Sisters One, Two, Three

by Nancy Star

  “The house is up that path.” She pulled Ginger’s bag out of the trunk. “You can take either of the upstairs bedrooms. We can go to the market and get food later. You might want to clear out the shed for the boys. Mimi left a message that they’re coming for the scattering. They can sleep in the shed if you clear everything out. Julia can stay there too, if you want. If she comes. You don’t have to do it today.”

  Ginger nodded. “Okay.”

  “Everything that’s in the shed can go to the dump. I mean the Dumptique,” Callie corrected herself.

  “Dumptique?” Ginger repeated.

  Callie got back in her car. Echo jumped into the front seat. “I’ll see you soon.”

  “Where are you going? Let me come with you.”

  But it was too late. The windows rolled up with driver and dog both sealed inside, and Callie drove away.

  The house she didn’t want to remember was nothing grand. Just a gray shingled Cape with blue trim and a large screened-in porch that jutted out from the front like an afterthought. As she walked up the path, a tendril poked through a fence picket, tickling her ankle. Why hadn’t she thought to wear socks? She grabbed a granite post for balance and checked to see what kind of plant had touched her. Three things were guaranteed to give Ginger a rash: Glory, Mimi, and poison ivy. Glory was gone, Mimi wasn’t here, and poison ivy should have been easy to avoid. She’d taught hundreds of students to memorize the warning: “leaves of three, let it be.” How had she forgotten to be vigilant?

  She counted the leaves on the vine next to her foot. Four. Good. Then she noticed something beneath the tangled tendrils. What? She looked closer and saw a flat stone, half-covered by vegetation. She pushed the vine away with the toe of her shoe and saw words sandblasted on top. The rock confirmed ownership. This was “The Tangle House.”

  A hummingbird, chest plump and iridescent, hovered, dive-bombed her face, and flew off. She continued past a sad-sack garden: blue hydrangeas, branches dipping down; lady’s slippers, petals shivering in the breeze; pale-pink tea roses spilling through slats of a broken trellis. Ginger was no gardener, but she knew these flowers because they were identical to the ones Glory planted at home. The New Jersey flower bed had been put in all at once in a frenzy of planting not long after Solly died. At the time, Ginger thought it was meant to be a memorial to her father, and in a way it was a perfect stand-in for him. Always a disappointment, the hydrangeas bloomed a purple Glory complained reminded her of rotting plums, and the roses, sweetheart pink when she put them in, turned, overnight, to the rubbery tint of pencil erasers. As for the lady’s slippers, Glory had to order new ones every year from a specialty farm in Vermont because no matter how carefully she tended them, they didn’t last a week.

  It was odd how Glory persevered in her garden, giving it attention she gave to no other species in her life. Inside the house, they could go without breakfast with no consequence, and when the occasional houseplant Solly gave her—pass-along Christmas gifts he got from suppliers—died of neglect, Glory could be spotted smiling as she smacked the pots with her palm to empty out the last of the dried-out dirt. But the front garden was tended with care. Over time a treasure trove of Pinky balls accumulated beneath the wilted leaves of the sickly plants, Spaldeens gone astray during street games and abandoned because even the neighborhood bullies knew better than to tread on Glory Tangle’s garden.

  The front door clacked against the warped wood frame. Was this why Glory got irritated with how their doors closed at home? They slam shut like a vault, she’d complain to the handyman. Phoosht, every time, like I live in a jail.

  As Ginger made her way through the house, dim memories flickered back to life. The warty rooms, which Glory explained were added year by year, the master bedroom added to the back, a porch tacked on to the front. In the living room, there was the painted captain’s sea chest, and in the dining room, the cabinet with the collection of blue glass bottles, no two alike.

  The kitchen, she noted, was clutter-free. No stacks of newspapers, magazines, restaurant menus, mail; no baskets of bills or bowls of overripe fruit. Everything had a place. She opened the refrigerator and saw a single glass bottle of milk, a white porcelain bowl with three blue-speckled eggs, a stick of butter still in its foil wrapper, a fat-free yogurt, two green apples. A large glass canister next to the sink was filled with tea leaves. This was where Callie lived.

  The two bedrooms on the second floor were smaller than Ginger remembered. But there was the porthole window, and there, the skylight, and there, of all things, the spindle chair. She laid her suitcase on the floor next to the bed near the window in the room she’d briefly shared with Mimi and began to unpack into the balky bottom drawer. The knob came off in her hand. A door opened downstairs.

  “Gingie? Callie?”

  She hurried down and found Mimi in the hall, an oversized suitcase at her side.

  “Did you know the phone doesn’t work?” Mimi asked. “And my text didn’t go through.”

  “How did you get here?”

  “I know. Amazing, right? That awful woman from the Cremation Society called right after you left. They got Glory done faster than they expected. Richard convinced me to fly. What a little plane. He’s worried about you,” she added. “Being alone.”

  “I’m not alone. I’m with Callie.”

  “Practically the same thing. Where is she?”

  “Out. Looking for something. She wouldn’t say what.”

  Mimi didn’t appear concerned. “Come look.” She headed to the dining room, holding a shopping bag in her arms. “Come see Mom.” She lifted out the urn. “It’s hideous, I know. Good thing Mom is too dead to see it.” She placed the urn in the middle of the long oak table. “There. Centerpiece of attention. Now, listen.” Change of tone, change of subject. “We need to be on the same page here. Callie has to move near us. I mean, god, she has three nephews and a niece she’s never met.” She turned to the sound of car wheels on pea gravel. “You have to back me up.” Mimi swiveled and greeted Callie with a cheerful, “Here I am!”

  The sisters convened in the living room, three chairs set in a triangle of discomfort; Echo, last one down, put his head across the top of Callie’s feet.

  Mimi pulled out a folder from her oversized purse. “Here’s the good news.”

  “What are we doing?” Callie asked.

  “I got us a realtor. Krissy. She’s in your singing group, Cal. She’s coming for a walk-through in the morning.” Mimi surveyed the room. “Place looks pretty good, all things considered. We’ll have a better sense after Krissy comes, but I think it’ll show well. And here’s the best part. I found a house for you, Cal, right around the corner from Gingie. It’s perfect.”

  Callie looked confused. “I have a house. I live here.”

  “Course you do,” Mimi said. “But forward march. You’ve been alone long enough. Time to move near us.” She glanced at Ginger’s hands. “Again with a rash? Gingie gets rashy whenever she’s upset. Which seems to be all the time. I assume she told you about Julia.”

  “We’re not talking about Julia now.” Ginger sat on her itchy hands. “I had no idea you were living here, Callie. You must have thought it was awful we never tried to get in touch. Did Mom know you were here all this time?” Callie nodded. “Why didn’t she tell us?”

  Callie shook her head. “Can’t explain.” Suddenly Echo leaped into her lap, taking her off guard. As if to apologize for surprising her, he started licking her face and didn’t stop until, laughing, she gently pushed him away.

  “Forward march,” Mimi reminded them. “We have a lot to do. We’ve got the scattering to arrange, and we’ve got to figure out what needs to be done to get this house ready to show.”

  “You can’t decide to sell the house.” Callie was firm. “The originals all have to agree to a sale. And I don’t agree. I live here.” She stood up. “I have to go. I have some seminaries to check out before dark.” She whistled to Echo. “There’s only two left.”
She opened the door.

  “Seminaries?” Ginger asked. “Why?”

  “Don’t wait for me for dinner. After the seminaries, I have a concert at the Tabernacle.” She moved to the front door, Echo right behind her.

  “Are you looking for someone to lead the memorial service?” Ginger asked. The front door banged shut. “Are there seminaries at the Tabernacle?” she called through the screen. Callie’s car started up. “Can I come?” It was hard to tell if Callie shook her head or if she was just turning to watch for trees as she backed up the car and drove away.

  “Why does she keep leaving?” Ginger asked. “It’s like she doesn’t want to be in the same room with us. You think she’s angry we never came to see her? Maybe she doesn’t believe we didn’t know where she was.”

  “She’s not angry. She’s just . . . Callie.” Mimi lugged her suitcase to the stairs. “Why do you always make lemons out of lemonade?” She bumped her bag up a step. “Let’s concentrate on getting the house in shape. The realtor’s coming at nine tomorrow. Have you seen the pond? I know there’s a pond out there somewhere.”

  “Mimi, we can’t sell. Callie lives here. Why doesn’t it bother you that we didn’t know?”

  “Because, forward march. We knew she lived somewhere. What’s the difference where it was? I would have thought all that mattered to you is that now we’re all together.”

  Ginger went on alert. “Did you know Callie lived here?”

  “No.” Mimi let out a groan. “Well, mostly no.” She sat down on the step. “If I paid attention to every story Mom told me, I would have lost my mind. I worked very hard not to pay attention. I still do. And it’s harder than you can imagine. I try to look disinterested all the time, but for some reason I’m the person people like to tell things to. Marriage on the rocks? I’m the first to find out. Bad blood test? Guess who gets the call? My opinion? Talking to me is one step away from talking to a tree. But apparently people like talking to trees.”

  Ginger refused to be distracted. “Did you know Mom was in touch with Callie all this time?”

  “No. Maybe. I don’t know. You left first, Gingie. Mom would have preferred it the other way around, to be left with the good daughter, but better than nothing, she got me. So, yes, she talked to me. Or at me.”

  “What did she tell you?”

  “Who knows. I trained myself to not listen. The minute she got that cuddly tone in her voice, that, you are my very best friend thing she did, I’d shut down. You never did that?”

  “I did,” Ginger admitted.

  “Okay. So you know. Probably half of what”—she gestured toward the urn and lowered her voice, as if Glory’s mashed-up ears might still work—“over half of what she said was made up, and we didn’t always know which half. My solution? I treated it all like it was made up.” Mimi whispered the next, as if it was a secret. “When she talked about Callie—which luckily wasn’t often—that was the worst. I could tell there was something she wanted me to know—us to know. The second I heard Callie come out of her mouth, I doubled down on not listening.” She got up and started dragging her heavy suitcase up the stairs. “Aren’t family reunions fun?”

  Ginger’s phone buzzed—a text from Richard. Are you okay?

  Yes, she texted and then added, miss you a lot. She quickly pressed Send before she could decide whether saying that was wise. “Cell service is working,” she called to Mimi. “If you need to make any calls.”

  When Mimi came down, Ginger had just finished googling, “Tabernacle in Martha’s Vineyard.” “Callie’s in a concert tonight in Oak Bluffs. It starts in an hour. We should go.”

  Mimi tossed over her car keys. “Be my guest. I’m exhausted. And if you go, oh my god, I’ll be alone for the first time in years. Don’t take it personally, but I can’t wait.”

  The GPS in Mimi’s rental car gave Ginger several choices for routes to the Tabernacle. She chose the shortest one, on a road that wound beside the ocean. Richard would have been surprised. He was one of the few people who knew the reason for her aversion to the sea, even if he didn’t understand it. After all, it wasn’t like the ocean was responsible for Charlie’s accident. But even though he didn’t understand it, Richard stepped up and over the years whenever invitations came, to rent a beach house with friends, or to go to the beach for the day, he’d be the one to say, “Thanks but we’re not beach people. We like mountains. Mountains and national parks.”

  It wasn’t a problem until Julia was older, bored with national parks and mountains, disinterested in visiting cities her parents claimed were cool—Montreal, it turned out, was not cool if you went with your parents. Julia wanted to go to the Shore, like everyone her age. She wanted to hang out at the boardwalk with friends. It took a long time but eventually—it was inevitable, really—she asked, “Why aren’t we beach people?”

  Of course Ginger didn’t answer. She had perfected the art of not answering certain questions. It was right after that when Richard started taking Julia to the beach himself. The last time the two of them went, the summer before Julia left with Nick, Ginger had promised her, “I’ll come next time for sure.” Another thing Ginger looked back at with wonder, that she used to believe there would always be another chance.

  She navigated through the crowded streets of Oak Bluffs and parked near the ferry. She was hurrying up Beach Road when she felt a nudge behind her knees. She swung around and saw Echo. The dog shook, spraying her with seawater. And then Callie was at his side, out of breath and agitated. “He went in. I told him not to, but he did.”

  “He seems okay.” Ginger turned and looked out into the twilight, at the ocean. For once, she could see nothing wrong. “The sea is calm.”

  “It’s not. See where the waves are crashing? Right at the shore? That’s called shore break and it’s dangerous. The riptide is fierce, but people get fooled, like you just did. It looks calm, but it isn’t.” She kneeled down and gave Echo a hard rub. All was forgiven. “I have to go. I can’t be late.” She took off at a jog and then stopped. “Aren’t you coming?”

  “Yes.” She had to run fast to keep up with her sister. But Callie stopped every few blocks to make sure she didn’t leave Ginger behind.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  The Tabernacle was an open-air structure with wrought iron arches, colored glass windows, and a copper roof topped by a cupola. It sat in the middle of a small green surrounded by a circle of gingerbread cottages.

  Ginger remembered coming to Oak Bluffs years ago. That’s where the old carousel was, where Solly took them the day Glory stayed in bed with a headache. She remembered riding the carousel for hours, and then, when they were done, leaving to explore another town. They never came here, to this enclave of storybook houses. Ginger would have remembered it, tiny cottages decorated with figurines and stained glass windows, homes so close together she imagined a resident of one could pass a cup of sugar through an open window to the other without either neighbor fully extending an arm.

  She passed a cottage with a hand-painted sign that said, “Alice in Wonderland,” and another that said, “Wizard of Oz.” But even the plainest were well-kept, with colorful trim and deep porches that overlooked postage-stamp gardens made lush by abundant flowers.

  As she followed Callie past tourists snapping cell phone pictures of people on porches, their rocking chairs turned so their backs were to the street, her sister told her, “Don’t say hello. If their chairs face away, it means they don’t want to be bothered. They’ll turn their chairs facing out if they want to chat.” As if to prove her point, at the next house they passed, the chairs faced the street and a man sitting in a pink rocker tipped his hat. “Nice to see you back, Callie Claire.”

  “Who’s that?” Ginger asked.

  “A friend.” Callie sped up to a path that bifurcated the small park encircling the Tabernacle. By the time Ginger caught up, she was wrapping Echo’s leash around a tree trunk. “I could take him inside, but some people get offended. The concerts a
re for everyone, but it is a church.” She checked the leash to make sure it was secure and motioned for Echo to lie down. “I won’t be long.” He lowered his head onto his paws but his eyes followed her, brows alternating, as she moved toward the open-air building.

  At the entrance, a woman pressed a slim weathered songbook into Ginger’s hand. Ginger passed it to Callie, who took it and said, “Thanks. I left mine at home.”

  “I didn’t see you there, Callie Claire.” The woman put the books down to give Callie a hug.

  “Sorry I’m late.” Callie slipped off her jacket to show that she was wearing a white shirt and khakis. “I’m all ready, though.”

  “You are such a dear. But tonight’s Community Sing. Our concert’s not till next week. Besides, you shouldn’t be worrying about that now.” She gave her another hug which Callie took, though her arms stayed stiff at her side. “You need anything, you promise to call me?”

  Callie nodded and then gestured for Ginger to follow her in. They passed rows of open seats on rustic benches in the back, which is where Ginger would have sat if Callie hadn’t said, “Not there.” With purposeful strides, she led them to the front of the pavilion, where the seating changed to straight-back wooden chairs. To Ginger’s eye there were about a hundred of them, almost all occupied. Callie stopped next to a man in green pants and a bow tie chatting to a group in the front row.

  When he saw Callie, his face opened into a wide grin. “Callie Claire is back! So good to see you.” He noticed her companion. “Let me guess. One of the sisters. You would be—Ginger. Am I right?” He extended his hand. “George. Pleasure to finally meet you. Sorry about your mother. One in a million, she was.”

  Ginger smiled and shook his hand. “Thank you.”

  “I should thank you for lending her to us. She was a kind soul. Had the soul of an angel.” He placed his hands on his heart.