My Sister's Prayer

by Mindy Starns Clark

  “If it’s that painful, though, how can it be good for her?”

  He leaned one shoulder against the brick wall of the carriage house. “Treatment protocol requires movement and deep breathing. Without that, she could develop pneumonia, or even a collapsed lung. I know it’s not fun, but it’s a necessary part of the healing process.”

  I exhaled slowly, considering his words as he continued. “I do make sure to use moist heat before we start, and I always end with ice. You might try giving her a heating pad at bedtime to see if that helps.” He went on to describe other options we could explore, including pain relief patches, a TENS unit, and even acupuncture. “Bottom line,” he said, “there are many ways other than narcotics to ease her pain.”

  “Then ease her pain,” I replied, trying not to sound snarky.

  Saturday morning dawned cool and cloudy. Today was to be Nana’s first visit since Nicole moved in, so I spent the morning baking my special caramel apple coffee cake while my sister kept me company. Our grandmother showed up shortly after eleven, as promised, and the three of us enjoyed the still-warm treat, along with coffee, at the kitchen table.

  Fresh from her weekly women’s group, Nana seemed to be in a much better, far less anxious state than she had been last Saturday. She’d even brought a little gift for Nicole, a tiny ceramic frog, which she said was in honor of her continued sobriety.

  “It’s supposed to remind her to F-R-O-G: fully rely on God,” Nana explained to me. Turning to Nicole, she added, “That’s one of the things they say at those meetings of yours, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” Nicole replied, studying the little figurine, and though I expected to see a familiar mix of scorn and amusement in her eyes, instead she seemed genuinely touched. “Thank you, Nana. This is so sweet.”

  Prior to the visit, we had both prepared ourselves for what we called the Onslaught of Nana, but our grandmother was on her best behavior, with not a criticism or insult to be heard. In fact, she went in the other direction, complimenting both the living room setup—especially my “very impressive” whiteboard schedule—and how well Nicole seemed to be doing.

  Once we finished our coffee cake, I cleared the table, and Nana grabbed the manila envelope she’d brought with her, set it down, and pulled out its contents, explaining that these were the letters she’d told us about and that she’d made copies for each of us.

  “As I said, these letters were written to Catherine Talbot by her daughters. The very first one was sent by Celeste in July 1704. The second one is from October of the same year. Those two are both short and to the point because back then the girls were both so occupied with surviving that they didn’t have time for much else. Later on, they wrote more detailed letters, including all about what those first few difficult months in Virginia had truly been like.”

  Nicole held up the second letter. “The handwriting on this one is completely different. Are you sure it came from her?”

  “Yes, but that’s an interesting story,” Nana said. “Someone else had to write it for her because she was…incapacitated. You’ll learn more as you read.”

  I stared down at the old-fashioned handwriting. “If the letters were sent to England, how did they end up back in America?”

  “One of their younger brothers came over a few years later and brought the letters with him, along with other family documents, including the pamphlet that’s now at the Smithsonian.”

  I nodded. That priceless pamphlet had been donated to the Smithsonian last July in a lavish ceremony, the same weekend our cousin Renee proved there had been blood in the cabin and sparked the official investigation into our old mystery.

  “As I said before, I thought the two of you would really appreciate the story these letters reveal.” Nana’s expression growing intense, she turned toward Nicole, adding, “I especially want you to read them.” By the tone of her voice, it sounded oddly important to her.

  “O-kay,” Nicole replied warily.

  “Do you promise to read them?” she persisted, and again I detected some undercurrent I didn’t understand. From the look on Nicole’s face, our grandmother was making her uncomfortable.

  “Yes, of course, Nana. I promise.”

  Nana wrapped up her visit after that, and then I walked her to her car. As soon as we were out of earshot, I asked what on earth that was about. To my surprise, she wouldn’t tell me. All she said was, “That’s between me and your sister, dear. Don’t be nosy.”

  Whatever it was, I decided, maybe I would figure it out after I’d read the letters for myself.

  There was no time for that now, however, so once I was back inside I tucked our copies safely away in the living room and helped Nicole get ready for today’s meeting, which would be at a church in Carytown at one o’clock. I usually spent that hour sitting in the hall and just reading a book or catching up on email on my phone, but today I was feeling antsy, so I went window-shopping along nearby Cary Street instead. Known as the “Mile of Style,” Cary Street offered an amazing array of stores and boutiques. And though I didn’t buy anything, at least I managed to work off some energy.

  Back at home afterward, Nicole and I set about making lunch, a beef-and-vegetable stir-fry with Tahini sauce. As she chopped and I cooked, I offered to put on some music.

  “Are we talking about my definition of music or your definition of music?” she asked slyly, gesturing toward the stereo in the living room. “I’m sorry, Maddee. I love you, but I’ve never seen such a lame CD collection.” Setting her work aside, she rolled herself over to the cabinet. “Just the ‘ettes’ alone are enough to make me queasy.”

  “The ‘ettes’?”

  “Yeah, let’s see.” Running a finger down the neat stack of CDs, she began reading off some of the band names. “We’ve got the Marvelettes, the Chordettes, the Ronettes, the Barbalettes, the Ikettes, the Jaynetts, the Royalettes, the Velvelettes, the Carolettes, the Marquettes, the Pearlettes, the Charmettes, and the Coquettes. Seriously?”

  “Hey, now,” I replied, shaking a carrot at her. “Don’t judge what you don’t know. Have you ever given any of them a try? You just have to get in touch with your own inner girl band.”

  “Yeah, okay,” she said, rolling her eyes.

  “Go ahead. Put on any one you want. I promise you’ll find something you like.”

  “Fine.” She began sorting through and pulling various CDs from the rack, reading the backs and then setting some of them aside.

  “Find anything that looks interesting?” I asked, wondering what was taking her so long.

  “Yeah. I’m putting together a medley of hits in honor of your date tonight,” she replied with a mischievous grin. We hadn’t discussed Austin once since our fight earlier in the week, but if she was willing to have a sense of humor about him now, I guessed I could too.

  Her montage started off with the Quin-Tones’ “Down the Aisle of Love.” Considering that the song opened with a bridal march before moving into the melody, I feared things could only go downhill from there.

  At least Nicole had fun with her musical torment, playing songs like “Tonight You Belong to Me” and “Born to Be with You” and “Then He Kissed Me.” As I predicted, after a while she seemed to be getting into the music, bopping around as best she could without hurting her ribs to “Sweet Talking Guy,” and singing along with the chorus of “Be My Baby.” Over in the kitchen, I danced along as well, wrapping up the stir-fry to the Angels’ “I Adore Him.”

  As I fixed her plate and carried it to the table, she put on her DJ voice one last time and announced we’d be ending today’s girl band showcase with one final selection, dedicated “from Richmond’s prettiest psychologist to the world’s hottest doctor.” Then she put on the Shirelles’ classic, “Will You Love Me Tomorrow?”

  “Very funny,” I said, making my own, smaller plate as I sang along.

  When it ended, she put the CD back in its case, turned off the stereo, and got herself to the kitchen. Watching her, it struck me
that she really was doing better. This time a week ago, she couldn’t have rolled herself two feet without collapsing in pain.

  “So what happens next?” she asked once I said grace and we began to dig in. “We paint each other’s nails and watch a Doris Day movie? Because if that’s how this is gonna play out, I’d rather do my taxes or get a root—”

  “Oh, no you don’t! Make fun of my music all you want, but do not malign the Great and Wonderful Doris.”

  We both laughed, and once again I felt a pang of something deep in my heart, a mix of joy and trepidation. How I had missed my sister! Until she came to live with me, I hadn’t even remembered how much.

  “Yuca?”

  I glanced up from my plate to see the handsome man across from me holding out what looked like a small french fry dipped in mayonnaise.

  “Go ahead,” Austin urged. “It’s really good.”

  I accepted his offering and popped it into my mouth, savoring the surprising flavors of the fried yuca combined with cilantro and lime. We were sitting outside on the deck of Casa Cubana, a downtown restaurant not far from the Canal Walk. It was a beautiful evening, the chill of the air negated by radiant heaters around the perimeter of the dining area.

  Thus far our date had been going great, even if I had been a bundle of nerves at first. This afternoon, while Nicole napped, I had taken my time getting ready to go out. As I smoothed and dabbed and curled and styled, I kept trying to push from my mind the hurtful thing she’d said the other night, how I wasn’t good enough for him. It wasn’t easy, but in the end I was as ready as I was going to be. At least my outfit worked, a light sweater paired with a wrap dress, leggings, and my beloved stiletto boots.

  For Nicole’s sake, I had waited for Austin outside on the patio, chatting easily with Miss Vida, who had agreed to hang out with my sister while I was gone. I had enticed her with the offer of the pay-per-view movie of her choice along with, a party-size bag of M&Ms and a big bowl of popcorn with extra butter.

  Austin arrived exactly on time, and his face broke into a broad grin the moment he saw me. I immediately felt more at ease. Perfect or not, I’d obviously passed muster. After that, I felt more confident.

  He looked amazing in gray slacks, a fitted shirt, and an elegant tie, his smile a perfect white, not a hair on his head out of place. It was fun introducing him to my landlady, especially when she caught my eye behind his back and started fanning her face, pretending to swoon.

  His relaxed and pleasant demeanor immediately put me at ease, and I enjoyed our drive to the restaurant in his sporty Infiniti. Once there, we were shown to the perfect outdoor table for two, where we had fun choosing our meals from the elaborate menu. We chatted easily, just getting to know each other a bit. He had a habit of straightening his tie every few minutes, a gesture some might find off-putting but that I liked. It showed he was neat and orderly, qualities I admired. He was also charming and pleasant, and we had so much in common the conversation never lagged.

  Now it seemed we had made it all the way to the food-sharing stage. After enjoying the yuca fry he’d given me, I offered him one of my plantains in return.

  “Sure,” he said, though he didn’t take it from me with his own hand. Instead, he leaned forward so I could feed it to him. The motion was oddly intimate, and I could feel heat rising in my cheeks as I slid it into his mouth.

  By the time we made it back to my place, I was reluctant for the evening to end. He took my hand as we strolled to the door and kept holding on to it even once we came to a stop. Nerves fluttering in my stomach, I turned toward him and thanked him for a lovely evening. A cool breeze swept past, blowing at my hair, and almost immediately he reached up and tucked away a stray strand.

  “Looking a little windswept there,” he teased with a grin, his fingertips lingering at my cheek. Then he brought his lips to mine, warm and sweet, for one brief but impressive kiss.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Maddee

  The next morning, I was awakened by a four-second clip of music proclaiming, “He’s a dreamboat!” A text from Austin. Smiling, I grabbed my phone from the bedside table and checked the screen.

  Sunny and warm today. Bike ride and picnic after church?

  I hesitated only a moment before responding: Love to. Will see if I can work it out.

  He replied: Okay, but two incentives to keep in mind. Roast turkey sliders with garlic-basil mayo. Me in shorts.

  I burst out laughing—and found myself hoping he would deliver on both.

  Miss Vida said she was happy to stick around and handle lunch, so I knew that as long as I got back in time to help Nicole in the bathroom and take her to her meeting, it wouldn’t be a problem. My sister didn’t seem all that happy about it, but I felt sure that had more to do with her reservations about my seeing Austin than spending an extra hour or so with her new buddy. After last week’s makeover and last night’s movie fest, she and Miss Vida were fast friends.

  Austin and I ended up riding the James River Trail Loop, stopping to eat at a pretty spot along the water. As promised, he brought the food and drink, including not just turkey sandwiches but also fruit salad, fresh veggies, macadamia nut cookies, and a thermos of lemonade. We had fun, though he did tease me mercilessly about my “sissy bike,” especially once I admitted I’d chosen it primarily for the color scheme. He also wasn’t too happy about having to cut our time short, but what could I do? Caring for my sister was my top priority right now, and everything else had to come second—even time with this extremely handsome and charming man.

  He was almost petulant on the ride back, though once we reached my place, he apologized.

  “It’s just that now that I’ve found you, I’d really like to spend time together, you know?”

  His words made me blush, but I couldn’t have agreed more. There was so much promise here, and not just of more fun afternoons in the park. When I looked at Austin, I saw a home, a family, and a whole brood of beautiful children. A lifetime together. I was still getting to know him, but there was already so much to like. The fact that he was this interested in me in return was enough to make my heart soar.

  Before leaving, he asked me out for Saturday, to a party at a friend’s house. I accepted, not exactly sure what I would do about Nicole, but with a whole week to figure it out, I should be able to come up with something. To my delight, we also made plans for lunch after church on Sunday, something I hoped would turn into a regular thing.

  Maybe my dream of a family wasn’t so far off after all.

  Though we had to rush, I managed to get Nicole to a three o’clock meeting at a Baptist church on First Street. We didn’t talk much on the way, but that was fine with me. I was off in my head somewhere anyhow, trying to picture what our future children might look like. Would the girls get my auburn hair? Would the boys have their daddy’s broad shoulders and trim waist? Either way, they would be tall.

  I brought along a book and spent the hour sitting on the floor in the hall just outside the room where the meeting was held. About halfway through, I peeked inside, checking on Nicole. The chairs were in rows, about half of them full, with a woman addressing the group from a podium up front. Nicole sat off to the side in her wheelchair, and though I couldn’t see her face, I could tell from her slumped posture that she was either really bored or in a fair amount of pain.

  It turned out to be the latter. By the time it was over, she looked miserable, her skin pale and beads of sweat forming along her brow. Once I managed to get her home and into bed, pills in her system and ice on her aching ribs, I asked if she knew why she was hurting so badly today. To my surprise, she confessed that she’d tried to go the bathroom this morning without help and had ended up falling hard against the handrail as she attempted the transfer.

  “Nicole! You could have really been hurt. You know you’re not supposed to do that alone.”

  “Yeah, but I also knew Miss Vida shouldn’t do it, and you were off playing footsie in the park with Dr. Ken
Doll.”

  “Hey, watch it,” I snapped.

  “Sorry. I’m just concerned about you, is all. You guys seem to be moving so quickly.”

  “Imagine that.” I could hear the sarcasm in my own voice. “I guess he doesn’t realize that he’s too perfect for me. He even seems to like me. And I like him.”

  She sighed heavily, shaking her head. “He’s not the one for you.”

  “Yeah, you made that abundantly clear the other night. I’m not good enough.”

  “What?” She pushed herself up from the bed and then fell back down again, wincing from pain. “No. It’s not about who’s good enough or not good enough. It’s about you and this imaginary world you live in.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Why do you think you love fifties girl bands and Doris Day movies? For that matter, why do you have a hope chest full of baby clothes you started making fifteen years ago? Because that’s where the fairy tales are. The happily-ever-afters. The perfect life with the perfect house and the perfect husband and the perfect children. You’ve been dreaming that dream since you were a kid, Maddee, but you’re not a kid anymore. At what point do you grow up and realize that life is ugly and messy and difficult? That it doesn’t tie up in a neat little package with a perfect little bow?”

  I gaped at my sister, realizing in that moment how far apart our life choices had brought us. Maybe her world was ugly and messy and difficult, but mine was just fine, thank you.

  “What does any of this have to do with Austin Hill?” I asked, not even caring anymore where she was going with this argument.

  “You want the things he can give you so badly that you’re not even seeing who he is. You’re blinded by the same hopes and dreams as always. Don’t you get it? You two are too much alike, Maddee—in all the wrong ways. Being with him will only bring out the worst in you. All those tendencies and inclinations inside yourself that you ought to temper will instead just grow and grow until they take over.”