Sister Dear

by Laura McNeill

  “Hey, listen. I was thinking, with it being your first day of work and all . . . why don’t you come over tonight? For dinner. You can see Caroline.”

  Allie hesitated, her heart thumping in her chest.

  Of course she wanted to see Caroline, but felt equally afraid of what might happen if she did. “Didn’t you say she needed more time?”

  “I know what I said.” Emma sounded impatient. “Look. I’ve been thinking. Maybe I was wrong. The sooner she gets over it, the better. Which includes her being uncomfortable.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Come on. Have dinner with us.”

  Allie’s anticipation, hope, and fear lodged in her chest. Lifting her chin, she swallowed back any trepidation and focused on the positive. Finally, after ten long years, she would look into her daughter’s eyes. It was what she’d lived for. Nothing would stop her from going to see Caroline.

  “I’ll be there,” she said. “See you tonight.” With a trembling hand and a full heart, Allie hung up the phone.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  CAROLINE

  2016

  In the past week, Caroline’s social life had come to an abrupt standstill. No one text messaged or called. Not Maddie. Certainly not Jake. Not even Russell. She’d seen to that.

  There were no Snapchats or Instagram shares; even the stupid jokes that a few friends usually sent on e-mail had ground to a standstill. No invites to St. Simons Island or anyone’s beach house.

  Even though she’d been starving the night before, the peanut butter and jelly sandwich she’d made herself still sat untouched. Even the sour cream and onion potato chips, piled high on her plate, held no appeal. Instead, Caroline had sat for an hour on her laptop, refreshing the screen until her vision got blurry.

  Not one of her girlfriends had stopped by the house. She’d waited for the usual knock on the door, even finished her homework early. She could tell her aunt wanted to ask, but Caroline had buried herself in a book, held the cover so that it shielded her face. It hadn’t done much good. The lines on the page swam together.

  Caroline had tried to remember if she’d heard anyone mention a party or trips out of town. She realized then that she, too, had disappeared the previous week, avoided talking and skipped lunch.

  If this was isolation, the way Eskimos lived in Alaska, she didn’t think she could take it.

  Being alone. With no one her own age to talk to. Caroline swallowed. Did her own mother feel the same way this very same minute? Who did she talk to? Did anyone visit? And what was she thinking about Caroline?

  A sudden coldness hit her core.

  It wasn’t her fault. None of this was her fault, Caroline told herself.

  Today, this Monday morning, would be better. She’d force herself to act perky. She was scheduled to work at the nursing home later in the week. Maybe Russell would be there, and they could talk. She needed to apologize, if she had any chance of them being friends, let alone anything else.

  Caroline glanced in the mirror one last time. She ran her fingers through her hair and smoothed down her shirt. Today, at least, her eyes weren’t so bloodshot and tired.

  After stalling until the last possible moment, Caroline took the stairs. Emma was waiting at the bottom landing.

  “I’m late.” Caroline edged closer to the front door and tried to duck around her.

  Her aunt pulled Caroline into a quick hug. “You’ve got a minute, don’t you? For me?” Emma murmured into her hair. She let go, held her out at arm’s distance, and gave Caroline’s elbow one final squeeze.

  Caroline stepped back farther, took a deep breath, and waited.

  Emma smiled. “Listen, I know you’ve been upset. I was thinking . . . and just hear me out, okay? Maybe you’re going about this whole situation with your mother the wrong way. Maybe staying away from your mom isn’t helping—”

  As the words penetrated her ears, Caroline jumped back as if she’d been jolted by a Taser. “What?” She pulled away. “I’m not doing anything wrong.”

  “Just listen, please.”

  “No.” Caroline tried to edge past Emma. Her head started to pound. Why was Emma doing this?

  Her aunt blocked her path with one arm. “I’d like you to give her a chance.”

  Fists tight at her sides, Caroline stopped. Her voice was thick. “Why should I? I thought you weren’t going to make me. You’re supposed to be on my side.”

  Emma exhaled deeply. “I’ve been thinking it over, Caro. Not just about how you feel. But how she must feel too. And I have to believe that she does love you,” Emma rattled off in one breath. “Surely she never, ever expected any bad things were going to happen.”

  Caroline glared at the ceiling, arms folded.

  Emma stepped out of the way. “Will you at least consider it?”

  “Why can’t we move away?” Caroline asked, cheeks flushed berry pink. “I hate it here.”

  “Caroline, it’s not so easy,” Emma replied.

  “Then you should go and talk to her,” Caroline pleaded. “Tell her she’s the reason all this bad stuff is happening to me. Tell her to move. And that no one wants her here.”

  Emma folded her arms and frowned. “That’s not my place.”

  Furious, Caroline locked eyes on her aunt. She’d never thought Emma would turn on her. Betray her like this. It hurt so much that Caroline almost thought she wouldn’t be able to breathe. She was suffocating in this room, in this house.

  “I’ve got to go.” Caroline slipped past.

  “Try to have a good day,” her aunt said as Caroline slung her backpack over one shoulder. “If you need anything—”

  Fighting tears, Caroline bent her head and rushed out the door. Any other day she would have paused to admire the candy-pink camellias bursting open along her walk to school. She would have paused to inhale the perfume of the Confederate jasmine blossoms on vines that wound their way around neighbors’ mailboxes. Most of all, she would have inhaled the scent of the ocean, the salt air that reached her aunt’s front yard when the wind shifted just right.

  Caroline, though, ignored it all. Eyes forward, she walked without really seeing her surroundings, kept moving by rote memory, by sheer force of forward motion. If she didn’t care about failing and the mortification of enduring summer school, she would have skipped every day for the rest of the semester.

  As the first bell rang, loud and shrill, Caroline slipped into homeroom. Tittering erupted behind her, and her instructor glared at whoever was making the noise. With a crackle, announcements began over the intercom.

  A sidelong glance confirmed that everyone around her was on their tablet or cell, clicking through social media feeds and giggling about new posts. A sharp cry broke through the murmuring chatter. Caroline swiveled her head. It was Maddie now, one hand over her mouth, staring at a phone screen. Some of their friends—former friends, she guessed—gasped and raised eyebrows as Maddie stuffed the cell in her pocket and dashed from the room. Even more noise erupted when the door slammed behind her. As the teacher shouted for quiet, Caroline furrowed her brow and reached for her phone.

  She had just enough time to pull up SnapdIt, the new app everyone at Mansfield used to send video messages and pictures—all of which vanished after viewing unless you remembered to take a screenshot. The message waiting for Caroline almost made her drop her phone. She blinked and rubbed her eyes to make sure she wasn’t seeing things.

  But the picture was of Maddie. Caroline sucked in a breath as the bell for first period sounded overhead. She couldn’t move. The photo was burned into her brain: Maddie in tight jeans, smiling provocatively, hands crossed over her bare chest. The picture left little to the imagination.

  A few students bumped Caroline’s arm on the way out of the classroom, laughing and pointing at the image on their own phones. As quickly as she could, she tucked her cell in the deepest pocket of her backpack, as if it might hide Maddie altogether. Caroline pushed herself out of her seat and made her way i
nto the hallway, where every single person was looking toward Maddie’s locker. Of course, the girl wasn’t anywhere to be found.

  Caroline endured history class, dutifully attempting to take notes while everyone around her talked in hushed tones. Some texted, some still showing off the photo of Maddie. When the next bell rang, everyone vaulted to their feet. A din of talk and laughter swelled around Caroline. The instructor opened the door. Like the bursting of a dam, students gushed into the hallways, spilling in every direction. Caroline clung to the edge of her table and let the noise and rushing subside.

  During the three-minute break, Caroline glanced for Maddie through the crowd. She stopped, raising her heels, not really expecting to catch a glimpse of her. If Caroline knew Maddie, she was long gone.

  At lunch, everyone was strangely intent on a few red flyers sitting in the middle of their table—probably touting the evils of Internet pornography and warning of penalties for spreading filth, especially in a school. As Caroline tried to take a bite of her sandwich, she turned her back to face the wall and caught a glimpse of one of Sheriff Gaines’s deputies entering the school office. It was likely the whole universe had seen the photo, including Maddie’s parents, who would try to sue whoever was behind the scheme.

  Caroline glanced at the clock, desperate for school to end. Despite how ugly Maddie had been about her mom coming home, Caroline still ached for her friend. She couldn’t imagine the ridicule, the embarrassment, a situation almost worse than her own mother coming home from prison. She reached for her cell, pulling it out of her pocket. She flipped over the phone, found her list of contacts, and before she could stop herself, sent a text to Maddie.

  I’m here if you need me, she typed. Text me if you want to talk.

  Despite willing her phone to buzz with a message, the cell remained silent. Caroline’s heart dropped with every minute that passed. When the lunch break was almost over, she headed for her locker, twirled the combination with three fingers. It unlocked and the door swung open. Shoulders hunched, Caroline stood back and took the backpack off her shoulder, preparing to stuff it in the hollow between her bookshelf and gym shoes.

  A sheet of the same red paper floated to the floor, landing between her shoes. Caroline glanced around and scanned the hallway. Now there were red rectangles taped everywhere, down the school’s hallway, like the pep rally flyers cheering on the football team before a game.

  She picked the paper off the ground and shoved it inside one of her books. Caroline closed the locker, twisted the combination, and headed for class. When she was safely in the back of the room, Caroline withdrew the crinkled page from her book, unfolded the paper, and held it in her lap.

  When she scanned the fuzzy print, Caroline gasped and smothered her mouth with one hand. Heads turned, but soon went back to the lecture. Glancing up to make sure the teacher wasn’t staring directly at her, Caroline examined the page a second time. It was laid out in columns, like a newspaper, and the date was 2006. A photo showing a high school football player tackling another was placed at the bottom.

  Like a tourniquet had been wrapped around her throat, Caroline struggled to breathe. The column wasn’t a story; it was an editorial. Written by her own mother. She read the name again to make sure she wasn’t seeing things. Caroline shrunk down in her seat, curling her head down and away from the class while she studied the sentences. A cold sweat broke out on the back of her neck as the words sunk in.

  The editorial talked in detail about a player who had gone into a rage after an opposing team’s touchdown. The player punched and kicked the other quarterback, injuring him. The player was given a penalty and removed from the game. He was then suspended from the team pending an investigation.

  Her mother—Caroline still couldn’t believe she had written such a thing to the paper—went on to say that the blame should fall on Coach Boyd Thomas. She alluded that some of the football team members were being given steroids to enhance strength and speed on the field. Steroids that caused mood swings, rage, and suicidal behavior.

  A second paragraph alleged that Thomas and his staff were hazing players—beating the new teammates after practice or at midnight meetings—as a rite of initiation. Her mother, according to the letter, had witnessed the coach rough up a player after a game and had talked to at least one team member—a boy who wouldn’t deny the beatings were happening but refused to share his name.

  The editorial called for an investigation into Coach Thomas, his staff, and drug testing for all of the players.

  Caroline stopped reading. Why would someone make enough copies of this to string down a school hallway?

  “Pop quiz,” her teacher announced, a stack of papers cradled in her arms. She walked down the aisle, handing out one to each student. “Put your books away,” she reminded and paused by Caroline’s desk. “Something the matter, Miss Marshall?”

  A few classmates exchanged murmurs.

  “No, ma’am,” she muttered, taking her copy and centering it on the desk. Caroline reached for her pencil and squinted at the page. She couldn’t focus or think. She folded the red paper tight and stuffed it into her pocket.

  Caroline closed her eyes and exhaled, gripping her pencil. Her neck prickled; her skin felt hot. Someone had taken the time to find the editorial. Copy it. And distribute it to the entire school, teachers included. It was a cruel, mean trick, meant to embarrass her, to bring attention to the not-so-secret fact that Caroline’s mother was home from prison.

  “Thirty minutes, people. Let’s get started,” her teacher called.

  Every sound in the room amplified. Her teacher’s heels clicking on the tile floor. The scratch of pencils and the creak of desks. When it all came to a crescendo in her head, Caroline suppressed a moan, causing her instructor and all of the students around her to look. It was all too much, too many people, too many noises. She leaped up, grabbed her backpack, and ran from the room as a low murmur of questions followed.

  “Caroline, wait!” the teacher called after her. But she didn’t stop. She had to be alone. Somewhere she could quiet the voices in her head and make sense of this. Away from all of the eyes and the staring and the voices. Caroline reached for the long silver bar on the school’s double doors, slamming into it with her palms and right hip.

  A half mile away from the brick buildings on campus, chest heaving, lungs burning for more oxygen, Caroline nearly tripped over a heaving crack in the sidewalk. After another block, she dropped to her knees behind the thick trunk of an oak tree, hugging her arms to her chest. As she raised one shaking hand to wipe her forehead, Caroline realized that her cheeks were slick with tears. She was weeping, the drops splattering her shirt and jeans.

  Then Caroline heard the anguished sound. Guttural, like a wounded animal. After a moment, she realized it was coming from her own lips.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  EMMA

  2016

  Just before five o’clock, Emma poured two glasses of wine and waited for Allie to arrive. She sipped, the liquid warming her throat and her belly, as her thoughts turned to Caroline. She wondered how her day had unfolded, what stories she would bring home.

  Emma wouldn’t have long to wait now. She drained the glass, feeling a rush of dizziness as the effects of the alcohol spread throughout her body.

  It would be a telling evening. Like watching a movie unfold, waiting for the cliffhanger. She’d felt that same anticipation, so many years ago.

  August 2006

  Emma had lingered after Coach Thomas’s second home game, offering her parents an excuse about forgetting her wallet at the concession stand. She promised she’d be home soon, kissed her niece on the head, and told her sister good night.

  As soon as Allie disappeared into the crowd with Caroline, Emma made her way outside the locker room area and positioned herself near the doors. She walked back and forth, holding her cell phone to her ear, making occasional murmurs into the phone.

  Her timing was excellent. Moments later, Thoma
s walked out, deep in conversation with one of his key players. He looked up. They locked eyes.

  Emma kept up the imaginary dialogue, offered a small nod in the coach’s direction. He finished talking to the player, patted him on the shoulder, and told him to head home. With flourish, Emma hung up the phone and tucked it into her purse. “Good game. I think you have some happy fans.”

  “We aim to please,” the coach answered with an ounce of swagger.

  Summoning moxie she didn’t think she possessed, Emma pressed a slip of paper and a business card from her father’s office into his hand. “I brought that number you were wanting.”

  Coach Thomas raised an eyebrow.

  Emma leaned in near his cheek. “Have a good night.”

  With trembling legs, she walked away, pacing her steps so that she appeared to be taking her time. Around the corner, a block past the stadium, Emma stopped and gripped her heart. Her breath came in short bursts, her fingers tingled, her entire body throbbed.

  What was she thinking? Was the note a mistake? Would he come?

  On the paper, Emma had written four numbers—the security code to her father’s office. She’d added three other words: Back door. Tonight.

  If he were intrigued, he would put the clues together. If he wanted more, he would meet her there. If . . . if . . . if . . .

  It took him less than an hour.

  The rear entrance to the building was private and blocked with rows of thick shrubbery. The parking lot wasn’t visible from the street.

  At ten thirty, Emma heard truck tires roll down the driveway and stop. A door opened and shut. The alarm code was entered. She met him in the hallway, wrapped only in a white sheet over her bra and panties.

  He didn’t speak as the door closed behind him, covering the two of them in darkness. Emma backed against the wall, pulling him toward her. His lips found hers. His fingers brushed her skin. His breath was thick and hot.

  She unbuttoned his shirt, reached down for his belt.

  With one hand, he grabbed her wrists, pressing her arms against the wall over her head. Before she could cry out, he ripped the delicate lace from her skin.