My Sister's Prayer

by Mindy Starns Clark

  “You think the sarcasm is helping?”

  She grunted. “Fine,” she said again, this time handing the phone to me over the seat. “I promise I’ll be good. Just please don’t make me go back there.”

  “I’m not making you do anything,” I reminded her. “Actions have consequences, Nicole. Your actions. How this plays out is entirely up to you.”

  I glanced at her in the rearview mirror, but she was looking off in the distance. After a long moment, she spoke.

  “I can’t go back there, Maddee. I didn’t say anything to you before, but it wasn’t just Nana getting on my nerves. It was the nightmares. They’ve always been worse at her place, you know that, but they were nearly unbearable this time.”

  I studied my sister, considering her words. If she was telling the truth, then I didn’t blame her for needing to leave. She had struggled with horrific nightmares for years, ever since that day at the cabin in the woods. On the other hand, she was smart enough and manipulative enough to know that this was exactly the sort of tidbit that could get to me in a way that nothing else could. Her dreams had tormented me throughout my childhood too, one more thing I couldn’t protect her from. She knew how I felt and was probably using this now to try and get me to soften the rules simply out of compassion and guilt.

  Whether she was playing me or not, I could practically feel the tightrope under my feet, that delicate balance between wanting to trust her and knowing I had to protect myself at every turn.

  “Just…respect my things. Please. I don’t want to take you back there any more than you want to go.”

  She didn’t respond, and the silence hung heavy between us as I took the roundabout onto Franklin Street. We were nearly home, and the last thing I wanted was for us to start off on the wrong foot.

  “Sorry to be so harsh,” I said finally. “But if you recall, it is on record that I’m a big meanie.”

  She grunted, but I could hear the hint of a chuckle. “I’m sorry too. I won’t touch your phone again without asking.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” After a long moment, she added, “You know you want that color-coded organizational binder set, though.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  Maddee

  You live here?” Nicole asked as I put the car in park and turned off the ignition.

  I’d found us a spot directly in front of a gorgeous, three-story Georgian house with thick white pillars, a decorative pediment, and a row of dormers across the top.

  “No, but I’m allowed to park here,” I replied, relieved we’d gotten something so close to home. Sometimes the best I could do was a couple of blocks away. “We’re right around the corner.”

  I climbed out, popped the trunk, grabbed and unfolded the wheelchair, and then opened the car door to lean inside, holding my arms out toward my sister.

  Nicole and I gripped each other’s wrists, Red Rover-style, and then I pulled, gently scooting her toward me across the seat. As I did, her two brightly colored casts shot out on either side of my legs like twin cannons rolling into place along a parapet. When she was as far as she could go, we released our grip and I got into a different position, managing to lift, pivot, and lower, transferring her successfully from car to wheelchair.

  “Man, that’s exhausting,” I said, trying to catch my breath as I raised her legs and set them onto the elevated leg rests. “I don’t know how Inez does this all day long.”

  “Yeah, well, try it with two cracked ribs and then tell me about it,” Nicole replied, her voice strained. She smiled as she said it, but I could see she was hurting.

  Fortunately, the curbs along here were low, so once I’d retrieved my bag and locked the car, it was easy to get her up onto the sidewalk—except that my purse kept sliding down my arm as I pushed the chair.

  “Want me to hold that for you?” she asked as it slid down yet again.

  “Thanks,” I said, lowering it onto her lap.

  “No, thank you,” she replied. “I’m thinking if you look the other way, between here and your place I could probably score a couple quarters, a tube of lip gloss, and a breath mint.”

  “Don’t push it, Peanut,” I replied, surprised at how easily the old pet name tripped off my tongue. The two of us had lived such separate lives for so long, and yet now that she was sober again, it was almost as if the old Nicole was back.

  Despite her pain, she was looking all around as I pushed her down the sidewalk, taking in everything like a prisoner fresh out of lockup. Even if she hadn’t been so confined of late, this neighborhood was a truly beautiful part of Richmond, its streets lined with historic homes, their graceful exteriors painted in shades of vibrant yellow, sage green, or navy blue. There were doors and shutters of reds and purples and whites. Some yards had small pumpkin patches, their succulent vines curling around picket fences and spilling out onto the brick sidewalk. Others had lush pots of chrysanthemums lining their front steps, the fiery flowers bursting with life.

  When we came to the corner, I paused for a moment to take in the stately redbrick home across the street—Miss Vida’s sprawling colonial with its wraparound porch and intricate stained glass windows.

  “And here we are,” I said.

  “Get out! You told me it was super small.”

  “Yeah, this isn’t it,” I said with a chuckle. “That is.” Leaning forward, I pointed toward the carriage house tucked behind, peeking out like a shy toddler from the back of her mother’s legs. Size-wise, the structure was almost embarrassing, but what it lacked in space, it made up for in style.

  “It’s adorable,” Nicole said diplomatically as I pushed her closer.

  “Well, it’s little, but it’s home.”

  Once inside, though there wasn’t much to see, I gave her a quick tour, starting with the kitchen and then the bathroom.

  “My room’s up there,” I said, gesturing toward the stairs. “And this is where you’ll be staying.”

  With a flourish I pulled aside the privacy curtain to reveal the living room, all set up and ready for its new inhabitant.

  “This is for me?” she asked, taking in the bed with its crisp, powder blue linens and lacy white coverlet, the plant stand I’d draped with a small tablecloth and pulled into service as a bedside table. Atop that was a small vase of yellow daisies and a wicker basket filled with things I thought she might enjoy—magazines, a deck of cards, some candy bars. There was also a coloring book and crayons, and I was about to make a joke about that when I looked down and realized she had tears in her eyes. She brushed them away sheepishly.

  “Sorry. I cry a lot these days. Probably has to do with not being high all the time. Forces you to feel things, you know?”

  “Yeah, I get that,” I said, surprised at her admission. I knew that for her to even say such a thing was a positive sign.

  “Speaking of drugs,” she added, “what time is it?”

  I took in her pale face and hunched posture and realized her meager pain meds had worn off. As a recovering addict, the strongest thing she could take for all of her injuries was prescription-strength ibuprofen, but at least that was better than nothing. She needed to eat something first, though, so I rolled her over to the table and pulled from the fridge the lunch I’d already prepared for her. It was one of her old favorites, ham on rye with mustard, and a side of potato salad

  “Oh, Maddee, that’s so sweet. But I’m just not hungry.”

  “Sorry, kid. You can’t take the pills on an empty stomach. Try to eat as much as you can while I unload the car. Then you can have your medicine and shift over into the bed for a while.”

  “That would be nice. I’m wiped.”

  It took three trips to bring everything in, but by the time I was done, my sister had managed to polish off half the sandwich and a fair amount of the potato salad.

  From the travel case Nana prepared, I pulled out the bottle of ibuprofen and then watched as Nicole’s trembling fingers plucked the little tablets from my palm
. She swallowed them down, tipping her head backward, eyes closed, as if willing the feeble medication to work faster and stronger. I looked away, not wanting her to see the distress on my face. On the one hand, I wanted more than anything for her to stay sober, even if it meant suffering now. On the other, I couldn’t stand seeing her in this kind of pain.

  We managed to get her into the bed, but it took such an effort that she just lay there, breathing heavily, sweat dripping from her hairline.

  “It’s hard,” she said between gasps, “even the little things.”

  Without thinking, I brushed the hair from her face. She didn’t push my hand away. Instead, she closed her eyes.

  “We’ll unpack your stuff later,” I said softly. “You just rest for now.”

  “Okay,” she mumbled.

  By the time I slid her privacy curtain back into place and took one last peek, she was already sound asleep.

  After eating my own lunch and giving Nana a quick call to let her know we’d made it and all was well, I spent the next three hours upstairs in organizational heaven. I’d bought a new whiteboard and a pack of dry erase markers, which I used to draw a calendar. Then I filled in our schedule for the next few weeks, including my work hours, Inez’s visits, Nicole’s doctor and physical therapy appointments, and so on. With that as the framework, next I slotted in her NA and Celebrate Recovery meetings, grateful that there was so much to choose from in the Richmond area. Between me and Inez, we should be able to get her to one or the other every single day.

  Later that afternoon, once Nicole was awake, I showed her my masterpiece of scheduling. She burst into laughter.

  “Aw, man! Some things never change. You’re giving me flashbacks, Maddee. Wow.”

  “Excuse me, but this was a lot of hard work.”

  “I’m sure it was,” she replied, still laughing. “And I appreciate it.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “But, wow. It’s just so…you.”

  “So me?”

  She wiped at her eyes. “Yeah. Like, remember our Barbie beauty parlor? I was happy just washing the dolls’ hair and stuff, but you had to create a tiny little appointment book for the front desk—and then you got mad if any of the dolls showed up late.”

  “Yeah, yeah.”

  “Or how about when we decided to set up a classroom for our Polly Pockets? You insisted on keeping attendance records. You made topic outlines.” Another peal of laughter. “You even handed out report cards!”

  “Hey,” I said, trying not to sound offended. “Can I help it if that was my idea of a good time?”

  She tried to wind it down, wiping at her eyes as the last few chuckles bubbled from her throat. “It hurts to laugh, but I just can’t help it,” she said, arms wrapped around her rib cage, holding it tight.

  “Well, laugh all you want,” I replied, retrieving the hammer and a stud finder from a kitchen drawer. “You could use some structure in your life.”

  She didn’t respond, and as I found a stud, hammered in the nail, and hung the board up the wall, I realized my comment may have come out sounding harsh. When I was finished, I turned to look back at Nicole, but she didn’t seem hurt, just contemplative.

  “You’re right about that,” she said. “Guess I’m as unstructured as they come.”

  “Yeah, and I guess I do tend to go too far in the other direction.” I gave her a wink. “Maybe between the two of us we can strike the right balance.”

  “Maybe,” she replied. After a beat, she added, “Just don’t alphabetize my toiletries, okay?”

  The rest of the afternoon went smoothly, a wonderful mix of chatting and reminiscing and just hanging out. I pinned back the curtain so she could keep me company from the bed while I made our dinner, and at one point she mused that she could probably start helping with the preparation once she recovered from today’s activity.

  “I couldn’t stand there and do dishes,” she said, “but if I’m in the chair I could roll up to the table and chop vegetables.”

  “That would be great,” I replied with a smile. “I’ve always wanted a sous chef.”

  Once supper was ready, she ate better than expected, polishing off almost a full plate of spaghetti and a wide slice of garlic bread. Afterward, we finished unpacking her things, ending with a small but brand-new Louis Vuitton suitcase.

  “Nana strikes again?” I asked, holding it up.

  Nicole grinned. “I know, right? Wait until you see what’s in there.”

  I turned it on its side, unzipped the cover, and then began pulling out the contents one item at a time, astounded at the shopping choices Nana had made for her granddaughter. Two satin bed jackets with elaborate lace trim. A velvet robe, monogrammed in gold thread with Nicole’s initials. Three pairs of old-lady slippers, all stiff, scratchy, and terribly expensive. She hadn’t done as bad with two regular outfits, though I couldn’t imagine Nicole wearing either. My sister was a jeans and T-shirts girl, but these were really nice tops and slacks. I recognized one as a Stella McCartney, a silk crepe de chine blouse that had surely cost a fortune. Too bad it was size 2, petite, or I would have gladly traded for it.

  Once everything was folded and put away, I felt kind of bad that we’d made fun of our grandmother that way, especially considering how generous she’d been in buying these things. Maybe it had been worth it as a team-building exercise, bonding us together in the face of a common enemy.

  “What about your own things from your apartment in Norfolk?” I asked as I tucked the empty suitcase under the bed.

  Nicole shrugged. “Nana sent one of the maids over there last week to get all my stuff and close it out. I didn’t care. No reason to pay rent on a dump I’m not even using.”

  “But where is everything?” I asked, ignoring the dump remark, though I’d seen the place and knew the term was accurate.

  She shrugged. “The apartment came furnished, so I didn’t have that much. Just one or two boxes, but I ended up throwing most of it away.” She looked pensive for a moment, and then she added sheepishly, “You know, anything of value got sold off a long time ago. Like, who needs a lamp when you can trade it for weed?”

  A lump in my throat, I turned and busied myself with adding water to the flowers.

  After such a pleasant afternoon and evening, getting Nicole ready for bed that night was a sobering experience. She was just so incredibly thin, so terribly injured. I actually had tears in my eyes while giving her a sponge bath. At least I managed to hide them, and I pulled myself together once she was dressed and tucked in. As I refilled her water glass and set it on the little table, she quickly drifted off to sleep, her chest rising and falling in a peaceful rhythm.

  Lowering myself into the wheelchair beside the bed, I watched her. One of her small arms poked out from between the sheets. I took her hand in my own and held it, surprised to find how cold it was despite the red flush on her cheeks.

  All I could do was be here for her. And pray. Closing my eyes, I prayed for her health and her heart and her sobriety. I prayed for myself too, for patience and wisdom and the right words at the right times. Then I laid her hand back at her side, pulled the covers more tightly around her, and slowly headed up to bed.

  The next morning, Miss Vida surprised me by knocking on the door and offering to stay with Nicole so I could go to church. And though at first I declined the offer, she was so persistent—and Nicole seemed willing enough—that I decided to take her up on it. It was a beautiful day, and I knew I’d love nothing more than to slip away for an hour or so and recharge my spiritual batteries.

  By the time the service had ended, I was feeling refreshed, rejuvenated, and ready to jump back into the Nicole situation with vim and vigor. My church was only a ten-minute walk from home, and I was just starting back when I heard someone call my name. I turned around to see a man walking toward me from across the street.

  “Maddee? Hi, it’s me.”

  The encounter was so out of context that it took me a moment to realize tha
t this tall, handsome man coming my way was Dr. Austin Hill. Today he was resplendent in a dark tailored suit with a gray shirt and navy tie. I wasn’t quite so done up, but at least I wasn’t a disheveled mess this time. I’d worn one of my favorite dresses, a simple maroon sheath, with a gold cuff bracelet and a pair of black suede pumps. Self-consciously, I wet my lips and ran a hand over my hair.

  “Dr. Hill,” I said when he reached me, trying not to sound as confused as I felt.

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to throw you. I was just coming out of church when I spotted you and thought I’d say hello.”

  “Church? Here?” I asked, gesturing to the glass-fronted, contemporary building behind me. The place was pretty big, but I couldn’t imagine why I hadn’t seen him inside.

  “No, over there,” he replied, turning and pointing to a far more traditional church up the street, its twin Gothic Revival spires protruding into the brilliant blue sky. Well-dressed parishioners were filing out from the doors, some gathering in clusters on the sidewalk to chat.

  “It’s so good to see you.” The way his eyes lingered on mine, I almost believed him.

  “Back atcha,” I blurted out, and then I immediately blushed, mortified. Back atcha? Where had that come from?

  “So, you go here?” he asked, ignoring my idiocy and gesturing toward my church building.

  I nodded.

  “Huh. Talk about ships passing in the night. We’ve probably crossed paths before and don’t even remember it.”

  Oh, I would remember, I thought but didn’t say. Nothing about this man was forgettable.

  We shared what might have been an awkward silence except that it wasn’t awkward. Our eyes locked and held for a long moment, and for some reason words didn’t seem necessary.

  “Anyway, now that we’ve run into each other,” he said, placing a hand on my arm, “may I take you to lunch?”

  “No,” I said more quickly than I had intended. “I mean, I can’t. Not today. I have to get back to Nicole. She moved in with me yesterday.”