew I meant it when I said I’d make an appointment with a psychologist or if she finally woke up and realized she could never have Eli, but whatever it was, in the month since prom she’s been an angel: she declines several invitations from Brooke to join her and Eli in town, she doesn’t spy on them as much when they’re around the house and she treats me with more respect. Maybe I should have pushed the issue about seeing a psychologist but with school out for the summer, I’m glad to have some peace and not having to watch her every move.