Sister Dear

by Hannah Mary McKinnon

  I groaned, peering at my joke. “You’ll never get this one. What do elves learn in school?”

  “Wait, wait, I remember that from last year. It’s...it’s...the elfa-bet.”

  “Yes.” I giggled. “God, these are dumb.”

  “Yup.” Dad let out a contented sigh, passed the box of chocolates to me and stretched out on the sofa. “Merry Christmas, Freckles.”

  “Merry Christmas, Dad,” I said, before noticing him looking at me with a frown as he rubbed his stubble with a hand. I shoved my third cherry truffle in my mouth and, when I couldn’t ignore him any longer, said, “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Why are you looking at me like that?”

  “Like what?”

  “You know...all weird.”

  “I’m not—”

  “Dad.”

  “Okay, okay. I’m wondering if you’re going to spend all day here.”

  “What do you mean? Of course I am, it’s Christmas.”

  Dad tutted. “Yes, I know. I meant, are you going to visit your mother?”

  I examined the chocolate in my hand and bit it in half with fervor. “Nope.”

  He knew better than to challenge me. “Hanging out with a boyfriend later? Got any cute-couple Christmassy things planned?”

  I stuffed the rest of the chocolate in my mouth and looked at him as I chewed, raising an eyebrow. “Really, Dad? Cute-couple Christmassy things? Don’t you know me at all?”

  He waved a hand, took a sip of wine and smacked his lips. “You know what I mean.”

  “And you know I don’t have a boyfriend.”

  “Yeah. Exactly my point. You’ve been single forever.”

  “Are you trying to get rid of me or something?”

  “Absolutely not. You know how much I enjoy your company, Freckles. I’m sure a man your age would, too. Cute and clever as you are, you—”

  “I don’t need a man,” I fired off with a snort. “And I don’t see you dating anyone. Any sexy trucker women you like?”

  “No. Frankly, I’m too tired these days, anyway. All I want to do is sleep.”

  “How come?” I looked at him, scanned his face, for the first time taking in the dark circles under his eyes. How long had they been there? Had he lost weight, too? Come to think of it, he hadn’t polished off his mammoth helping of food, despite his plate rivaling the height of the Portland Head Lighthouse. When I’d mentioned it, he’d said he was watching his diet—Dad never watched his diet, and he’d been the same weight forever.

  I sat up. “Are you okay?”

  With a dismissive wave, he drank more wine and reached for another joke. “I’m fine. What do you call Santa when he takes a break? Santa Pause.”

  I’d laughed, topped up our glasses, feeling a little smug about steering the conversation away from my love life without him noticing. Now, standing in my hallway, looking at one of the last pictures I’d taken of us together, I felt like a heartless monster.

  “I’m sorry, Dad,” I whispered. “I should’ve paid attention. Told you to see a doctor, I should’ve dragged you there. I’m sorry.”

  He smiled back with his purple paper crown and rosy cheeks.

  “I have to see what this Stan guy’s about,” I said, still talking out loud, my voice cracking. “You understand, don’t you? Please don’t be mad.”

  I put the photograph facedown and went to my closet, squeezing myself into jeans and choosing a loose sweater. Hair and teeth brushed, I grabbed my camera, bag and jacket, put on my boots and headed outside.

  The crisp wind carried the promise of snow, so I pulled my hood over my head and retrieved my blue-and-white polka-dot mittens from my pocket before remembering they’d been a gift from Dad on my last birthday. I gulped. I didn’t believe in signs or messages from beyond the grave, but I shoved the mittens back in my pocket regardless, doing my best to ignore them and my freezing fingers.

  When I finally got to Exchange Street, I took a few deep gulps of air, stood on the opposite side of the road, slightly to the left of Gallinger Properties’s front door. I panicked—maybe I was too late, or Stan never used the front door but a side entrance, perhaps one at the back—and wondered if I’d blown it. As it turned out, I’d picked the right time and the right place, too, because five minutes later the front door swung open, and a woman stepped outside.

  Madeleine Gallinger.

  From across the street, I couldn’t get a good enough look at her, so I raised my Nikon and zoomed in. Before I knew what my fingers were doing, I snapped a picture, then another, taking photo after photo, the click-click-click of the shutter ringing in my ears. She looked more elegant in real life—an almost impossible feat. Her honey-colored hair was in a perfect bob, accentuating her long, slim neck. The deep burgundy dress complemented her pale skin tone, and her cream-colored woolen coat, which reached halfway down her high-heeled, black leather boots, must have cost three times my rent. She moved with ease, class and grace—gliding rather than walking—as if she were some kind of celestial being. Another person accompanied Madeleine, and my gaze landed on him.

  Stan.

  He wore a dark suit underneath his long black coat, and his shoes had been shined to perfection. Although his hair had become more salt than pepper since the most recent photos I’d seen online, his frame was still lean and fit, easily making him appear ten years younger.

  I snapped another dozen pictures, watched as he took Madeleine’s hand, said something to make her laugh, and she rested her head on his shoulder. Anyone observing them could tell they were in love, but the way they carried themselves—the confidence they exuded—sent another message, too. They were a force to be reckoned with, the kind of power couple sparking awe and envy in equal measure.

  I wondered what it would have been like to grow up as their child. Privileged in terms of money, that much was a certainty, but were they warm and caring, or cold and distant? Too preoccupied by career, status and how they appeared to the outside world? All these thoughts—and then some—ran through my mind until a shiny black Mercedes with tinted windows pulled up in front of the building. Stan held the back passenger door open for Madeleine, and within a heartbeat they’d disappeared inside.

  I wished I could follow them, listen to their conversation without them realizing I was spying. Not an option, so I hurried to a nearby café, where I grabbed a coffee and a chicken wrap, and settled down in a window seat, giving me a direct sight line over the street and the entrance of Stan’s company. My fluttering stomach didn’t appreciate the food despite having skipped breakfast, something that hadn’t happened in years, and I ended up sipping my coffee too fast, scalding the roof of my mouth and leaving half of the drink untouched.

  An hour later I needed the bathroom, and more than one person had given me the evil eye for sitting in a prime spot with half a cup of cold coffee, but I refused to move. At exactly one twenty-five, the Mercedes pulled up again. Stan got out alone and headed inside.

  I told myself I’d got what I’d came for, a glimpse. Not only had I seen Stan, but Madeleine, too, and I’d taken reams of pictures. Time to go home, mull all of this over and decide what—if anything—I’d do next. While I knew it was the sensible thing to do, the only thing to do, my brain and my feet were still at odds, and the latter won.

  As if on autopilot and without allowing myself to think it through, I got up, walked out of the café, crossed the street and headed straight through the front door of Gallinger Properties.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  “GOOD AFTERNOON.”

  The man at the reception desk greeted me with a smile as I walked in, and I recognized his deep voice as Steven Marshall’s, the person who’d answered my earlier call. He looked a few years younger than me, wore a pin-striped suit with a lilac tie and a pair of vintage glasses.

  “Welcome to Gallinger Prope
rties,” he continued, and I could tell he was trying very hard not to stare at my bruised face. “How may I help you?”

  As I took in the white reception desk with curves rivaling a cello’s, and the large silver letters spelling out the company name on the stone-tiled wall behind him, I shifted from one foot to the other, a trickle of sweat running down my back. “Uh, I’m here for Mr. Gallinger.”

  “Do you have a meeting scheduled?”

  “No,” I said quietly. “But I need to see him. It’s important.”

  “All right,” Steven said. “May I take your name and can you tell me what it’s regarding?”

  I shouldn’t have come, told myself to turn and run—but knew if I did, I’d never have the courage to come back. “I’m Eleanor, and it’s...personal.” When Steven raised his eyebrows I blurted, “I really need to see Mr. Gallinger. Please.”

  He looked at me as if trying to decide whether I was a crazy person who’d cost him his job if he let me in, or if he’d get fired if he didn’t. A few more beats passed in our bizarre standoff until he said, “Let me see what I can do. Why don’t you have a seat?”

  “Thank you.” I took a step back, eyed the leather sofa next to the low coffee table with a pile of business magazines on top, which had been arranged in an artistic spiral. No way would I sit. I wanted to be ready to make a dash for it in case I lost my nerve.

  Steven pressed a button on his computer and mumbled something into his headset. Not long after, he gestured to me. “Mr. Gallinger will see you in the small meeting room,” he said, sounding almost as surprised as I felt. This had to be a sign. A good one.

  We walked past a few closed doors and into a meeting room the size of my apartment. It had an oval-shaped wooden table with eight high-backed black leather chairs on either side. The far wall was covered in matching oak paneling and housed the biggest TV I’d ever seen. The artwork on the opposite wall featured abstract trees in various shades of green, gold and brown, lending the room a calming effect rather than making it ostentatious and overbearing.

  “Mr. Gallinger will be right with you,” Steven said. “Can I offer you anything to drink in the meantime? A coffee, some water, perhaps, or tea?”

  “No, thank you.” I was incapable of keeping anything down considering I was about to serve up a huge helping of family drama right there in the conference room.

  “He won’t be long,” Steven said and disappeared, closing the door behind him.

  My palms felt as if they’d transformed themselves into sweaty sponges, and I wiped them on my pants as yet another bead rolled down my spine. What the hell was I doing? This wasn’t recon—it was a suicide mission. I’d found out about Stan Gallinger two days ago. Now I was in his office, no clue how I’d introduce myself, what I’d say or what I wanted from the man. Get out of here, my mind yelled, but the door swung open.

  Stan stood before me, tall and assertive. Imposing. A flicker of something passed over his face, but he stayed silent as he looked at me.

  I took a step back and bowed my head. “This is a mistake. I’m sorry, I’ll go and—”

  “Have a seat.” His voice was firm as he pulled out a chair, blocking my escape.

  I didn’t realize how badly my legs had been shaking until I sank down on the soft leather without saying a word. I opened my mouth but nothing came out so I shut it again.

  “What happened to you?” he said. “You look hurt.”

  “I—I was mugged. But I’m okay. That’s not why I’m here.”

  He observed me for a little while before talking again. “Why are you here, Eleanor?” Although the words were spoken softly, the way his blue eyes observed my every move, I couldn’t tell if he was friend, foe or somewhere in between.

  I exhaled, trying to buy myself time. I could make my excuses and go, leave the building and never, ever come back, do what I usually did with confrontation. What my mother would expect from me. Hide.

  No. Not this time. I gave my head a small shake and forced myself to speak. “I found out some information about you and, well, my mother, and I...I wondered...”

  Stan waited for me to continue, but when I didn’t, he said, “Who’s your mother?”

  I hesitated, whispered, “Sylvia Hardwicke.”

  He sat back in his chair, put his fingers in a steeple under his chin. I couldn’t tell what he was thinking. I couldn’t read him, so I let him continue observing me, trying not to squirm.

  “You look a lot like her,” he said. “It’s the eyes.”

  A hand flew to my mouth as the room slipped out of focus, becoming like the blurry trees on the wall. I pressed my palms onto the smooth table, pushed my heels into the floor. “Does that mean it’s true? You’re my father?”

  “Why are you here, Eleanor?” he repeated. While his voice remained gentle, his tone demanded the truth, and I found myself unable to do anything but comply.

  “I wasn’t going to come.” My words spilled forth like water from a burst pipe. “I only found out a few days ago my dad—well, the man I thought was my dad—wasn’t actually my dad. He told me your name and...and I looked you up online and read articles about you and found out where you work. I stood outside and when I saw you and your wife—”

  “You saw my wife?” he said, eyebrows raised.

  “Yes, earlier, when you went for lunch. But I wasn’t stalking you or anything, I promise.” I hoped he wouldn’t ask me to turn out the contents of my bag because all the photos on my camera told a different story. “I...I needed to see you because—” I looked away, his gaze too intense “—because my dad... He died.”

  “I’m sorry. This must be hard and confusing for you.”

  My shoulders dropped. “Yes, yes, it really is. My mother... We, uh, don’t get along, you know?” I made myself stop. I was coming on too strong, sharing too much, too quickly. I wasn’t allowing him—or myself—time to digest any of it. “And, well, here I am.”

  “With all that in mind,” he said, “would I be wrong to presume you came because you’re looking for...family? For us to have some kind of a connection or relationship?”

  “Yes.” This was incredible. We’d met all of three minutes ago and were so much in tune already, he’d picked up on what I wanted to say. “Yes, please, maybe—”

  He held up a hand, shook his head. “I’m afraid that’s not going to happen, Eleanor.”

  All the air left my lungs as if I’d taken a hit to the chest. “I’m sorry? Why—”

  “Sylvia and I had an agreement—”

  “An agreement?”

  “Yes, a financial one.”

  “But...but that means you knew about me? And you paid her? For me?”

  “Enough for you, for your education—”

  “But I paid for college. I mean, I was given a scholarship, but I still took out a loan and...she never told me anything—”

  “Whether she did or didn’t isn’t my concern, I’m afraid. I paid what we agreed on years ago.” Stan clasped his hands in front of him, speaking as if we were in a business meeting, discussing the details of a property transaction. How could he be so detached and unemotional, so cold? I was his daughter, his own flesh and blood, not a building to tear down and redevelop.

  “I don’t care about money,” I said. “I want to get to know you, I—”

  “I’ve told you it’s not possible.” Stan’s face remained unchanged, his voice even.

  “But...but why?”

  “In the simplest of terms, there’s no room for you in my life.”

  “No room?”

  “What I mean is I already have a family. Your presence would be...upsetting.”

  My mouth fell open as I struggled to process his words, grasp their meaning. My absolute worst nightmare about our meeting was happening right in front of my face, and I felt powerless to stop it. “I’m your daughter.�
�

  “Yes. However, at this point I’m afraid it’s irrelevant.”

  “How can you—”

  “I wish you the best, Eleanor, I really do, and I’m sorry about your father—”

  “Wait, I—”

  “—but I can’t have any kind of connection with you. Not now and not in the future.”

  I looked at him, my mouth still half-open, my brain filled with nothing but static buzz. “I don’t understand,” I said when I found my voice. “What about your wife? What about Victoria?”

  He narrowed his eyes. “What about them?”

  “Do they know about me?”

  “What are you implying?” Stan said, his voice sharp.

  “Nothing, I—”

  “Good. Because whatever you’re thinking of doing, I strongly advise you against it. There will be no more money.”

  “No, I’d never—”

  “I have another meeting I’m already late for.” Stan got up and headed for the door, where he paused and turned around. “I really am sorry about your father, Eleanor, and I do wish you the best of luck, but I don’t expect to hear from you again.”

  He opened the door and waited, so I grabbed my bag, jumped up and pushed past him, fled down the hallway, sped by reception—from where Steven wished me a good day—and straight out the door. The tears I’d held in because of the shock rather than determination now rolled down my cheeks, blurring my vision. I didn’t see the person coming in my direction until I’d collided straight into them, almost sending us both crashing to the sidewalk.

  “Gosh, are you all right?” the woman said, gripping my forearms with perfectly manicured fingers, stopping me from falling. As I breathed in the scent of her subtle floral perfume, I looked up into her emerald eyes, took in her mahogany hair.

  Victoria Gallinger. Her smooth, flawless face mere inches from mine.

  “Are you all right?” she repeated, a frown crossing her face as she let go.

  I turned and darted across the street. Ignored the squealing tires. Didn’t care about the drivers who had to slam on their brakes to avoid hitting me. I almost wished they hadn’t bothered as my world imploded around me for the second time. Dad was gone. Stan had rejected me. No doubt he’d already decided I was a loser, a waste of space, and he was right. Everything my mother had always thought and said about me was right. I was nothing. Nobody. Pathetic. Useless. Fat. Ugly. Stupid.