My Sister's Prayer

by Mindy Starns Clark

  “Thanks.”

  “No problem. Is she going to be okay?”

  I thought for a long moment and then nodded, realizing this might actually have been a good thing. If part of her drug habit really was driven by the need to keep those memories at bay, now that they had broken through, maybe she could begin to deal with them at last.

  “Lucky for her, she has a psychologist for a sister, right?” Ortiz flashed me a small but encouraging smile. “I mean, I know you can’t work with her directly on this, but at least you’re in a position to connect her with all the right resources.”

  “That’s true. And trust me, I will make sure she gets the help she needs, no question about that.”

  It was late, and I knew the detective had to go. Antsy from the commotion as well as from all that had proceeded it, I grabbed a jacket from the hook and offered to walk her to the car. As we went, she asked me a bit more about Nicole’s accident, which had happened southeast of here, far from the detective’s area of jurisdiction.

  I described the incident and answered her questions, but then I was surprised when she asked where things stood from a legal standpoint.

  “What do you mean?” I pulled my jacket more tightly around me in the chilly night air.

  “With the police. I assume at some point your sister will have to face charges?”

  The thought surprised me, but even as she said it I vaguely remembered some discussion between my parents about this that first night at the hospital. I’d assumed the police would let it go because it was a single-car accident and no one else had been hurt. Yes, Nicole had been driving impaired at the time, which was no small matter. But given the seriousness of her injuries, I couldn’t imagine the long arm of the law slamming down too hard on her. Only now did I realize how naive that assumption had been.

  “So what’s the worst that could happen?” I asked, not sure if I wanted to hear the answer.

  “Well, clearly, no one’s going to do anything until she’s out of those casts and walking again. After that, it depends on the DA—and on other mitigating factors, such as whether or not she was in possession at the time, if she has any priors. Things like that.”

  She looked at me questioningly, but I just shrugged. I didn’t know.

  We stopped beside a dark Buick. “Best-case scenario,” she said as she dug for her keys, “her attorney is already working on some sort of deal. He or she will probably try to negotiate for rehab in place of incarceration. Might even be able to get the charges dismissed entirely if she successfully completes the program.”

  “Do you think the DA may be more sympathetic if he understood the extenuating circumstances? The situation with the case you’ve been working on?”

  She paused, seeming surprised by the question. “My investigation? That crime happened twenty years ago.”

  “Yeah, but you saw her in there just now. It’s not hard to understand how she ended up going down the path she did. I’m not saying that early trauma excuses her actions now, not by any means, but it definitely makes them a little more understandable.”

  She seemed to consider my logic. “I suppose I could make a phone call. Whatever ends up happening is really between the judge and the DA, but they do have some leeway, so I guess it couldn’t hurt.”

  Once again, I thanked the detective, not just for this but for all of her help. I also apologized for having been curt with her when we met at the school last week, but she just shrugged and said not to worry about it, that I’d been given some pretty disheartening news and my frustration was understandable.

  “You’re dealing with a lot right now, Maddee. I hope I didn’t make things worse by asking about the charges. Please try not to worry about that right now. I’ll help out if I can, but at this point your focus—and your sister’s—should be on getting her well.”

  I agreed. “And keeping her sober.”

  “Yes,” she replied. Then we shook hands and she was gone.

  My walk back to the house was slow and deliberate. I needed to return to Nicole, but the night air was so quiet and peaceful, the coolness soothing to my frazzled nerves, the starry sky calming to my worried heart. Whatever needed to happen would happen. I just had to trust that God would work things out according to His plan.

  As I turned the final corner toward home, I noticed an odd movement up ahead on the right, almost as if someone had ducked into the alley that sat directly across from the carriage house. The Fan district was filled with narrow, brick-paved lanes that had originally been created to facilitate coal deliveries to the rows of homes. These days, those same alleys were mostly used for trash collection—and for shortcuts. Maybe what I’d seen was just someone cutting through that particular alley to get home a little faster.

  Still, it didn’t hurt to be prudent. Picking up the pace, I immediately crossed to the other side of the street and gave the alley a wide berth. I didn’t even look in that direction until I was at my door, but when I did, what I saw was a bit disconcerting. Sure enough, someone was there. It was a man, and he wasn’t passing through. He was just standing there, leaning against the wall in the shadows, watching me—until I looked right at him, and then he turned away.

  With a shiver, I let myself in and locked the door behind me. I wasn’t sure what it was about the guy that bothered me, but he had definitely given me the creeps.

  Wanting to get a better look at him, I took a quick peek at Nicole to make sure she was okay, and then I tiptoed upstairs and made my way in the dark to the window that faced in that direction. Knowing he couldn’t see in, I knelt there on the floor and peered through the glass. He was still there, but at least now he was smoking a cigarette, which might explain what he was doing.

  It was too dark to tell much about him, but then, for just a moment, he was illuminated by the lights of a passing car. The glimpse it gave was brief, but I’d been able to see that he wasn’t some kid. He looked to be in his forties at least and was balding and paunchy, not exactly a common hood. Letting the curtain fall, I got up off the floor and headed back downstairs, putting him from my mind. Something about him had seemed odd, but I had bigger things to worry about than a middle-aged guy sneaking a quick cigarette in the alleyway. He was probably just hiding from a wife who didn’t want him smoking.

  The next day was supposed to be Nicole’s first Narcotics Anonymous meeting, but after the drama of last night, I wasn’t going to push it. I had a feeling she might need a few days to rally before entering this next phase of her recovery.

  At work, I had a long talk with Debra, who thought that what had happened was a positive and necessary step. She said Nicole should definitely get some one-on-one therapy, and that more than likely, that would end up being one of the requirements of her sentencing. If not, she should look into it anyway, and Debra could help with some recommendations of therapists who specialized in childhood trauma.

  Though I’d checked in with Inez during the day and had been assured that my sister seemed fine, I still didn’t know what to expect when I got home that evening. Would she be weepy? Angry? Closed off and shut down? I was prepared for almost anything except what I got. A sister already dressed and in her wheelchair, ready to go to her first meeting as planned.

  “You’re sure you’re up to it?” I asked her once Inez was gone.

  “Hey, rules are rules, right?”

  I hesitated, teetering between the need to maintain my boundaries and the instinct to extend a little grace. I decided to go with grace, telling her that yes, rules were rules, but that considering what a tough time she’d had last night, it would be okay with me if she needed a few days more to recover first.

  “Nah, it’s fine,” she said, almost casually. She even attempted a little humor as she added, “Changing things around now would mess with your masterpiece of a schedule. I’d rather suck it up and go as planned than give you an excuse for hours of perverse pleasure with a pack of dry erase markers and a whiteboard.”

  I laughed, grateful t
hat she really did seem okay.

  Once again, the night was shaping up to be a chilly one despite the warmth of the day, so I grabbed both of our jackets and slid a thick pair of socks over Nicole’s toes, which were exposed at the tips of her casts. In order to fit thirty meetings in thirty days, I had planned out an intricate schedule of gatherings at a variety of locations. Tonight’s meeting was just a few blocks away, at an Episcopal church on Monument Avenue, so we decided to walk. As we headed off, her demeanor really did seem upbeat and not at all like the trembling, sobbing girl I’d held in my arms last night. I wanted to ask what had wrought such a change but held my tongue. Better to let her bring it up in her own way, in her own time. Tonight I would simply count my blessings and be grateful for this unexpected rebound.

  I did ask her the one question that had been burning in my mind all day—did she know what the legal consequences of her accident were going to be? Without even sounding all that upset, she explained that they didn’t know for sure yet, but her lawyer was trying to cut a deal with the DA that would keep her from behind bars. “He said it’ll either be jail plus probation or some combination of probation, rehab, counseling, and drug testing. Things like that. Oh, and I’ll definitely lose my driver’s license for a year.”

  Just the thought of all that made my head spin—and reminded me how very different her world was from mine. “When will you find out?”

  She shrugged. “With my injuries, they’re not rushing it. He said I’ll probably know by the end of next week. Then, depending on my progress, I’ll have to start serving my time around the end of November.”

  The prospect was so terrifying, I couldn’t believe how calm she seemed about it. I told myself it was probably the circles she traveled in, that a life of drink and drugs was one spent in the company of less-than-savory people. For all I knew, her best friend had done time at Chesterfield and her last boyfriend was on the FBI’s Most Wanted list.

  Trying to push such disturbing thoughts from my mind, I focused on our walk, which was lovely—except for the way others stared at her.

  “What is wrong with people?” I asked Nicole after a while. “Haven’t they ever seen a woman in a wheelchair before?”

  “I think it’s the Popsicle legs,” she replied, not seeming bothered by it. “At least once I get to the meeting, all that staring can serve a purpose. I’ll be a great cautionary tale for the other druggies in the room.”

  “Nicole,” I scolded.

  “Hey, sis, this ain’t my first time at the ball, you know. I’ve been to meetings before. I know what they’re like.”

  The revelation surprised me, though I supposed it shouldn’t have. The key was to make it work this time in a way it hadn’t had a chance to in the past.

  “Is it hard, to go in there and participate?” I asked as we came to a stop near the door.

  The answer she gave surprised me.

  “Kind of,” she said, turning to meet my gaze. “But you’ve been so good to me, Maddee, even if this meeting served no other purpose at all, I would still go through it just because of how important it is to you.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Celeste

  The morning after Celeste installed Berta with the Petits, the physician stopped by the inn and told her that her sister did indeed have typhoid fever.

  “She’ll need care and rest for quite a while. She’s fortunate to have survived. It will take some time until she’s over the fever and regains her strength.”

  “Thank you.” Celeste pulled her pouch from beneath her skirt. “Did you inform Madame Petit?”

  “Yes. She and her maid are committed to caring for her.”

  Relieved, Celeste paid his fee, trying not to worry about how long her funds would last. And though she kept the money hidden away in her pouch, she later tucked the brooch from Jonathan under the pallet, where it would be safe. No one besides Sary and herself climbed the ladder to the loft. There was no reason for her to carry it around any longer.

  August began even hotter than July. Celeste attended the service at the parish church the first Sunday of the month. Mr. Edwards had explained that attendance was compulsory, at least once a month, and she could be arrested if she didn’t attend. She sat next to Aline throughout the Anglican service, missing her family and fighting back tears. She barely listened as the priest read from the Book of Common Prayer and then the Books of Homilies. Instead, her thoughts stayed on her family in England and on Berta. She also scanned the group of soldiers sitting closer to the front, but she didn’t see Jonathan. Perhaps he’d traveled to the Vines’s plantation for the day. Governor Nicholson sat in the very front pew.

  When Celeste stood to leave at the end of the service, she saw Spenser slipping out the back. She quickly followed, but by the time she exited he was gone. On their way through the churchyard, Aline detoured toward a cluster of graves, making a quick sign of the cross as she passed by a more recent plot.

  When Celeste asked who was buried there, she answered, “One of the maids.” Then she pointed across the way. “Over there is Miss Annabelle’s grave.”

  Celeste shielded her eyes from the noon sun. All of the staff had had so many losses in such a short time. Life was brutal everywhere, but especially in this New World. Relief filled her, again, that she and Spenser had reached Berta in time.

  That afternoon, Governor Nicholson came into the inn. He’d been out for a stroll and decided to stop in for a cup of tea and perhaps another serving of Sary’s bread pudding. She’d made some the night before, and there were leftovers.

  As Celeste served the pudding, the governor asked her how long her parents had operated their inn. She quickly explained that they had left France nearly twenty years ago and began operating the inn soon after.

  “They arrived in London around 1685?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Huguenots then?”

  She nodded.

  “What trade did your father have?”

  “He was a printer. He still works as one at the London Gazette.” As soon as it came out of her mouth, she felt she’d said too much.

  “Goodness, child. Why are you working as a servant?”

  Her face grew warm, and she didn’t answer.

  He tucked his lips together and then said, “Some sort of trouble, I presume?”

  Her head bobbed, involuntarily, but she still didn’t speak.

  He picked up his spoon. “Well, please advise me if I can help.” He probably heard all sorts of sad stories as governor. Celeste wouldn’t burden him with hers.

  She whispered her thanks and then quickly left the room, wishing there was something he could do. He seemed kind, considering what Aline had said about him, but he couldn’t force Jonathan to marry her. And, at least for now, Berta was safe. That was what mattered.

  Berta had grown weaker the first couple of weeks at the Petits, hardly speaking at all, but then she began to get stronger. The couple quoted Celeste an acceptable price for Berta’s care. Celeste knew the increased work for the maid and cook and the extra cleaning and laundry that needed to be done all added up. She figured she could pay for another few months before the money ran out. She hoped by then that Berta would be strong enough not to need it. What she would choose to do after that, Celeste didn’t know.

  During the hot afternoons of early September, Celeste helped Benjamin in the garden, harvesting the ripening vegetables. The leaves of nearly everything—both the plants and the deciduous trees—were growing dry and golden. They also picked grapes off the vines. Benjamin explained that the plants were native to the area, and that the ones imported from France had died. Celeste’s parents had talked some about the grapes that grew outside of Lyon, but she had never paid much attention. As she gathered the fruit, though, she did think about the Scripture from the Gospel of John her mother quoted, usually when Celeste was acting self-righteous toward Berta. Celeste whispered the words to herself, “‘I am the vine, ye are the branches: He that abideth in me, an
d I in him, the same bringeth forth much fruit: for without me ye can do nothing.’” One time after her mother quoted the verse, she added, “Celeste, you’re called to abide. Focus on that.”

  The memory brought tears to Celeste’s eyes. Her mother had been right, of course. Sadly, Celeste wasn’t sure she’d ever figured out how to abide. She’d been so pleased with herself for being responsible and trustworthy. It was as if she thought she didn’t need to abide, as if she didn’t need Christ’s sacrifice.

  One evening in the middle of September, on one of the first cooler days, Celeste arrived at the Petits’ just as Spenser was leaving. He said hello but that was all.

  Celeste asked Berta if he visited often, and she said he came when he could. She either didn’t have the strength, or the desire, to say more. Later, Madame Petit told her that Spenser stopped by now and then but never overstayed his welcome. Celeste got the impression that the woman was quite taken with him.

  Jonathan avoided Celeste and didn’t come to the inn. A few times she saw him in the village when she was running errands for Mr. Edwards, but as soon as he spotted her he would do his best to disappear. Toward the end of September, on her way to the inn from the market, she saw him outside of the blacksmith shop, looking the other direction, and decided to catch him off guard. She approached and asked him if he’d sold his carriage.

  His face fell. “Please don’t be cruel.”

  She clutched her basket. “Could you answer my question?”

  He sighed. “I haven’t found anyone who’s interested yet.” He stepped closer, which surprised Celeste. She expected him to flee from her yet again. “There’s something I should clarify with you though. About your sister.”

  “What about her?”

  “I’m afraid she may have…fabricated a story about me.”