What Happened to My Sister

by Elizabeth Flock

  “Momma, you ever get pictures flashing into your head like from a movie?”

  She’s standing on the chair out at the spot in the middle of the room where you can see your whole self in the mirror.

  “What do you mean, pictures flashing into your head?” she asks me while she turns to get a look at the backside of her dress.

  “Pictures of things that make no sense but you sorta feel like they should. Like when something’s on the tip of your tongue but you cain’t quite recall it?”

  She steps off the chair and next thing I know she’s pinching my jaw between her finger and thumb.

  “You mark my words right here and now,” she hisses at me, “if you get crazy again—don’t you dare try to pull away from me when I’m talking to you, I’m serious as a heart attack—if you get all crazy, loony tunes again I will dump you by the side of the road and never look back, you hear me? Hell, I’d love an excuse to do just that so don’t go giving me one if you know what’s good for you.”

  Through pinched fish lips I say, “Yes, ma’am.”

  “I will not put up with it again,” she says. “You understand what I’m telling you?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  She lets go of my face and turns back to getting herself ready to go.

  “It’s bad enough they all treat me like I’m a damn hillbilly. Like I never worn shoes before. Like I don’t know their language”—she’s back to muttering to the mirror—“them talking real slow and loud like I’m a foreigner. These people here thinking they’re better than me when I probably got more Carolina blood in my veins than the whole lot of them put together. It’s like I’ve got the word stranger stamped on my forehead. Like I’m the one with the accent. They see I’ve got a loony tunes girl clinging to my skirt that’ll be the final nail in the coffin, I’ll tell you what.”

  She closes her lipsticked lips around a tissue. Blotting them, she calls it. I got to remember to fish that tissue out of the trash bin. I’d love to have Momma’s lips in my notebook. I finally got enough hairs from her brush to make up a lock of hair that I taped into the book yesterday.

  “Well,” she says, stepping back to get a better view of herself in the mirror, “this is about as good as it gets, though I don’t know why I bother. I ain’t—I’m not qualified to do much of anything anyone’d see fit to pay money for. But I’m no charity case so that puts me square between a rock and a hard place.”

  With the makeup covering the scar on her cheek and with her hair long enough to pouf up over the spots where it never grew back after Richard’s fists took clumps of it, she’s pretty for the first time since Richard came into our lives. What’s left of that neck mark of hers is the last hold Richard’s got on her. When it disappears—even though he’s been six foot under awhile now—Richard will disappear from our life. Forever. That’s why I keep track of how it’s healing in my notebook.

  “I get a good enough job I can get the hell out of Dodge and get back on track to where I should have been long time ago,” she says.

  “Where should you have been a long time ago, Momma?”

  She don’t answer. She probably didn’t hear me.

  “Now remember: you stay put. Don’t be giving them any reason to kick us out, y’hear me?”

  “But Momma …”

  I don’t tell her I hate being alone in this room with the walls so thin I can hear everything on all sides of us. The whole place shakes every time someone slams their door which happens every five seconds and once a man with a deep voice banged on our door over and over calling out for someone named Melanie and I almost wet myself I was so scared but then he must’ve realized he had the wrong room and he went away. I don’t tell her I’ve already hunted through all her stuff, looking for that travel case she guarded with her life on the drive out of Hendersonville. I don’t tell her I been sneaking out after she leaves and no one’s caught me yet.

  “Momma I just want to come with you please? I won’t be any bother. I’ll disappear when you go in places. You won’t even know I’m there. Please, Momma. Take me with you.”

  She’s back hunched over at the mirror turning her head right and left but it’s hard to get a handle on how you look in a mirror with only the bottom half not spiderweb cracked.

  “Get over here and open this cup for me. I’m so damn thirsty. My head’s about to split open with this damn headache.”

  On Wednesday, Mr. Burdock gave us two new plastic cups wrapped tight in plastic and Momma doesn’t want to ruin her nails. Her fingertips look so good, you cain’t hardly tell it’s Magic Marker.

  “And turn that goddamn TV down. I don’t understand why you set your sights on bugging me every goddamn minute. TV turned on night and day, day and night. Loud as hell, like in old folks’ homes.”

  “It won’t go down. I tried. It’s broken or something. You have to unplug it to get it off and on and the sound buttons don’t work.”

  Momma’s fixing her eyes on me and I back up just in case. Best to get out of her way when she’s going to find work. Or just in general.

  “What do you mean it’s broken? When did that happen? We better not be getting charged for the damage, I’ll tell you that much.”

  She slips her feet into her shoes like Cinderella with her glass slippers only Cinderella made it look easy and Momma winces on account of her feet being rubbed raw from wearing the same shoes ever-day. We used the black Magic Marker to draw in the parts that had faded from all the walking and they look like new, hand to God.

  “I don’t know,” I say. “It just started happening.”

  She limps over and fiddles with the knob on the front of the old TV then feels around the back of it.

  “Perfect,” she says, sighing. Only I don’t see what makes a broken TV perfect.

  “See I told you,” I say.

  “You being smart with me?”

  Now I’ve gone and done it. She ain’t mad at the TV any longer. It’s me she’s mad at and I’d feel a lot better if the bathroom door had a lock on it. The other night she pushed her way in and got me even though I had all my weight up against the door. But that wasn’t her fault. The liquor store man gave her the whiskey but didn’t give her the job, so it was his fault she was feeling blue. In this room there ain’t nowhere to go when it turns her mean at night.

  “You’re lucky I’ve got to go,” she says, smoothing her dress then hitching her purse onto her shoulder. “Keep the door locked. We might have nothing to our name but what we’ve got we need to hold on to.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  She squints at me hard and I know she’s trying to figure out if I’m sassing her but I’m not and in a second she gives up and leaves.

  I say goodbye but I don’t think she heard me through the door.

  I got to stop giving her reasons to get rid of me. I thought she’d gone and figured out a way to do it back before we left Hendersonville, after I shot Richard. That was a real close call.

  The days right after Richard died are sort of blurry in my head but I remember Momma going to see if she could leave me with some lady who works for North Carolina. Now that’s a whole other mystery: How does someone work for a state? The state is her boss? They say I’m the one who’s crazy but that’s what’s crazy. The lady came and talked to me like I was a baby, asking me did I know my own name and what is it and without looking in the mirror what is my hair color (like I’d need a mirror for the answer). She asked me all kinds of stupid questions and went out to have a word with Momma, who was outside the house pacing back and forth and smoking one cigarette lit from the last. Finally the lady got in her shiny car and drove away and Momma came in looking like a storm was brewing behind her eyes. She didn’t say as much, but I could tell she was hoping the lady would take me off her hands. She told me I was going to stay with her after all but things were going to change. The deal was I had to go with the lady every day to an office the next town over. It had a little room with toys and small chairs and finger pai
ntings taped to the walls. The lady and me sat cross-legged on a hard carpet that left bumpy marks on my legs for hours after I left. But it was great on account of the peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and potato chips. I got those free and the only thing I had to do was answer her questions and watch her scribble things down on a pad she held up against her chest like I was wanting to steal it. She told me I should think of her like a friend and that I could tell her anything at all but I don’t know any kid who’s best friends with a grown-up. Also, for all the time she talked to Momma you’d think she already knew the answers to the questions like:

  “What was your daddy’s name?”

  “Do you have a grandma? Where does she live, do you know?”

  “Do you have any brothers or sisters?”

  That last one was where the trick of it was. Like I said, those days and weeks right after Richard died were real blurry to me. I tried real hard to concentrate like the lady said but my brain felt all mushy and loose. I remember feeling tired all the time but even with all that I knew she was up to something. I knew she was trying to get me to talk about my sister. She wanted me to say Yes, ma’am, I have a sister. That’s what she wanted to hear. I knew it even then. What’s more, I may have been eight but I knew if I talked about Emma I’d never see Momma or Mr. Wilson or Hendersonville again. I knew something bad would happen if I told the lady yes but I didn’t know what to do at first. Because the fact is, yes I believe I had a sister but something happened—she disappeared and I wasn’t supposed to talk about her ever again.

  When Emma was a baby Momma talked about her. Her and Daddy both. No matter what Momma said when I was eight, no matter how close the state lady watched me when she asked if I had a sister, even when I was telling her no, ma’am, in my head I could hear Momma and Daddy talking about the baby. I can still hear it. What’s funny is that it was the state lady who reminded me of it when she asked if I ever heard anyone else saying I had a baby sister. Whammo! It came back to my ears like we were talking to each other with two tin cans and string, me on one end, Momma and Daddy on the other. When she was a baby I remember I lifted Emma up out of the drawer they used for a bassinet and took her over like she was a play doll. Momma didn’t mind. If Emma got hungry or needed changing I’d bring her over to Momma, who’d tell me to go somewhere to get out from underfoot. She hated people being underfoot so I’d have to leave baby Emma with her and get out of the way. But Momma knew how much I loved Emma so when I came back in she’d have already put her in my room on the middle of the bed where she couldn’t get into any trouble. That was back when Emma couldn’t even turn over, she was so little. Nothing better than going into a room where there’s a baby’s happy to see you. I loved it when Emma was itty bitty. I can say she never existed till I’m blue in the face but I swear I remember her. When she got older I kept taking care of her—because at some point Momma stopped talking about her or doing anything for her at all. Momma had a lot on her mind back then, even before Daddy died. He wasn’t home all that much, my daddy. Which I guess is why Momma was sad all the time. So Emma and me, we were all we had. We stuck up for each other.

  Then, years later, after Richard died and the state lady came, Sheriff and Momma and her all watched me real close when they said the name Emma. They asked if I knew an Emma, like did I know if she even existed. Momma said no she never did. The lady hushed Momma and asked me if I thought there’d been an Emma. They seemed happy when I slowly shook my head no but because I was staring at Momma when I answered, the state lady had to ask Momma to give us some time to visit, just Caroline and me alone. The more she asked if I was sure there was no such person as Emma and the more I said no, ma’am, the happier the state lady got so I guess you could say I passed the test. Then something super-incredibly weird started to happen. I started to forget what Emma looked like. The harder I tried to remember, the worse it got. I knew her hair was near-white blond only because mine is the opposite, a dark mousy brown that matches my eyes. But her face was fading in my memory. Then it was her voice that left me. I wanted so bad to hear her in my head but it was like someone was turning a knob on a radio real low, where you know there’s music playing but you cain’t make out what the song is. I remember feeling terrible. Like I was betraying my sister. Leaving her to die or something.

  After a few more times like that where the state lady asked if the name Emma rang any bells and who did I play with when I was growing up, they said I didn’t have to go to see her no more. Momma said she was this close to putting me in the loony bin for good and back then I didn’t know what a loony bin was so Momma drew a circle in the air by her ear and told me it’s where they lock up crazy people. She said they have loony bins for kids and that I’d fit in perfect there. I haven’t had a peanut butter and jelly sandwich since I stopped meeting with the state lady, but at least I don’t have to go to the loony bin.

  I count to a hundred with Mississippi in between just to make sure Momma’s good and gone across town to find a job, but I don’t need to—she never doubles back. Once she’s gone, she’s gone. It’s brighter outside than I thought it’d be and I have to blink a few times to get my eyes used to the sunlight. I take care to keep as far from the edge of the road as I can and I will myself invisible just in case someone from the Loveless happens to see me. I’m hungrier than a sow full of babies. Momma only brought the whiskey home last night but it was okay because I still had four ketchups I saved aside thinking she might forget food again.

  Ketchup’s free at this place down the road called Wendy’s. I couldn’t believe my eyes when I first went in there the other day. They got hundreds of packets of ketchup plus millions of paper napkins, which come in handy for toilet paper when we run out—Mrs. Burdock won’t give out more than our fair share. And Wendy’s has food just out there for anybody to take. Bowls of all kinds of vegetables and lettuce and stuff.

  Any day of the week you’ll find at least ten ketchup packets in my pockets, thirty if it’s a good day. It’s not like I’m stealing or anything but I do try to hurry about it when the businesspeople dressed real nice line up for lunch. Or when the moms come in for early supper with their strollers, hand-holding little ones. It’s always so busy no one notices me taking fistfuls of ketchups and plus I’m small because I haven’t yet had my growth spurts, which if you ask me sound like something that’d come out of water guns. Some kids have the spurts all in one summer so when they come back to school it’s like they’re strangers. Candy Currington had bosoms when she came back for fifth grade. Ever-one knew she got her period that year too because Mason Brawders—who was named after a mason jar because when they filled in his birth certificate his momma looked up at his daddy drinking sweet tea from a mason jar, and that was that. Ever-one called him Jarhead. Anyway, Mason Brawders found evidence of Candy’s menstration in the purse Candy hugged close to her chest. I never knew whether she slumped that way because of the bosoms or the period evidence. I won’t walk that way when I get bosoms or my period, which I hope I never do.

  Today I’m gonna grab even more packets than yesterday. I’m trying to get through thirty-five ketchups in four minutes which I bet is some world record or at least I pretend it is. Most I’ve done so far is thirty-one. I have to cup my hands around my eyes to be able to see clearly through the glass and near as I can tell it’s good and busy right now so I might could get a handful of olives this time. Maybe even some of those crunchy little bread cubes. But the ketchup’s what makes paper taste like it could be real food so it’s got to be the first order of business. Like my daddy used to say when he’d come in from being away from home. He’d walk in the door and, before Momma even, he’d hug me and say “getting a kiss from my little princess is my first order of business.”

  The Burdocks get loads of free catalogs in the mail and what they do is they leave the ones they’ve already gone through on the front desk. That way, if you happen to want anything from Plus Size Woman or Gander Mountain or Johnny T-shirt, all you’ve go
t to do is stop by the front desk and the catalog’s yours for the taking.

  “Now what on God’s green earth would you want with Orvis?” Mr. Burdock says when I ask him if I can have it.

  “I like the pictures” is all I can come up with.

  “Have at it,” he says, laughing at a joke I guess I’m too young to understand.

  It’s true, I do like the pictures. But not the way he thinks. Here’s what I do. I take the catalog to the room and when Momma’s in her whiskey sleep, I cut out pictures with scissors I borrow from Mr. Burdock. Then I swish them around with my finger in a cup of water, until the paper gets to where it almost tears. Then I eat each picture. One by one. It sounds weird I guess but it fills up an empty belly as good as anything else I’ve tried. When I cut enough pictures out, I mean. With the Orvis catalog I start with the fish. I pretend each picture is a real fish, cooked in a cast-iron skillet like Momma used to fry up catfish. I pick it out of the water gently and flatten it and cut it into tiny pieces, like I’m cutting bites for a baby. That way I can fool my brain into thinking it’s a real plate of food. The trick is to chew real slow. Last week I squeezed ketchup on every bite I could and I swear it tasted so good. I try not to do that every time, though, because I don’t want to get to where I need the ketchup for the paper to taste good. I’ve decided that adding ketchup will be a special treat. Like going out to a restaurant like I will someday I bet.

  There are plenty of Burdock catalogs that don’t have pictures of things I’d like to eat so lately I been having a problem training my brain to pretend I’m not eating a Plus Size Woman. Or Needlework. Paper is paper, I tell myself. Today I noticed the only catalog on the front desk is something called ExpressURWay, so I better get extra ketchup in case the pictures are super-gross. And this time I remembered to bring the plastic bag I fished from the trash so I can load it up with olives and fried bread cubes. If no one’s looking.