My Sister, Myself

by Tara Taylor Quinn

  “I’ll never be off the hook,” Ben told her honestly.

  “You’re still supporting her?”

  No. But he would if Mary let him. He’d do anything to be part of Alex’s life. “I’m still loving her.”

  Christine’s held tilted, the slight frown in evidence once more. “Oh.”

  “I raised Alex.” Ben couldn’t stop, now that he’d started. Couldn’t stop until Christine understood how it was with him. “From the moment she was born, she was my responsibility.”

  “Her mother didn’t want her.” It wasn’t a question, merely acceptance of a fact. A fact that seemed all too ordinary, which startled him a little.

  “No, although I didn’t realize that until after we were married.” Mary had kept all the surprises until she had him where she wanted him. Then, over the next seven or so years, they just kept coming.

  Until the last little bombshell she’d dropped.

  “Alex and I were a team,” Ben said, smiling as he remembered. “When I was working at the garage, I’d take her with me. She’d trail along behind me whenever she could, asking a million questions.”

  “You said you worked two jobs. Surely you didn’t keep a young child out late at night.”

  “No.” He shook his head, crossed a leg over his knee, tapped his hand on his shin. “Mary was home with her then, at least some of the time. Al went to bed early, so there wasn’t a lot required of Mary. As Alex got older, I hired a baby-sitter.”

  “Where was your wife?”

  “Out. With friends.” He’d stopped asking years ago.

  Christine took a deep breath, let it out slowly. She leaned forward, elbows on her desk, resting her chin in her palms. She looked relaxed, caring. Beautiful. “So what happened?”

  “About a year ago, I came home from work one day to find my wife with another man.”

  “In your house?” She didn’t seem at all shocked by the sordid tale.

  “That month’s apartment, you mean?” Ben asked. And then added, “In our bed.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “It happens,” Ben said, throwing his hands wide before letting them fall back on his leg. “That wasn’t the worst of it. The real kicker was when she introduced him to me.”

  Face pale, Christine sat up. “Alex’s father,” she said breathlessly.

  Hanging on to the compassion in her eyes, Ben nodded. “He and Mary had been lovers since she was fifteen. He’d been sent up to prison for car theft, among other things, just before she met me. When she found out she was pregnant, I was convenient.”

  “The bitch.”

  Ben shrugged again. “I got Alex out of it.”

  “I can’t believe she did that!”

  Finally something had shocked her. After everything he’d told her without garnering much reaction, Ben was a bit surprised.

  “Seems she was visiting ol’ Pete in jail the entire time I was working my butt off to support her,” Ben said. Might as well tell her the rest. Let her know what a total sap he’d been.

  Ben the fool. The one who always cleaned up other people’s messes. Ben the doormat.

  “I’m sorry.” This time the words were accompanied by a sheen of tears in her eyes.

  “Yeah, well, even that didn’t faze me much at that point. What got me was when they told me just how expendable I was. I wasn’t needed anymore. Pete was free, had a job. Mary wanted a divorce. Pete was going to step in and be an instant father to the child he’d never seen.”

  “And the courts allowed it because he was her natural father.”

  He nodded. “There was no point in contesting the divorce, but I hadn’t realized when it happened that Mary would be awarded full custody.”

  “Wasn’t there something you could do? Some way to fight the decision?”

  He had fought. And lost. Besides, something the social worker had said had hit him very hard. “If I loved Alex, wouldn’t I want her to have this chance?”

  “Is he good to her?” Christine asked, her eyes narrowed. “Does he love her?”

  He didn’t know. Couldn’t stomach the fact that Pete might not adore Alex. Prayed every night that he did. “Not as much as I do,” Ben said. And then, “I’m sure he must love her. He fought for his right to be her father.”

  “You don’t have any contact with her at all?”

  He lifted a hand. “The courts advised that it would be best for Alex if Mary and Pete allowed her and me to stay in touch. However, Mary decided it wasn’t fair to Pete to have me in the picture. She said Alex wasn’t giving Pete a chance.”

  “What do you think?”

  “I only want what’s best for Alex.” He just wasn’t sure what that was. His gut was telling him one thing, his head another. His gut said Alex needed him. His mind said maybe there was some truth in what Mary said, that Alex’s love for him, loyalty to him, interfered with her ability to give her heart to her real father.

  With both elbows still on her desk, Christine folded her hands in front of her. “What does Alex want?”

  “She wants me to go live in the spare room in their house.” She hadn’t asked him to take her away from Pete, he reminded himself. Just to be a part of their family.

  “We stay in touch, in spite of Mary.” Ben needed to assure Christine—and to hear the words himself.

  “I taught Alex how to call me collect.”

  “And does she?”

  “Once, so far.”

  “Was she all right?”

  “That’s the hell of it,” he said. “I’m not sure.”

  “Did she sound happy?”

  “Not any kind of happy I ever heard from her before.” Ben told Christine about Alex’s odd question, about the child’s urgency. And about being left alone at night.

  “If they were just across the street, they could probably see the house.”

  “And would they have been able to see into the bathroom if Alex woke up sick to her stomach? Or hear her crying if she had a bad dream and was frightened?”

  Christine gave him a compassionate smile. “And how often do you think either of those things are going to happen?”

  “I don’t know,” Ben admitted. “But they could, and as her parents they should be there, just in case.”

  He damn sure would have been.

  “In a perfect world, maybe.”

  Yeah. In a perfect world. Ben could tell by the look in her eyes that Christine didn’t believe, for one second, that a perfect world existed. Anywhere.

  He still believed.

  LATE FRIDAY AFTERNOON, Tory had an English Department faculty meeting, where she sat silently as usual, taking notes and nodding her head. She knew a lot about American literature, was spending every spare moment educating herself on the material she taught, but she knew next to nothing about pedagogy or administration. And with all the time she was spending on class preparation, she wasn’t able to read education texts as well.

  Right now, she had an excuse for her silence. She was new to Montford, was only learning about the procedures under which the college operated. She’d lucked out in that regard, because most colleges had their own brand of administrative claptrap. There wasn’t some universal set of rules she was expected to know.

  She left immediately after the meeting so she didn’t have to walk out to the parking lot by herself, and then, waving goodbye to Christine’s colleagues, people she barely knew, people who intimidated her, she locked herself in her car, a free woman for two whole days.

  Always on the alert, Tory noticed a car appear behind her, almost from nowhere, as she pulled out onto the main thoroughfare through town. It was a sedan again. But not, she thought with relief, the same sedan. This one was a light tan color. Of course, turning in one rental car for another to throw her off track was no big feat.

  Any staff Bruce’s family kept on retainer, whether caterers, gardeners or detectives, were good. And after more than two years of tailing her, the investigators knew she was good. They’d taught her wel
l. She’d also taught them. She’d be on to them in a second if she noticed the same car hanging around.

  She took the next corner. So did the sedan.

  Heart beating fast, cold with the dread of another lost hope, another lost life, Tory thought about speeding out of town, losing whoever was behind her on desert roads…and then losing herself out there, too.

  The light at the corner of Main and Montford turned red. The tan sedan was two cars back. Right or left, she wondered. Tucson or Phoenix? Or should she just go north—toward Canada?

  She’d never been to Canada. Europe a couple of times with Bruce, early in their marriage. Hong Kong. The Greek Islands. Mexico. But never Canada.

  Main was bustling as Shelter Valley residents celebrated the advent of the weekend, cashed Friday’s paychecks, shopped. Kids were everywhere, talking with friends on the corner, eating ice cream outside the drugstore, buying Halloween costumes at Weber’s. College students were in abundance, too, though Tory suspected that a lot of them were heading into Phoenix for the evening.

  With the light green, Tory slid into an empty parking slot on the other side of Main. She jumped out and made her way nonchalantly into Weber’s, where she’d have a view of the street from the big front window. And where she was safest. Anyone with dangerous motives would have real trouble getting past the residents of this town.

  She didn’t really belong here, and yet, in a sense, she did. People recognized her now, smiled at her when she met them at the diner with Phyllis or passed them on the street downtown. She’d been hired at Montford U. That made her one of them.

  And Shelter Valley protected its own.

  The tan car drove right past Weber’s.

  Tory, grabbing some panty hose and a new slip, walked casually to the cash register. She knew the sense of relief washing over her was deceptive. Just because the car passed—this time—didn’t mean it hadn’t been following her.

  “How’re you doing today Dr…. Evans, isn’t it?” Mr. Weber asked as he rang up her purchases.

  “It is,” Tory said, “and I’m fine. Looking forward to the weekend.”

  Mr. Weber nodded. He wasn’t much older than Will Parsons, and in equally good shape. “My wife and I are having our son and daughter-in-law down from Phoenix….”

  He continued to tell her about his plans while he took her money—Tory always used cash—and bagged her purchases. Tory continued to listen.

  By the time she made it back to her car, she was feeling much more in control. There was always a chance the car hadn’t been following her, she supposed.

  Given the events of the past couple of years, she was bound to have developed some phobias. An unfounded fear of being followed could certainly be one of them.

  THE WEEKEND PASSED far too swiftly. Tory went into Phoenix with Phyllis and Martha Moore to catch a movie on Saturday night. She loved the new theater they took her to, with high-backed seats on raised levels that made her feel completely hidden from those behind her. They saw an adult comedy that was entertaining enough to have all three of them laughing out loud. She appreciated the conversation before and after the movie, too.

  Going through a divorce after more than twenty years of marriage, Martha was grappling with some serious issues regarding her own personal worth—and strength. Tory’s heart went out to her.

  Tory was home alone on Friday afternoon of the following week, the radio playing in the background, as she thought about Martha, folded a load of laundry and tried not to think about the evening ahead. Phyllis, at Tory’s pleading, had been going to accompany her and Ben to the Parsons home for Ben’s meeting with Becca, but then Martha had called, needing to be two places at once with her kids, and Phyllis had offered to pinch-hit for her.

  A shirt of Christine’s, one of Tory’s favorites, was still warm from the dryer as Tory buttoned it on its hanger. Holding it up to her face, she tried not to give in to the despair that threatened. She blinked back tears, as she often did when donning her older sister’s clothes, clothes she’d decided to keep and wear, when she was playing Christine. It helped her remember who she was. And who she wasn’t.

  Undies, bras, pajamas, were all neatly folded and ready to put in drawers. Dressed in a pair of sweatpants and an old T-shirt, Tory worked methodically. Radio ads—a Phoenix car dealer having a sale, the benefits of laser eye surgery, a furniture sale—accompanied her while she worked. Open a drawer. Close a drawer. Routine. Comforting. No stress.

  She was glad to be alone, finding occasions like this the only times she could ever be just plain old Tory Evans, whoever that was. She didn’t have to watch her thoughts or her back, didn’t have to worry about how her problems or her mood were affecting anyone else.

  A Bette Midler song came on—the song about one person being another’s hero.

  Panties slid from her fingers and fell onto her bare toes.

  Oh, God.

  As though in a trance, Tory sank onto the bed, drawn into the song.

  Yeah, she might have attempted to fly away, like the lyrics said, but only because she’d had Christine there, giving her impetus.

  She shuddered, her body suffused with heat, and then shivering. How many hundreds of times had she sung along with Bette Midler, thinking of her older sister? The song, every single word of it, could have been written for her and Christine.

  Tears seeped through her lashes as Tory listened. She had no choice. The song was speaking to her.

  Had Christine been cold and lonely, always in the background, emotionally supporting Tory, protecting her?

  While Christine had stayed home and worked, studied, made something of herself, Tory had been flying off to Europe with Bruce, jet-setting with the rich and famous. Her life had swung between violence and frivolity. Christine had given her the strength to break free.

  “Christine, how am I ever going to make it?” she cried as the song finally ended. “And why should I even try?”

  “Because you’re alive.” The words fell softly into the room, and Tory glanced up to see Phyllis standing there, still in the navy dress she’d worn to work, her eyes filled with sympathy—and pain.

  “I didn’t hear you come in,” Tory said. “I thought you were going straight to the football game.” Phyllis had agreed to run the concession at Martha’s son’s game.

  Sitting down beside her on the bed, Phyllis rubbed Tory’s back. “I got out of my meeting early,” she said quietly. “And I’m glad I did. Is this what you do with yourself when I’m gone?”

  “Not usually.” Tory gave her a watery grin. “It was just that song.” She teared up again. “It always made me think of her, but…but I never told her that.”

  “I’ll bet she knows.”

  “You think so?”

  “I know so.”

  Tory wanted to believe Phyllis, to believe that somehow her sister was an angel watching down on her from heaven. Wanted to believe in something.

  “You okay to go tonight?” Phyllis asked. The red hair framing her face appeared almost like a halo to Tory.

  Shaking her head at her little-girl fantasy, Tory straightened. Ben would be by to get her in less than an hour. “Yeah, I just have to change.”

  “And redo your makeup.”

  Glancing at her mascara-streaked face in the mirror, Tory smiled. “That, too.” She bent to pick up the panties she’d dropped.

  Phyllis stood, lifting the empty laundry basket. “You sure you’re okay about riding out there with him?”

  “Yeah.” Oddly enough, although she felt a little nervous about being alone with a man—any man—in a vehicle he was driving, the thought of riding with Ben Sanders wasn’t sending her into a panic attack.

  Stopping in the doorway, basket on her hip, Phyllis turned back to her. “Maybe you should wear those black stretchy slacks that look like you’ve been poured into them.” She paused. “And the white ribbed top.”

  Also tight. Tory shook her head. “I’m not out to spark the man’s interest, Phylli
s.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t know.” Tory stared down her friend.

  “Maybe because I’m living a lie?”

  “Maybe,” Phyllis agreed, “and if I thought that was the only thing holding you back, I might let you off the hook. But it isn’t, is it? You’ve met a nice man, one who interests you, and you’re scared to death of that.”

  “Like I said—because I’m living a lie.”

  Phyllis shook her head. “Because you’re afraid to believe that good people really exist.”

  “They don’t. Not in my world.”

  “Then what am I?” Phyllis’s gaze wouldn’t let Tory escape.

  “You’re the best friend anyone could ever hope to have,” Tory whispered. “Christine was very lucky to find you.”

  “You found me, too, Tory,” Phyllis said gently.

  “And someday, you’re going to believe that.”

  She was gone before Tory could reply.

  CHAPTER NINE

  “I LIKE YOUR TRUCK,” Tory told Ben an hour later as they drove slowly up the winding road that led to Becca and Will’s home halfway up the mountain overlooking Shelter Valley.

  “Thanks.”

  “I’ve always wanted a truck,” Tory said wistfully.

  “So why’d you buy a Mustang?”

  “It was easy to maneuver, fast—” Tory stopped. The words made her sound like a kid. Ben couldn’t know that she had to have a vehicle that could slide out of tough spots on a second’s notice.

  Ben glanced her way and then quickly back to the road. “You look nice.”

  She’d worn the black pants. Just to show Phyllis she wasn’t afraid.

  But she was.

  “Thanks.”

  He looked good, too. He was wearing brown slacks with a tan corduroy shirt that rippled across the shoulders every time he turned the steering wheel. His curly dark hair, just touching the edge of his collar, looked soft and clean—something a woman might want to run her fingers through.