Sister Dear

by Hannah Mary McKinnon

  “You usually work weekends, don’t you?” I said, forcing my voice into neutral, hoping Lewis wouldn’t detect my thinly veiled hysteria or mistake my banal question for not giving a shit about Dad. “I see you leave early every morning.” When he looked at me, I felt a blush creep across my cheeks. Dear God, now he’d think I was the building’s stalker in residence instead. “I mean, I hope you won’t be in trouble with your boss on my account.”

  “I asked one of my team to open up this morning,” he said. “Gym owner’s privilege.”

  “I didn’t know you own a gym. Mrs. Winchester never... Uh, I mean, that’s impressive.”

  Lewis waved a hand. “It’s nothing, really, only a small place on Forest Avenue.”

  “What’s it called?” I had to keep him talking; it was the only way to drown out all the other terrible thoughts whispering inside my head, telling me over and over again what a despicable person I was.

  “Audaz.”

  “Is that Portuguese?”

  “Spanish. It means bold and fearless. I chose it because of my maternal grandmother. She was a total badass.”

  “Was she a bullfighter or something?”

  Lewis chuckled. “No, but her parents died when she was young, and her uncle who was supposed to take care of her was a complete ass. When she was sixteen, she woke up one morning, packed her things and walked out of the house without looking back.”

  “I can relate.”

  He nodded. “She said it was the best decision she ever made.”

  My heart had slowed, but now my interest felt real. “What happened? Where did she go?”

  “Well, after hitchhiking to the coast, she found a ship bound for America and talked her way into working her fare as a cook.”

  “What a great story.”

  “There’s more. She arrived in Boston with twenty bucks in her pocket and four years later opened her own restaurant. Now, that’s what I call impressive.”

  “Didn’t you want to follow in her restauranteur footsteps?”

  He shook his head. “No, they sold the place when I was a kid. But I’m kind of in the industry if you think about it. I get people to work off all the paella they eat.” He laughed and despite myself I joined in. I had a feeling Lewis was doing everything he could to keep me distracted, help me forget about what was going on if only for an instant, and I was grateful.

  “We do personal training and boot camps,” Lewis continued, “prepare people for obstacle runs and stuff. You should come once your head’s better.”

  “Uh, no, thanks. Working out is about as appealing as using knitting needles to clean my ears. Thanks for the offer, though, Drill Sergeant Farrier.” I gave him a salute.

  “Captain Farrier, if you please.” He laughed again, a warm sound that made my heart skip a couple of beats, and I told it to knock it off. “Figured I’d put my army experience to good use, and bossing people around a gym seemed a natural fit.”

  “I didn’t know you were in the army.”

  He smiled again. “Ten years, and I want to say we barely know each other, but you’ve seen what laundry detergent I use, so it wouldn’t be an accurate statement, would it?”

  I’d hoped our basement polka-dot-underwear encounter had somehow been erased from his mind, or, better still, I’d dreamed it. The heat rose to my face again, and I could barely stop myself from pressing my forehead against the cool window.

  We arrived at the hospice not long afterward, helping to avoid more humiliation but regenerating the havoc inside me. As the cab came to a halt, the mood shifted, as if we’d driven under an invisible yet oppressive cloud.

  “Want me to come with you?” Lewis said after he’d paid the fare.

  “I’ll be okay, thanks. You can go now if—”

  “I’ll stay right here, and I’m not in any hurry, so take as long as you need.”

  As soon as I stepped inside the building, Brenda rushed out from behind the reception desk and hugged me hard, squeezing more tears out of me as she asked about the bruise on my face, patting my hands when I told her. She led me to a sofa where we sat as she put her arms around me, waiting for my crying to subside. How many times had she been in this situation? How many spouses, partners, fathers, mothers and children had she comforted? I clung to her, inhaled her perfume, not wanting to let go.

  “I—I shouldn’t have left last night.” I took a gulp of air to suppress another sob.

  “You didn’t know it was his time, sweetheart,” Brenda whispered.

  “But he was struggling and I shouldn’t have gone,” I said, and she hugged me again, gave me a tissue from a bright orange box on the table and waited for me to speak. “We argued last night. I said some awful things... He died thinking I meant them. I should’ve stayed. I should’ve told him I loved him. Why didn’t I stay?”

  She rubbed my shoulder. “He knew you did, honey. He knew. And he loved you, too. Only the other day he told me how proud he was, what a fantastic daughter you are.”

  “Did he? Did he really say that?”

  “Yes. He said you were the best girl a dad could ever hope for.”

  I closed my eyes and bit down on my lip, the memories of my father so strong, so real, it felt as if he was sitting there with us, leaning back into a comfy chair, his cheeks full again, his skin pink. How could someone who was gone still feel so present? And what would happen to me when those feelings and the memories began to fade?

  “Do you know what happened?” I said.

  “I shouldn’t—”

  “Please, Brenda. What difference does it make if you tell me? I want to know now.”

  She looked at me, seemingly debating whether I’d cause trouble if she gave me the details, and deciding I wouldn’t. “They think his heart gave out, and with the DNR, well...”

  I nodded, remembering how Dad and I had fiercely debated the do-not-resuscitate order when he told me he was going to sign it. I insisted it was selfish; if they could help him live longer, he should let them. His eyes had filled with sadness, and he’d shaken his head.

  “I’m dying, Freckles. And while I know it’s hard, you have to accept it. If I go, I’m going, okay? I don’t want to be kept alive by machines or be a vegetable. You have to let me go. It’ll be easier for you in the long run.”

  In the end I’d agreed, but sitting here now with Brenda, I wished I hadn’t. Why had I come here? What had I expected to find? That Dad wasn’t dead? It had all been some kind of mix-up or a distasteful joke? I needed to leave, get outside, clear my throbbing head, but my legs had become heavier than sandbags, pushing my feet into the floor.

  “I left my bag here yesterday,” I mumbled. “Do you have it?”

  “It’s behind the desk,” Brenda said, getting up.

  “Where’s Dad now? Did Worthy & Moore already come to, uh, get him?”

  “Yes, last night. You can go there now if—”

  “I will,” I said, the fear of seeing my father’s body threatening to overwhelm me.

  “Have you spoken to your mother yet? She—”

  “No. I can’t face her. She blames me for Dad...for him...”

  “You can’t listen to things like that,” Brenda said. “People lash out when a loved one passes, trust me, it happens more than you think.” There was no point explaining the deeply rooted animosity between my mother and me, so I stayed silent, and she continued, lowering her voice. “Nurse Jelani mentioned something your father said last night.”

  “What was it?” I said, my head spinning. “What did he say?”

  “It might not mean anything, but we thought you should know in case it does.” As Brenda paused, I held my breath. “He had a lucid moment, right before he passed. Nurse Jelani said he was a hundred percent focused, his voice clear as day. He grabbed her hand like this—” she pressed her fingers over mine and squeezed,
hard “—then opened his eyes and said, ‘Tell Eleanor about Stan Gallinger.’ He repeated it three times. Does it mean anything to you?”

  Tell Eleanor about Stan Gallinger. I rolled the words around my head, my brow furrowing. I didn’t know of a Stan Gallinger and couldn’t remember any of Dad’s friends or acquaintances of that name, either. Could it be...? Could Dad have left me one final gift, knowing he was slipping away, and we’d never see each other again? Was it his way of making amends somehow, of making things right between us?

  Stan Gallinger. Stan Gallinger.

  He was my biological father, I was sure of it. My heart rate quickened. Now that I had the information, I was no longer sure I wanted it.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  SEEING DAD AT THE funeral home a short while later was the hardest thing I’d ever done. I broke down in front of his body, whispering a thousand times “I’m sorry” and a million “I love yous” as my tears choked me. Somehow I managed to keep my voice steady after Mr. Moore guided me to his office, where we went over the paperwork and Dad’s wishes. I dug my fingernails into the armrest when he told me Dad left the final approval, and the right to change anything, exclusively to me. I wanted to shout I had no right to do anything.

  “It’s all been arranged for Thursday,” I told Lewis in a shaky voice when we were back in a taxi and on our way home. He’d kindly insisted on coming with me to the funeral home after Brenda had given me my things and we’d left the hospice, even though I’d lied and told him I’d be fine alone. “Dad preplanned everything, right down to the last detail. He said he wanted to make it as easy as possible for me. Can you believe that?”

  “I’m so sorry,” Lewis said. “You were very close, weren’t you?”

  “Not as close as I thought.” The words slipped out before I could stop them.

  He frowned, waited a few beats for me to elaborate and I found myself hesitating, suppressing a sudden urge, an unexpected but undeniable need to talk. But I barely knew Lewis, never let people in, certainly not a relative stranger. I pressed my lips together and stared out the window, and Lewis didn’t push me for more information.

  Back at the apartment I insisted on paying the fare and tried to shove money into Lewis’s hands but he wouldn’t hear of it. I continued arguing with him until he walked me up the stairs of our apartment building, and all the way to my front door.

  “Enough,” he said. “Now, are you absolutely sure you’ll be all right? You really don’t want someone to come and stay with you?”

  “I’ll be fine,” I said, hoping I could ignore the throbbing in my skull for another minute, at least long enough to get inside my apartment and collapse on the sofa.

  Lewis let out a sigh and I could tell he saw through my charade but didn’t know what to do about it. “Okay, listen, if you need anything, I’ll be upstairs for a while. Text me your number?”

  “My phone’s dead.”

  “Then I’ll send you mine if you give me your details.”

  I didn’t want to argue so I reeled off the digits and he typed them into his phone.

  “There,” he said. “I’ve sent you a text so you have my number now, too. Promise you’ll call if you need help? Anytime, day or night.”

  “Thank you.” I tried to tamp down another little flutter going on in my stomach by focusing on retrieving my keys and unlocking the front door. “I’m sorry I caused so much trouble.”

  “No trouble at all,” he said quietly. “Take care of yourself, Eleanor. I’ll see you soon.”

  With the door closed behind me, I breathed in deep, grateful for the utter silence and the familiar, delicate scent of the lemongrass potpourri I’d treated myself to a couple of weeks before. I dropped my bag on the floor, plugged in my phone to charge and looked at my laptop on the coffee table. I took a step toward it, then backed away as if it were a venomous, toothy creature ready to bite. My mind sped up, repeating two words on loop, louder and louder until they were impossible to ignore.

  Stan Gallinger. Stan Gallinger. Stan Gallinger.

  Another few seconds, and my fantasies about my possible biological father ballooned to Hollywood-esque proportions. The excitement—was it excitement?—felt as delicate and fragile as butterfly wings. Part of me wanted to grab my laptop and start researching him, but another part refused for fear my illusions would shatter into millions of pieces, shards of jagged glass crashing down around me.

  Still, I couldn’t stop thinking of another word. Family. I had more family, possibly in Portland. A biological father, perhaps a stepmother and maybe siblings. People I might be able to hang out with, who wouldn’t judge me, but instead accept me for who I was and see me as one of their own.

  My brain sped into overdrive. What did Stan know about me? Had he waited all these years, hoping I’d make the first move, wishing for a letter, an email or a phone call from his estranged daughter? What would I say if I contacted him? What would he say?

  “Stop it!” I said out loud, making my head ache. How could I allow myself to think these things? Dad hadn’t yet been gone a day and I was fantasizing about a reunion with my biological father? I heard my mother’s voice in my mind, telling me I was a disgusting, despicable, ungrateful traitor.

  Hanging my head, I quickly walked to the kitchen and grabbed half a dozen cookies, berating myself as I stuffed them down, two at a time, before reaching for more. My stomach rumbled, reminding me I hadn’t eaten since last night, and that I should have something more substantial, but my throat closed up as my mind went back to Stan, that he was out there somewhere, maybe just a phone call away.

  I almost picked up my cell, wanted to dial my mother’s number and demand the truth, but knew she’d refuse. She’d made her position crystal clear at the hospice. No, this was something I’d have to do alone—just...not yet.

  As I continued resisting the temptation to search for anything about Stan Gallinger, I headed to the bathroom. Stripping down, I avoided looking at any part of me in the mirror and stepped under the warm water. I stood there for a long time, letting it run over my body, making sure I avoided my tender head, willing it to wash away my grief, take the feelings of revulsion I felt for myself with it. Neither happened, but body clean, hair shampooed and conditioned as carefully as I could, I pulled on a fresh pair of pajamas, got myself a glass of water from the kitchen and picked up my revived phone, noticing the number of new emails and missed calls.

  They’d started the night before, shortly after I’d fled the hospice, and had resumed early this morning. A few calls were from the hospice, the rest from Kyle Draper, my biggest client. Judging by the sound of his voice in the messages he’d left, he’d become increasingly frustrated as he reminded me I’d committed to fixing the outstanding issues on the website for his newest nightclub, The Hub.

  “We’re opening tonight,” he’d said in his last message, and despite the loud techno music in the background, I could tell he was almost in major meltdown mode. I imagined him standing in The Hub with its eclectic mix of purple velvet chairs, steel bar and expensive art-deco lighting. No doubt he was dressed in his standard outfit of black shirt and pants, his goatee shaved with exacting precision—precisely how he ran his nightclub and corporate event businesses, and why he’d become a self-made millionaire by the age of thirty-five. “Where are you, Eleanor? Where’s your team? Why isn’t anyone answering the phone? Call me back.”

  I wished I’d never fibbed to Kyle about having employees. I’d lied for good reason. I knew what I was capable of, but he’d never have believed I could manage to build the new site he wanted, plus maintain his five others, without assistance, even if he knew I didn’t have a life outside of work. I’d never let him down until today. Not only was Kyle my best and most regular client, but he’d referred me to three others. I couldn’t afford to lose his business. I should’ve taken care of everything before leaving for the hospice yesterday evening, in
stead of planning on finalizing the corrections when I got home.

  I’d told Lewis things could’ve been worse if he’d showed up thirty seconds later, which was true, but things could’ve been so very, very different if I’d got to the hospice a little later. Not only would Kyle be happy, but I’d have missed my parents’ secret conversation altogether. My world wouldn’t have been turned upside down. I wouldn’t have been attacked and—most important—Dad would still be alive.

  As much as I wanted to dissolve into a puddle on the floor or rewrite the past, I couldn’t. I had to focus, do what needed to be done, and so, after another handful of cookies, I took deep breaths and dialed Kyle’s number, deciding it was best to get it over with.

  CHAPTER NINE

  A SUCCESSION OF LOUD KNOCKS woke me up with a start. Save for the faint streetlight glow sneaking in through the windows, darkness had engulfed the living room. I fumbled around for my phone, trying to figure out the time—and the day. When the doorbell rang three times in a row, I realized whoever had their finger on the buzzer must have been the source of the banging noises, too.

  “Gimme a minute,” I yelled, stumbling into the hallway, stubbing my big toe on the table in my haste. I swore, hobbled another few steps as the knocking resumed, and reached for the handle. “God, enough already. Where’s the fi—”

  The rest of my sentence withered and died as I saw Lewis standing in front of me, a paper takeout bag in one hand, the other poised midair.

  “Is everything okay?” he said. “I thought you’d passed out or something.”