The Sister-in-Law

by Pamela Crane

  With arms outstretched, I glided across the pool water, face up, squinting at the sun. Already my skin was tanning into a freckled bronze. With my ears beneath the surface, all I heard was the low hum of the pool filter. My belly hovered just above the water line, a small bump showing at last! I had eagerly waited to see the firm contours of my abs smothered in baby weight. I wondered if I’d need a pregnancy swimsuit, or if my bikinis would suffice for the rest of the summer.

  Where I grew up in the sticks, people didn’t have in-ground pools. We had cheap, plastic, baby pools that you could find at the Family Dollar store, just deep enough to soak in. If you had extra money at the end of the month – which my family never did – you could maybe afford the smallest above-ground pool, which you then paid for in installments. Luckily, the elderly lady two streets down from my house had that extra money to buy one. And, luckily, she always went to bed around eight o’clock, which gave me just enough time to night swim before my legal guardian noticed me missing from my bedroom.

  After my parents died when I was ten, my grandmother took me in when she felt like it, and my legal guardian took me in when she didn’t. My secretive nightly swims were the only structure in my life, the only time I could breathe, feel free. I was constantly being tossed back and forth between houses, which made me easy to lose track of. Maybe this lack of structure was the reason for my urge to swim. There was something therapeutic about water, floating as if outside of my body, defying gravity, unbound by physical restraints. On the ground I felt heavy with sadness. In the water I was uninhibited. In the water I was at peace.

  In my Northern hometown, only the privileged had pools, and you were lucky to get a solid two months’ worth of swimming in. But here in North Carolina, where you’re battling 80-degree heat in May, every other house had one, and the swimming season was twice as long. I had escaped to the right place.

  I paddled myself to the pool steps, ready for a snack. With the nausea popping in every couple of hours, I found myself snacking throughout the day, whenever I felt up to it. Whoever named it morning sickness had not given credit to the all-day plague that it really was.

  I had barely toweled off when Harper came storming out onto the patio, her face splotched with anger, her hair wild with red fury, her lips an angry pink slit through her face. Her thin lips reminded me of a sideways parenthesis, always downturned. Her heart was a waste of space because it didn’t feel, and Harper lived up to her name, because the woman harped on everything. Dishes in the sink. Dust on the furniture. Unmade beds. Her obsession with cleanliness was boundless. I wondered what expectation I had failed to meet this time.

  ‘What now?’ I grumbled.

  And then I saw it.

  A thin wisp of paper in her hand. A black-and-white blur. She waved it at me. The ultrasound photo. How had that snoop found it? I was sure I had put it back in my drawer after looking at it this morning, a routine I did daily in private. Starting the day with a shared moment together, face-to-face, mother to child.

  Harper swung the pool gate open with force, and it nearly smacked her as it bounced back.

  ‘Care to explain this?’ She flapped the photo at me, her voice lifting in an accusing pitch.

  ‘It’s an ultrasound photo. I would have thought you’d be familiar with them after having kids.’

  The smartass in me was coming out, and I wasn’t stuffing her back in. Besides, I didn’t know exactly what Harper had noticed or not noticed, and I couldn’t crack open her skull to find out, no matter how much I wanted to. So I continued drying off, scrunching my hair into wet curls.

  Stomping toward me, she shoved the picture under my nose.

  ‘You know what I’m getting at. The date on this image.’

  Okay, so she knew. I could tell her the truth … or I could lie. Either way, Lane was going to find out and I didn’t know what would happen then. Or maybe I did know, and that’s what scared me.

  ‘Do you enjoy going through other people’s personal things?’ I dropped the towel, then reached for the paper. With a backward step, she hid it behind her back.

  ‘Cut the crap, Candace. I’m done playing nice with you. And you’re done playing house with my brother. Explain the date on this ultrasound, or I’m taking this to Lane. He should know the truth about your baby.’

  The truth? The truth was so complicated. I could hardly understand it myself, let alone explain it to someone else. That was the nature of feelings, wasn’t it? A complicated series of moments, each one thrusting your heart in a different direction. It was a wonder we didn’t all have vertigo.

  ‘Sit.’ I pointed to a lounger next to me, shaded beneath the pergola. Wisteria climbed up the pillar, spreading leaves across the beams above.

  ‘I’d rather stand,’ she insisted.

  ‘It’s a long story. Will you please just sit down so we can talk? I don’t feel like being blinded by the sun behind you.’

  Without another word, Harper sat, arms folded neatly, the ultrasound tucked between her hand and body. Facing her from the opposite lounger, it felt like we were in a showdown. A twenty-first-century duel with words. I didn’t know where to begin, where to end. I had my own version of my past, of what happened, much like we all do. We all created our own injustices and accomplishments, and we all ended up lying to ourselves and everyone else. I was the perfect child. No child was. I was the star of the high school football team. For one play, once. My parents never hugged me. They hugged you every night before bed. We were never in love. You just don’t remember what love feels like anymore.

  There were too many holes in the story I wanted to tell her, so many starting points to pick from.

  ‘I’m guessing you noticed the date which, based on how far along in the pregnancy I am, means the conception predates Lane.’

  Harper crossed her legs. She meant business. ‘Exactly. So I already know that Lane’s not the father. What I don’t know is why you entrapped my brother.’

  ‘First of all, I didn’t entrap him. And second of all, no, I’m afraid he’s not the biological father.’

  ‘So who is?’

  I shrugged. ‘I had a one-night-stand and got pregnant. I don’t even know the guy’s name. I was drunk and stupid. But then I met Lane shortly after, and we fell in love deep and fast. It wasn’t just me, Harper. You have to understand this. When he told me he wanted to have a family with me, it seemed like the perfect solution. This baby could be his.’

  She hmphed. ‘It doesn’t work that way, Candace. You can’t just make a baby belong to someone else. There’s a word for that – adoption. And there’s a lot more you have to consider. Like the genetics, and the biological father’s rights, and—’

  ‘Just stop!’ I couldn’t stand her voice for another moment. As if she ever cared about any of that. ‘A baby could give a crap about genetics. A loving home is all that matters. As a mother, you know this. You also know that Lane would make an amazing father, and together we could give the baby what every child deserves. Family. Love.’

  This baby was everything that mattered in life. A new beginning. Hope for a better future. Unconditional love. This child had connected two hearts, locked two people together.

  ‘Lane deserves to know the truth.’

  And yet some people cared more about law than love. People like Harper. I needed to convince her in terms she would understand. ‘Do you love your brother?’

  ‘You know I do,’ she answered.

  ‘Then you know that telling him the truth will destroy him. Have you ever seen him happier than he is now? Why do you want to take that away from him?’

  She shook her head, the gesture saying more than words. ‘Don’t put this on me.’

  ‘You have the power to let him be happy or to break his heart. So it is on you.’

  ‘But it’s all based on a lie!’ she yelled, startling me. ‘Is anything you say the truth?’

  ‘My love for Lane is true.’ I stopped, not knowing how to cross the divide. ‘I know
you hate me, but there is no room for hate in love. If you love Lane, you need to stop hating me.’

  Harper’s skepticism rose with her eyebrow.

  ‘Look,’ I continued, ‘I’m not proud of the things I’ve done. But I’m proud of what I have with your brother. I’m proud of the kind of man that he is and the kind of woman he inspires me to be, and I’ll remind him of how I feel every day for the rest of my life. Where the sperm came from doesn’t matter – what matters is that Lane’s dream is coming true, and he’s going to have the perfect family. With a woman who loves him more than anything else on this earth.’

  ‘Do you really? Or do you just love the idea of having your happily ever after at any cost?’

  ‘Of course I love him. He’s the best person I know. I would do anything for him – anything to keep him, Harper. Even if it meant hurting someone who tried to destroy what we have.’ I wove a threat through my words that I wanted her to hear.

  Harper leaned forward, her gaze analyzing and critical. ‘I do believe that – that you’d do anything to get what you want.’

  Dropping the towel behind me, I stood, because I knew my height commanded respect. I looked down on her, letting her know I was – and always would be – above her. In life, in love, and with Lane.

  ‘If you tell him, you’ll hurt him more than I ever could. Could you live with yourself if you did that to the one person who has always tried to fill your void? Could you strip away his only chance at happiness? And if he did end up forgiving me, which I’m sure he would in time, do you really think I’d let you stay a part of our lives? Because I can be pretty convincing, and I can also be a mean bitch. Take the path of least resistance, Harper.’

  Harper was a woman who pulled. I was a woman who pushed. In the end, pushing got the job done and was a hell of a lot easier.

  ‘So what are you going to do, Harper? Keep fighting against the riptide and die trying, or go with the flow for Lane’s sake?’

  It was the right question to ask, because Harper had no real choice. If she told Lane the truth, there was a good chance he’d forgive me anyway and we’d still end up together – without her. My tears could be pretty persuasive when I tried. Especially as my belly grew, an irresistible lure to a man with family fever. We both knew she would end up losing no matter what she did. Even though Lane could forgive much, I wasn’t built that way. In fact, the last person who crossed me would never cross me – or anyone else – ever again. And I wouldn’t stop when it came to Harper. I was ready to take her down.

  ‘So what’s it going to be, Harper?’

  Chapter 15

  Harper

  I wasn’t afraid of dying, but I was afraid of being alone when I do. It seemed both were inevitable.

  When I was pregnant with Elise, I spoke a vow so solemn that it was unbreakable. I had been sitting in bed, awake with acid reflux and Braxton Hicks contractions, unable to sleep. Holding my fat belly in my arms, I promised my unborn baby that I would be there for every important moment. The first word. The first step. The first boyfriend. Graduation. Wedding. Grandchildren. I would somehow conquer death, as if I had that power, to be there whenever my child needed me.

  Oh, how naïve I was back then. Back in a time of ignorant bliss, when the world was pure and simple and filled with hope. I never expected the crushing blow as life’s hammer swung down and smashed my perfect little dreams into perfect little pieces. I had never anticipated crouching in those shards, waiting for another blow. That’s all I seemed to do these days – wait for it.

  Back then, every image I envisioned included me, Ben, and our children. I never fathomed life without him. Why would I? In my mind, I could singlehandedly defy death and divorce, with Ben by my side. It turns out I couldn’t. And it turns out he wouldn’t. Some days, single motherhood felt damn near close to death.

  Single mothers are plainclothes heroes. Anyone who, after an exhausting day of work, can multitask helping the kids with their homework while figuring out what to cook for dinner that the kids won’t grouch about, followed by kitchen cleanup, then an hour-long bedtime routine – all of this on her own – deserves a friggin’ medal. Or at least a spa day. If you thought being a police officer or a firefighter or a doctor was hard, think about the single mothers out there. They are the toughest of them all. And I was now cursed to be one of them.

  I tried my best, I always did, but there’s a tipping point where no amount of effort seemed enough. I’d spent the past hour coercing Jackson to do his spelling homework, while Elise grumbled through her math problems. There were only a few more days left in the school year, but the kids were already mentally on vacation. It was an uphill battle to get them to do anything.

  ‘Ew, what smells?’ Elise whined from the kitchen island where she doodled in the margins of her homework. ‘Tell me that’s not dinner.’

  ‘It smells like rotten eggs,’ Jackson chimed in with an opinion I hadn’t asked for.

  ‘Guys, knock it off. I haven’t even started cooking yet. That’s Candace’s lunch you smell.’

  The fresh salmon I had purchased for tonight’s meal had mysteriously gone missing, though the empty packaging sat on the counter next to Candace’s empty lunch plate. Another dish to pick up, not in the sink where it belonged. As I rummaged in the freezer for something else to cook, rage hit me with the force of a Black Friday shopping mob. I envisioned slapping that sneer right off her face, marking her perfect skin with my perfect handprint.

  Throwing together a chicken and rice casserole, dinner ended up a disaster. With Lane working late and Candace tucked away in her bedroom bingeing on Cheetos and Netflix – and probably her salmon lunch leftovers – no one was there to help ease the mood that hung over the dining room.

  Elise grimaced as I spooned the casserole onto her plate. ‘It looks like puke.’

  Jackson gagged as he pushed his food around with his fork. ‘It tastes like puke.’

  ‘You haven’t even tried it yet,’ I said. I pleaded. I begged. I gave up.

  For the second night in a row, Jackson had refused to eat a single bite of anything. The boy was already a child-sized Gumby, all knobby knees and elbows, but lately he looked even skinnier, like he’d been stretched into nonexistence. As if that wasn’t enough to heap on my already huge pile of worry, Elise fought with me through the entire meal over not having any personal space, begging to move back home.

  Home. What was home these days? Because nothing felt like home without Ben.

  Jackson sits up and watches me all night, Elise complained. He makes weird scratching sounds while I sleep, she whined. No matter how much I tried to understand Jackson, what he was going through, he simply wouldn’t tell me what thoughts rattled around in his head. I was almost afraid to find out.

  I wanted to believe these were typical kid problems, but the truth was that all sense of normal had died along with their father. I had no clue how to help them or return to the place we couldn’t return to – our old life. Our happy life. A life that only existed in my mind.

  Because what husband killed himself unless things weren’t what they seemed?

  I sent the kids to the living room to watch television while I finished cleaning up. Just one more hour to go before I fell into my bed and into a book that would hopefully seduce me into its pages and release my chains to this world. If only I could stay within the chapters, in a story I love instead of the reality that I hate. These days, I counted down the minutes to my nightly solitude. All day I pushed the feelings down, just below the surface, but at night, alone in my bedroom, I could let it rise and feel it all. The sadness, the loneliness, the heartbreak, the anger, the questions I wanted answers to: Why? Why? Why?

  All the stages of grief were coming back in a single hit: isolation, anger, asking every what-if, giving up. Everything but acceptance. I wasn’t there yet; how could I accept that he took his own life? Especially when he knew how hard I worked to break through the grief before. Damn you, Ben! As my hands slid up and
down the casserole dish – sudsing, sudsing, sudsing – my mind wandered and slipped into a dark place. I needed a cigarette.

  I didn’t smoke. I never had, not other than the occasional cigarette over drinks with friends, and definitely not since I fell for Ben and he told me he’d never date a girl who smoked. But Ben wasn’t here, and I needed a hit of something, anything, to numb me. I didn’t know where Lane kept the hard liquor, so the pack of cigarettes I had bought the day after Ben died would have to do.

  I slipped outside into the cool night air, the cigarette smoke contaminating the fragrance of roses that hung by the back porch. Every puff coursed through my lungs and into my bloodstream, my own little act of rebellion against the traumas of death and single motherhood. How did women do it? A woman was like calm water on the surface, but underneath the water’s edge she was a gliding, hunting shark. I wanted to be a shark, but I was a jellyfish that lazily floated along, ready to be someone’s dinner.

  An eddy of smoke, with an undertone of burning leaves, clung to the fibers of my shirt. I’d need to remember to change clothes when I got inside.

  The swimming pool glistened under a full moon. I looked up and met its hollow gaze, remembering how fascinated four-year-old Jackson had been with the man who lived in one of its many craters. I never had the heart to tell him the truth, that the stories were lies we told our children as we patted ourselves on the back for parenting well done. Yet those lies cultivated their imagination. If only all my lies had such a silver lining.

  I traced Ursa Major with my eyes; my need for dark solitude was as insistent as the stars.

  In the alcoves of my thoughts I heard the back door slide open, then closed. I didn’t turn to look; I could sense my brother when he was near because he possessed a kind of calm that was almost tangible. I imagined it was like being in the presence of one of the Twelve Apostles. You just knew he was goodness. Lane must have sensed my dark mood and come to find me.