by Joy Fielding
“Too bad for you,” Leslie said to Shauna as the baby’s cries escalated. “God, what is the matter with this child? She cries all the damn time.”
“I was speaking to Marilyn,” Shauna said, referring to a nanny down the street, “and she thinks Drew might be suffering from fetal alcohol syndrome.”
“What’s that?” Leslie asked as Casey was about to.
“It’s something babies get when they’re still in the womb. From their mother’s drinking,” she whispered, although Casey had no trouble hearing every word.
“Yeah, that mother’s a real piece of work, isn’t she? No wonder her husband plays around.”
“Shh,” Shauna warned, eyes lowering toward Casey. “Little pitchers have big ears.”
Casey quickly scanned the room. She didn’t see any pitchers.
“Besides,” Shauna continued over the baby’s growing hysterics, “it’s hard to know which came first—the drinking or the playing around.”
“I think she wants to be held,” Casey said, pulling on the pocket of Leslie’s denim skirt.
“Oh, you do, do you? Do you want to hold her, then?” She lifted the screaming infant from her crib and handed her to Casey without further ado.
Casey carried her baby sister, whose wet face was now a furious red ball, into a corner of the room, and gingerly lowered herself onto the soft blue carpeting, Drew’s loud wails rising, like steam, toward the ceiling. “It’s okay, baby,” she said softly. “I’m here. You don’t have to cry.”
In response, Drew cried even louder.
“Way to go, kid,” Leslie said, and she and Shauna laughed, an irritating sound that scratched at the walls like fingernails. “You’ve got the magic touch.”
“Think you can manage in here for a few minutes while we go out for a cig?” Shauna asked.
Casey watched the two girls leave the room without waiting for her response. As soon as they were gone, Drew’s crying abated. “I don’t like them either,” Casey confided, rocking Drew back and forth until the baby’s roar dropped to a steady whimper. “That’s a good girl,” she whispered. “You feel better now, don’t you? Me too. My name is Casey. I’m your big sister, and I’ll take care of you. You won’t have to cry anymore.”
Except she did cry. Constantly. “Morning, noon, and night,” Leslie proclaimed wearily. And then suddenly Leslie was gone, and it was a dark-haired girl named Rosie who was doing the complaining.
“I don’t think I’ve ever heard a baby cry so much,” Rosie said, large hands resting on wide hips. “Colic is colic, but this, this is …”
“It’s a syndrome,” Casey explained.
And Rosie had laughed, a loud guffaw that made Casey laugh with her. Casey felt happy that Rosie had come to live with them because Rosie had a kind face and big, dark eyes that Casey had overheard her father telling her were like two large pools of chocolate syrup. Rosie had laughed when he’d said that, and whenever Rosie laughed that wonderful, infectious laugh, Casey felt a brief surge of reassurance and well-being.
“What the hell is going on down there?” her mother yelled from the top of the stairs, Rosie’s laughter coming to an abrupt halt. “Can’t anybody do something about that damn caterwauling? Where is … whatever her name is?”
“I’m right here, Mrs. Lerner,” Rosie called back from the nursery door. “I’m just about to feed her.”
The response was the sound of a bedroom door slamming.
“I’d say somebody got up on the wrong side of the bed if …” Rosie began.
If she got out of bed, Casey finished silently for her.
“What’s her problem anyway?”
“It’s because she’s popular,” Casey explained, trying to recall what her father had once told Leslie. His wife was bipopular, he’d said, and that’s why she acted the way she did.
“How can somebody be popular when they never leave their room?” Rosie asked.
A few nights later, Casey heard strange noises in the middle of the night, and she got out of bed to see what was going on. Her room was in the west wing of the house, on the main floor, next to the nursery. (“So we don’t disturb your mother,” her father had explained.) Rosie’s room was farther down the hall, next to Shauna’s. Casey followed the succession of squeals and giggles to Rosie’s doorway, then pushed it open.
It took her eyes a few seconds to adjust to the darkness, and even then it was hard to figure out exactly what Rosie was doing. She appeared to be sitting on something, and rocking violently back and forth as if she was having some sort of fit. The next second, she was bouncing up and down, and a pair of large hands were wrapping themselves around her naked hips. She seemed to be laughing and crying at the same time.
And then suddenly the room filled with light, and rough hands were pushing Casey out of the way, and her mother was behind her, screaming, and Rosie was jumping out of bed, struggling to cover up her nakedness and screaming every bit as loud as Casey’s mother, and her father was sitting up in bed, begging everyone to please stay calm. Just as Casey was wondering what her father was doing in Rosie’s bed, and why he, too, appeared to be naked, her mother was flying across the room toward him, crying and scratching at his face. And suddenly, Drew was screaming from the next room, and Shauna was lifting Casey into her arms and running with her down the hall, and the next morning both Rosie and her mother were gone.
“Rosie got another job,” Shauna said over breakfast. “Your mother will be away for a little while.” Nothing further was offered.
Two days later, a new nanny for Drew appeared. Her name was Kelly, and she was fired as soon as Alana Lerner returned from wherever she’d been, took one look at the girl’s long legs, seductive smile, and wavy brown hair, and sent her packing. Casey breathed a sigh of relief when the employment agency sent over Misha, who was older, shapeless, and “as mousy as they come,” according to Shauna. “There shouldn’t be any more changes for a while,” she’d proclaimed. Mistakenly, as it turned out, because Shauna herself was let go only a few weeks later for ringing up over three hundred dollars in overseas phone charges. Enter Daniela, who was fat, forty, and unflappable. She lasted the better part of two years and was the last of the Lerner family nannies.
“Whatever happened to Daniela?” Drew had asked many years later.
“They let her go when I started kindergarten,” Casey answered.
“I liked her.”
“How do you even remember her? You were what, two years old when she left?”
“I remember her,” Drew insisted. “She’s part of the first memory I have.”
Casey knew exactly the memory her sister was referring to: Drew running into her mother’s bedroom, eager to show her the new stuffed bear she’d received for her birthday, her mother angrily hurling the bear across the room and shouting, “Somebody get this child away from me.” And Daniela rushing in and scooping Drew into her arms, carrying her downstairs to Casey’s room, Drew crying loudly.
“I can’t believe you told that cop I tried to kill my sister,” Drew was crying now.
What?
“I specifically told Detective Spinetti that I didn’t believe you had anything to do with what happened to Casey.”
“Then what’s he doing snooping around, asking questions, insinuating that I skipped town …?”
“You didn’t return any of his calls. Nobody knew where you were.”
“I was in the Bahamas for a few weeks. Sue me.”
“You were in the Bahamas,” Warren repeated dully.
“I needed a break. Is that a crime?”
“Your sister’s in a coma, Drew.”
“Yeah, and she’s been in a coma for almost two months,” Drew reminded him testily.
“During which you’ve been here how many times?”
“I already told you, it’s very hard on me, seeing her like this.”
“It’s hard on all of us.”
“I thought the doctors said she was improving.”
“She is improving.
As you can see, her casts are off. Her injuries have pretty much healed. They’re weaning her off the ventilator. They’ve even started her on physical therapy.”
“Physical therapy? Why, for Pete’s sake? It’s not like she’s going anywhere.”
Silence.
“I’m sorry,” Drew apologized. “I’m just upset. It’s that damned detective. I mean, what’s he talking about anyway? Who would want to kill Casey?”
“I don’t know. Do you have any idea?”
“Me? No. Why would I?”
“You’ve known her longer than anyone, Drew. Is there anyone from her past, anyone you can think of who …?”
“We didn’t exactly run in the same circles.”
“Is there anyone from your circle …?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“One of your friends, perhaps an acquaintance …”
“Perhaps an acquaintance?” Drew repeated mockingly. “You wouldn’t be referring to one of my scumbag, drug-dealing acquaintances, would you?”
“I’m just trying to figure things out, Drew.”
“Well, you figured wrong.”
“Look. I don’t want to argue. Especially in front of your sister.”
“Why? You think she can hear us?”
“No, of course not.”
“Can you hear us, Casey?” Drew asked, drawing closer, looming over her, her breath brushing against the side of Casey’s cheek like the prickly tongue of a cat. Was she imagining it? “Do you understand what we’re saying?”
Yes. Yes, I understand everything.
“Ain’t nobody home,” Drew pronounced, backing away.
“Watch your elbow,” Warren warned. “She’s bruised enough.”
Drew made a dismissive sound. “So, what happens now?”
“Well, hopefully, she’ll keep improving. Now that she’s started therapy, her muscles will get stronger. And the doctors will keep reducing the number of breaths the ventilator is providing. They’re optimistic that in another week or two, she might be able to start breathing on her own.”
“You’re saying she’ll regain consciousness?”
“No. Nobody’s saying that.”
“What are they saying? That she could be this way forever?”
No, no. That’s not going to happen. Warren, tell her that’s not going to happen.
Silence.
“So, I repeat, what happens now?” Drew pressed.
A long sigh escaped Warren’s lips. “Once Casey is able to breathe without the respirator, I can start thinking about taking her home, hiring the right people—”
“I mean, what happens to me?” Drew interrupted.
Casey might have laughed had she been able to. She found it strangely comforting that some things never changed, no matter what the circumstances. A rose is a rose is a rose, she thought. And Drew was Drew was Drew. She always would be.
Could she blame her?
Her sister had learned from a very early age that the only person who would be there to take care of her was herself. Occasionally, Casey had tried to fill the parental role, but Drew had reminded her vehemently, “You’re not my mother.” And so she’d backed off.
Casey was, however, the trustee of their parents’ estate, the one who made the decisions, the one who signed the checks.
“What happens to you?” Warren repeated.
“Yes. It’s a reasonable question, under the circumstances.”
“One I’m afraid I can’t answer.”
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t have any answers.”
“You’re a lawyer. I thought lawyers were supposed to know these things.”
“I’m not an estate lawyer.” Casey could hear the struggle to remain calm in her husband’s voice.
“I’m sure you’ve been speaking to one.”
“Actually I haven’t, no.”
“You haven’t spoken to anyone about what happens to your wife’s fortune should she remain in a persistent vegetative state?”
I am not in a vegetative state. I am not. I am not.
“I find that very hard to believe,” Drew continued.
“I’ve had a few other things on my mind, Drew.”
Casey could feel her sister pacing around the bed. She could hear the click of her heels and tried to imagine what she was wearing. Probably a pair of black leggings and a loose-fitting jersey. Her long, dark blond hair was likely pulled into a high ponytail, a pair of her signature large silver hoops dangling from her ears. No doubt, her dark green eyes were flashing daggers in Warren’s direction.
“I thought that if anything happened to Casey, my father’s estate would automatically transfer to me.”
“Casey isn’t dead, Drew,” Warren reminded her.
“She might as well be.”
Oh, God.
“Okay, that’s enough,” Warren said, as the clicking of Drew’s shoes came to a halt at the foot of the bed. “I’m afraid you’ll just have to be patient.”
“Easy for you to say. You don’t have to worry about money.”
“Maybe if you got a job,” Warren suggested.
“Do I have to remind you I have a child to look after?”
Casey felt a knot beginning to form in the pit of her stomach at the mention of her five-year-old niece, who was her mother’s tiny clone in almost every respect. Casey wondered if Lola would be the beauty her sister predicted she’d be when she got older. She remembered the same predictions having been made about Drew. But while Drew had matured—if the words “mature” and “Drew” could be used in the same sentence—into an undeniably pretty young woman, she stopped short of being beautiful, her features a touch too conventional, her eyes too unfocused, bereft of the essential mystery true beauty requires.
“Where is Lola?” Warren asked.
“Sean took her to the cafeteria for some ice cream.”
“Who is this guy anyway?” Warren asked. “How long have you known him, exactly?”
“What’s that supposed to mean—exactly?”
“It doesn’t mean anything. I was just wondering.”
“What are you wondering, Warren? You wonder if Sean had something to do with this? You wonder if I asked my boyfriend to run over my sister? Is that what you’re wondering?”
Of course he isn’t. You don’t think that. Do you, Warren?
“Mommy!” a little voice called out, excited footsteps dashing into the room.
“Oh, God. Get her out of here. No. Go on. I thought you were taking her for ice cream,” Drew said all in one breath.
“She had ice cream,” a male voice protested.
“Then get her some more.”
“What’s the matter with Auntie Casey?” the little girl asked. “Is she sleeping?”
“She’s not feeling well,” Drew answered impatiently.
“Is she sick?”
“She was in a car accident,” Warren explained.
“Will she be okay?”
“I hope so. We’re keeping our fingers crossed.”
“Can I cross mine, too?”
“I think that would be very helpful.”
“Good. See, Mommy? My fingers are crossed.”
“Great,” Drew said. “Now, Sean, if you don’t mind. A hospital room is no place for a child.”
“I can read to her, Mommy.”
“Maybe some other time. Sean …”
“Okay, okay. Come on, Lola. You can have that piece of cake you had your eye on.”
“I’m not hungry anymore.”
“Sean, for God’s sake—”
“You know what?” Warren interrupted. “I think they have a kids’ playroom downstairs. Would you like to see it?”
“Can I, Mommy?”
“By all means.”
“How about I show you where it is?” Warren said.
“I’m sure Sean can manage on his own,” Drew told him. “There are still some things we need to discuss.”
“I thin
k we’ve discussed enough for one afternoon.”
Casey could tell from the way Warren’s voice was receding that he was already at the door.
“You can go, too, Sean,” Drew said dismissively. “Warren, I’ll wait here till you get back.”
“Suit yourself.”
The door closed, leaving Casey alone with her sister. “I always do,” Drew said.
EIGHT
“So, here we are again,” Drew continued, as Casey pictured her sister walking over to the window. “Just like old times. Except in those days, I was the one pretty much in a coma, and you were the one pacing back and forth, trying to figure out what to do with me.”
True enough, Casey thought, her mind racing back through all the years they’d shared the same house, the nights she’d spent waiting anxiously for her sister to come home, the days she’d spent watching her sleeping off a drunken bender, the unmistakable aroma of stale sex and soft drugs still clinging to her clothes.
“You kept telling me if I didn’t straighten out, I wouldn’t live to see my thirtieth birthday.” Drew laughed, although the sound was hollow. “And now look at us.” Casey felt her plop down on the side of the bed. “I guess that’s what they mean by ‘irony.’ “She took a deep breath, then exhaled slowly through her mouth. “God, I really can’t bear to look at you.”
I’m so sorry you have to see me this way, Casey thought, recalling her sister’s aversion to anything even vaguely unpleasant.
“Not that you look so awful. You don’t. You actually look pretty good for a member of the undead. Your color’s great, the bruises are gone, and the doctors stitched you up pretty good. Look, Casey,” Drew said angrily. “Enough is enough. You’ve made your point. I’m a total fuckup who can’t manage without you. I get it. Now snap out of this ridiculous coma and come back to us. Come on. I know you’re in there.”
Do you? Do you really?
“You have to wake up. It’s not fair. What you’re doing just isn’t right. And don’t give me this bullshit about not having any choice in the matter, because how many times have you told me that we always have a choice? So don’t tell me you can’t … what was it you once said? ‘Start effecting some positive changes’? Yeah, that’s it. So, start effecting. I need you to get better. And I need you to get better by Friday because I’ve written a bunch of checks, and they’re going to start bouncing all over town if you don’t wake up and transfer some money—which is rightfully mine anyway, in case you’ve forgotten—into my account.”