Sisters One, Two, Three

by Nancy Star

  At some point every afternoon, Glory would emerge, shuffling downstairs and offering a vague wave as she passed. It wasn’t clear whether she’d come down to replenish her bowl of ice or was just curious to see what everyone thought was so funny. What was clear—Ginger could tell by the look on her face—was that she wasn’t happy with this arrangement, her children under the spell of Evelyn’s good-natured care.

  It was the middle of October, the first of the crimson leaves on the red maple outside their dining room beginning to fall, when Glory’s headaches stopped. Just like that, one day Ginger woke up and found her mother at the kitchen stove working the frying pan.

  “Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes,” Glory announced as she doled out fried eggs, yolks hard, whites with crispy edges and the surprise crunch of a hidden shell. “Did you miss me terribly?”

  Ginger and Mimi shouted back, “Yes!” while Callie, who still wasn’t speaking much, gave a nod.

  As for Glory’s recovery, Ginger had several theories for how it came about. Maybe the doctor she saw for headaches finally figured out how to help. Or maybe it was the group she had decided to give a go at joining. Ginger had assumed this was a consciousness-raising group, until she overheard Solly tell Evelyn that every woman in the group had lost someone, except for one woman who lost twins. Whatever the reason, within a few days Glory went from cooking breakfast in her bathrobe to cooking dinner wearing a new dress, and with full makeup on.

  “I have good news,” she sang out as she passed the lamb chops. “Buddy has scheduled our season.” Buddy Desadario was the new director of her theater group. “I’m not thrilled the first play is Harvey, of all things. But after Harvey we’re doing A Doll’s House. Nora.” Her eyes brightened. “Imagine.”

  When Mimi asked if Evelyn was going out for Nora too, Glory laughed away the question. “Evelyn’s not in the group anymore. Never had the right temperament for it. Besides, she’s moving. It’s too much house for her, all things considered.”

  Ginger, working hard to keep her expression blank, forgot to pay attention to her posture.

  “Books on your head,” her mother reminded her.

  Several weeks after the news that Evelyn was moving, Glory asked Ginger if she was interested in helping their neighbor pack. “You don’t have to,” Glory said. “You’re not her slave.” She was sitting at the dining room table working on a puzzle, but it was slow-going. Over that fall, she seemed to have lost the ability to concentrate for long stretches. “Evelyn said she’ll pay you. Where she gets her money, I haven’t the foggiest.” She glanced up and took in Ginger’s pale face and stooped posture. Ginger’s stomach had been bothering her ever since the day she heard Evelyn was moving. “You all right? Course you are. You can do what you want—help Evelyn pack or not. Makes no difference to me.”

  When Ginger walked into the Clarke house, Evelyn seemed to see the emptied rooms through her eyes. “I told Paul to take whatever he wanted, and I guess he wanted a lot.” Shelves previously jammed with record albums and books had been purged. The few that remained collapsed in on each other. Photographs had been extracted too, leaving blank spots on walls, with hooks and faded wallpaper as placeholders. There were also big things missing, like the TV in the den and the stereo. “I don’t really watch TV,” Evelyn said. “Or listen to music. I haven’t exactly been dancing around the house.” The only thing that felt familiar was the smell of something baking. The timer rang. “Brownies,” Evelyn told her as they moved to the kitchen. She pulled a tray out of the oven. “Let’s let them cool while we work.”

  She had already done a lot of packing. There were boxes everywhere—closed, labeled, and stacked against the wall. Open cabinet doors revealed a small pile of luncheon plates, a smattering of crystal glasses. Evelyn could have easily finished the job alone.

  “Let me show you a trick.” She got the lunch dishes and demonstrated how to pack, alternating sheets of newspaper with plates so that every plate was protected. “Want to give it a try?” After Ginger did, she proclaimed, “Exactly right. You’re a natural.”

  Ginger packed carefully, but she knew no matter how slowly she wrapped the plates with paper, it would not be slow enough to keep Evelyn from going.

  “I have to move,” Evelyn said, as if reading her mind. “I can’t stay here anymore.”

  Ginger didn’t ask why. “You can come and live with us.”

  Evelyn laughed. “That’s sweet. But I have a place. I’m going to be a washashore. On the Vineyard full-time. Thomas is going to join me soon as school ends. Don’t know what I’d have done if Paul didn’t agree to that.”

  “What will you do there?” Ginger had no idea what anyone did, except go to the beach.

  “Work in my brother-in-law’s business. He’s a contractor. Remember Bob and Minty?” Ginger nodded and Evelyn repeated, “Bob and Minty. Dependable as daylight.”

  Bob and Minty made Ginger think of Evelyn’s brother. “Will Mr. Diggans live here now?”

  “Casper?” Evelyn laughed. “No. He’s on the island full-time now. That’s who I’m moving in with until Thomas comes. Then we’ll move into our own place. Paul would not stand for it if Thomas lived with Casper. He hates him.” She shook her head. “Can you imagine having someone hate your brother?” She suddenly remembered Ginger no longer had a brother. “Of course you couldn’t. No one hated Charlie. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have brought that up.”

  “It’s okay. I don’t mind. No one talks about Charlie at all.” It felt good to say his name out loud.

  Evelyn looked relieved. “Good. All I meant was, it feels bad to find out someone you care about hates someone in your family.” She stopped to consider this. “You don’t think I hate your mother, do you? Because I don’t.”

  Ginger couldn’t imagine Evelyn hating anyone. “No. My father doesn’t like your brother, either, but I don’t know why.” She wasn’t sure this was okay to say. “Sorry.”

  “Oh, don’t worry. I’m not surprised. It’s like that with Casper. He means well, though. You know, your mom and Casper, they really are like two peas in a pod. The way they love to spin a yarn.” Ginger felt on dangerous ground and said nothing. “With Casper, I can always tell. The story will suddenly drift into that other dimension. You know, everything is going along fine, it’s just another story, you’re barely paying attention, and all of a sudden the story changes course and you’re sitting there thinking, wait a minute. That didn’t happen. But of course, you can’t say that. You can never, ever say that. If you did, when you do, they just look at you like, what’s wrong with you. Like you’re the crazy one. You’re the one who’s out of your mind. You know what I mean?”

  Ginger felt nearly paralyzed, because she did know. She knew exactly. It was as if Evelyn had gone into her brain and then said out loud every thought Ginger felt forbidden to think. But there was no way she could agree. Did Evelyn understand that?

  “I guess some things probably are best left unsaid.” She tore off a strip of packing tape and closed up the box Ginger had filled. “Hey, let’s talk about the new people. The people moving in here asked me if I knew any babysitters on the block. Can you believe it? I told them, ‘Are you kidding? Only the very best one who lives right next door.’”

  “I don’t think I’m allowed to babysit anymore.”

  “That will change.” Evelyn got up on a stool. “How about you bring these home for your mom. A present from me.” She passed down a set of champagne glasses. “I don’t think I’ll be toasting anything anytime soon.” She remembered something else. “I have a gift for you. Come with me. I’ll show you.”

  They went up to her bedroom, another place that looked purged, with open closet doors revealing empty space where Paul Clarke’s clothes once hung.

  Evelyn picked up a small round music box that sat on her dresser. “Found this in the basement. Paul gave it to me a hundred years ago.” She wiped some dust off with her sleeve and handed it over. “Made me think of you. Turn the cra
nk. It plays a song.”

  Ginger sat on the bed and turned the crank and listened to the scratchy tune and Evelyn sang along. “Beautiful dreamer . . .” Her voice was quiet and low. “Wake unto me.” She couldn’t carry a tune like Glory. “Starlight and dewdrops are waiting for thee.” But she didn’t seem to care. “Sounds of the rude world.” She locked eyes with Ginger as she sang. “Heard in the day.” And when Ginger’s eyes began to fill with tears, Evelyn’s filled too, as if in reply. “Lull’d by the moonlight have all pass’d away.”

  Ginger stared at the dented tin box. Even though it looked old, the colors of the children painted around the circumference seemed vibrant and alive.

  “This will be you someday.” Evelyn tapped the figure of a young girl driving a car. The girl’s dark hair floated behind her head as if blown there by the wind, and her hands, covered in white gloves, held tight to the yellow steering wheel of the red convertible. Behind the car, puffs of smoke trailed like earthbound clouds. “You know I’m not leaving you. I’ll write to you all the time. I’ll write so many letters you’ll wish I would stop. And someday, when you’re old enough to drive”—she tapped the girl on the music box again—“you’ll come visit me and Thomas. You’re going to be okay,” she promised. “You’ll be better than okay. You’ll be a wise, kind grown-up. You’ll see.” She stopped to think about it. “There’s one of us in every family, you know. Human lie detectors. Geiger counters set to listen for the truth.” Even though they were alone in the house, she whispered, “Your mother does the best she can. And she loves you, truly, in her way.” She stood up and her face turned stern. “I want you to remember this. Nothing is your fault. Not what happened last summer. Not what’s happening now. You’re going to be in charge of the world someday, Ginger, but you’re not in charge yet.”

  The doorbell rang. Evelyn set the music box on her dresser. They hurried downstairs.

  “Look who’s come to help us,” Evelyn said when she opened the door.

  Glory’s mood wasn’t good upon arrival, but the gift of the champagne glasses worked like magic. Her smile turned real as she held a glass to the window to admire its graceful shape. “These are actual crystal,” she told Ginger, and then tapped the rim so Ginger could hear the ping that proved it. She carried the box to the door. “I guess this is good-bye.” She and Evelyn touched cheeks.

  Then Evelyn put her hand on Ginger’s shoulder. “Do I get a hug?” When Ginger didn’t move, she told her, “I’ll be gone when you get home from school tomorrow.”

  Because Glory was right there watching, Ginger couldn’t do what she wanted, which was to hug Evelyn so hard it might convince her to stay. She did manage to squeeze tight enough that Glory elbowed her and said, “Jeez Louise, Jack LaLanne. You trying to break her in half?” They all laughed at that. But as she laughed, Ginger felt her eyes welling with tears, so she excused herself, saying she had cramps, and ran home.

  First one out of the house the next day, she noticed the top of the milk box on the front step was ajar. She swooped down and scooped up the music box before anyone noticed, and then tucked it in her jacket.

  As her mother pulled out of the driveway, Ginger glanced back at the Clarke house and for a moment thought she saw a face peering out the living room window. But there was no one home. Evelyn’s car was gone. The house was dark and abandoned. She quickly turned away.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  “No funeral.” Ginger put down the letter. “That’s what it says.”

  “Ridiculous.” Mimi disappeared into the dining room, and Ginger heard her clanging around the liquor cabinet. “Every single bottle is empty,” she reported when she came back. She opened the cabinets on either side of the sink. “Someone who loved Harvey Wallbangers has to have vodka somewhere.” She moved to the cabinet opposite the stove and narrated its contents. “Matzo Meal, tomato soup, Drano, Preparation H. Why are we paying attention to a letter written by a woman who was out of her mind?”

  “What she means,” Ginger translated for Callie, “is that Mom wasn’t herself.”

  Callie nodded. “I know.”

  Mimi disappeared into the pantry and came back a moment later holding a Slinky. “Here we go.” Her hands began to move, slightly up, slightly down, and the room fell silent to the chin-ching, chin-ching, of the coils. “Right here.” She stopped and the metal spiral settled, rearranging itself into two unequal halves. “Our inheritance. A Slinky and a letter from a lunatic.”

  “From someone suffering from dementia,” Ginger corrected her.

  “This was written before that.” Callie pointed to the date at the top of the letter.

  September, Ginger saw. September, two years ago. Two years ago, Julia was fifteen. She hadn’t yet met Nick. She hadn’t cut a day of school. Her worst transgression then? Texting at the table. Ginger turned to Callie. “Is that when you and Mom reconciled? Two years ago?”

  Before Callie could respond, a door banged open upstairs. The barking dog was loose. They could hear him galumphing above and then careening down the stairs. His paws fought for traction on the wood floor in the foyer and then scrambling, he righted himself and burst into the kitchen. The dog, a springer spaniel, all white fur and liver-colored spots, ran slightly off kilter; his tail wagged so fast it looked comical. Of all people, he chose Mimi to explore first, skidding over and placing his head on her lap, gazing up at her with horsey brown eyes.

  “Get that beast off me.”

  “Echo,” Callie called. The dog turned toward her. “It’s okay.”

  He wagged his way over to Ginger who said, “He’s beautiful.”

  “Thank you.” Callie whistled softly and the dog came and lay down at her feet. “After the cremation, Mom wants a memorial service. Nothing big, just a short ceremony as we scatter her ashes. At the house or at sea. Whichever we want.”

  “What?” Mimi grabbed the letter. “How am I supposed to explain this to the boys? They know cremation is against our religion.”

  But Ginger was bothered by something else. “Why at the sea?” That seemed cruel. “And why at the house? We’re selling the house. She knew that. She decided that. On her own.”

  Mimi narrowed her eyes. “Is that what this is about? Do you think you’re getting the house? Because—don’t shoot the messenger, Callie—but Gingie’s right. Mom took out a reverse mortgage behind our backs. Her house belongs to the bank.”

  “Oh. No. She didn’t mean this house.” Callie turned the paper over. There was more writing on the back. “She means the other house. The house on Martha’s Vineyard.”

  Ginger shook off a chill. “That house isn’t ours. We rented it one time. Why would she want us to scatter her ashes on someone else’s property?”

  “It’s not someone else’s. It’s ours.”

  Echo’s head was back on Mimi’s lap, but this time she was too excited to notice. “We own a house on Martha’s Vineyard?”

  “We don’t,” Ginger told her. “That was a rental. One month. One time.”

  “I only know about now. We own it now.” Callie looked surprised. “You didn’t know?”

  “Is it on the water?” Mimi was giddy. “I don’t remember anything about that house. But if there’s even a smudge of a water view, what a difference that will make in the sale.”

  “We don’t own it,” Ginger repeated. Just thinking about the house made her shiver. “Thank god.”

  “Really, Gingie? You’re upset to find out you’re part owner of a house on Martha’s Vineyard? You could suck the joy out of a lollipop.” Mimi left the room. More doors and cabinets opened and closed. A moment later she was back. “Coat closet.” She held up a dusty bottle of Smirnoff. “Why didn’t I think to look there first?” She glanced at Ginger. “Your face looks like chalk. Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine,” Ginger lied because no one wanted to hear the truth, that she felt unwell. Unwell and wobbly and out of body at the thought that Glory had wanted to own that house.

  “
How did she afford to buy it?” Mimi asked. Then she remembered. “Oh. The life insurance. Remember that? First time Mom ever gave Dad a compliment—when she found out there was life insurance. Of course by then, he was too dead to hear it.”

  It was odd how often this happened, Ginger and Mimi retaining different slivers of family memory. It was almost as if the recollections had been split down the middle and doled out: you get this, I get that, so no one would be privy to it all. Ginger glanced over and saw Callie washing her mug with great purpose.

  Callie felt her staring. “I’m going back to the Vineyard in the morning.” She began to dry the mug, rubbing so hard it looked to Ginger like she was trying to remove the glaze.

  “Back?” Ginger asked. “Is that where you live? Is that where you’ve been?”

  The mug was finally dry. Callie sat down. “If you want to come with me, you’ll have to get here early. I’m leaving first thing.”

  “Bottoms up.” Mimi poured herself a shot and drank it. “Tomorrow won’t work.” She poured another shot and offered it to Ginger, who declined. “Too much to organize. Plus, Gingie should really wait around here for a couple of days.” She leaned toward Callie and whispered. “Has she told you about her situation?” She mouthed the next—Julia—and then stretched out her mouth in a grimace. “She can’t go right—”

  “I could go,” Ginger cut her off. “If I wanted to. But I don’t. I don’t want anything to do with that house.”

  Callie nodded. “That’s okay. Mom made provisions for what to do if the originals can’t agree.”

  “What do you mean, originals?” Ginger asked.

  “What do you mean, provisions?” Mimi asked louder.