A Gift for My Sister: A Novel

by Ann Pearlman

  Sky wiggles out of Smoke’s paternal hug. She shakes her head. “Apple doesn’t fall far, huh, Tara.” A smug pout touches her lips when she says this. And then she tilts her chin up and, really, honest to God, clicks her tongue in her mouth, staring at me with those opaque gray eyes that see right through you.

  And I haven’t done a thing except sing my own song.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Apple Doesn’t Fall Far

  Sky

  THE LAST TIME I saw Tara perform, she was ten. In late spring after my college term ended, Mom and Troy and I watched her walk on stage, sit in front of the piano, and poise her fingers above the keyboard. She inhaled, and then hit a Rachmaninoff chord, her stretching fingers confidently pounding the keys. The music, saturating the small auditorium, was so much grander than the skinny kid with her hair in two French braids. Mom and I presented her with a bouquet of silk peonies that now sit in her Detroit apartment. She’s so attached to anything we’ve given her.

  Now, in Albuquerque, Allie and I sit in the front row. I try to absorb the excitement of the crowd, but find it difficult.

  Most important you have you, Tara had said.

  No. Most important I have Rachel. I don’t know if I ever had me other than my collection of goals to attain and hoops to jump through. Me is a sense of constant inadequacy. I’m never proficient, safe, or good enough. I’m not Troy and I can’t make up for him.

  The auditorium is dim now, and Allie pays attention to the audience dressed in colorful clothing and crazy makeup. The people around me are young, tattooed, and pierced. Not much different from the people on Venice Beach. They’re thrilled by the first group singing in Spanish as well as English, and I enjoy the buzz of their lyrics, incomprehensible to me, but a perfectly distracting escape into my own thoughts.

  Troy would have taught Rachel how to dive. “Look into my eyes. You’re going to sail through the air and your fingertips are going to slice through the water,” he’d have told her. He would have shown her quadratic equations and beamed with pride as she dressed for a prom or graduated from high school. I see all these moments in flashes . . . Troy standing on a diving board with her, handing her flowers at graduation. Years zoom through airbrushed Hallmark card moments. Father-daughter assemblages that I always wanted, that I never had, that I assumed would be hers and Troy’s.

  Tara never had any of that either.

  What we got, both of us, was pain. And for the first time, I see our differences as minute in comparison to that. A sisterly bond of pain, even though Tara won’t embrace it. She never talks about Stephen. I wonder what influence his philandering has had.

  She’s an adult with a son of her own. A man who loves her. She’s solved her dilemma. And meanwhile, my daughter will go through what I had to. At least both of us know our fathers loved us.

  I blame myself, but I still can’t figure out what I did wrong.

  For the first time in a long time, I enjoyed getting dressed for Tara’s concert. My shampoo smelled of ginger, my shower gel of lavender. I smoothed body lotion with sparkles on my skin. I ran a flat iron through my hair, noting it’s too long and needs a trim. Yellow shadow made my eyes even grayer. I put on mascara and combed through my lashes. I was aware as I did all this that I was paying attention to myself for the first time since Troy died. We dropped Rachel backstage to be with Levy, and she ran into Smoke’s arms and then galloped away holding Levy’s hand.

  Tara strolls on the stage wearing a sequined top with an orange lightning bolt through the black. Half her face is orange, and green shadows her eyes. Highlights stripe her hair, and she’s pulled spiky points around her face. Each movement—the way she steps in her stilettos, the way her hips catch up to her forward action—broadcasts power. Tara commands that theater and when she steps up to her keyboard, she’s home and queen of her world.

  Smoke’s motions don’t change, just the way he spits out words and sings the percussion. He’s still the bear who soothes the group while T-Bone rockets the melody and sexes up everything with exaggerated hip rolls and gestures to his groin. I wonder if he and Brooke spent the night together. I wonder if he’s as good as he advertises or if it’s all a façade. Special focuses on the audience, playing to them. And I understand now how he so quickly rescued Rachel. He’s tuned in to subtle signals, almost as if he has a sixth sense.

  Smoothly he lets the audience know he’s one of them, and then switches up singing about New Mexico—the sandy country, fiery sun, tortillas, and beans. Turquoise and soft coral.

  He introduces Tara. For a quick second, her eyes widen with fear. When she starts singing, her first note is off key. Her eyes bolt around the auditorium. The crew readies to rescue her.

  She can’t do it, I think with joy. Isn’t that awful? I see my sister screw up and I’m happy. When she feels nothing but sorrow over my sadness.

  She starts again, playing a note that forms a new base. She sings alone, dancing to what must be a song she wrote, commanding the theater with words about love. She turned a falter into a success, just like she always does.

  Ironic, I think, that Tara, who is so comfortable with being alone, is singing love’s praises. All love changes, she tells us. Yes. It dies, I think.

  The crowd goes crazy. How do I feel? Watching her, my little sister: The Star. She’s her, but not her. Dressed up and glamorized like she’s some hot celebrity, someone extraordinary. Remote from the pest following me and spying. She’s flashy and powerful. Her eyes, huge and green with their shadow, watch Special and glance at the audience, gathering us all up.

  And she plays her own song.

  Her own damn song.

  I hate God. That’s terrible to think. But I do. I hate that He has let this happen to me. Me. Who has always been good. Obedient.

  Tara’s voice caresses her lyrics, revealing our lives. It’s her reaction to Troy. Aaron. Levy. She blasts her love out.

  I wonder if we ever paid attention.

  I wonder if we give love so it’s received. What if someone offers love, but you don’t recognize it and it goes right past you? Whisssh. You miss it.

  And then Tara ends. Just love.

  I guess maybe that’s all you can do. Love regardless, not to the destruction of yourself, but in spite of yourself. Love and hope the people you throw it to catch it.

  The crowd stomps, sings, screams, whistles. The women are thrilled with the message.

  Why her?

  Why her and not me?

  Then Allie pulls my hand and we’re on our way backstage. A table with food, a throng around Tara and Aaron. Rachel runs to me, her face painted half orange like Tara’s, but a smeary mess. Rachel did it herself, trying to look like her aunt, and I’m disheartened.

  There’s a crowd around Tara congratulating her on her solo debut. Aaron hugs her, and the crew claps her on the back like she’s one of the guys. A reporter asks her questions, and Levy hangs on her leg.

  A man dressed in an Armani suit groomed smooth as silk hands Tara a bouquet of orange roses as thick as her torso and a small box. She removes the ribbon and flips the lid.

  Gemstones flare sparkles.

  The elegant, polished man presses his hands together and backs away.

  Aaron’s expression darkens and freezes.

  A gift from another man.

  Caught her.

  It’s not so all-perfect as Little Miss Star would want us to believe.

  “Apple doesn’t fall far, does it, Tara.” My own voice—how it hisses out between my teeth, its spiteful thrill—shocks me.

  I watch her eyes as she follows Aaron pivoting away from her, as she glances at the flashing ornament in her open palm, as a woman with a tattoo of peacock feathers on her arm touches Aaron’s shoulder and with decorated nails draws him close to her and then traces her fingertip across his shoulder, up his neck, and around his ear.

  Tara slowly blinks and closes her eyes as though to wipe away the image, or maybe to hide the tears. Then she lifts her
chin, puts the flowers on the floor, pulls the chain from the box, opens the lobster-claw clasp, and places it around her neck. The key sits right below her collarbone and rests between her breasts. The final touch—classy and exotic—to her persona. Whoever bought it read, or knows, her well.

  She holds Levy in one arm, the flowers in the other, and walks away.

  Allie follows.

  Tara’s shoulders slump, her back curves as her head hangs low. She turns to Levy, and in profile, her makeup looks childish, like that of a little girl dressed for Halloween, no longer the exotic, flashy star.

  I should feel sorry for her.

  But, even though it’s horrible, I don’t. Tara deserves this for what she put Mom through, disappearing, once for an entire weekend, skipping school, mouthing off, falling in love with a dude in prison and getting pregnant in high school.

  I don’t even feel guilty that I’m pleased to see life pivot against her. Why should I feel all the sorrow?

  Maybe now that I see she’s having a bump in her life, we can be friends. Maybe I can forgive her for being successful against the odds, forgive her for turning the impossible dream into a reality.

  That night, we drive to Allie’s brother David’s house, where we’re spending a day before heading to Memphis. Troy and I drove from Ann Arbor to L.A. through Denver once. The crew came out that way; now they’re taking the more southern route with performances along the way. The concert locations determine the route. Luckily, David is only a few miles off the highway.

  Tara decides to ride with Allie, Rachel, and Levy, avoiding Aaron.

  I ask Smoke if I can ride in the U-Haul.

  He looks hard at me and nods slowly, and then shrugs one shoulder.

  “I want to be close to my things, I guess,” I tell him.

  And then I instantly worry that I’ve disregarded him, when I find his solidity so comforting. I think of adding, I like being with you, too, but that sounds stupid.

  I can’t do anything, even the smallest thing, right.

  The kids are fast asleep. Allie leads the way in my car.

  Smoke and I bring up the rear in the U-Haul. We’re the only vehicles on a road that winds through mountains that block the spangled sky and cast ominous shadows. I gaze out the window.

  Smoke hums a beat. He’s amusing himself, accompanying the sounds from the car engine and the road, or maybe working out percussion for one of the raps.

  After a half hour or so, he says, “Tara’s at a crossroads. You know?”

  “No.”

  “King’s trying to woo her away from Special and the crew.”

  “King? The King?”

  “Uhmmm,” he nods. “He showed up at the L.A. concert, and in Alburquerque. That dude with the necklace was one of his people.”

  “Is he trying to woo her away for sex?”

  “Sex?” He shakes his head and turns to me. Even in the darkness, the shadows his brows throw deepen his eyes. “Maybe that, too. But mostly for her talent and how it can help him. She keeps backing off and he ups the ante. That necklace, well, that’s a huge ante.”

  “Yes.”

  “Always a struggle between doing your own thing and compromising. How much do you give up for love, for your homies. Especially for an artist, since expressing a personal vision is paramount.”

  “I assumed she was fooling around. You know, like people do.” Troy and I talked about how much we should forfeit of I for we. All couples, I guess, struggle with this, but women usually make the compromises, giving up self for couplehood.

  “Maybe King would advance her musical career. Maybe not. Who knows what the future brings for Key and Special.” He hugs a curve and I feel the swing of my worldly goods back of us. “King can guarantee her fame now but also guarantee that she’ll lose Aaron, and the rest of us.”

  Tara convinced me that she and Aaron were unique, but maybe he’s merely a rung on a ladder. “What about you, Smoke?”

  “For me, the music is about how it makes me feel. A meditation. For Tara it’s who she is. She could uncover new rooms inside her by creating her own music. That’s the symbol behind the key. What happens next says lots about what’s inside Tara. And Aaron.”

  “Did Aaron tell you this?”

  “Nope. I’ve seen it with my own eyes.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  The Connectedness of It All

  Tara

  ALLIE FOLLOWS ME into the dressing room. I put Levy down on the cot and look for a vase for the flowers. I remove the bag of trash from a plastic bin, fill it with water, and cram in the roses. The stems completely stuff the pail and a heady miasma pervades the room.

  Orange roses.

  I stare at the embellished key around my neck in the mirror. It’s shaped almost like an ankh, the ancient Egyptian symbol for eternal life.

  But you don’t live on after you die. Not really. It’s just people’s ever-changing judgments that continue.

  Allie, her hair in ringlets, wearing a very low black blouse, white pants, and a white wrap, smiles at me in the mirror. “It’s beautiful. So beautiful.”

  I touch it to claim it. “I usually don’t care much about material stuff.”

  We watch each other’s reflections and then I say, “There’s something about this, though.”

  “It’s not about the charm. It’s about what it represents. Putting yourself first. Independence.”

  “And security,” I add.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Accepting it leads to artistic acclaim and financial security. I can’t, like, do anything but music. King has his own record label. Last year he helped Karma and the Kicks win a Grammy. He develops people. If I went with him, I’d never have to play for pennies on the beach, which is a possibility now. Aaron and me and the crew might never take off, and we could fade away.”

  I continue, “Working with King means I’d be doing okay forever. Levy and I.”

  “When I was young, I cared about fame.” I see Allie’s profile in the mirror turned to look at the real me, not the mirror me. “But I don’t care about it now.”

  “Why not?”

  She frowns, shrugs, and turns back to the mirror. “I guess for me fame was about immortality, and now that I’m closer, I’m not as frightened by my own death. And it was about being able to make a difference, have an impact on the world. I guess I’ve done that one patient at a time.”

  My eyes squint in the mirror as I consider what Allie says. “For me it’s about giving my music to the world. It’s about being vindicated in who I am, regardless. But the money is tempting, to give Levy security.”

  Allie nods. “Vindicated in who you are regardless . . . of your father?”

  “Yes. Like it . . . he . . . doesn’t matter.”

  “Don’t take what happened with your father personally.”

  But he’s my father, I want to scream.

  “It doesn’t say or mean anything about who you are. Just who he is. And you’d never do that to Levy.” Allie’s eyes meet mine in the mirror.

  I touch the twinkle on the largest jewel. “King couldn’t have realized how much this means. A symbol of my music, and Sky and me, and fame, and life all at once and together. It empowers me to do anything.”

  “I think it’s more like a magic feather, like Dumbo’s.”

  “Dumbo? Oh—he, like, thinks he can fly as long as he holds the feather, but he can fly all by himself.”

  “You got it. All along it’s him, not the feather.”

  I continue staring at the mirror. So does Allie. Both of us side by side, talking to each other’s reflections instead of our faces.

  “Are you interested in him?” she asks.

  “I would be if I didn’t have Aaron. I mean, I had a crush on him when I was a kid. But now . . .” I shrug as my voice trails away, “I mean, I have a family. I love Aaron. I don’t trust it’ll last, but I’d feel desolate if we split. How could I hurt Levy like that?”

  “But. I hear the
but.”

  I shrug and glance at my hands resting on the clutter of my makeup: shadows and blush, bottles of foundation and compacts, and glistening tubes of lipsticks. “Aaron . . . he let that other woman kiss him. He did it to get back at me. To hurt me. To make me pay attention.”

  “Intimacy is a dance of distance, individuality, and compromise. The only way you get things exactly how you want is living alone.” Allie tilts her head back and laughs with a mixture of merriment and bitterness. “And that of course has its own tremendous joys and sorrows. Like you said, love changes once you let yourself just love.”

  I stare at my reflection now. The orange paint is still in place, and the green cat eyes make me look wise and wild, when really I feel neither; I feel uncertain and insecure. I’ve always used artifice to put on a face for the world. Dyeing my hair black and studding my ears, eyebrows, and nose when I was a teenager. The makeup that transforms me into Li’l Key. Is it vanity? Masquerade? A shield? All three, I realize.

  The stones glimmer with a radiance I can’t come near to matching.

  “I may have already screwed it up. Or rather King did.”

  “That was his plan, wasn’t it?” Allie meets my eyes in the mirror.

  I consider what I’d be selling if I bought what King has to offer. And think about how much he’d control me and my music.

  “Ultimately it depends on what success is to you. Is it being some hot-shit celebrity whose concerts cost eighty bucks? Or is it following the pull of your work and nurturing it to develop in its unique way?” Allie puts her hands on the counter and leans toward the mirror as though to get closer to me. “Maybe the musician playing for pennies on the beach fully explores her own talent and gives joy to all the people who pass by. And all people can enjoy the music without having to pay a ton of money.”

  Maybe. Seems like if a song is way popular, then you’ve touched more people. But maybe you have to dim it down, smooth it out for that to happen, and it loses its edge.

  Or maybe you’re lucky. Your voice and what people desire end up matching.

  I pull the jar of cold cream toward me, smear it on my face to wipe off Key, revealing Tara once again.