The Sisters Chase

by Sarah Healy

  Hannah nodded. “Stefan’s still sleeping.”

  Mary looked at Hannah and managed to smile. “Let’s let him,” she said. And she felt relief begin to rise inside her like a tide.

  BY THE TIME STEFAN CAME DOWN, Mary was at the stove making breakfast. She was silent as she prepared the meal, feeling the peace of inevitability. She remembered how a calm came over her grandfather during the last months of his life. He would look at Diane and smile, and Diane would burst into tears. Don’t worry, my girl, he’d say. Don’t worry. And Diane’s cries would escalate. But that was the time that Mary liked her grandfather best, just before he died. When there was no fear on his face, just the detritus of the past. When what was coming seemed no more optional or exceptional than the turning of the earth.

  Mary had heard Stefan’s steps as she cracked the eggs, swiftly sending six plump yolks sliding into the glass bowl. Looking to the doorway, her eyes met his for a moment before she said, “Bunny, can you get me the milk?” Without a word, Hannah leaped up from the chair she was sitting in and walked over to the refrigerator, then tugged on the handle.

  “Hey, Mare,” said Stefan, the question thick in his voice. With the smallest of movements, he nodded toward Tim. “What’s going on?”

  Mary took the milk from Hannah and set it on the countertop, then wiped her hands on her white tank top. And as Mary looked at Stefan, she knew that she would love him through the long stretch of her life. “Morning, Stef,” she said. The blanket was in a pile on the floor now, and Mary stood in her underwear. “How’d you sleep?”

  She heard Tim clear his throat. Stefan glanced at him but kept his face turned toward Mary, letting his eyes run briefly down the body that stood so bare in front of another man. “Who’s this?” he asked, nodding more explicitly this time to Tim.

  Tim raised his hand and waved, a mocking, hard-jawed smile on his face. “I’m Tim,” he said.

  “He’s a cousin of ours,” said Mary. “He surprised us.”

  Stefan jerked his thumb to the hallway. “Mare, can I talk to you for a sec?”

  And Mary followed Stefan out of the kitchen. They walked in silence until they were in the living room, then Stefan turned around. “Who the fuck is that, Mary?”

  Mary crossed her arms over her chest. “I told you,” she laughed. “He’s a cousin.”

  “Mare,” said Stefan, looking into her eyes as if unable to get the right view. “He looks like shit. He’s sitting there at the table grinding his teeth. He’s clearly on something and he’s in there with Hannah. And you’re standing there in your underwear.” Stefan extended his hand, as if waiting for Mary to place a retort in it.

  As Mary felt her eyes begin to burn, to well up, to reveal everything she didn’t want them to, she dug her toes into the carpet. Then she turned her huge glimmering yellow brown eyes up to Stefan, and said, “I know. He’s got some problems. I just wanted to help.”

  Stefan took a single step forward and pulled Mary into his chest. He cupped the back of her head with his hand. “Come here,” he said. “You have such a good heart, Mare.” And Mary felt something that was very close to remorse.

  When they went back into the kitchen, Mary was wearing Stefan’s T-shirt, which he had pulled off and helped her into, gently guiding each of her arms through the sleeves. Hannah watched the two of them enter the room as if they were feuding parents who had excused themselves as to not disagree in front of the children.

  “Tim,” said Mary, with as much politic as she could muster, “I’d like you to meet Stefan.” Mary smiled from Tim to Stefan. “Stefan, this is Tim.”

  Stefan promptly strode across the room with a firm outstretched hand.

  Tim stuffed each of his hands under his armpits and gave Stefan a nod of acknowledgment. “Charmed,” he said, with no small amount of disdain.

  “So you’re Mary and Hannah’s cousin?” asked Stefan, making the sort of small talk that Martina would make.

  “Of sorts,” answered Tim.

  “On which side?” asked Stefan. “Their mother’s or their father’s?” Confusion passed over Tim’s face before it slid into delight. There was only one side of the family, of course. He swiveled his head toward Mary, and said, with his brows raised, “What an interesting question.”

  Mary’s gaze was unwavering. “My mother’s,” she said, before she turned, picked up a whisk, and, with quick rotations, began beating the eggs into yellow.

  “Are you making real eggs?” Tim asked, angling his head to better see Mary’s preparations. “Gail only uses fake eggs now. The real ones are supposed to be bad for you.”

  After they all ate their scrambled eggs and toast in a stiff silence broken only by the clank of fork to plate, Tim leaned back in his chair, resting his head against his laced hands. “So, Stefan,” he said. “I’m dying to meet your parents.” Then he smiled. “I’ve heard so much about them.”

  Eighteen

  1983

  It was a testament to Stefan’s upbringing that he invited Tim to his parents’ house that evening. Mary and Hannah are coming. Why don’t you join us? And so, after sleeping most of the day, Tim rose in his rumpled clothes and rode with the Chase girls to the house on Northton Avenue. With his feet up on the dashboard of the Blazer, he wore a sneering, half-cocked smile as he watched the town pass.

  When they arrived at the Kellys’ and the car pulled into the driveway, Tim tilted his head thoughtfully as he regarded the beautiful stone house, which he had first seen the evening before. “I’ve got to hand it to you, Mary” was all he said.

  Mary put the Blazer in park and let her shoulders round forward. “If you tell them anything, then we both lose,” she said. The Kellys’ finding out any of the number of truths that Tim could tell about Mary would mean that he wouldn’t be able benefit from their benevolence either.

  Tim’s eyes narrowed in consideration. “I guess that depends,” he said. “On whether or not we’re playing the same game.” Then he pulled the handle and got out of the car.

  Mary, Hannah, and Tim made their way up the path to the Kellys’; it was early evening and the day had just spilled the last of its gold. Tim hung back as they reached the door. “Go ahead, Bunny,” Mary said, nodding toward the bell, her voice carrying with it an inevitability. Hannah looked back at her, a worried expression on her face, before pressing it.

  Martina answered and her eyes flitted nervously to Tim. Stefan would have warned her, of course. He has some problems. “Hello, sweetheart,” she said to Mary, leaning in for a kiss on each cheek. “How are you feeling today?” Martina always smelled like perfume, her cheek always felt slick and smooth.

  Mary managed a smile. “Better,” she said. Then she stepped aside, directing Martina’s attention to Tim. “This is my second cousin. Tim Dackard.”

  Tim extended his hand. “So nice to meet you,” he said, his saccharine greeting just subtle enough to pass for sincere.

  “You as well,” she said, with a genteel nod, her hands clasped in front of her.

  Martina led her guests back through the house through the kitchen. “So how long are you in town, Tim?” Martina asked.

  “Dunno,” replied Tim, his voice light and casual, his eyes running over the Kellys’ things, everywhere but in front of him as he walked. “Could be a little while.”

  “Well,” said Martina, managing a smile. “We certainly hope you enjoy it. Northton is so lovely this time of year.”

  As they reached the French doors to the deck, Martina turned around and again faced her guests.

  “You have a lovely home,” Tim said, with a polite smile. “Very elegant.”

  Martina clucked in gratitude, pleasantly surprised by his flash of manners. “Thank you,” she said. “We certainly enjoy it.”

  “My mother prefers that whole nouveau thing,” replied Tim. “Her place is very Barbie Dream House.”

  Martina glanced at Mary, not knowing how to respond, then pushed open the doors to the wide bluestone patio, wh
ere Stefan and his father were standing, beers in hand. “We have company!” she called.

  Stefan strode over to greet Mary while Patrick appraised his guests, then followed his son more slowly. He tousled Hannah’s hair, took his turn kissing Mary’s cheek, then turned to Tim. “Patrick Kelly,” he said, with his boardroom handshake, his sharp eye.

  Tim, to his credit, didn’t shrink from it. “Tim Dackard,” he replied, one hand hooked across his side.

  The group soon took their seats outside around a low-slung coffee table, and Martina brought out trays with beautiful hors d’oeuvres.

  “Wow, this is gorgeous, Martina,” Mary said.

  “You would not believe how much food we had left over from last night,” Martina replied. “The caterers are making me look good.”

  But Mary knew the effort that she was putting into the evening was a sign of her affection. They sat for a few moments, recounting the highlights from the evening before. The band was exceptional. The florists did a wonderful job. And wasn’t it nice that Gregory and Melissa Dunks made it?

  “So, Tim,” said Patrick, slicing off a bit of blue cheese. “I hear you’re up from Miami.” Around them, the crickets trilled in a call and response.

  Tim dunked a shrimp into cocktail sauce, then bit into it. “Yeah,” he said, pushing the shrimp to one side of his mouth as he tossed its tail into a bowl. “My dad owns LubeTime.”

  “The oil-change chain?” asked Patrick.

  “Yeah,” he said. “Thirty minutes or your lube job’s free.” Tim rolled his eyes. “Totally crass, but that’s sort of Ron.” He then looked over at Mary, letting their eyes hang together. “Right, Mary?”

  Mary smiled and let her gaze fall to the table. She leaned back and rested her head in her hand, her foot bouncing in front of her as if it were all a silly little joke.

  In the periphery, she saw something flash on Patrick’s face, whether suspicion or curiosity she could not say. “How many locations are they up to now?” Patrick leaned forward, his forearms resting on his knees.

  Tim squinted with thought. “I think like forty-five or something. But most of those are franchises.”

  “How long ago did he start franchising?”

  “Like forever ago. I think they’re opening ten more in the next year.”

  Patrick’s jaw moved, as if grinding the numbers. “Annual revenue well into eight figures?”

  “Tim,” interrupted Martina, with a good-natured smile, “you must forgive my husband. He is obsessed with business.” Then she gave Patrick a sidelong glance, effectively calling him off his line of questioning.

  Stefan stood and walked over to the ice bucket that was set on a nearby table. “Can I get anyone anything to drink?”

  Tim raised his hand. “I’ll take a beer,” he said. Stefan and Martina exchanged a brief look before Stefan read the label of the bottle in his hand. “Sam Adams okay?”

  Throughout the evening, Stefan seemed eager to find ways to remove himself from Tim’s company, whether playing Frisbee with Hannah or manning the grill, but Mary stayed near until Martina said, “Mary, sweetie, can you help me bring some dishes out.”

  Mary smiled, her eyes catching Tim’s. “Of course,” she said.

  In the kitchen, Martina pulled a foil-covered bowl from the fridge. “He is close to you, your cousin?” Martina asked.

  Mary shook her head. “Our mothers used to be,” she said, though Diane only ever felt jealousy toward Gail, never kinship. “But I don’t know Tim very well. I’m sure Stefan told you that his visit was unexpected.”

  “Not in so many words, but . . .” Martina looked at Mary, her eyes soft and affectionate, as if she were her own daughter. “Well, we cannot choose our family, can we?” she asked. Turning back to the fridge, she took another bowl from a shelf and handed it to Mary. “Here, let’s get a good meal in everyone’s belly and then off to bed.”

  Mary glanced outside and saw Patrick and Tim facing each other, Tim’s back to the house. The sun had sunk even farther in the sky, and Mary noticed how much darker it seemed as she looked out from the light of the bright, cool kitchen. Martina pushed open the door and let the humid night rush in, the air warming Mary’s skin. And as Mary followed Martina back to the table and the meal and everything that was lovely, Tim’s voice came like the cackle of a crow. “A flat tire?” he asked Patrick. And Patrick’s shrewd eyes met Mary’s for just a moment before Mary looked away.

  Dinner was consumed in strained silence, Martina volleying the conversation to and fro between her family and guests, searching for subjects on which to engage and linger. I do love Miami’s architecture. When was the last time you were there, Patrick? Steffie, what is that restaurant with the crabs?

  When they finished the meal, the Kellys stood, walking their guests to the door together. Patrick stood at the threshold, his hands in his pockets, looking at Tim. “You know, I’d like to speak with your father,” said Patrick. “About his business.”

  Tim smiled. “Among other things, I’m sure,” he said. Mary’s eyes snapped to Tim’s. Tim held her gaze for a moment before turning back to Patrick. “It seems like you have a lot in common.”

  Stefan followed Mary home that night. He didn’t say so, but Mary knew that he didn’t want her alone with Tim. In the front seat of the Blazer, Tim stretched his legs, relaxing into what he assumed to be an imminent victory. She heard him chuckle quietly to himself. In the rearview mirror, Mary glanced at the headlights of Stefan’s car behind them.

  When they pulled up to the condo, Mary put the truck in park but made no move to leave her seat. “Bunny,” she said, turning to her sister, “why don’t you run back and get Stefan.” Mary watched as Hannah walked on the streetlight-lit sidewalk to Stefan’s parking space a few spots down. She was still watching her when she spoke. “All you’ve got are pictures, Tim,” she said. Then she opened the door and closed it behind her. It was only much later that she thought perhaps she should have given him a chance to respond.

  Mary didn’t look at Tim again that night. Once inside, she put Hannah to bed, keeping Stefan close by her side. Hannah loves when you read to her. And so the three of them lay on the Chase girls’ big white bed, Mary’s head on Stefan’s shoulder as he read a story about a stuffed rabbit that a child loved so much that it became real.

  “Will you stay with me?” asked Hannah, when the story was over. “Until I fall asleep?”

  She was asking only Mary, but Mary gripped Stefan’s hand. “We’ll stay with you,” she said.

  Mary waited until Hannah was asleep and Stefan’s breath had started to go shallow, until his eyes closed and she heard the breath at the back of his throat. Until he was at the precipice of sleep but not over it. Then she extracted herself from her position, went to the bathroom, slid down on the tile—so bright white in the dark—and began to cry.

  She thought of Diane, saw in slow motion her limp, unconscious body thrown forward at the moment of impact, saw the soundless shattering of glass. She thought of her grandfather, thought of the inside of his body, the empty black cavities the disease had eaten through. And the tears came quickly. She let them come without fight or restraint. Let them stream down her cheeks, finding their way into her mouth, her hair. She let the sobs break up through her chest, let them rip into the air. Until the bathroom door opened, and Stefan’s face appeared.

  “Oh, baby,” he said. And in a moment, he was on the floor next to her.

  As he pulled her into him, Mary climbed and clutched him as if she were drowning. His fingertips found the back of her head, her wild black hair. “What’s wrong?”

  She took a breath as if readying herself to speak, but only ragged breath came out, as if her grief stayed buried until it was needed.

  “Shhhh,” Stefan said, his lips to her forehead. “It’s okay. It’s okay.”

  Mary swallowed, gasping, seeing her mother again and again.

  “Mary, baby, what is it?”

  She breathed in and out
until she was steady enough to speak. “It’s Tim,” she finally said, moving her face back and forth against Stefan’s shoulder, wiping her eyes.

  She felt Stefan tense, protectively, reflexively. “What about him?”

  “After I . . . After my mom died . . . I went to stay with Tim’s parents.” She paused, felt Stefan’s hand slide down to her back, pull her closer. “Tim’s dad . . . at first he just seemed so nice.” She felt the broadness of Stefan’s body, the constancy of it. “I thought he was just being sweet, you know? It was Christmas. He bought me and Hannah these necklaces. His wife went to bed and he offered me some wine.” She felt her tears come again, genuine and true. “There are pictures, Stefan. Tim has them. He thinks . . . I don’t know what he thinks, but I left the next day. I didn’t know what to do. I don’t know how it happened or why I let it. But now he says he’s gonna show you the pictures. Show your family.”

  Stefan’s hand made its way up and down Mary’s back. Shhhhh. Shhhhh.

  Stefan stayed with Mary in the dark bathroom until her mind drifted into unconsciousness, where the line between what was real and what was not was a fluid, lovely thing.

  She woke the next morning beside Hannah, the sheet pulled up to her waist. He must have carried her to bed. She got up and looked out the window. Stefan’s car was still there, parked under a crab apple tree, its fruit growing red and heavy on its low-reaching branches.

  Padding down the soft carpeted stairs, she expected to hear voices, confrontation, but she heard only quiet. In the kitchen, Stefan was alone at the table, drinking a cup of black coffee. When he saw her, he pushed his chair away from the table, the legs groaning over the floor, then he patted his lap. “Come here.”

  Mary went to him, her arms wrapped across her chest, her T-shirt slipping down over one shoulder. He wrapped his arms around her waist as she stood before him, resting his head against her smooth pale belly. “Don’t worry,” he said. “He’s gone.”