What Happened to My Sister

by Elizabeth Flock

  “Or from when I was little maybe? Do we have any pictures from back there in Toast?”

  Toast was the magic word. Funny, because the second I said it the room felt different and I knew Momma would answer me.

  “Why are you asking me that?” She peers at me from above the covers. Something about the way her voice sounds tells me I was stupid to bring it up. Now she’s going to suspect me of doing exactly what I did! “What are you up to?”

  “I don’t know,” I say, not meeting her eye. “Nothing.”

  But I do know. I bet I’d be asking her about it anyway, because I been seeing all the zillions of pictures of Cricket’s life and even before I found the picture in Momma’s travel case it got me to thinking how I wouldn’t mind seeing a photograph or two of me from when I was a baby.

  “The answer is no,” she says. “We don’t have any pictures.”

  “How come?”

  “What?”

  “How come we have no pictures of us?” I ask her.

  “Well excuse me, sorry we’re not rich enough to own a camera for you,” she says. “Little Miss Fancy Pants.” That last part’s muffled on account of her head being back under the covers.

  A few minutes later we both shock at the sudden banging on the door. Mrs. Burdock. Again.

  “I know y’all are in there,” she hollers through the thin door. “Don’t think I don’t know it.”

  She bangs again.

  I’ve gotten real good at holding my breath. When Mrs. Burdock first started coming up and banging on the door Momma would put her finger to her mouth for me to be quiet and I’d hold the air in so long I’d make noise letting it out, but now I know when to breathe out in time to do it quiet-like so no one can hear, not even if they were standing right up next to me. Both Momma and me, we learned quick that Mr. Burdock hadn’t been telling Mrs. Burdock the whole truth because he saw us come and go ever-day but he must have told Mrs. Burdock we hid in our room and never came out so she wouldn’t fuss at him for not collecting rent.

  “Open up and we can settle this like adults. You think you can cheat us, living here rent-free like y’all are? You think that’s the way we do business? They may let things slide up in them hills y’all come from, but down here in the real world we’ve got a business to run. You hear me?”

  Mrs. Burdock uses her whole forearm so the entire door rattles when she hits it.

  “You may have sweet-talked my husband into turning a blind eye but enough is enough,” she says to her side of the door. “He isn’t going to stick up for y’all forever. Open up and we can talk about this like civilized human beings. Y’all are still civilized human beings, aren’t you?”

  I look across at the lump of Momma laying in bed. She’s got to where she pulls the covers over her head if she’s home when Mrs. Burdock comes to call.

  “This can’t keep on, you know,” Mrs. Burdock says.

  I peeked out from the window once when she first started coming at us, and what she does is she cups her hands around her mouth and puts her face right up to the wood of the door to talk through to us. It’s smart of her—the sound comes straight to us without bothering any of our neighbors.

  “Don’t make me call the po-lice”—she says the word like it’s split in two. “That’s what’s going to happen next, y’all hear me? I’m calling the po-lice if you don’t settle up the bill. And I got a news flash for you: they’ll haul y’all out of there so fast it’d bring tears to a glass eye.”

  Mrs. Burdock talks whether someone’s near or not. She doesn’t mind carrying on a whole conversation with her own self. If you come upon her when she’s in the middle she’ll just turn up the volume of her words so you feel like you’ve been a part of it from the beginning. I can hear bits and pieces of her talking and then I make out Mr. Burdock’s deep voice mixing in:

  “What’s all the commotion up here?” he asks Mrs. Burdock.

  “I don’t know who they think they’re fooling, acting like the room’s empty,” Mrs. Burdock says.

  “Calm down, calm down,” Mr. Burdock says. “Let’s leave it be for now.”

  “We’ve been leaving it be,” Mrs. Burdock says, “and look what that’s gotten us. Standing here with a fistful of nothing, that’s what. This is unacceptable. I want them out of here, Hap. I want them gone.”

  “Bess, now come on,” he says, “those two got nothing.”

  “Then they shouldn’t have rented a room!”

  “What happens to the girl, huh? If we turn them out on the street, what happens to the little girl?” Mr. Burdock says. “It ain’t her fault, them having no money—”

  “Well, that’s some kind of mother, isn’t it,” Mrs. Burdock says. “Letting her daughter forage for food like a goddamn ferret …”

  Mrs. Burdock keeps talking but Mr. Burdock must be leading her away because their voices get hard to hear before disappearing altogether. After I’m sure they’re good and gone I sit up in my bed.

  “Momma? Why’s Mrs. Burdock coming at us if you got a job now?” I ask.

  She doesn’t stir.

  I look around our room and wish I could ask the man whose name’s on all the bottles laying around. I bet Jim Beam would know why Mrs. Burdock’s so mad at us. I’m not supposed to clear them out because the clinking makes too much noise and the dumpster is right outside the Burdocks’ window. Mrs. Burdock peeks out whenever anyone throws anything away, wanting to catch whoever’s been forgetting to latch the flat plastic top of the bin closed. She put up a sign saying there were raccoons in the area and to please be mindful about the bin lids but someone (not me) isn’t paying it any mind.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Honor

  I realize now why Mother was so keen on getting the house landmark status. I wish to God I’d paid more attention and helped her go about it a better way, but how was I to know she was being foreclosed on? And anyway, I’m not so sure being of historical significance would have saved it. Well. We’ll see.

  I drive down to City Hall, a building that always disappoints me in its cement-blocked blandness. It looks like a community center in Provo in the 1970s. It depresses everyone who works there too, judging from the slumped demeanor of nearly every cubicle inhabitant.

  After twenty agonizing minutes watching a Mr. Sylvester, the slowest-moving human being I’ve yet to encounter, try to locate our file, we settle in for the brass tacks. Which in this case means a lot of self-important sighing, scanning of paperwork, and head-shaking.

  “Yeah, it’s like I thought,” he says, closing the file folder and looking up at me. “The historical claim was unverified. And without verification and proper authentication, we cannot proceed. Looks like a caseworker even went out to talk to your mother and explain this to her again a few days ago. As a courtesy. And frankly, we were getting a little sick of the calls.”

  “Calls from whom? We haven’t called you,” I say.

  “Ma’am, your mother’s been calling over here every single day, sometimes multiple times a day,” he says, sighing for emphasis. “All due respect, it was getting a little old. The pestering.”

  “First of all, I think you’re mistaken,” I say. “You got her mixed up with someone else. That doesn’t even sound like my mother. She wouldn’t pester a flea. And furthermore the caseworker was the first she’d heard from y’all …”

  I trail off because he’s begun vigorously shaking his head, clearly not listening, just waiting for me to finish so he can shoot down everything I’m saying.

  “Ma’am, I have a record here of all the interactions we’ve had with your mother regarding the matter,” he says, triumphantly referring to his silly little folder again. “I can document for you all the times she contacted us about this. Looks like we first told her the case had been rejected last year. Well, nearly a year ago. Nine months ago. She applied again and it says here she submitted supplemental papers though it doesn’t say what those were. Huh. They were returned to her and she was again rejected. That
was seven months ago. Case notes—I’ll read it aloud since we’re not allowed to show you official documents but I can read this part out loud. The caseworker writes—and I’m quoting here—‘told her the genealogical research she provided was incorrect. Showed her the independent research we conducted proves unequivocally that she is not related to Charles Chaplin. Told her all genealogical research corroborates our findings. Even hers.’ ”

  He closes the folder and takes off his reading glasses.

  “Wait, wait just a second here,” I say. “What? We’re not related to Charles Chaplin? That’s absurd.”

  “Mrs. Ford, can I speak candidly?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “You ask me, your mom knew all along,” he says.

  “That’s impossible,” I say. “If you saw her house, all the memorabilia. She’s collected it all her life. Family heirlooms. Dolls. Collector’s items! We even had tour groups coming through. Well, more like local school field trips and the ladies’ auxiliary. But still!”

  “Ma’am, I could collect Princess Diana stuff, but that wouldn’t make me royal,” he says. “Anyone can collect anything. Y’all have the same name is all.”

  “With all due respect you don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say, looping my purse strap onto my shoulder and standing up to go. “But I appreciate your time.”

  Chaplins always take the high road.

  “I’m telling you: it’s a pure coincidence.” He sighs and sits back in his chair. “I’m sorry.”

  Why do people say they’re sorry when they’re not?

  “You know, I told your mother all this when she came in,” he says. “The way she reacted? My guess is she knew all along.”

  Out in the parking lot I’m shaking so hard I press the Panic button instead of Unlock on my car remote and the alarm is set off. A Freudian slip if there ever was one.

  Chaplins always take the high road indeed, Mother.

  I can’t wrap my head around this. This is huge. This changes everything. Think. I have to think. I’ll have time to figure this out after the bank, and God only knows what I’ll find out there.

  Turns out, it is worse than I thought.

  “Your mother took out a sizable mortgage on the house,” says the bank officer named Clifford. Clifford is intent on bending a paper clip straight, and once he does, he tries to get it back to its original shape. I guess Clifford here is a fan of lost causes.

  “Unfortunately at this point there’s nothing we can do. She has defaulted on both her mortgage and the personal loan she took out last May. She owes a lot of money. We’re talking thirty thousand and change. Our only option is to take over the property. I wish I had better news for you.”

  “How much time do we have? To raise the money.” I shimmy to the edge of my seat and press my arms into my sides for exaggerated cleavage. A girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do. I wish I’d thought to wear something low-cut.

  Clifford clears his throat and says he can hold off a little while but not too long, and instead of asking him to clarify the amount of time I decide it’s better this way. Down the road I can refer to this vague answer if the screws start to turn before we come up with a solution. Clifford’s clammy hand bends on contact without sliding all the way into the V of mine, turning our handshake into a prissy half shake with only fingers touching, not the traditional kind where thumbs meet and palms press together in a clean grip. Poor Clifford.

  The only other customer in the bank is an overweight woman in an electric wheelchair that has a mini American flag attached to the back and is plastered with ethical bumper stickers encouraging people to forgo meat, to vote, to drive slowly, to take one day at a time. Centered among them is a yellow diamond-shaped warning that she brakes for aliens. Then I notice a mop-headed dog sitting patiently in a towel-lined front basket. Wearing a sailor’s cap. It could be worse: I could have a dog wearing a jaunty sailor’s cap.

  My mother has no money. My mother is in deep debt.

  We are living back home in a house that will be foreclosed on.

  We are in big trouble.

  Yet here I am, starting the car, cranking the AC, going back to the memory of Eddie holding Carrie and sobbing three-year-old tears. Here I am, turning onto Elm Avenue, smiling at the thought of him pulling me close, holding on to me like he used to, years ago, back when we were dating and being separated even for one day felt like torture.

  The irony isn’t lost on me: everything around us is falling apart but our family—Ed’s and mine—feels like … I can’t let myself even think it, but maybe I’ll get it out of my system now, while I’m alone. This ridiculous idea. Maybe if I say it out loud I’ll realize how ludicrous it is and then I can refocus on fixing this ever-growing mess. So here it is:

  For some reason, while everything around us is falling apart, our little family is coming back together.

  There. I said it. But now that I have, it doesn’t seem so ridiculous at all. We’re healing, Eddie, Cricket, and I. And I know why.

  I used to tell myself (and Cricket) that sometimes when parents bury a child they’re so broken nothing can put them back together again. They’re Humpty Dumpty parents, I’d say. But then I went to Wendy’s and found that troubled little girl bearing such an uncanny resemblance to our pain it was impossible to ignore. Standing there with her hand in a bowl of croutons, for goodness’ sake, was our missing link. We need that child as much as she needs us. And while I’m on a roll I might as well admit it: I want to patch things up with Eddie, dammit. I want him back. I want us back. But right now we all need to have a roof over our heads, so I’ve got to focus on nuts and bolts.

  I step on the gas and turn up Rascal Flatts on the radio. Look out, Mother, here I come.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Carrie

  By now I’m real good at fastening a seat belt. I say hey to Cricket and Mrs. Ford and strap myself in, easy as pie. Mrs. Ford asks me again if she can meet my momma and how did I sleep and am I hungry. She turns on the radio and I lean over to whisper with Cricket. Just like me and Emma used to do. We’d whisper with each other even when we didn’t need to keep quiet just because it was fun. Sometimes we’d whisper in codes, like saying ever-thing in opposites (“I’m not even the teensiest bit hungry” or “I loved school today”) or saying every other word backward (“I love stibbar”). Me and Cricket should do a game like that of our own, come to think of it.

  “I had the freakiest dream last night,” Cricket whispers to me.

  “About what?” I whisper back.

  “That’s the thing,” she says. “I don’t remember and when I try to remember I almost do but then it’s gone. I hate when that happens! Oh-Em-Gee we have got to play Tetris when we get home—I just did my first T-spin and I’m, like, obsessed with it now. Don’t worry, I’ll show you. It’s actually not that hard once you get the hang of it.”

  When we get to the house Miss Chaplin shows me some more Charlie Chaplin stuff. She makes a big deal over some award he won for a movie he did called The Circus, only the statue is embarrassing to look at because it’s a naked man. She says it’s an exact replica of the real thing and while she’s talking I want to tell her she’s holding it right where his private parts are but decide against it at the last minute. Then Cricket finally says let’s go up.

  We’re about to settle in at her desk where I now have my very own place to sit. Cricket brought in a folding chair Miss Chaplin had in some closet for overflow and a few days ago we put a couple of throw pillows on it to make me taller and moved it right alongside hers so we can both share the desk and I can see the computer better. Cricket’s as great about sharing as Emma.

  “Actually, first I have to go pee because once I start playing Tetris I’ll never get up,” Cricket says, already halfway out the door of her room. “I’ll be right back.”

  “ ’Kay,” I say, looking around, picking up a cute teddy bear wearing a raincoat and hat. I fold his stiff arms to make like he’s
typing on the computer. Dum-dee-dum-dee …

  All of a sudden the computer screen goes from being black (I thought it was turned off) to showing a picture of a newspaper with my daddy’s face right there on the front page!

  LOCAL MAN MURDERED: POLICE QUESTION LOVER’S JEALOUS HUSBAND.

  The teddy bear tumbles to the floor. I stare at the picture in shock, my belly twisting into a knot, my head exploding—Cricket knows my daddy’s dead! She knows I lied! Did she tell her mother and Miss Chaplin she caught me in a lie? And where’d that picture of Daddy come from? I never saw it before. What’d they say about him in the newspaper? I tiptoe to the door to look down the hall. The bathroom door’s still closed so I’ve got time to try to get the picture to go away so she won’t know I know she knows. Maybe I can confess before she calls me out so she doesn’t hate me. But how do I turn the picture off? I’m trying to find the On/Off button when she comes back in and catches me looking wild-eyed and guilty as sin.

  “Oh, jeez, um, I’m, I mean,” she stammers, hurries over, and presses something so my daddy disappears. “I was going to tell you I swear. I guess I just didn’t know how to bring it up.”

  “I’m real sorry I lied to you,” I say, hanging my head because I’m so ashamed and saying it out loud makes me feel even worse. “I’m really really sorry, Cricket. I’ll just go down and see if your mom can give me a ride back and you won’t have to see me again.”

  Now I know what they mean by a broken heart. Mine feels like it was made of glass and someone dropped it, smashing it to pieces. But then Cricket says, “Wait, what?” and puts her hand on my shoulder to keep me in my chair when I get up to leave. “You’re not going anywhere! I was just about to say I’m sorry. I snooped around behind your back but I swear it wasn’t because I didn’t trust you. When we Googled your mom and dad the other day that weird headline caught my eye and I made a mental note to go back and check it out after we looked at the yearbook but I forgot and last night I was looking in my history for another link to something totally different and when I saw the Google search I remembered there’d been some reason I wanted to go back. That’s how this came up.”