A Gift for My Sister: A Novel

by Ann Pearlman

  Destiny?

  Karma?

  Blind luck?

  His cell phone rings. “Hey, Red, you there already?”

  Levy smashes his eggs with his fork and then picks up the bits with his fingers.

  “Use your fork, Levy.”

  Levy squints at me. I wipe his hands and then he picks up his fork. He hates to have his hands or mouth wiped.

  “The crew there?”

  “You’re pretty good with that fork.” I try to encourage Levy.

  “Give me about thirty.” Aaron says into the phone.

  And so our day begins.

  Our last day before the whirlwind. Or maybe we’re already in it. Maybe I’ve been in it since I met him.

  That was five and a half years ago. Seems like forever. Seems like just yesterday. Even though I fought against it, I sense that our lives have been bound since before we were born.

  I was fifteen when I met Aaron, and he was seventeen. He was singing. Well, not singing, but making weird noises that accompanied the sticky swish of his roller against the wall as he painted. The wet kiss of the white paint, the slight sucking noise on the smooth wall. He was scat singing, and then I was ushered into the room.

  “You do the woodwork and edges,” the Habitat for Humanity staffer told me. “Oh, this is Aaron. Aaron, this is Tara.”

  He nodded at me.

  “Hey,” I said. That was it.

  I was handed a pail of white paint, a brush, and a small foam roller. He stopped singing and we worked silently. Him on one wall and me on window molding. All I could hear was the sticky paint, the whirl of his roller, the slurpy slap of the brush, the sweep of our clothes against our skin as we worked. The house was empty and each sound was exaggerated.

  It seemed as if we stood like that, each in our own corner of the room doing our own thing, for hours. I wanted to say something, but I’m not too good with small talk.

  So, I started humming a melody and he went back to making his louder, more bass sounds, and we made a weird music together. Music is always easier than talking.

  Then we started being silly, and I started making up lyrics.

  He added the exaggerated sound of his roller, dupwa dupwa. The tune rolled like the words that came to me from the brush slap-dashing paint on the wood. Then he started freestyling instead of doing the percussion.

  He put his roller down, turned me around, and said, “Who are you?”

  I shrugged and said, “Tara.”

  His eyes were so intensely black that they ricocheted from heaven to hell and pinned me against the wall I was painting.

  And then we started talking. Him, the black dude from Detroit on some special work-release program from kiddie jail, and me, the white nerdy girl from bougieville. But we were way beyond all that from the beginning.

  Luck. See what good luck I have?

  Sometimes it feels I have all the bad luck in the world, too.

  But I don’t care about what a lot of people care about. I don’t care much about clothes, for example. Or popularity. Or scads of money. I don’t even care about being careful, or if I fit in. My family is all divorced and my sister is only my half sister, and when I was growing up, all the other families seemed so perfect and intact. I knew from third grade there was no way I could fit in. Sky, my way-too-straight-edged sister, always tried to fit in and somehow managed to accomplish that. But me, I was weird and geeky and angry at all the stupid rules from the beginning. I was always thinking about sounds and music. Always in my own head thinking my thoughts.

  I almost didn’t volunteer for Habitat for Humanity that day. I would have preferred to lounge in bed under my warm covers, daydreaming about finding some black nail polish to go with my freshly dyed black hair. Then I thought, shit, I’m late. So I grabbed the bus.

  Why not.

  Just like that. Just like the surprise of a warm day in the middle of winter, I met Aaron, completely out of the blue.

  So he says, “You tryin’ to be some Goth babe?”

  I shrug. “I just did it last week. Called Black Pearl. Think I’ll get some more hoops in my ears and my nose pierced. Whaddya think?”

  He tilts his head. “If you want. But you beautiful without all that. You probably beautiful with your real-color hair. What color was it?”

  “Reddish blond.”

  He frowns then. “You dyed away red hair? Red hair is hot.”

  Maybe I didn’t want to be hot. I didn’t tell him why I dyed my hair, not then. I told him long after that, just before I dyed it back to my natural color.

  Here’s the reason. My dad and my mom are divorced because he fooled around on her. He betrayed and humiliated her.

  My first memory is Mom screaming her throat raw at him for being with another woman. A door slammed. She cried. I was alone in my crib, holding on to the top bar and wailing, and no one came. I used to think there was something she did that couldn’t keep him faithful. Like she wasn’t pretty enough. Or good enough in bed. Or nice enough. He was gone by the time I have any other memories and then, by the time I was eleven or twelve, he started living with another woman, Joanne. Joanne had blond hair and blue eyes. Skinny. Always made-up and dressed like she was in an advertisement. She tried hard to be good to me, buying me presents, taking me to concerts and shopping. I liked her, and sometimes she even felt like family.

  Then, one day, I was walking down Main Street, anticipating buying a bunch of tiny plastic snakes to sew onto my jean jacket, and there was my dad. He was holding hands with a woman who had long black hair. Long black hair almost down to her waist. You know, that beautiful hair that so many Asian women have. Long, straight, and heavy with the essence of hairness. Hair to coil or to let blow free in the wind. Black like the night, and the keys on a keyboard.

  My father met my eyes. And looked right through me as if I weren’t there.

  He didn’t drop her hand, that woman with the beautiful black hair.

  He didn’t stop and introduce me.

  He didn’t smile at me.

  He didn’t say hello to me.

  He saw me.

  Ignored me.

  As though I didn’t exist.

  My smile froze for a second as they walked past me.

  I crossed the street and bought black dye.

  Men want something different.

  And then I did the worst thing I’ve ever done. I’ve never told anyone before and no one ever caught me, although I think I wanted to be caught. Sometimes I don’t know what I’m going to do until I do it. This time I did know. A couple of years before I saw him with the other woman, my father showed me the bank statement with both our names and over ten thousand dollars. “It’s for your college education,” he said.

  That next Monday, I walked into the bank, my heart pounding but determined. I had my school ID. I walked up to the teller with frosted long red nails and eyelashes sticking straight up and so much mascara I wondered if her lids felt them when she blinked. I don’t know how I did it, but I turned my nervousness into acting friendly.

  “I need to withdraw some money from my account.”

  “You have to fill out this withdrawal slip, honey,” she said.

  “But I don’t know the number. Here’s my ID.” I handed her my high school ID with my picture and signature. “The account’s in my dad’s and my name.” I told her his name and address.

  She frowned at me.

  My heart started pounding in my chest. Sweat rolled down my sides. “He wants me to withdraw four hundred dollars because it’s my birthday next week and we’re going on a shopping spree. Today.”

  “Well. He should really come in with you.”

  I frowned. “That’s what I told him.” I rolled my eyes. “But he said he had to work, and then next week he’s going out of town, and this is the only day.” My story made me feel so sad, all the feelings of all the times my father disappointed me welled into my eyes. I was the little girl who never got a present from her father. Never once. Jo
anne picked them out when I got one. Or he handed me money. “Buy yourself something.” But mostly he forgot.

  Her mouth turned down.

  She picked up my ID and looked at it, looked at me, looked at my name on her computer screen. Filled out the number on the withdrawal slip, passed it under the window, and said, “Sign it. Put in your name and address.”

  She took the slip and pushed it in a machine. “How do you want it?” she asked.

  I didn’t know what she meant.

  “Twenties, fifties?”

  “Fifties, I guess.”

  She took some bills from her drawer, and counted them and slid them to me. I folded them in half and stuffed them in my jean pocket. “Thanks,” I called as I left the bank.

  I knew just where I was going.

  I went to the piano store and it was still there. There was even a red sign saying Clearance. I’d dreamt about it since I first saw it when I came to pick up some sheet music months before. I walked by the store and peered in the window to make sure it hadn’t been sold. A keyboard. On sale. Slightly used. It had everything: sixty-one full-sized keys that felt like ivory, 128 instrument voices. Imagine that. Over 180 rhythm styles, five-song memory with sixteen tracks for each song. I could be my own orchestra. I could be my own rock band. I could mix and remix any sound I ever heard or imagined. And it was on sale, for $350.

  The man recognized me. “So you’ve come back, huh? Better get it fast. Someone else is interested. Might be coming by to get it today.”

  I was just a teenager, but I knew bullshit when I heard it. Even so, I pulled the wad of fifties out of my pocket, counted out seven, and handed them to him.

  “And do you want the stand? That’s another hundred.”

  “Maybe later.”

  He put the instruction booklet on top as he boxed it up.

  On the bus home, I placed it in the seat beside me like it was another person, keeping one hand on it.

  My father never said a thing to me. Probably never even noticed.

  Mom wasn’t home when I got there. I unpacked my new possession and started playing. It had an earphone jack, so Mom couldn’t hear me practice. I had figured out how to be a teenager. Play my music, then I could block out what was going on around me. The keyboard with the sound world at my fingertips and earphones so I heard nothing but what I played. My perfect escape.

  Mom saw it in my room, frowned, and asked, “Where’d you get that?”

  “Dad gave it to me for my birthday.”

  “When? Your birthday was half a year ago.”

  “Last month.” I shrugged and looked away. “You know Dad. He’s always late. Or forgets. It was on clearance.” I knew she’d never ask him. She can’t bear talking to him. And then I asked if she wanted to hear my latest song, and she listened, but soon her eyes started shifting with preoccupation.

  “That sounds great, honey.”

  It was the automatic praise that parents assign their child when they’re not really paying attention.

  She stood up, and left to do all the things she had to do.

  I didn’t tell Aaron any of this that first day. The month before Levy was born, I dyed my hair back to my natural color and told Aaron everything. I was still haunted by my dad’s philandering. Since then I’ve put platinum and bright red streaks in my hair—makes me look better on stage. And that’s what matters now.

  So that’s how I met Special Intent. That’s where we were: him painting with a roller and me with an itty-bitty brush. That’s how I came to be living in Detroit, as it fell down around us, hanging out with my keyboard, my man, his people, and our brown-skinned, ringletted, big-eyed, long-lashed baby. That’s how we came to be on the verge.

  You never know what wonderful thing is going to happen next, even when everything seems so bad.

  And then he says to me, while our beautiful Levy beats out a rhythm with his fork, “Babe. You never know what wonderful thing is going to happen next.” Proving that despite my mistrust, our thoughts are aligned.

  CHAPTER TWO

  A Changed Man

  Sky

  TROY AND I don’t make love that night. By the time he gets home from work, he has chills. “I think I’m getting the flu,” he says, as he drags himself up the stairs to crawl into bed.

  “Daddy, see what I did!” Rachel holds out her hand and pulls him down the few stairs he’s climbed and points to her potty. “Look. Looky.” She opens the lid.

  The pail is filled with more pee and a few poops. “Hey. I’m so proud of you.” He leans down to pick her up and twirl her around, but his spin is only a half turn before he stands her on the ground. He reaches out a hand to steady himself and I realize how ill he is.

  “She saved these all day to show you.” I turn to Rachel. “Now we can put them away and say bye-bye.” I carry the pail, and Rachel and Troy follow me.

  “You happy, Daddy?”

  Troy squats so that he is eye level with her. He reaches out a hand to caress her hair. “I’m proud of you, Rachel. I’m so proud of you.” He looks up at me. “Just like Mommy. Setting goals and not wasting time.”

  Rachel grins, leans into him, and wraps her arms around him. When she touches his shoulder, he recoils, but then relaxes into her small embrace.

  I hand the pail to Rachel and watch as she pours it into the toilet, her hand steadied by Troy’s. She flushes, then waves as the whirlpool carries her treasure away.

  She tries to kiss him and he pulls back. “I’m not feeling well. Don’t want you to catch it, sweetie.” She runs through the living room and opens the glass door. Standing on the balcony, she presses her lips against the glass. Her mouth forms a pink splayed flower. She remains there, mouth flattened against the glass, as Troy bends down and presses his lips on the other side. For a few seconds, the glass separates their mouths, and then Rachel makes the kiss-pop with her lips and Troy stands.

  “I kissed you, Daddy. I kissed you!” she squeals.

  When he takes off his shirt, I notice the red, swollen area of flesh has spread from under the Band-Aid and threatens to cover his entire shoulder. The rash reaches down an arm and to his lower back. When I peel off the Band-Aid, the pimple oozes stringy pus and a thick, bloody paste. I touch the hot skin around it, and Troy shudders.

  “It hurts when I touch it?”

  “No, your hand feels like ice.”

  “Urgent Care is still open. We’re going.”

  I pack Rachel a peanut butter sandwich, coloring books, her blanket, and Maddie, a bunny whose fur has been mostly loved away.

  “Maddie needs her backpack, Mommy.” Rachel struggles to strap a miniature pack over the bunny’s arms. I throw in a juice box and some apples, grab a book, and off we go.

  I don’t tell Troy I lost my job.

  I don’t tell him how scared I am.

  I tell myself I’m being ridiculous. They’ll give him antibiotics and he’ll be better. He’s young and healthy.

  At the triage desk, they ask him a few questions and take down our hospital card number. Our family physician is part of this system, so they have access to all our medical records. The nurse, a woman with a sad mouth, writes down his symptoms.

  “He has a fever, and a sore on his shoulder that seems infected.” I put my hand on his cheek.

  “Daddy sick,” Rachel announces and then nods to affirm the fact.

  The nurse points us to the waiting room. “We’ll call you.” The room is more than half full. Two other families huddle around the tables. We step over the legs of a young man sleeping with his jacket as a blanket and sit on the three chairs next to him. Rachel pulls out a coloring book and crayons and begins to color.

  The waiting begins. I wonder if I should tell Troy I lost my job. He tilts back in the chair and folds his arms around himself. “I’m cold,” he complains. I ask if there’s a blanket they can lend him, but the triage nurse says, “They’ll take him back in a moment.” I glance at the families in the waiting room and figure that
means Troy has jumped to the front of the line. It worries me more.

  “Devon,” the nurse announces.

  The youth slides his arms in his jacket and ambles away. I feel sad he’s alone. But maybe he wants to be. Maybe he has some STD. I move away from the seat he’d been sitting in.

  Rachel colors a rocking horse. She can’t stay in the lines yet, but scrubs the paper with red as though brightness is enough.

  “Pee-pee, Mommy,” she says.

  I take her hand and look for the bathroom. “Good for you for remembering.” I’d forgotten.

  In the bathroom, she looks at the adult toilet and then looks up at me with her brows together and her mouth in a straight line.

  “I’ll hold you up, how’s that?”

  I put my hands under her arms and hold her until she’s finished.

  “I did it. I did it right in the big girl’s potty.”

  “You’re amazing,” I tell her.

  I wash both our hands, using lots of soap to wash away any germs from the hospital.

  When we return to the waiting area, Troy is gone. The sorrowful triage nurse directs me to his cubicle. A male nurse squeezes a blood pressure bulb, and then the thermometer in Troy’s mouth beeps. A thermal blanket covers him. The nurse pulls out the thermometer and looks at it.

  “103.8.” He writes down the number and says, “And your blood pressure is low. The doctor will be right in.”

  “I pee-peed in the big potty, Daddy,” Rachel says. “Like the one you and Mommy use.”

  “I’m proud of you, sweetie.” Troy forces a grin.

  “Daddy sick.” Rachel hasn’t bought his fake enthusiasm.

  “Yes. But I’m still proud of you, and if I weren’t sick I’d be jumping up and down for joy,” he tells her.

  She tries to crawl up on his hospital bed using the bars as a ladder. “No, sweetie. I don’t want you to catch what I have.”

  A woman with red curly hair past her shoulders enters. “Hello. I’m Dr. Shapiro. So. Tell me about this sore.”

  Troy tells the story as she examines it with gloved fingers. “We’ll need a biopsy to run some tests.”