My Sister's Voice

by Mary Carter

  “Why?” she said. “Why do they hate me so much?” Alan wrapped his arms around her from behind. She pulled away and doubled over. Then she stood, wiped her tears with the back of her hand. She scanned the room. She spotted the coffeepot and ran over.

  “Maybe a cup of tea would be better?” Alan said. Lacey pulled the coffeepot out, held it up, and stared at it as if it were a curious thing, a thing that could exist without gravity. She raised it above her head and let go. It smashed on the ground. Glass shattered and bounced everywhere, and a brown river leaked over, and under, and through the jagged pieces like a polluted river. It was a strong visual. She didn’t need to hear it shatter, she could feel it. The pungent smell of stale coffee snaked into the air. Alan gestured for Mike to stay back.

  “Milk and sugar?” Alan said. Lacey gave him a look as he retrieved the broom and dustpan from the corner.

  “Leave it,” Lacey said. “I like how it looks.” Alan leaned the broom against the counter and set the dustpan next to it.

  “He said there’s more,” Alan said, gesturing at Mike. “Do you want to hear it or not?”

  Lacey lifted her head to Mike. She nodded. They made their way to the couch. Mike continued to stand, but Lacey allowed Alan to sit her down.

  “Your parents said if the two of you ever got together—it could be dangerous,” Mike said after a long pause.

  “Dangerous?” The word lifted Lacey off the couch. “Dangerous?”

  “That’s ridiculous,” Alan said.

  “That doesn’t make sense,” Lacey said.

  “They said something about psychological damage.”

  “How dare they! How dare they call me damaged.” Lacey started pacing. After a few minutes, she walked up to Mike and held her hand out.

  “What?” Mike said.

  “My parents’ phone number and address,” she said. “Give it to me. Now.”

  “What are you going to do?” Mike asked.

  Lacey held up three fingers. “One. Get through this damn art show. Two. Meet my twin.”

  “And three?” Alan asked when she didn’t offer it. Lacey smiled. She held up the number “three” in sign language with her left hand, her thumb-index-middle-finger, and tapped her middle finger with the index finger of her right hand, indicating she was speaking of the third item on her agenda.

  “Three,” Lacey said. “Make my parents wish they were never born.”

  Chapter 17

  Lacey couldn’t sleep, and she should be sleeping. She needed sleep or she’d be strung out at her own art show; she’d fit the definition of tortured artist, and Lacey hated the thought of fulfilling a stereotype. At the very least, if she was going to lie awake, she should be focused on her work, excited about showing it to the world.

  Showing it to her clients was more like it. Weren’t they the only ones interested in looking at portraits of themselves and their pets? Still, it was her livelihood, and the exposure was sure to generate new clients. But she couldn’t focus on anything but her parents. She was trying to recall what they looked like, an impossible task given that she’d only seen the backs of their heads. They looked tall. Her father kept his hair military short, salt and pepper. Her mother’s hair? It was dark, like hers. Wavier? Why hadn’t she paid more attention? If only she’d seen their faces. Faces of parents who didn’t come to see her, their long-lost daughter, but instead came to see Mike. The fact burned into her brain, along with the business card Mike finally turned over.

  Richard Bowman. Bowman Air Rifles. BAR. Portland, Maine. Was this where Lacey’s dream of living in a lighthouse came from? Was it part of her genes? It was insane, thinking like this, as if every scrap of her life—tastes, likes, dislikes, decisions—now had to be reexamined genetically. Who the hell was she if nothing about her was truly her own?

  Maybe she would buy a lighthouse, sit in the top with a rifle aimed out the window, and, like a siren on the rocks, lure her parents to shore.

  Pow! Bang! Dead!

  Her father. Air-gun manufacturer. Oh God. Was he a member of the NRA? A Republican? Were they filthy rich? Should she take them for everything they had? She probably could too. Too bad blood money wasn’t her thing.

  Criminal, the mother of the twins had said. It would be criminal. Monica was the key. Their daughter, her sister. Criminal. Air guns. Twins. They Shoot Deaf Daughters, Don’t They?

  She would enlist Monica; together they would turn against their parents. A reverse parent-trap. Instead of getting them together, they would rip them apart—

  Lacey got out of bed and went to the window. She hated the mean thoughts in her gut, hated confronting what she might be capable of doing. She should just leave them all alone, let them stay in their little fantasy life.

  Dangerous? It would be dangerous if the two of them were together? What kind of people were they? She’d be doing Monica a favor by getting her away from them. Surely, once she found out what they were doing, what they’d already done to them, she wouldn’t want anything to do with them. Or would Little Miss Architect of Her Soul forgive and forget? Lacey parted the curtains and held up an imaginary rifle. Sniper. Not a bad career move. Ready, aim, fire. She walked back to the bed, wishing Alan were here. Instead of spending the night with her, he’d taken a hotel room. As if they were going to tiptoe around each other, go back to formal dating, courting. She missed his body, she missed his lips, she missed his eyes, and his smile.

  What had she done? Why was she so willing to drive him away, sacrifice their relationship? This sister thing was too much. She didn’t need it in her life. She wished she’d never opened that envelope, never seen the poster in the bookstore. Never heard the name Monica Bowman. All Lacey had was a sea of questions, and the open bed, like a field, all to herself. Too bad it wasn’t a field of poppies. At this rate, she was never going to sleep. She called to Rookie. She would go to the art studio. Anywhere had to be better than here. Air guns. Go figure.

  There was a brick propping open the door leading to the studio. Lacey froze. Was Mike here? Maybe he had propped open the door, maybe he was bringing in another piece for the show. Logic told Lacey this wasn’t the case. His jeep was nowhere in sight. Rookie wiggled furiously to get out of her arms, and she could feel a low growl coming from his belly. She looked up the long set of stairs leading to the entrance, but from where she stood, she couldn’t see anything out of the norm. Rookie finally broke loose and tore up the stairs, most likely yapping his head off. Lacey hesitated, wondering if she should leave the door propped open or close it behind her. If she left it open, then someone could follow her inside. If she closed it and someone was already inside—

  Rookie raced back down. His tail was wagging; he was no longer barking or growling. Once Lacey shut the door, she would be in pitch-black. The bulb at the top of the stairs had burned out long ago. Mike had promised to replace it before the show. Lacey dug a small flashlight out of her purse, turned it on, and kicked the brick out from underneath the door. She held on to the banister and took the steps one at a time, her heart pounding harder the higher she rose. At the top, nothing looked out of place. Still, who propped the door open with a brick, and why? It was ungodly early on a Saturday morning. What if a vagrant had slipped inside? Or a rapist—

  Lacey glanced at Rookie. He was bouncing up and down trying to reach the doorknob with his tongue. If there was an intruder, some help he would be. News at 11:00. The suspect was licked to death by a puggle... . Lacey pointed at Rookie. “I wish you were a German shepherd,” she signed. He licked her ankle. She examined the door. The panes of glass were all intact. She unlocked the bottom lock and tried to open the door. It didn’t budge. The top lock was engaged. Lacey couldn’t believe it. Mike never locked the top lock, which is why she didn’t have the key. It was way too early to call him. She’d have to wait until at least eight A.M. KNOWING IT WAS FUTILE, LACEY KICKED THE DOOR ANYWAY. THEN SHE SANK TO THE TOP STEP AND LET ROOKIE CURL UP IN HER LAP. SHE FELL ASLEEP WITH HER HEAD AGAINST THE B
ANISTER AND HER HAND ON TOP OF ROOKIE’S LITTLE HEAD.

  A few restless dreams later, she felt heavy footsteps coming toward her. Rookie bounded off her lap and leapt down the stairs. Lacey fumbled until she found the flashlight, then shone it down the steps. It was Mike. He grimaced, threw his hands in front of his blinded eyes. Lacey aimed the flashlight away from him. Mike was unsteady on his feet, and as he drew closer, it was obvious he’d had a few to drink. He lifted his hand in a tipsy wave. Some pair they were going to make for the show, sleep deprived and hungover. And now that Alan was gone, Lacey and Mike were limited to simple words and gestures. Neither of them looked in any shape to write back and forth. Mike pointed at Lacey and then threw open his hands. What are you doing here?

  Lacey stood and pointed to the top lock. She jiggled it to show him it was locked. Mike shook his head. He didn’t lock it. She wanted to tell him about the brick, but she knew he’d never understand her. He motioned for her to get away from the door. Fueled by either confidence or Corona, he took the rest of the steps two at a time. As Lacey had done before him, he examined the door. Then, he dug for his keys, motioned for her to keep back, and disappeared inside. Lacey followed. This was her studio too. If someone had broken in, she was quite capable of helping Mike kick ass. Besides, Rookie had already disappeared inside, leaving her looking like a fool standing all alone in a dark stairwell.

  Lacey stepped in, and hesitated. Mike hadn’t turned on the lights. Apparently, he was going for the element of surprise. Lacey didn’t want to ruin the storming of the castle by turning on her flashlight either. Where was Rookie, the traitor? Finally she saw Mike heading out of his space. He was carrying a baseball bat. Lacey couldn’t take it anymore; she flipped the switch and flooded the studio with light.

  Once their eyes adjusted to the light, Lacey and Mike headed to the far wall, where Lacey had hung her portraits for the show. There were fifteen in all and it had taken two men several hours to hang them exactly where she wanted them, not to mention positioning the spotlights above them to illuminate them just right. The spotlights were off. That had to be why they looked funny to Lacey. She flipped on the overhead bank of lights, then stared in disbelief. Her portraits were gone. Instead, hanging in their place, looking as if they’d just burst out of the starting gate for the Triple Crown, were her horse paintings. And not just fifteen to replace the portraits. Fifteen were hung in portrait position, five dangled above them from chains attached to the ceiling, twirling as if galloping, and the last five were propped below the hanging fifteen, perfectly set to satisfy both the casual and artistic eye. If you came in close to them, you felt as if they were surrounding you. If you stood back, you were watching them gallop in the wild. Seeing them all together like this, Lacey momentarily forgot they were all cut in half. A giant blue mare, painted against a swirling red and orange sky. A green and pink swirl, nostrils flared, hooves coming off the canvas. A profile of a black beauty, framed in red, as if he were backlit by a raging fire. She’d used every color of the rainbow for their bodies (always with a tinge of blue), but the soulful big eyes on all of them made them so real, and their strong necks and heads gleamed in the way the paintings were lit, as if their manes were on fire, as if they were hot to the touch. A sign was hung in the center of the exhibit. It said:

  PLEASE TOUCH.

  It was the same type font used for the mysterious letter. She wanted to be furious, but she couldn’t. She loved the idea. She was a tactile person, and she painted that way. She hated rules and stuffy museum environments where a slap on the hand was the reaction she got for wanting to explore the world through touch. Lacey reached out to one of the dangling paintings and touched the golden mare. It was as if she could really feel the bristles of her mane, and the silk of her belly, beneath her fingertips. She couldn’t have come up with a better idea herself, couldn’t have positioned them any better if she tried.

  Mike tapped her on the shoulder, startling her. She’d forgotten all about him. “Wow,” his lips said. He looked at her as if seeing her for the first time. “You did these?” Lacey nodded. “These are amazing.” Lacey didn’t have time for praise. She ran over to the tarp and lifted it up, even though she could see it covered nothing; it was just lying in a convoluted heap. Her pet-and-owner portraits were not beneath it. They were gone. Sheila Sherman was going to freak. She’d had Fran fasting all week, she’d told her, just so Fran could look good at the opening. Lacey told her no dogs were invited to the opening, leaving out the fact that Rookie of course would be there. Sheila was furious; she said Fran had finally lost enough weight to look like the thinner dog she’d asked Lacey to paint in the portrait. Lacey could only hope Sheila wouldn’t throw a fit when she saw Lacey had painted Fran as she saw her, roly-poly.

  Lacey had almost turned away from the tarp when she caught a flash of white out of the corner of her eye. There sat a familiar-looking white envelope. She didn’t even hesitate; she grabbed it and tore it open.

  If wishes were horses, how Lacey would ride.

  She stared at it. Read it again. And again. If wishes were horses—

  What the hell? Who the hell? Was this some kind of a joke? Lacey glanced at her horses again, and this time it was as if she were seeing them for the first time. Twenty-five wishes. She’d been separated from her twin for twenty-five years. If wishes were horses. No. It couldn’t possibly mean that. It was just a coincidence. Wasn’t it? How Lacey would ride. Lacey felt tears threaten to overtake her. Not again. She was not going to cry again. Not over some person she didn’t even know, didn’t even know if she wanted to know. No. That wasn’t why she dreamed of living in a lighthouse or painted twenty-five damn horses. That wasn’t why, that wasn’t why, that wasn’t why. This was a break-in. A criminal act. Her portraits—her bread and butter—had been stolen.

  If wishes were horses ...

  Mike was behind her again. If she weren’t so furious with everything else, she would have lectured him about sneaking up on her. Instead, she handed him the letter. He shook his head, held his hands out in bewilderment. Then he pointed to her horse paintings again and mouthed either “unbelievable” or “under-the-weeble.” Lacey darted to the easel, picked up their trusty marker.

  There was a brick, Lacey wrote. Propping open the front door. My portraits are gone. Her clients. They were all coming to the show this evening, expecting to see themselves and their dog-children, cat-children, and in one odd case, iguana-child. They were going to freak. All that work down the drain. She was going to have to give them their money back. She didn’t have it. They’d been paid in advance. They had all agreed to let her showcase the paintings; they were all expecting to take them home tonight. She was screwed. So why was there part of her soaring with joy? Wanting to cry out, yes, yes, yes! Her horse paintings were right where they belonged. On display. In the open. Exposed.

  Oh God. All those eyes, looking at them, seeing inside her. Who was doing this to her? Torturing her like this? Could she really go on with the show? The show must go on, she could see Robert saying. The show must go on. She tried to pretend it wasn’t intense joy she was feeling, looking at her paintings. Whatever her motives for painting them, they were good. She was proud of them. She just couldn’t figure out who was behind the scenes pulling the strings. And she couldn’t help but wonder what else they had in store.

  Chapter 18

  Maybe she shouldn’t be here. After all, he hadn’t reminded her about the show since giving her the flyer, hadn’t called to see if she was coming. Even Tina wasn’t coming, and she was the one trying to date him. Speaking of which, what was Tina going to think if she found out Monica was here? Dressed in a sexy little black, low-cut dress? Monica stood outside the art studio and watched as people made their way up the narrow staircase. Lights and jazz poured out of the space above. It looked like fun. There was nothing wrong with popping in, saying hello. I was in town for business.

  But she wasn’t. She was here to see him. To support another artist.
That was all this was, artistic support. The fact that she wasn’t frequenting art shows in Boston, or New York, or anywhere else was beside the point. She had a personal connection; he’d interviewed her—if you could call it that—and now she was supporting him. Besides, she still had to find out how he knew about her birthmark. She had several reasons for coming, and none of them were cause for concern. She didn’t bother to invite Joe simply because she knew he was swamped with work. And she didn’t tell him she was coming to Mike’s show because he’d been jealous of him at the cabin. She was standing outside with the smokers. It was time to either light up or go up.

  Within seconds of entering the space, Monica was glad she came. She was offered a glass of wine right away by a nice-looking woman, also in black, and soon after offered a tray of cheese and crackers. She was standing in the center of the space, facing a section with a leather sofa and chairs, and behind it, a kitchen. There were people clustered in the middle, then another cluster to her right, where she could barely see sculptures over the heads of those standing close to them, and paintings were hung to her left. Monica was about to turn to the sculptures first, when she got a good look at one of the paintings dangling from a chain on the ceiling. Taking her glass of wine with her, she moved closer. And then, even closer still. As if pulled by a magnetic force, Monica moved through people to get as close as possible. Then, she stood surrounded by paintings of horses, dumbstruck.

  They were the most beautiful things she had ever seen in her entire life. She felt giddy, and yet grounded, as if she were rearing up like many of the horses in front of her. People were talking all around her; much of it didn’t make sense. One woman was saying, “Where is my little Fran?” over and over, and another was on about a missing iguana. How could these people yak about nonsense in front of these masterpieces? She stepped even closer.