My Sister's Prayer

by Mindy Starns Clark

  A line from a song by the Simpson Sisters came to me, “Say it again girls, good men are hard to find.” Maybe that should be his ringtone. I’d need to give it more thought first, but if the sentiment fit anyone, it definitely fit him.

  Nicole was excited for Nana to see her without the casts, and our Saturday visit started out well. She seemed genuinely pleased with Nicole’s progress, and the three of us chatted happily around the table over coffee and a small fruit and cheese platter I’d thrown together. Unfortunately, our father had told Nana the news from the lawyer, and as soon as she brought it up, our pleasant conversation began to unravel. She and Nicole got into an argument about rehab versus jail, but I was determined to follow Greg’s advice and stay out of it. As the fight went on, I actually left the room, slipping upstairs, where I stayed until they had calmed down.

  I rejoined them with the hopes that things would get better from there. But then Nana asked if we’d read all the letters in the packet, the ones written by our ancestors, and we answered simultaneously:

  “We haven’t started them yet,” I said.

  “We’re almost finished with them,” Nicole said.

  She shot me a glare, but what could I do? I wasn’t going to lie, especially not to my own grandmother. I knew that she was eager for us to read them—and we were looking forward to it—but she would just have to understand that between physical therapy and daily meetings and my work and Nicole’s doctors appointments and even my dates with Austin, things were a little crazy around here right now. I tried explaining that to her, and she seemed to accept what I was saying—especially when she heard that Austin and I had gone out not once but twice.

  “Yes, I can imagine you are quite busy these days, Maddee. Caring for your sister is a full-time job, and then on top of that you have a full-time job.” With a wink, she added, “Not to mention your new young man.”

  She patted me on the arm. I thanked her for understanding and assured her that we really did want to read them and would do so as soon as we had a chance.

  “Thank you, dear. As for you, Nicole,” she said, turning toward my sister, her brow furrowing, “there is no excuse. You promised you would read them. You’ve had them an entire week. What else do you have to do all day except lie around in a bed?”

  A part of me wanted to jump to Nicole’s defense, saying that things weren’t all that easy for her right now either, that she’d been dealing with a lot of pain, and considering the shape her body was in, just the pace of getting to daily meetings was enough to wear her out, not to mention the physical therapy. But for some reason, I held my tongue. My sister was a liar, and she deserved to hang out to dry.

  Nicole ended up giving a plausible enough excuse, but watching her was like watching an actor on a stage playing out a scene. I felt as removed from her as she was from the truth.

  By the end of the hour, I was relieved to see Nana go. I loved the woman, and I did feel sorry for her in this, but her time with us today had simply worn me out. As I walked her to the car, I assured her that I would definitely see to it that Nicole and I made time this week to read the letters. Turning, she gave me a pat on the cheek and said, “Thank you, Maddee. I have no doubt that you’ll follow through. You always do.”

  Nicole and I finally got to Nana’s letters the next day, in the afternoon. Doing so required some juggling of our carefully planned schedule, starting with canceling my after-church lunch date with Austin, attending my church’s early service instead, and getting Nicole to a 12:30 meeting across town rather than waiting for the much closer 4:00 meeting we’d originally planned on. Once again, Austin wasn’t too happy with me, but I couldn’t worry about that now. I was still feeling conflicted over Nicole’s early cast removal, especially after he’d texted me the afternoon before and said, Last chance. Sure you can’t come to the party? All I could think when I saw it was, why would he ask again? Because he’d engineered a change in my circumstances? After a long moment, I texted back, Sorry. Wish I could. Have fun. And that had been that. Before he and I went out again, I would need to do some serious thinking on this matter.

  As for today, I assumed Nicole would be worn out after her meeting and need a nap, but she seemed fine, so once we got back home I made grilled cheese sandwiches for lunch and we settled in at the table. Because the letters were just copies and not the originals, we didn’t even wait until we were finished eating but instead dumped out the whole packet and got started right away.

  What we found were about thirty different letters, most of which were from Celeste.

  We began with the first one, written by her on July 8, 1704. It was hard to get used to her handwriting, so it was slow going, but we managed to read through this short one. She had written that she and Berta were both safe, and that she was sorry for what she had done, but that she loved Jonathan and planned to make a life with him.

  “Ooh,” Nicole said. “A love interest. These could be interesting.”

  The next, from October 11, 1704, was the one that had been written in a completely different hand, that Nana said had been penned on Celeste’s behalf because she was “incapacitated.” I couldn’t wait to find out more about that, though there was no explanation here. That short note consisted of just a few sentences, and it was a simple plea from Celeste to her parents, asking their forgiveness for “being deceptive about Jonathan,” for “stealing the ring,” and for “leading Berta astray.”

  I glanced at Nicole. “So much for our venerated ancestors. This girl sounds like a real piece of work.”

  “At least she’s apologizing,” Nicole replied, her eyes riveted to the page as she read the rest aloud. “‘I’m sorry for the despair I know I’ve caused you. I do not know my future or Berta’s. I will write more when I can. In the meantime, please know that I miss you and you’ve done nothing to deserve the way I’ve treated you.’ See?”

  We kept going through the pile, one by one, for the next several hours, immersing ourselves into our family’s fascinating and faraway past. We wanted to reach the explanation of who had written the second letter but were relishing how the story unfolded along the way. Because they were handwritten, not to mentioned faded, it remained slow going, but we took turns reading the letters aloud to each other, and that seemed to help.

  Despite the questionable start, the story the letters told ended up being one of tremendous determination and courage. We were also both impressed by the maturity of our young ancestors, particularly Emmanuel. By our calculations, he was only sixteen years old when he came here, yet he acted far more like a man than a boy. We credited it to the fact that people seemed to grow up a lot faster back when marriages often happened in the teens and life expectancy was less than forty years.

  Several of the early missives referred to a ring, but it wasn’t until we got to a later, longer, more explanatory letter that we were able to figure out what they were talking about. Apparently, King Henri IV of France had once given a ruby ring to Baron Gillet, Celeste’s great-great-grandfather, back in 1607, and that ring had been passed down to her mother, Catherine, just before she left France for England. Then, prior to leaving for America, Celeste stole it from her mother’s things and brought it with her.

  Reading all about that now, I wondered where the ring had ended up. Considering its age and provenance, if it were still being passed down through the family today, it would definitely be worth a pretty penny. I made a mental note to ask Nana if she knew anything about it.

  Nicole and I got through about half the letters before she began to fade, so I suggested we put them away for now and come back to them later in the week. Just to be sure we could make that happen, I grabbed a paper towel and a dry erase marker and rearranged a few things on the whiteboard until I got it to fit.

  Thinking Nicole might want a late-afternoon nap, I helped her into the bed, but she never really drifted off. From what I could see, she just lay there, staring off in the distance. Whether her mind was caught up in the past or on her
future, I didn’t know, but I could tell she needed some space.

  I used the time to pay a visit to Miss Vida.

  The idea had come to me three days ago, when I’d first gotten the phenotyping report from Detective Ortiz. I still hadn’t shown the computer-generated picture of the man’s face to Nicole, fearing it might create within her an even more drastic reaction than seeing Danielle’s drawings had. But I did want Miss Vida to get a look, so that meant sharing it with her when Nicole wasn’t around. I had printed it out at work and was carrying the pages with me now as I headed next door.

  Fortunately, the older woman was home and seemed happy to chat. I followed her to the kitchen, where she was in the middle of making cookies. She declined my offer of help, so as she measured and poured and stirred, I sat in her breakfast nook and explained why I had come. Of course, I had to start all the way back at the cabin in the woods and go forward from there, but she was quickly engrossed in my tale. By the time I got to the part about the report and laid it out for her to see, she eagerly wiped her hands on her apron and picked it up to give it a look.

  The reason I was bothering her with all of this, I went on to explain, was because of the victim’s Jewish heritage. To me, the next logical step in learning his identity was to contact local Jewish groups or resources or libraries to see if I could get access to their archives. If so, perhaps eventually I could unearth something that would reveal this man’s identity. Miss Vida had lived in Richmond her whole life and was very active with her synagogue, so my hope was that she could offer some guidance here about my options and maybe make a connection or two.

  “I’ll do better than that, Maddee. Why don’t you let me do some checking for you first? Before you bury your nose in a bunch of old papers and photos, I’ll ask around in the community to see if any of this—the facts of the murder or a missing person from that time or this picture of the victim—rings a bell. It wouldn’t hurt, and it would sure be a lot more pleasant than what you’re talking about doing. You’re already far too busy as it is.”

  I readily accepted her offer and couldn’t thank her enough.

  “Are you kidding?” she replied, shushing any further thanks. “This is exciting! I can’t wait to get started.”

  Though I knew I shouldn’t get my hopes up, I was feeling almost as excited myself by the time I left her place. If anyone could circulate info and get some answers, it was my personable and popular landlady. Whether she ended up succeeding or not, it was definitely worth a try.

  I left her house the way I had come in, through the back door. It was fully dark now, but I let the glow of the light from my kitchen—visible over Miss Vida’s back fence—guide the way. Breathing in the cool night air, I padded across the grass of her little yard and garden, but just as I pushed open the gate, something made me hesitate.

  A person, a man, was standing outside my kitchen window, trying to see into the carriage house.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Maddee

  I gasped. At the window the man turned, startled by the sound. Time froze as our eyes met and held. Though he was mostly in shadow, I could see the gaunt face, the scraggly goatee, the tattoos covering every inch of his bare arms.

  Hedge.

  Before I could even decide what to do, he took off running. Stunned, I just stood there, frozen.

  Then I ran after him.

  He’d veered off to the left, so I did too. But it was darker in that direction, with more alleys and trees and a million places to hide. By the time I reached the end of the walk, he was nowhere to be seen. I kept going anyway, but then I stopped after half a block, knowing it would be foolish to continue. He could be hiding up ahead and ambush me. Even if he wasn’t, and I managed to catch him, what would I do with him? A few years of karate class in middle school hadn’t exactly made me a force to be reckoned with.

  I turned toward home, thoughts of my sister suddenly flooding my mind.

  Nicole. Was Nicole okay?

  Adrenaline coursing through my veins, I ran all the way, slamming open the front door when I got there. She was in the bed, asleep, but the noise startled her awake.

  “Maddee? What’s wrong?”

  Again, time seemed to freeze. In an instant, my brain went through the whole scenario, the call from Ortiz, the mug shot, the way my sister had lied to me, was still lying to me. I shook my head, avoiding the question.

  “Sorry,” I replied, trying not to sound breathless. “I didn’t realize you were sleeping.”

  Needing privacy, I suggested she take a shower and afterward we could eat a light supper. I set up her shower chair and helped her get started. Then I went upstairs to make my calls.

  I began with Ortiz but got her voice mail, so I left a message telling her what had happened and asking her to call me ASAP. I didn’t know what to do, whether to call the police or file a restraining order or what, but I knew she could advise me, so I would wait until I heard back.

  In the meantime, I thought about calling my father next but hesitated. Knowing him, he’d race right up here and insist on taking both of us back home with him. But even with Hedge out there “sniffing around,” as Ortiz had put it, I didn’t want that. Not only did I have to be in Richmond for my job each day, but changing things now would mess with every single element of our carefully constructed schedule, threatening all the progress Nicole had been making, both with her therapy and her daily meetings.

  Hands shaking now from the aftereffects of adrenaline, I found myself scrolling for Greg’s number instead. He answered on the first ring, sounding pleased to hear from me even though it was a Sunday night and not a workday.

  Speaking in a low voice, I explained the situation, adding that I’d called my detective friend and was waiting to hear back from her, but in the meantime I just wanted his opinion on whether I should tell Nicole about this or not.

  He sighed heavily, and I could picture his thoughtful expression, his concerned eyes. He asked a few questions to clarify—this was the first he’d heard about the existence of a second passenger in the car who had run off after the accident—and then he concluded that maybe for now it would be better if she didn’t know. His thinking was that if she realized the guy was coming around, she might find a way to connect with him, and that was something none of us wanted to happen. For all we knew, Hedge wasn’t just her friend but her dealer as well, and he had come here with drugs in hand.

  “There are a few things we need to do security-wise,” Greg added. As he went on to talk about doors and windows and exterior lighting and even some instruction in self-defense, all I could think of was how he’d used the word “we.” Things we need to do. Something about that made me feel safe yet empowered. Proactive. I thought of a line from a song by the Miralettes: “Always there when I need him, he’s such a stand-up guy.” That was Greg to the core. Maybe that should be his ringtone.

  We made plans and ended the call. I listened to make sure the shower was still going and then quickly dialed Miss Vida next. Not only did I want her to know that I’d caught an unsavory friend of Nicole’s snooping around, but I needed help in getting Nicole out of here for a few hours tomorrow night so Greg and I could work unobserved. As usual, the older woman sounded more than happy to help. She came up with a grand plan for the evening, including what she would make for dinner and how she just might use the opportunity to teach Nicole mah-jongg. We were interrupted by a beep, so I ended our call and answered, glad it was Ortiz.

  We didn’t talk long. I’d made several decisions since leaving the message, and she concurred with those decisions now. She offered to do one favor, saying she would contact my local precinct to let them know what was going on and who the guy was so they could “up the patrol” for a while. “You know, they’ll establish a presence and keep an eye on the place. Make a point of being seen. It won’t take long for Hedge to notice, and then he’ll probably hightail it out of there. One more parole violation, and he’s back behind bars. He’s not going to ri
sk that.”

  Before going to bed, I sat by the upstairs window for a while and peered out into the darkness, watching for anything suspicious. Instead, I was thrilled to see a police car pass by on the street, slowly and deliberately, not once but twice in a half hour period. Thanks to that, and to the three friends who had come to my aid tonight, I ended up sleeping well despite my scary encounter.

  The next day was to be my sister’s first day on the job, and the timing couldn’t have been better. Now that she was somewhat ambulatory, no way did I want her at home and in a position to connect with anyone from her past.

  Because Nicole was still recovering from her injuries, Debra started her out slowly, giving her simple duties she could perform while seated. She told her that as long as she tracked her time, she was free to take as many breaks as she needed and even call it a day once she’d had enough. Debra showed her the family meeting room across the hall and explained that she was welcome to treat it as her own personal break space. Set up more like a living room than a counseling office, it held a long couch that would be perfect for putting her feet up and taking a nap. And because it was only used in the evenings, for family counseling sessions, it was always empty during the day.

  Once her orientation was done, Nicole jumped right in, and she seemed to catch on to things quickly. She’d dropped out of college halfway through her first year, but she was a sharp kid, and I had no doubt she could handle whatever anyone threw her way. Had she not gone down the wrong road back then, she’d be out of school and in the workforce in some professional capacity by now, I felt sure. Perhaps at some point, if she stayed clean, she could try again.