Once Two Sisters

by Sarah Warburton

  With the data plan used up, my phone is good only for calls and texts, so I drop it into my bag and lean my head back, closing my eyes.

  Why is my sister so obsessed with darkness? What drives her to write about serial killers and stalkers, hatred and obsession and loss? And the biggest question, the one I’ve never understood: why does she keep writing about me?

  The sister who was my storyteller and my refuge began to rebuff me once she started school. Little by little, books and daydreams gave her the same distant expression I saw on my mother’s face. And the more Ava retreated inside herself, the more I battled for her attention. Sometimes it worked, like the time she slapped me for tearing pages out of a library book. I had a hundred percent of my sister for about five minutes then. Other times she just walked away, like I was behind a thick pane of glass, my mouth moving with no sound crossing over.

  I was a senior in high school the first time I recognized myself in Ava’s words. Her debut novel had come out in galleys and my parents had a copy. I picked it up, hoping to learn something about the stranger my sister had become.

  Instead, as the story unfolded, I began to notice details about one of the main characters, a criminal profiler.

  This character was named Chloe—a name so close to Zoe as to be laughable. Ava was never quite that obvious again. Chloe had the same hair color as me, the same habit of saying “liberry” and “ax” instead of ask, things I did just to annoy Ava, and she shared my then-obsession with combat boots and long skirts. In one scene after Chloe leaves the room, the protagonist, a police detective named Natalie Wilson, says, “Someone that angry, she’s a ticking time bomb. I bet she can’t make it five years before she snaps and does something horrific, something violent.” And she did. The character became obsessed with the killer, joined forces with him, and then he killed her. Stupid, angry Chloe deserved to die. Was that what my sister really thought about me?

  The wine has made my body warm, almost enough to blunt the memory of that first moment of betrayal. The things Ava was researching before she went missing, information on manipulation and cruelty, are just background to another story she’s writing where I’ll feature as the torturer or the victim. They’re meaningless now, nothing to do with her disappearance.

  I don’t realize I am dozing off until a sound makes me startle. I drop my phone, knocking over the empty bottle.

  The doorbell rings again, and I leap to my feet. For a moment I think about Glenn’s warning, about Ava and kidnappers. Then someone knocks on the door and there’s an echo, a smaller knock. The sound of a child knocking. My heart leaps with hope.

  I race to unlock the door. When it swings open, Andrew is standing there, an overnight bag over his shoulder. At his side is Emma.

  I can’t move.

  “Lizzie!” and she is in my arms. This is all I have wanted to feel complete. I inhale deeply the sweet smell of her baby-fine hair, keeping my eyes on Andrew.

  “We didn’t have a way to reach you.” He doesn’t put down his bag, instead standing back, like he is dropping Emma off at day care. “You left your phone with the police, and your parents have an unlisted number.”

  “I’m sorry.” My arms tighten around Emma until she squeaks in protest. “I bought a disposable phone today. I tried to call you from the house phone. I was going to call you again.” I should have called him yesterday, when I actually bought the phone. I was afraid.

  Now his eyes are kind. “I know this is earlier than we discussed. I’ve booked a hotel, but we thought we’d stop by here first.”

  Will he invite me to stay with them? My pulse leaps with the desire to be forgiven.

  “I want to see your room!” Lizzie lets her body go limp and swings in my arms. She trusts me so much right now. Someday she will know better, and I want to squeeze her close while I still can.

  I glance up at Andrew, and something has softened in his expression. I decide to take a chance.

  “Come in. My parents aren’t home yet, but I can make you a cup of coffee and we can wait for them.”

  Everything holds still for a second; then he says, “That’s really why we came. To meet your family, I mean.” Something heavy in my chest warms and starts to melt. Despite everything being so strange, he is willing to try. He wants us to be together. Why else put himself and Emma through this?

  As we step into the foyer, I remember all the times he and Emma and I walked through our own front door, back from afternoons at the park or dinners out. Did I value them enough, each one another moment that proved we were a family? I would give anything to relive even one of those mundane arrivals again.

  Now Andrew looks past me, right at the chaise lounge, the empty bottle of wine. Oh God. It’s not even five o’clock.

  “Actually.” He takes pity on me. “Where’s the restroom?”

  I use those few minutes to toss out the wine bottle and the half-empty container of peanuts. Emma reappears first, since she now enjoys “my own privacy” in the bathroom, even if one of us waits outside the door just in case she does need help. Neither Andrew nor I really want her to grow up.

  “Hi, Emma bean. Do you need something to drink?” I take her into the kitchen, where I run my empty wineglass under the faucet and slip it, dripping, back into a cabinet.

  “Can I have a juice box?”

  “Sorry, sweetie.” I know there’s nothing like a juice box in this house, but I open the fridge to confirm. “I can do orange juice in a cup or water.”

  “Water with ice?”

  “Deal.” I love this kind of negotiating, seeing her push for an advantage that I don’t mind giving. I’d give her all the juice boxes in the world, a thousand glasses of water with ice.

  “Lizzie, I’m thirsty now.” I realize I have been standing there staring at her, the glass of water with its ice cubes in my hand.

  “Sorry.” I hand her the glass, and she drinks from it greedily. I have to be careful. Loving someone this much is dangerous. That’s why I’m always holding back. I thought I loved Glenn, I think I love Andrew, but there is no doubt how much I love Emma. It’s too late. I’m all in. My chest tightens with fear.

  Loving is the first step to losing.

  As I stand in the kitchen with Emma, my breath comes quickly, but I can’t get any oxygen. My lungs seem to be getting smaller and smaller and each inhale hurts. I can hear Emma’s voice say my name, coming from far away. The room is rushing around me. I reach out with a hand and clutch at the fridge. I am going down.

  Then someone else’s arms are under my own. Andrew’s voice says, “Easy. Bend your knees.”

  I sit on the floor. No air. I can’t breathe. Through the blur of tears in my eyes, I see Andrew come closer. Then his hands come together over my face.

  “Breathe in and out. It’s okay now.”

  His cupped hands catch the air. Each warm breath is a little easier. My panic is ebbing away. I am glad his hands hide my face. I am so glad Andrew is here. All I want is for him to forgive me. I duck my head and kiss his palm. But then he takes his hands away.

  Emma’s eyes are wide and she clutches her water glass to her stomach. I can’t look at her, can’t let myself feel that overwhelming, helpless love again. Andrew will have to handle this. I rest my head on my knees, in the circle of my own arms.

  I can hear him whisper and her overly loud whisper back. Without raising my head, I say automatically, “There isn’t a television here. There might be paper in the drawer by the phone.”

  I’m doing a crappy job of being Emma’s mom right now. Moms suck it up. They solve the problem, stop the tears, find the fun. They always come second. I knew when I met Andrew that Emma would be the top priority. That was always the deal. And I loved her right away. Now I feel scooped out and broken. Emma is not safe with me. I am not her mom. I don’t know how to be. And the thought of poor motherless Emma brings tears to my eyes again.

  Andrew has gotten Emma squared away with something—his phone or pen and paper—at the
kitchen table. If we were at home, we could go into another room and chat. But here, in a strange place, Emma will follow us. He must know this too.

  Awkwardly he lowers himself to the floor in front of me. That’s another difference between moms and dads. I have sat on the floor with Emma at library story times and preschool picnics, at playgroup outings to the fire station and at the park with Bethany and Felicia.

  But we are on the floor of my parents’ kitchen and Andrew is sitting next to me.

  “How is the investigation?” he asks. “Is there any word on your sister?”

  “No. I think the police might believe me, that I wasn’t involved.”

  “Where are your parents?”

  “They went to work.” He lifts an eyebrow, and I answer, “Even with Ava missing. I know, Andrew. They’re not like other parents.”

  “Isn’t there anyone here for you?” Things would be different for me as Lizzie in Sugar Land. Death or illness or loss brings cards and casseroles. There is nothing here in my parents’ house. Not even a note from a neighbor.

  “Just you.” I watch Emma, the kitchen light shining against her hair. “I should have called and told you. You didn’t need to come all this way.”

  Andrew gently touches my face, bringing my gaze back to him. “I did need to come. If this is real, I need to know the real you. Where you came from, who you are. I needed to meet your parents.”

  “But Emma … this is so confusing for her.”

  Now he looks uncertain. “I just thought … she should have a chance to meet her grandparents. And I didn’t know who … I couldn’t leave her.”

  Andrew is never uncertain, never makes a move without considering all the logistics first. If this were business or home maintenance or even a weather emergency, he’d know just what to do. But this is his weakness: family. When I met him, his wife had been dead less than two years, his mother five. Andrew’s only living family is his father, and every day Alzheimer’s steals a little more from him. Now he is on the verge of losing me, a wife and mother.

  “I wish I had a different family,” I tell him, humiliated at how little I can offer. “I wish I was a different person.”

  Andrew’s eyes are the same shape as Emma’s, but his are a pure, rich brown, undiluted by the flecks of gold and green in hers. He takes my hand. “I’ve been thinking a lot about that. You’re not who I thought you were. But how you are with me and Emma, that can’t be a lie, can it? Not every day of the past two years. It has to mean something.”

  Anything I could say will sound like an excuse. “That’s who I wanted to be. The person I am with you.”

  He sighs. “It doesn’t work like that, though. You have a family. You have a past. You can’t just erase them. You can’t just choose what to tell me.”

  “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I didn’t want to spoil what we had.”

  Andrew’s eyes are so sad as he says, “Lying spoils everything.”

  My tears do spill over, hot on my cheeks. “I know. I won’t ever lie again. I swear.”

  He kisses me on the forehead. “Deal.” That’s dependable-man-speak for “I love you.”

  And I feel forgiven, a little bit.

  Emma notices our embrace, and then she’s in the middle of it, and I have everything I ever wanted, everything I don’t deserve. I just want this moment to last forever.

  Of course it can’t. The doorbell rings, again and again. We separate, and I open the door to a delivery man needing a signature. When I turn back, Andrew’s getting Emma’s shoes back on while she tells me all about the television and the pool and the tiny soap in the hotel room. She wants me to come back there with them. I want to with every fiber of my being, but I can’t tell from Andrew’s face if now is the right time.

  I tell her I might, but I’ll have to ask my mom first.

  We arrange to meet for dinner. And I will bring my parents. I use the house phone to call my mother’s cell. There are times at work when she has it turned off, but today she picks up on the first ring. At least that’s normal. Maybe she is anxious about Ava.

  “Yes?”

  “Mom, my husband is here. And our daughter.”

  “You have a child.” This ought to be a question, but my mother doesn’t ask.

  “She’s my stepdaughter.”

  “Ah.” I can’t tell what she means.

  “They’d like to have dinner with you and Dad.”

  My mother seems nonplussed. “Dinner?”

  “At a restaurant. So you could meet them.”

  There’s only silence as my mother calculates the appropriate action.

  “So will you and Dad meet us for dinner?”

  “Yes. That would be fine.”

  “You pick the place and time.”

  “Well, where are they staying? The little girl and her father?”

  My daughter. My husband. But I swallow down my anger and name the hotel instead.

  She is silent for a moment. “We’ll do Portofino at seven. That’s close. Be ready fifteen minutes before and we’ll pick you up.”

  “Have you heard anything about Ava?” I remember the picture of the smiling woman on her honeymoon. The longer she is gone, the more I start to worry. But it’s hard to maintain that worry when my parents appear so calm.

  “Nothing from the police. Glenn left a message. Something about a press event tomorrow.”

  Before I can ask if I’m expected to come, she hangs up.

  Relief that our awkward conversation is over gives way quickly to the reality of our impending family dinner.

  Andrew and Emma will be in the lion’s den tonight, all because of me.

  CHAPTER

  21

  ZOE

  THE RESTAURANT IS a mistake. I can tell the minute I walk through the door. It’s got a hushed ambience that my parents will use to discourage intimacy. Exactly the kind of place that makes me want to disturb the peace.

  Andrew is standing to one side of the foyer. He is wearing a tie and a sport coat. Seeing him there, so solid and dependable, unafraid of all my shit, tugs at my heart. My jeans and off-brand T-shirt make me feel even worse.

  “Lizzie!” Emma is practically dancing in her favorite outfit, a sparkly pink skirt perfect for twirling and a black T-shirt that proclaims “Self-Rescuing Princess.”

  In this setting, my mother is imperious, quite the grande dame. Her hair shines silver in the dim restaurant. She steps in front of my father and offers Andrew her hand. “Nancy Renscoe-Hallett. Doctor.”

  “Andrew McPhee. And this is Emma.” His face is neutral and his tone pleasant, even as she’s piled on the formal titles.

  My mother glances down at Emma, who has stopped dancing and is frankly staring. “Five years old?”

  “Not yet.” Andrew smiles, obviously trying to translate this clinical observation into an emotional connection. “She turned four last month. Lizz—Zoe threw her a rainbow-themed birthday. We’ll never get rid of all the glitter.”

  My mother smiles correctly, and her blue eyes are as cold as a fjord. I bristle. Emma is beautiful, perfect. She doesn’t deserve to be examined.

  My father might never introduce himself, but Andrew takes the initiative. “And you must be Zoe’s father.” He takes my dad’s hand for a brisk shake. “Nice to meet you, sir.”

  “Yes.” My father’s mind is clearly working, but all he says is “Also Dr. Hallett. Walter.”

  Emma’s voice cuts through the soft murmur of the restaurant. “Who is Zoe?”

  I wince. This night will be excruciating.

  The hostess shows us to a table, and then there’s an awkward dance. The hostess pulls out a chair for my mother, who sinks gracefully into it; then she pulls out the one next to it and looks at me. I can’t help myself, I step back. I can’t sit next to my mother. I just can’t.

  I bump into Andrew, who puts his hands on my shoulders, their weight giving me strength to say, “I better sit by Emma. Could we get a booster seat?”

 
; And that’s the excuse needed to make our final arrangement—my parents on one side of the table, Andrew and me with Emma between us on the other.

  We’re still unfolding napkins when Andrew asks, “Any more word about Ava?”

  My father literally rolls his eyes. “Nothing new. The police are having trouble finding any evidence that she was taken.”

  Andrew frowns. “Is there a chance she’s at a retreat or something? Off the grid, writing?”

  “That’s certainly possible.” My mother smiles up at my father. “We know what it’s like to get wrapped up in work and lose track of time. But I can understand why other people might be worried.”

  People who aren’t deep thinkers or high achievers. People who aren’t special. People like me.

  Dinner is all fits and starts. Andrew is used to business meals. In the oil industry, he deals with the gregarious landmen and also the introverted engineers. But I can tell he’s never met mind benders like my parents. They speak their own language, they are not interested in social niceties, and they have no obvious affection for me. I am so grateful to be sitting next to Emma.

  My mother’s gaze is on us as I help Emma color the pictures on the children’s menu, cut her spaghetti into bites, and give her my garlic bread. Taking care of my daughter gives me such comfort, comfort that Emma doesn’t even know I need. I brush her hair away from her cheek and she shakes me off, busy with her crayon. I’m probably annoying her, but she’s the only thing that’s going to save me.

  Andrew has been gamely interrogating my father. “What do you do, sir?”

  “I am a clinical neuroanalyst.”

  “And the two of you work together?”

  My father nods briskly and takes a bite of his pasta.

  “Do you enjoy working together?”

  Now both of my parents look surprised, as though the thought had never occurred to them.

  My mother speaks first. “I suppose we do.”

  Lowering his fork, my father adds, “It makes things so much easier when you have a partner who understands things.”