A Gift for My Sister: A Novel

by Ann Pearlman

  “On this short notice?” I laugh.

  “You’ve been so sad and preoccupied since Mia’s death.” He wraps his arms tightly around me.

  “Still can’t sleep.” And then I notice a pimple, swollen and red, on his shoulder. “Hey. That looks painful.” I point at it with my index finger.

  He turns his head to see it. “It is. Been putting cortisone on it, but . . .” He shakes his head and shrugs.

  “Might be turning into a boil. You want me to lance it?”

  “Done that twice. I’ve had it for about two weeks.” He turns his head toward the shoulder and glances at it in the mirror.

  I lean closer. It’s red with a pale yellowish top. Smaller bumps cluster around the edges, and the flesh around it is almost purple. “Since Mia’s death?” I guess I haven’t been paying attention. “Looks like a rash. Is it itchy?”

  He shakes his head. “It used to look like a spider bite before I lanced it.”

  “How ’bout some antibiotic cream and a Band-Aid?”

  “Tried that. And hydrogen peroxide, and iodine, and Mercurochrome.”

  I pull out a tube of triple antibiotic cream, twist off the lid. I wonder why he didn’t say anything. I guess he hasn’t wanted to bother me.

  “It’s not a big deal. Just a pimple or insect bite.” He shrugs. “When’s everyone coming?”

  “Next week. Mom and Allie arrive on Wednesday.” I wash my hands.

  “And when’s the concert?”

  “Saturday. Aaron’s mom, Sissy, is coming Friday. Don’t know when exactly Aaron and Tara and the rest of the band arrive.”

  “Crew. Rap bands are crews.” He shakes his head, watching as I peel the paper protecting the bandage. “Imagine skinny, hyper Tara a rap star.”

  “You still think of her as five. You’re not fourteen anymore, either. But they’re not stars. This is just their first national tour.” I smooth down the adhesive strips and rub the Band-Aid flat.

  He winces.

  “At least the pimple–boil–insect bite is covered,” I say.

  “Larry says they’re on their way.” Larry is the entertainment attorney Troy and I introduced to Aaron. “That number-seven single makes them practically stars. It’s amazing that Tara and Aaron have pulled this off. Who’d have thought they’d still be together?”

  The tenderness in his voice and his thrill at her success bothers me. “She used to have a crush on you.”

  “She helped me woo you.” He rubs the mist from the mirror and combs his hair.

  “Woo me? She wouldn’t get off your lap whenever you came over. You were the only thing that distracted her from her obsession with music.”

  He pats the top of his head to get the few strands of his cowlick to lie flat. “That was because she wanted everything her older sister had. Besides, I didn’t have the guts to ask you to sit on my lap. I hoped you might follow her lead. And eventually you did.” He laughs.

  Troy has forgotten what a difficult teenager Tara was, or maybe he’s simply forgiven her. Troy and I were just starting law school when Mom called late one night. It was 3 a.m. in Ann Arbor. “I don’t know where your sister is,” she said, without even saying hello or asking how I was. “I’ve been frantic. I’ve called her cell a hundred times and it goes to voice mail. I’m standing by the front door, looking out the window at every car that passes, hoping it’ll stop and she’ll get out.”

  “She’s probably just at a party, hanging out with her friends.”

  “Probably getting high or drunk.” Mom finished my thought. “I tell myself that but I can’t stop thinking about all the terrible things that could happen: She could have run away, or be in a car accident, in some hospital. Or worse. Dead. She could be drunk at a fraternity party. What if she gets gang raped?”

  “You know Tara. This is just Tara being Tara.” I heard Mom’s quick intake of air.

  “She does what she wants with no concern for anyone but herself. Just like her father. Like he’s come back to haunt me.”

  I didn’t know what to say. But part of me was smugly pleased when Mom criticized Tara or her father.

  “She’s never been out this late without calling, even if it’s with some lame excuse.”

  “Mom. She’s probably just partying.”

  But Mom couldn’t stop. “I tell her, ‘Call and let me know where you are, that you’re okay. You have a cell phone,’ but she doesn’t even do that.”

  And then Tara walked in the door. “Mom. What are you doing up?” I heard her ask.

  “Where the hell were you?”

  “With friends!”

  “I was worried.” Mom stretched out the word worried so that Tara could sense her anxiety.

  “I was fine.” I could almost see Tara shrug.

  “Why didn’t you call?”

  “I’m out of minutes, Mom. Why didn’t you pay attention to my bill?”

  Tara’s voice was crisp. She wasn’t screaming or angry. She was indifferent. That was it. A chilling, cold indifference.

  “I’m tired. Think I’ll go to bed,” Tara’s voice got softer as she walked away from Mom.

  “Well, she’s home,” Mom said to me.

  “I heard.”

  “I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

  “She’s just being a kid,” Troy said that night, learning against the headboard reading a syllabus. “Tara works hard on her music. A nerd with a wild streak. She’ll be okay. You watch.”

  By the time Tara was seventeen, she was pregnant. Piled on top of that was her boyfriend’s prison time, for dealing drugs, their crazy dreams of rap stardom, and her refusal to get married. Now, four and a half years later, Aaron, Levy, and Sissy are part of our family. Mom and Sissy are friends. And in an ironic twist of fate, my wayward sister is on the road to being famous.

  “Your T-shirt seam may be irritating that pimple. The Band-Aid should help.”

  “Hey. You want to play doctor with me?” Troy jokes, his cowlick stuck down for now.

  “Mooooommmyyyyyyy,” Rachel yells. “All gone!”

  “Tonight.” I wink and then take off down the stairs, to find Rachel’s cereal bowl tipped over on the tray and the milk dribbling to the floor.

  “Okay. Help me mop this up.” I pull her from the high chair and hand her a paper towel. She squeezes milk and bits of granola on the floor and tries to make finger paintings in the glop. I quickly wipe away the mess and hand her some spray cleaner, which she spritzes joyfully. Everything is fun to her.

  Troy comes down soon after. “There’s some granola,” I offer.

  “No time.” He pours coffee and milk in a commuter cup and smears peanut butter and jelly on bread. “Gotta hit the traffic.” He checks his watch, grabs his laptop, and kisses Rachel and me. At the door he turns, points a finger at me, and says, “Tonight.” Then turns to Rachel and says, “I’ll see both of my beautiful ladies tonight.”

  The door kisses the jamb as it swings shut.

  The sun slants in through a window and throws a rectangle on Rachel’s hair, turning it into blazing spun gold.

  I pick her up and swing her around. “The floor is clean and it’s a beautiful day made just for us.”

  I can get through each day. It’s the nights and early mornings that are hard. Maybe I’ve turned a corner. Maybe I’ve figured something out, but I don’t know exactly what. The answers I look for each morning at 3:42 flicker in my head as if I know them, but can’t recognize them.

  “Hey. You wanna go to the potty?” I carry Rachel to her potty, and watch while she pulls down her pants and sits down.

  I hand her a book and turn on the faucet. I don’t know why, but Mom always did that and it seemed to encourage me to go.

  Rachel’s eyes get big. “I did it. I pee-peed in the potty!”

  She laughs, her little white teeth shining like pearls.

  She stands up and points, her pull-ups sliding to her ankles. “I did it.”

  “You sure did,” I say with disbelief. I
take out the container to pour the urine down the toilet.

  “You’re going to throw it away? Throw my pee-pee away?” Rachel’s eyes are wide, her mouth open in bald horror. How could I throw her amazing achievement away when just a moment ago we’d been so happy with it?

  “We’ll save it and show Daddy. Then you can put it in the toilet—how’s that?”

  Her smile returns.

  Later that afternoon, before Troy gets home, before we have a chance to eat dinner and talk about our day over a glass of wine, or sit on our balcony and watch the sea lap the sand, or finish the flirting that we started that morning, the telephone rings. It’s Stuart, my mentor and one of the partners at my firm.

  “Hey, I went over that case law for the Hanson case. Got decisions that’ll buoy up our arguments,” I tell him before he even says hello.

  “Sky.” His patient voice carries that tinge of bad news. My mind skitters to what it could be. We’re being sued for malpractice? On one of the cases I worked on? Another member of the firm died?

  “Sky, I have some, ah, unfortunate news.”

  “What?” I start pacing with the phone pressed to my ear. Sesame Street is on the TV and Rachel sits on the floor, teaching a line of stuffed animals.

  “As you know, our billable hours have decreased and, really, I guess, we were able to let you work part time because we didn’t have much work, and now, well, we have even less. So we have to let you go.” He pauses.

  I know that they—the partners—are billing those hours for themselves, even though my fees are lower than theirs.

  “Please be reassured . . .”

  I resent his formality, selfishly creating distance so that firing me is less painful for him.

  “When things change we’ll contact you, and if you’re still available we would love to have you back. I’ll help you find a position with another firm, though I wouldn’t relish you being our competition.” He forces a chuckle. “We’re going to miss you.” And then his voice warms as he adds, “I will miss you.”

  His words seem to echo. I replay them in my mind as soon as he says them. We have to let you go. Please be reassured. Another position. I’m trying to integrate them. “I loved the work. And I love working with you.” I shouldn’t have said that.

  He sighs. “This is difficult for me, for all of us.”

  For a minute there’s silence on the phone while I consider my options. Maybe I should start my own firm. If Mia were still alive, I would. Maybe Troy and I could start a firm, but we need the consistent paycheck and benefits that come with his job.

  “When do you think you could clear out your desk? We’d all like to take you out to lunch, too.”

  I don’t know if that would feel nice or like rubbing salt in my wound. “I don’t know. I’ll have to get back to you.” Maybe I’ll go get my things tonight, while everyone is asleep. I know they will have already changed the passwords on my computer and made sure their client list is unavailable to me.

  If I can’t trust Stuart, who can I trust?

  “Well. Let me know. And I’ll help you any way I can, Sky. You’ve been invaluable to the firm.”

  Not so invaluable, I think. Even if you do a great job, and work weekends and evenings to meet deadlines, you’re expendable. Even though Stuart gave me wonderful ratings on work evaluations. And accompanied that A+ rating with maximum merit salary increases. But I guess at the end of the day, I wasn’t all that important.

  Now what? Another thing in my life just ended, out of the blue.

  I’m walking along an abyss that threatens tragedy every day.

  CHAPTER ONE

  On the Verge

  Tara

  I WATCH AARON as he stands before the stove. He’s not wearing a shirt and the muscles of his chest are outlined, his six-pack moving as he twists slightly and reaches for the tarragon and garlic powder, sprinkles them over the eggs, and then picks up a spatula. He lifts the cooked eggs and tilts the pan so raw egg flows under them. He does this gently, this movement at the edge, and it reminds me how he kisses the rim of my bra and panties, respecting the margins of my modesty.

  Even though I’m in no way modest with him. He can do whatever he can imagine with me. I’m his. Every ounce, every speck of skin, every dollop of breath and fluid. I’ve even given him my music. But this scares me, and I hide from him, even from myself sometimes.

  I wish it were simple for me, and uncomplicated. I wish I could give myself to him with complete trust and security, and wrap myself in the love that he offers me, but I feel my billowing love for him and get scared. How do I know he’ll stay loyal when temptation hits?

  Aaron has the same expression on his face now as when he writes lyrics. He raps under the name of Special Intent. When he is Special Intent, writing, rapping, performing, he’s focused, no, enveloped in concentration. As though nothing exists but this word, this line, this moment.

  He takes my breath away standing there, just being him. And he’s not even aware I’m here. How can I completely trust him when we’re each separated by our own skin and unaware of what’s in the other’s mind? What if as soon as I give myself to him completely, he leaves? I have to keep a piece of me hidden. I feel safe that way. He wants me because he can’t completely have me. I dangle myself before him so I don’t get hurt. Emotionally, I keep my distance, and he knows it.

  Levy is on my hip, snuggling into my shoulder, warm and close. He reaches out his arm. “Daaaaddddy.”

  Aaron puts down the spatula, turns off the burner, and wraps his arms around both of us, kissing each of our foreheads. “Breakfast almost done,” he says as he pulls Levy from me, slides him in his high chair—“Here you go, Smidgen”—and then proceeds to sprinkle parmesan on top of the omelet while I pour orange juice in Levy’s sucky cup.

  Ah, such sweet domesticity. These moments are like the space between notes when the hum of one still hangs in the air before the next perfect sound develops. But he has no idea what’s going on in my mind.

  And here it is. The bubbling-brook sound of Levy laughing at a silly face his father makes.

  “We gotta finish packing our clothes today,” Aaron says as he sits. “Get that done early. Rehearsal today at five. And then we pack the instruments. And we’re gone again.”

  “Don’t know if you’re reminding yourself or me,” I say.

  He laughs.

  “Are we gonna take my truck?” Levy asks.

  “Sure,” Aaron says, “but just one.”

  “We’ll pack your toys, some books, your blankee, don’t worry.”

  “Hiawatha.” Levy puts down his cup and quotes, “By the shores of Gitche Gumee, by the shining Big-Sea-Water—gotta have him.”

  “Should put him on stage and we’ll do his backup,” Aaron jokes.

  I’ve read that poem to Levy every night for the last year. Now we recite it together and turn the pages to see the pictures. “Sissy’s coming at, like, four to pick him up,” I say. Sissy will be the best mother-in-law in the world. Now, she’s not just my boyfriend’s mom. She’s my friend.

  “She book her air for the L.A. concert?”

  “Yep. Everyone will be there.” It will be the first time my family has seen us perform. “Sky, Troy, and Rachel, my mom, Sissy. Oh, and Mom’s bringing her friend, Allie.”

  “Allie?” He frowns.

  “Yeah, Allie’s visiting a friend and then they’re going to a spa or something. I’m glad we have a few extra days in L.A. before Vegas.” I have the dates and the map for our tour firmly in my mind. We’ll be home two months after L.A., before Halloween, Thanksgiving, Christmas, and Levy’s third birthday. Levy, born on Christmas day, was a gift to the world. But every baby is a gift.

  I look around the apartment where we’ve lived for the last three and a half years. The Indian bedspread over the couch, the silk flowers Mom gave me after my first recital when I was six, the prism hanging in the window that I used as a focus point during labor. I haven’t even had a chance to red
ecorate; since Levy was born, we’ve been so busy.

  “Can we go to the Grand Canyon? I’ve always wanted to see it and we’ll be so close in Vegas.”

  “The dudes want to go, too. Our dream’s almost here, babe,” Aaron says. “We’re on the verge.” He places Levy’s plastic plate on his tray and divides the omelet.

  “You and Levy are my dreams come true.” As soon as I voice the words, I want to snatch them out of the air.

  He laughs the bass version of Levy’s gurgle. “And you’re my angel. None of this means nothing without you. We’re a team. A team on the verge of a dream.”

  We don’t have mushy conversations much, but we tell each other I love you whenever we leave each other instead of saying goodbye. A lot of people must do that, but to us, it’s a reminder of our special connection.

  “You think this will change us?” I know his answer, but I need to hear it.

  “Don’t want it to. Just think, we won’t have to worry about money anymore. We can buy a house when we get back. We’ll have some time.”

  “We’ll worry about money differently.” I pick up my fork and begin eating. Buying a house together feels like a big commitment.

  “Have more fun.” He dots his eggs with Red Hot sauce.

  “Be able to help people.”

  “Shit. We’re doin’ that already. Supporting the whole crew. My homies. Right now it’s mostly expenses and promises.” His eggs are on his fork. “Before we were in that comfortable place of struggle and hope, wondering when it was going to happen. ’Member when we wrote lyrics and music without any expectation, just for the way it made us feel?” He eats the eggs on his fork. “Now we’ll be creating with certainty instead of hope, because our hard work will be paying off.” He nods. “Babe, it’s happening. We should enjoy the hell out of the blessing.”

  Sometimes he says what I think, before I even know I’m thinking it. I wondered about our luck since our demo CD started getting attention, and “Prohibitions of Prison” made it to number seven on the rap charts, and then this tour was booked. At first I was thrilled, but then there was that question of why me, why are we so lucky? There are others as talented, maybe even as hard-working, so how come we get to hit it big?