Sister Dear

by Hannah Mary McKinnon

  A few hours later I heard familiar footsteps in the hallway. Lewis, whom I hadn’t seen since he’d stopped by with the fish and chips. Maybe if I accidentally-on-purpose bumped into him, he’d ask how I was. Perhaps he’d offer to come in for a chat, allowing me the illusion of normalcy for a few minutes. God, I needed that.

  As I opened the door and saw Lewis, a smile made its way across my face, but it vanished all too quickly because he wasn’t alone. He held the hand of a girl with long dark hair in a high-set ponytail, a button nose and big brown doe eyes adorned with fake eyelashes so long and heavy she blinked in slow motion. Her yoga pants showed off her toned legs, and her cropped top—not the most practical of shirts on a cold day even when worn under a hot-pink jacket with a downy collar—accentuated a tiny waist. She wrapped her arms around Lewis’s middle, pulling him closer.

  “Hey, how are you?” Lewis said as he tried to extricate himself from her octopus grip.

  “I’m okay, thanks,” I said, wishing I could hit a magic “rewind time” button. “You?”

  “Good, yeah, great. Uh, this is Janique. Janique, this is Eleanor.”

  “Nice to meet you.” Her expression was in direct contradiction to her words as her eyes moved from the top of my head to my feet. She looked at Lewis. “This is your neighbor?”

  Heat shot to my cheeks. What had he told her? How I’d embarrassed myself by almost shaking his hand with a pair of dirty underwear the size of a tent? That he’d had to defend me from some jerk because I couldn’t do it myself? She’d probably loved the last one, fluttered those ridiculous eyelashes at him before jumping his knight-in-shining-armor bones.

  “I forgot something on the stove,” I said, trying to rid my mind of the X-rated images of Lewis and Janique together and slamming the door shut. As I rested my forehead against it, I heard them moving to the stairs and a peal of Janique’s laughter rang out. It made me bite down on my lip so hard, I tasted blood. I headed for the kitchen and opened the fridge.

  * * *

  Sunlight streamed in through the windows the next morning, not only an indication of a welcome change in weather, but also of how late it was. Usually I was up hours before, ready to dive into my latest project. I decided today had to be about new beginnings—not family, but business—which meant making cold calls and chasing new clients, something I enjoyed, much to Dad’s amusement.

  “It’s surprising, is all, Freckles, considering you don’t really like people,” he’d joked.

  “But I know what I’m talking about,” I’d said. “It’s easy. And I like people.”

  “No, you don’t,” he huffed.

  “I like you, don’t I? You’re people.”

  “Touché, but still, you’re a bit of a hermit, like me, and yet you enjoy cold-calling. That makes you an anomaly. And it’s a good thing.” He’d ruffled my hair, making me feel like a five-year-old. “I certainly wouldn’t give it a go, and your mother hated sales so much, she hired someone else to do it. She couldn’t sell anything to save her life.”

  “Except her soul,” I said, and Dad turned away, but not before I’d caught his smirk.

  The memory of him pinched my heart so hard, I thought it might stop beating. Jagged waves of realization kept slamming into me, over and over. I’d never see him again. Hear him again. Be able to call or laugh with him again. I had no idea how to cope with that, so I did the only thing I could think of; open a little box in my mind into which I forced the memory of our conversation and shut the lid tight.

  I switched on the kettle and fished a jar of instant coffee from the cupboard. Despite trying not to, I couldn’t help but wonder if my penchant for prospecting had anything to do with Stan. After all, he hadn’t become a real estate highflier without picking up the phone. It got me thinking if I’d inherited any of his other traits. When I was younger, people had often remarked how much I looked like my mother, which had made her scowl deepen. I knew I reminded her of what she called her “worst physical attributes”—big hips, large thighs, crappy metabolism—things she’d been determined to rectify all her life and told me I should focus on, too, chastising and ridiculing me when I didn’t, because if she’d managed to do so, I should, too.

  I pushed the thoughts of my mother and her obsessions aside. What were the similarities between me and Stan? I’d studied his photographs, tried to determine if I had some of his facial features—our lips were similar, which was nothing to go by—but I was more curious about personalities than looks. Did we share opinions? Think the same way? Have the same reactions?

  I almost laughed. The way I’d cut my mother and Amy out of my life was reminiscent of what he’d done to me, although the reasons were different. And mine were valid.

  After I’d made my coffee, I sat down with my laptop and a buttered bagel. The memory of my recent binges made the food taste stale, the coffee bland, and I pushed both away, unfinished, and focused on work. My emails didn’t take long to go through. Most of my clients’ projects were over, and the two who’d signed up for regular monthly maintenance—with ridiculously low fees—had already been handled. Kyle had sent a quick thank-you note, telling me everything was in order. It wasn’t until I was about to make my first call that I noticed an unread email sitting in my spam folder.

  Dear Eleanor,

  I’m looking to redesign the website for my bakery chain, Bread’n’Batter, which you may have heard of. As well as our six corporate stores in Maine, we have franchisees in another twenty-five locations (soon to be twenty-eight) across the country. Kyle Draper highly recommended you and I’d love for us to meet. Could you please contact me on my cell (below) at your earliest convenience to discuss?

  Excited to hear from you,

  Aliyah James

  CEO

  It had arrived a week ago, the evening Dad died, and for whatever reason, gone straight to spam. It was a folder I checked regularly, but with everything that happened, I’d missed it.

  Crap. Shit. Fuck.

  Bread’n’Batter was a Portland success story, everybody knew it. Aliyah James, a single mother of four, had started the company with a hundred bucks of supplies, waking up at 3:00 a.m. to make bread and cookies while her kids slept. At first she’d sold her goods to friends and neighbors. They’d told all their friends and neighbors, who, in turn, had told all of theirs, too. Within a year, she’d hired staff and moved her production to a commercial kitchen. Within two, she’d won a local Entrepreneur of the Year award and had appeared on television. When a major coffee shop chain added her cookies to their stores, her already impressive sales exploded.

  Redesigning her websites was a killer opportunity, a huge contract, and one I couldn’t afford to miss. I snatched up my phone, dialed Aliyah’s number, willing her to pick up while I tried to think of a good enough reason for not responding to her request any earlier.

  “Aliyah James.”

  “Ms. James, hi. It’s Eleanor Hardwicke.” I pressed the phone to my ear, hoping my words hadn’t come out garbled. “You emailed me about your website project.”

  “Oh, yes, I remember,” Aliyah said, her voice smooth. “Thanks for getting back to me.”

  “No trouble. I’m sorry about the delay.” I decided honesty was the best way to go and let out a small laugh. “User error, I’m afraid, or at least an overly protective spam filter. When can we meet? I love your bakeries and your story. I think I could—”

  “Apologies for cutting you off,” Aliyah said, “but before I contacted you, I reached out to other developers, then I saw Kyle and he gave me your details. When I didn’t hear from you, I assumed you weren’t interested—”

  “Oh, gosh, no. I definitely am. It’s been a bit of a rough week.”

  “I’m sorry to hear it,” Aliyah said. “But I’m afraid I signed a contract with a company yesterday. I really wish I’d heard from you. Kyle sang your praises loud and proud.”
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  “But what if I sent you some designs? Is there any chance—”

  “I’m afraid not,” Aliyah said. “Going back on my word isn’t my style. I’ll keep your details for the future, though. Hopefully we’ll still get the opportunity to work together. Thanks again for calling. All the best to you. Bye.”

  I sank back onto the sofa. I was never late, never this disorganized and I couldn’t believe I’d blown an opportunity that could’ve given me the financial wiggle room I needed.

  Although I knew what I’d see, I opened my banking app. Numbers didn’t lie, whether it was the dusty scale I’d shoved into the depths of my bathroom closet or my bank balance.

  I ran a finger down the screen, double-checking the withdrawals and the occasional deposit. I had a few thousand dollars, enough to cover a little while, but if I didn’t get another contract, I’d be in trouble. At some point there’d be the inheritance money from Dad—we’d agreed him appointing an executor would be more sensible than me trying to settle on anything with Amy—but it wouldn’t be much. My mother had nearly wiped Dad out financially during the divorce, and he’d never recovered, especially not when he’d gotten sick and had ludicrous medical costs to pay. My belly tightened again. I’d have a bill for my stint at the hospital, too, something I couldn’t afford.

  Not for the first time I wondered if Dad had known about Stan’s payment to my mother. A hundred grand. I shook my head. He couldn’t have, or he’d have ensured at least some of it was set aside for me—or maybe he knew and my mother told him it was none of his business, and it had zero to do with him because I wasn’t his. Anything was possible, and for a brief moment it made me angry at Dad, which immediately made me feel guilty. I missed him so much, wanted him to come in through the door, plop down on the sofa and say, Okay, Freckles, let’s figure out what you’re going to do.

  My thoughts went back to Stan and our last conversation. Rage pushed away the grief as I remembered how he’d brushed me off, discarded me as if I were something he’d trodden on in the street. He already had a daughter—a beautiful, smart, successful one—he didn’t need another. But I was Victoria’s sister, goddamn it. I was family, too.

  Fingers trembling, I opened her Facebook profile again. How easy would it be to blackmail him, after all? Demand cash or I’d tell Madeleine and Victoria who I was? I could threaten him with sending one of them a message, maybe.

  Hi, Victoria,

  This will no doubt come as a shock but I recently found out I’m your half sister, and I’m not sure what to do. Can we please meet or speak on the phone? I’d love for us to get to know each other. Hope to hear from you soon.

  Or something entirely different.

  Hi, Victoria,

  Guess what? Your dad’s a fucking cheater and I’m the result.

  Don’t believe me? Ask him who I am.

  He might pay up, but I’d meant what I’d told him. I didn’t want his money, wasn’t capable of extortion, and at this point I wasn’t sure I wanted a father-daughter connection with him, either. He’d had his chance, and he’d thrown it away. Twice. This was a game to him, one he’d already decided he’d won. It made me sick, he made me sick, and I wanted him to hurt, too. Suffer way more than taking a few thousand bucks from his inflated bank account ever could.

  I sat back in my chair, thinking about what Victoria might do if she found out about me. Discard me like Stan had? Despise him like I did? Whatever the case, no matter what her reaction, the fact remained I knew about my half sister’s existence.

  Wasn’t it fair she knew about mine, too?

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  I LOOKED AT MY HANDS, now balled into fists, my nails transformed into tiny knives, digging deep into my palms. I winced and straightened my fingers, considered calling Stan or drafting him a message when there was a knock on the door.

  “Hi,” Lewis said as I opened up.

  He was alone, dressed in workout gear, his chest and arms glistening with sweat. I tried hard not to imagine what he and Janique had been doing to each other since last night.

  “Can I come in?”

  “Uh, sure.”

  He walked through to the living room, where he stood facing the window, hands on his hips, before abruptly turning and looking at me, making me shiver. His eyes were so intense, and his golden hair, backlit by the light coming in from the windows, transformed him into a mythical creature who’d stepped out of the pages of a fantasy book.

  “I wanted to apologize,” he said, crossing his arms, his biceps bulging, and I forced myself to look at his face instead of the solid contours of his muscles.

  “Apologize? What for?”

  He sighed, dropped his hands. “First off, for not offering to come to your dad’s funeral.”

  “Oh...”

  “Yeah. I really should have.”

  “But you didn’t know him.”

  “Maybe, but that’s not really the point.” He paused. “Look, a couple of days ago, I told Janique about your dad and about you being mugged. I hope that’s okay? It was on my mind and I wanted a woman’s opinion, so I asked if she thought I should offer to come to the funeral...”

  “What did she say?” I said, and should’ve made a hefty bet on his answer.

  “That it would be weird because we don’t know each other well. Was she right?”

  “To be honest, I could’ve done with the company.”

  Lewis rolled his eyes. “Yep, I’m an idiot. I should’ve asked you, not her. And then she made that comment, the ‘this is your neighbor’ one? Let me put it into context—”

  “I don’t think I need a translation. The message was pretty clear.”

  “That’s exactly what I told her.” He suppressed a grin. “She left shortly afterward.”

  “Did she?” I tried my best to sound more surprised than victorious.

  “Yeah. I mean, talking about another woman on the first date and having an argument about her on the second is rarely a good sign, right? Anyway, enough about Janique. Tell me how the funeral went. And how are you? How are you coping with everything?”

  “It comes and goes in waves,” I said, surprised again at how easy it was to be honest with him. “One minute I’m fine and the next I’m either about to turn into a blubbering mess or I want to punch someone.” He nodded, and I continued, “The funeral was—” I shrugged “—well, whoever put the word fun into funeral is an asshole.”

  Lewis smiled, properly this time. “You haven’t lost your sense of humor. Good. I’m glad, given the circumstances and everything. I’ve been worried about you.”

  I looked at him, this man I hardly knew but who kept coming to check on me. Dad had always taught me to look after myself, and my mother, in her own way, had instilled that, too, but once again, with Lewis standing in my living room, I didn’t want to be so independent. I felt vulnerable and alone.

  Lewis must have sensed something, because he frowned. “What’s wrong?” he said.

  I hesitated. For all I knew, he was the biggest gossip in Portland. Then again, there wasn’t anybody else to talk to. Maybe his opinion would help put things into perspective. He seemed genuinely interested, and having someone help make sense of it all was something I couldn’t pass over.

  I told him everything. About my terse discussion with my mother, my research about the Gallingers and my two encounters with Stan, even bumping into Victoria outside the office. By the time I’d finished, he’d flopped on the sofa, eyes wider than my windows.

  “This happened in the past few days? Jesus, it’s enough to make your brain explode.”

  “Tell me about it,” I said. “Exactly what I needed on top of my sore head.”

  “About that. Your bruises have faded a lot, but the memory of the attack—”

  “I’m fine,” I said, and when he stared at me, I added, “Really. I can handle all that w
ay more than the fact I have two families who don’t give a crap I exist.”

  “But you don’t know for sure,” Lewis said. “I mean, what about your half sister? Victoria, is it? Who’s to say you two wouldn’t get along?”

  I let out a laugh. “I don’t think we’re cut from the same cloth, so to speak. Different side of the tracks, worlds apart and all those other clichés.”

  “Not necessarily. You share fifty percent of your DNA. You might be surprised at all the other things you have in common.”

  “The wildly wealthy pedigree? Boarding schools and country clubs? Flights to the Bahamas on a private jet?” I didn’t know how Victoria had grown up, but I couldn’t imagine it being anything other than excessive and exclusive.

  Lewis wasn’t buying it, and waved a hand. “Details.”

  “Ha. Really? Not from where I’m standing. I live in a crummy one-bedroom apartment with a temperamental and regularly striking heater, and do my laundry in a basement, where I hope I won’t get murdered or eaten by rats. Meanwhile Victoria lives in a townhouse on Newbury.”

  “You know where she lives?”

  “Uh, well. I looked up her address. It’s an end unit in a new building.”

  “Not the one on the corner they renovated a couple of months ago? With the floor-to-ceiling windows?” Lewis let out a whistle. “Sweet.”

  “As I said. Wildly wealthy. And privileged. Guess who developed the place?”

  “I’ll take Gallinger Properties for fifty points.”

  “You got it. He probably gave it to them for their wedding anniversary, as a birthday present or a ‘congrats it’s a Monday’ gift or whatever. See? Worlds apart.” I leaned back, let my head sink onto the cushion. I couldn’t help imagining the look of disgust on Victoria’s face when she learned about me and found out we were related. Mildly unfair, perhaps, but the rich daughter likely didn’t fall far from the money tree. If I knew for sure it would cause conflict between her and Stan—or Stan and Madeleine—it would almost be worth going through with contacting her, except, sitting there next to Lewis, I didn’t think I could be that kind of person. Besides, once the initial shock dissipated, all the hatred would be redirected at me.