The Sometime Sister

by Katherine Nichols

  I wanted nothing more than to talk to Stella. My frustration led me to recall a conversation we had a few months before I popped in on her in the shower with my fiancé.

  She asked me if I remembered the last time our uncle had been at our house. At first, I hadn’t, so she prompted me.

  “Aunt Rita rushed in crazy-eyed and banged up with Lesroy in her arms. Roy followed them in that beat-up old truck of his.”

  How had I forgotten that night? Stella and I had just come inside with a jar full of fireflies. We had our usual argument: I wanted to let them go right away; she wanted to keep them to light up our room. I agreed to wait a little while before releasing them. We were on our way to place them on the dresser when the commotion started.

  A car door slammed, and our aunt burst in, screaming bloody murder. Seconds later, Roy’s truck crashed into the curb, and he dashed in behind them. Gran, in her old flannel nightgown, stood in front of Rita and Lesroy while our mother stopped him.

  I cowered in her shadow and shivered at how easy it would be for him to brush her aside like a cobweb. Only he didn’t even try. Instead, he backed out, arms held out in surrender. He tripped on the threshold, and Mom shoved him the rest of the way. I had forgotten how she faced down a man almost twice her size until Stella reminded me. It hadn’t been her commanding presence. It had been Grandpa’s shotgun, pointed at my uncle’s chest.

  After he stormed off, we put Lesroy on the sofa. His eye was swollen shut, and he wasn’t moving. Gran sent us to her room, and I heard her calling an ambulance. Rita and Mom rode with our cousin to the hospital.

  “And Gran stayed home,” Stella added. “But she didn’t come to bed. It was just you and me. I was crying, and you held me and kept saying everything would be fine. Then the storm came.”

  If I could forget a night like that, how many other memories were bobbing below the surface of my subconscious? And why were they so elusive? I had no immediate answer, but I realized one very important thing: there was more to my mother than I’d thought. It no longer seemed impossible she would do whatever it took to avenge my sister’s death.

  Several times I stopped packing and threw everything on the bed. If I stayed put, maybe McElroy wouldn’t bother going. But I didn’t believe that.

  About three o’clock, I gave up on sleep. I dressed and logged onto Google, where I searched for Justin McElroy, Atlanta Special Forces Marines. There were lots of McElroys on Facebook and Linked In, but none were mine. I landed on an obituary for Army Major Joseph Allen McElroy from Lawrenceville, Georgia. Surviving family members included his son, Captain Justin McElroy, Marine Corps, Special Operations.

  I ran another search on Special Operations and discovered the training program was among the toughest in the Corps. Prospective Special Ops candidates learned about everything from foreign weapons to emergency medical assistance and internal defense. I understood why Mike thought I’d be safer traveling with McElroy. But what would he think if he knew my mother had arranged her own special ops?

  I had to establish rules about how the trip would go. First, all discussions with Mike’s friend and the authorities would include me. Second, I would be the one dealing with Ben. And third—or should this have been the first—there would be no killing.

  When I shut down my laptop, the dog leaped off the sofa.

  “What’s with you and this Justin McElroy character, Miss Scarlett?” At the sound of her name, she came to attention. “Are you attracted to dangerous men? Or do you sense something I don’t?” She continued to stare at me. “Whatever. Let’s get you walked and fed, so you’ll be ready for Lesroy.”

  . . . . .

  McElroy pulled into my drive at exactly 5:00 a.m. Scarlett barked once, and I promised to be back before Christmas. She yawned and went back to sleep.

  I trudged out the door, dragging my bags behind me. He bounded up the steps and made a move to take my luggage.

  “Thank you, Mr. McElroy, but I’ve got it.”

  “Okay, Miss Burnette.” He grinned and walked toward the SUV. The wheels on my suitcase snagged on the stone walkway. He maintained a neutral expression as I yanked it free, then opened the back of the vehicle and waited as I struggled to sling it in. After two unsuccessful attempts, he took it from me, and, with one hand, tossed it by his duffel.

  The average December temperatures in Montañita were in the high seventies, so I packed light enough to get everything into one carry-on with the overflow stuffed into my computer case. Next to his, however, my luggage looked excessive.

  He held the car door open for me. I wanted to shut it and reopen it on my own to emphasize my independence. Instead, I opted for a dignified ascent. Unfortunately, my jeans were too tight, and I was too short to carry it off. I ended up using the overhead hand grip to hoist myself, more forcefully than I intended, onto the seat. The straps of my passport holder got tangled with the buttons of my coat. While I tried to extricate myself, my unwanted traveling companion waited. I broke free and snapped myself in.

  We drove in silence for several minutes while I rehearsed my three-point speech about not murdering Ben.

  “I’m not sure what Mom and Mike told you about this trip, but all I want to do is find out what happened to my sister and...” My throat constricted, and I had to swallow hard before continuing. “And bring her body home.”

  “Of course.” He kept his eyes on the road.

  “And about that other, uh, thing, the one my mother wanted you to do.”

  “You mean the agreement about how to handle the situation if we find out your sister’s death wasn’t an accident?”

  “I just want you to understand I can’t be part of anything like, well, like that.”

  He glanced at me with a raised eyebrow. “What is that, Miss Burnette?”

  “You know perfectly well I’m talking about what you discussed with my mother.”

  “We talked about a lot of different issues, including you. You need to narrow it down.” In profile, Justin McElroy’s full lips contrasted with his chiseled jaw.

  “You talked about me?” I felt myself flushing. “Wait, never mind. What I’m trying to say is I don’t want you to…” I lowered my voice. “I don’t want you to kill Ben. I mean, that is absolutely unacceptable.”

  “Unacceptable,” he echoed. “Sorry, but I’m not at liberty to discuss this issue with you, Miss Burnette. That arrangement is between me and your mother. I shouldn’t have mentioned it. Client confidentiality and all. I can assure you, however, that I won’t put you in any compromising position. Any more concerns?”

  “I’m serious, Mr. McElroy. Or should I say Captain McElroy?”

  “Checking me out, Grace? I mean Miss Burnette.” He flashed ivory teeth at me.

  “Just doing my homework. Anyway, I want to be sure you understand that if I think you’re about to do something violent, I’ll do whatever it takes to stop you.”

  “Thanks for the warning,” he said as he pulled into international parking. “How about we finish outlining your terms after we get through security?”

  We took the shuttle and were at our gate forty-five minutes before our 7:00 am boarding. Mike insisted on buying my ticket and had sprung for first class, not my usual method of traveling. An hour layover in Miami meant it would be at least eight hours before we reached our destination; first class definitely made for an easier trip.

  There had been little opportunity to continue the conversation with my companion in the shuttle or the waiting area, neither of which were the best places to discuss delicate subjects. Settled in the plush leather seat beside him before take-off didn’t seem to be a good place to bring up an alternate course of action to assassination either. When it was safe
to turn on my laptop, I continued reading about Montañita.

  I learned the trendy spot was more than a destination for back-packing surfer types. Besides a high gringo population, people from all over South America called it home. Unlike the rest of the country where the authorities enforced rigid drug laws, the beach town was more relaxed. Filled with liberal tourists and active nightlife, it was the perfect place for Ben and Stella.

  Before I read further, the pilot announced we were approaching Miami. I made it a point not to look at my seatmate during the short flight, but it was impossible to ignore him while attempting to get my carry-on from the overhead without injuring fellow passengers.

  He reached past me, lifted the suitcase over my head, and dropped it in front of me. I struggled with balancing my computer case on the larger bag but got them both down the aisle by myself.

  “We have time to grab some coffee; I hate that crap they serve on the plane.” McElroy spoke in the friendly way you would to someone you were vacationing with rather than the way you’d talk to the person you were going with on what promised to be the worst trip of a lifetime.

  “I’m good, thank you.” I walked past him and took a seat near the gate. While waiting, I answered a few business emails and checked a text message from Lesroy.

  “I hear Mike sent a Marine hunk to protect you. Bet you love that. LOL. Not a bad idea, though. Miss Scarlet hasn’t ripped out my throat yet, but I plan to sleep with one eye open. Love you.”

  I included a few hearts and smiley faces as a reply.

  “Boyfriend?” McElroy eased into the seat beside me.

  I shook my head. “Cousin.” If I knew my mother, she would have alerted my companion I didn’t have a boyfriend. But if murder was her priority, stressing my availability might have slipped her mind.

  He held out a Starbuck’s cup. “I wasn’t sure what you like, but the barista assured me everybody loves a latte macchiato, whatever the hell that is.”

  Seeing no reason to let the sugary beverage go to waste, I took it and thanked him. He smiled, sipped his coffee, and picked up a newspaper.

  I finished my drink the same time first class began boarding. Despite the jolt from my latte, I was feeling the results of a sleepless night and planned on napping during the rest of the flight. I had just settled into a comfortable position when McElroy handed me a package.

  “Your mother wanted you to have these. My instructions were to give them to you before we landed. They’re from your sister.”

  Inside were three stacks bound with rubber bands, all three tied together with twine. On top, there was one envelope labeled “Read this first” scrawled in my mother’s familiar handwriting. I hesitated before opening it.

  Grace, before you get mad, I understand why you don’t want to talk to your sister. What she did was terrible, maybe unforgivable. But she is your sister, and family is everything. Stella wanted to explain herself, but she knew you wouldn’t want to hear it. So, she sent these to me. She made me promise not to read them, to hold on to them until I thought you were ready. It was hard, but I kept my promise, Grace. But now, ready or not, you can’t wait any longer. Love you.

  Mom grouped and labeled the letters chronologically. Three stacks, one for each year I refused to talk to Stella.

  Beside me, McElroy appeared engrossed in his paper. My hands were shaking as I opened letter number one.

  Dear Grace,

  I feel funny writing a letter most likely no one will ever read. I mean, I hope you read it someday, but I understand if you don’t. So, I’ll pretend “Dear Grace” is “Dear Diary.” That way I can tell you secrets I would never tell an actual person. Remember when you said that to me, Grace? When you gave me my first diary? I bet you don’t, but I do.

  It was my eighth birthday. Mom gave me a Madame Alexander doll with red hair and freckles. I loved that doll, but the diary was my favorite gift. It was light blue covered in tiny hummingbirds and had a little lock and key. You said I should use it to record my private thoughts and should keep it hidden from Mom. And that’s what I did.

  I wrote about how I wanted to grow up to be just like you, Grace. Smart, beautiful, funny, and kind. And every time I fell short of being like you, I confessed it in my diary. Like the time I took ten dollars from Gran’s wallet and spent it on cheap perfume I could never stand to wear. Or the time I stole the poem you wrote about the ocean and used it to win first prize in the fifth-grade writing contest. I couldn’t tell anybody I’d won. I pretended I was sick the day they gave out the writing awards. When my teacher gave me the certificate later, I buried it in the backyard.

  Even if you’d found out about the poem, though, you would have thought it was some kind of mistake. Because to you, I was the perfect little sister, the one Mom and Gran told me you prayed for over and over. When I looked at you, Grace, it was like you were this magic mirror. No matter how ugly or flawed I was, in your eyes I was Stella Star. Until you met Ben. Then I disappeared.

  It sounds like I’m blaming you for what happened, but I’m not. You kept on being you—smart, beautiful, funny and kind. And it wasn’t about jealousy, me wanting what you had. It’s just you looked at Ben the way you used to look at me. It was as if his face blocked my image from that magic mirror, and I had to see the real me. I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t exhilarating to give up trying to be the Stella you thought I was. I did whatever made me feel good, took whatever I wanted. But like that cheap perfume, once I got what I wanted, the smell of it sickened me.

  I wish I could take it all back and be the girl in the magic mirror.

  Stella

  I folded letter number one and put it in its envelope. I couldn’t tell if it was Stella being Stella or if my sister had changed. Either way, it wasn’t just my hands that were shaking now. My entire body convulsed with the weight of my sorrow. I hadn’t cried when she and Ben eloped because I still had her. And, despite my denials, I held onto the hope that someday she would come home, that we’d be sisters again.

  McElroy must have felt me trembling. He set his paper aside and turned toward me. “Are you okay?”

  I heard a high-pitched wail somewhere in the distance, getting closer and closer. It was several long seconds before I realized the keening sound came from me. He shoved up the armrest separating us, slipped one arm around my waist, and pulled me to his chest. I dissolved into wracking sobs.

  “Can I get her something?” I heard the anxious voice of the flight attendant but didn’t look up.

  “Some water, please.” He patted me on the back. “Just let it out; you’ll feel better.”

  I don’t know how long my full-fledged crying jag engulfed me, but the pain from loss of hope subsided, and I gasped for air. I saw the worried face of the young attendant. A serious-looking man in a light blue shirt and wrinkled khaki slacks stood beside her. Where the crew member regarded me with a look of cautious compassion, he gazed at me as if he thought I might set off an explosive device after my recovery from a raging attack of hysteria.

  The attendant handed me a bottle of water. When I tried to thank her, I began crying again, quieter this time, until the hiccups started. McElroy opened it and helped me take a sip. He reached into his pocket and produced a handkerchief.

  “Blow,” he commanded. I did.

  “Is there anything else you need?” the flight attendant asked.

  “It’s Brenda, right?” He turned on the charm. “I think we could both use something a little stronger than water. I’ll have a Scotch rocks, and for the lady here.” He paused and looked at me.

  “Vodka tonic with lemon, please.” I hadn’t realized how much I wanted a drink.

  The man in the khaki pants was still standing by our seats. “Do y
ou have yourself under control, Little Lady?” he asked.

  Something about his tone sent a shot of white-hot fury up my back. “I appreciate your concern,” I began. “And I do believe this little lady is just about all settled down. Of course, if I start thinking about my dead sister and how the man I used to think I was in love murdered her and how my mother is home losing her mind about it, it’s possible, just possible, mind you, that this little lady might lose her shit again.”

  Mr. Khaki Pants took a few steps back.

  “No danger here, Air Marshall.” McElroy said. “It is Air Marshall, isn’t it, sir?”

  “Just a concerned passenger.” He sidled away.

  “Was he really an Air Marshall?” I asked.

  “Can’t be sure, but I’d take odds on it.” He smiled. “So, is this little lady all settled down?”

  “I’m sorry about that. It hit me so fast and so hard.”

  “You don’t have to be sorry, Grace. Oops, I mean Miss Burnette.”

  “Grace is fine. Miss Burnette is a little formal for someone who just got snot all over your shirt.”

  “No big deal. I have other shirts.”

  Brenda returned with our order, and he eased back in his seat.

  “My dad passed a few years ago,” he said. “It’s not the same as a sister, but I understand how sudden the reality crashes down on you. And you haven’t had time to grieve. Why don’t you get some rest?”

  “Excuse me.” A sparrow-like woman with short blonde hair leaned across the aisle. Fine lines dusted her skin, but her eyes were a clear, bright blue. I judged she was in her early sixties at the most, but her outfit—a pink silk sweater set and a long strand of creamy, white pearls—suggested she came from an even earlier generation when people dressed up, rather than down, for air travel. “I couldn’t help overhearing, dear. I know a little about losing loved ones.”