My Sister's Voice

by Mary Carter

  “I have a brilliant idea,” Lacey said an hour later, when they’d had enough culture for one day.

  “I can’t wait,” Monica said.

  “Let’s go mess with the guy at Benjamin Books,” Lacey said.

  “The one who thinks I’m rude?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “Oh my God,” Monica said. “That’s the best idea I’ve heard all day.”

  As soon as they walked into Benjamin Books, Lacey spotted the manager who hated her, and she waved. At first he put his hand up to wave back. And then recognition dawned. He shook his head. He whipped around to walk the other way and plowed right into Monica. He gave a half scream, took a few steps back, and plunged into Lacey. His head swiveled back and forth between the girls. They broke into raucous laughter. It was too much, even for him. He laughed along with them.

  “You got me,” he said. “You got me.”

  “You have no idea,” Monica said.

  “We could write a book,” Lacey said.

  Chapter 34

  It wasn’t a well-thought-out plan. It wasn’t a plan at all, it just happened. Monica’s phone buzzed and when Lacey swiped it up, it flipped open. She hadn’t intended on reading the text, it just happened.

  You’re not answering your phone. Lunch? Please? I’m coming to Boston. Mother.

  Great, Lacey texted back. When? Where?

  Wed? Harry’s Grill. One p.m.

  It was Monday. There was plenty of time to get to Boston. Lacey had always wanted to go. How would she dress, wear her hair? What if she got it cut like Monica’s? What if she wore one of Monica’s skirts and blouses? Monica certainly wasn’t using them. What if she brought the green glasses Monica had all but abandoned?

  The switch wouldn’t last long, just as long as it took for their mother to realize this daughter was the spare. But it didn’t matter. The surprise, the shock, would be worth it. Lacey confirmed the details, then quickly pocketed the cell phone. Monica could do without it for a few days. Who didn’t lose their cell phone from time to time? Monica had been ignoring all her calls anyway; she probably wouldn’t even notice it was gone.

  Lacey was going to meet her mother. Would there be tears? Screaming? Excuses? Maybe she would be aloof, make polite conversation, pay for lunch, and leave with her head held high. Despite you, I’ve grown into a mature adult. I did it all on my own.

  Maybe she would make a scene. Maybe she would tell her Monica never wanted to see her again. Maybe she would tell her Monica tried to kill herself and it was all her fault.

  “You’re leaving for a couple of days?” Monica asked.

  “My client lives a little too far out,” Lacey said. “So it’s just easier to spend the night. I’ll finish the portrait faster that way.”

  “Why don’t I come with you?” Monica said. “We can get a hotel room.”

  “You promised Robert you’d go to the Deaf picnic,” Lacey said. “You need the practice.”

  “You’re right,” Monica said. “I just hate the thought of being separated again.”

  “Text me anytime,” Lacey said. Then she picked up her duffel bag and hustled out before Monica could search for her phone.

  From her stool at the bar, Lacey watched Katherine Bowman enter the restaurant. She was right on time, and just as Monica described her. Tall with dark hair, like them. Lacey waited until Katherine was seated. She watched her adjust herself. She tucked her purse into the empty chair beside her, fiddled with her hair, which was swept into a bun. She spoke to the waiter using her index finger as punctuation as she talked. He nodded and hurried off. She smoothed the tablecloth in front of her and took a sip of her water. She smoothed her hair again, looked around the restaurant. Lacey slid off the stool and walked over, trying not to wobble in Monica’s straight skirt and heels.

  Katherine looked up and met her eyes. Then she smiled, and stood as Lacey neared. Her napkin fell to the floor. She opened her arms, and then Lacey was allowing herself to be wrapped in a hug. Lacey pulled away as soon as she could and picked up the napkin. Her mother was talking a mile a minute. As soon as Lacey sat down, Katherine thrust a newspaper article at her. Lacey glanced at it; it was something about working women molested by food vendors in big cities, trading free fruit for a free feel. I’ll give you a free banana if I can touch your melons, Lacey imagined the vendor saying. She tried not to laugh. Instead, she held the article up with a studious nod of her head, then tucked it into her purse. She sipped her own water, smiled, and nodded as Katherine spoke. The transition happened rather quickly. Katherine stopped talking mid-sentence. She frowned.

  “You haven’t said a word,” she said. Lacey could read her lips perfectly.

  “Hello, Mother,” she said. Katherine’s eyes widened and she grabbed on to the table like it was a life raft. She must have let out a cry, for the waiter hurried over.

  “Are you all right?” he asked with a glance at Lacey. Lacey’s eyes never wavered from her mother’s face. I’ll never remember you young, she thought.

  “No, no, no, no,” Katherine Bowman said. With each “no” her head dropped lower, until she was sobbing on the table. The waiter was visibly upset. Lacey was not.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked. “What can I do?”

  “Go away, go away,” Katherine said. The waiter threw another bewildered look to Lacey before hurrying off. Lacey shrugged and did the gesture for “crazy” that hearing people liked to use, index finger twirling in circles near the head. Katherine Bowman wiped her eyes, then took a deep breath, like a scuba diver preparing to descend into the murky depths. Only her quivering lips and shaking hands gave away her earlier collapse.

  “Lacey,” she said. She reached across the table, hands and eyes pleading. Lacey stuck up her middle finger. “You don’t understand,” she said. “You don’t understand.”

  If there was anything Lacey Gears understood, it was the phrase “You don’t understand.” That and “I’ll tell you later” she’d heard often. Conversations around dinner tables that she tried to grasp, only to be told, “I’ll tell you later.” It’s not important. Decisions made for her, around her, about her. It was Katherine Bowman who didn’t understand. A long list of misunderstandings, years of bad decisions, an endless well of wrong.

  Lacey reached into her purse and pulled out the first note card. All of her questions were written in black marker, thick, tall letters asking the unanswerable. She held it up like a game show host.

  Was it because I was Deaf?

  “No, no, no.” Katherine was moaning, Lacey knew by the drop of her head as she spoke, the shake of her head. Katherine reached into her purse and pulled out her cell phone. Lacey snatched it away, removing her mother’s safety net like a burglar cutting the phone wires. Lacey slammed the first card facedown on the table and held up the second question.

  Did you pay for my school?

  Katherine nodded.

  My private speech lessons? Another nod.

  My art teacher? Katherine frowned, shook her head. Lacey thought for sure the answer to that would be yes. She was glad. She loved Miss Lee; thank God she didn’t owe that one to the parents who abandoned her.

  My college tuition? Another nod.

  Margaret knew? You paid her off too? Lacey was pleased to note the shame that crossed over her mother’s face like a rain shadow as she nodded yes to that one.

  “You can’t tell Monica,” Katherine said. Lacey reached into her purse again and pulled out a Polaroid picture. She slid it across the table. It was one of Lacey and Monica taken at Benjamin Books by their new best friend, Benjamin. The girls were smiling, their arms thrown around each other, their mouths open in identical smiles. Katherine let a sob break loose.

  “My girls, my girls, my girls.”

  A man in a suit hurried over, trailed by the waiter. “Ma’am,” he said. “Is everything all right?”

  “They said it was for the best,” Katherine said to Lacey. Then she dove into her purse. Lacey suspecte
d her mother was looking for a piece of paper and a pen. Her own were tucked in her purse; she didn’t offer them. Her mother came up with a tube of lipstick. She uncapped it and tipped it toward the tablecloth.

  “Ma’am?” the manager said again.

  Katherine tipped the lipstick down and wrote on the tablecloth. I love you. Lacey crossed her arms and shook her head. She took her fingers and smeared the lipstick message until it was nothing more than a blur. Perhaps sensing a second act, the manager reached for the lipstick tube. Her mother pushed his hand away, then slid the bread basket out of the way. She stood up, leaned over the table, and wrote: THE DOCTOR ! ! ! As quick as she could, Lacey snatched a bottle of ketchup from a nearby table, opened it, and upended it all over the table, trying to obscure the messages. Both the waiter and manager ran away, no doubt preparing to call the police.

  Katherine scraped the ketchup away with a knife and wrote I’m sorry in the remainder of the sweet, sticky red. Lacey stuck her finger in the spicy mustard, found a clean, white spot. Too late. A few lookie loos were leaning over in their seats to see what was going on; others were eyeing their own condiments with renewed interest.

  Giant cards, ketchup, lipstick, spicy mustard—who knew communication could be so hard, so messy?

  “Lacey, Lacey, Lacey,” Katherine said. Lacey knew just the thing to shut her up. She reached into her purse and pulled out her half of the severed blue horse. All color drained from her mother’s face.

  “You were wrong,” Lacey said using her voice, drawing upon every speech lesson she’d ever taken to be heard. “Not the doctor. You.” Lacey pointed at her mother. “You were wrong.”

  Then, Lacey threw down the bill from the Hotel Chelsea, the three-thousand-dollar agreement they’d come to for the damage Lacey Gears had done to room 812, and made her exit. She knew her mother was still causing a scene behind her: She could see it in the faces of those she passed by, she could feel it in the back of her head. She picked up speed, as if she could outrun the pounding of her heart, her clenched stomach, and the tears, the damn uninvited tears that were pouring down both cheeks. She burst out of the restaurant and there was Monica, standing, waiting. The shock of it dried Lacey’s tears instantly. Monica smiled, opened her arms, and without hesitation Lacey fell into them. It felt good. For the first time in her life, she really knew what it felt like to have a sister.

  Chapter 35

  “It’s good to see you,” Mike said. All Monica’s fears about seeing him again evaporated the minute he opened the door.

  “You too,” Monica said.

  “If you’re looking for Lacey—”

  “I’m not.” Monica moved in on Mike before she could change or mind or clue him in on what she was about to do. She wrapped her hands around the back of his neck, pulled him close, and kissed him. His arms circled her waist and he kissed her back. It was a long time before Monica pulled away.

  “We have a workshop coming up,” Monica said. “And we’d love it if you come.”

  “We?” Mike asked.

  “I’ll explain everything,” Monica said. “But first there’s something I’m dying to do. And I know it’s going to sound a little strange—”

  “Try me,” Mike said. Monica talked. Mike listened to every word. Then, a smile came over him.

  “Well,” he said. “There’s no dining room here, but there’s always the kitchen counter.” He grinned again and held out his hand. Monica took it, and he led the way.

  Lacey and Alan were lying in bed, relaxed and happy after a long-overdue lovemaking session.

  “This Saturday?” Alan said. “We have a big site meeting—”

  “Cancel it,” Lacey said. “Please?”

  “What are you two up to?” Alan asked. Lacey straddled him, kissed his neck.

  “No more questions,” she said. “Just come.”

  “Okay,” Alan said pulling her into him. “Anything for you.”

  “Good morning,” Monica said. “Welcome.” The room was packed. Monica made sure not to look at anyone in the front row, the one usually reserved for friends and family. “My name is Monica Bowman,” she continued. “And I am not the architect of my soul.” A few people clapped, some because they misunderstood, others because they were terminally polite. “I hate this job,” Monica continued. She held up her book. “Every time I quote from this bullshit, I want to gag.” A few people laughed nervously, the others waited to get the joke. “The idea to write the book wasn’t mine. It was my ex-boyfriend’s. He should be up here telling you how to Construct a Blueprint, Build a Foundation, and How and When to Remodel. Those aren’t my words, and I certainly don’t practice what I’ve been preaching.” Monica caught her new assistants, the ones assigned to her by Help Yourself! Inc., whispering in the back of the room. One of them clutched a cell phone, and the other looked around, no doubt scanning the room to find the large hook with which to drag her off.

  “I do want you to lead better lives,” Monica said. “Because as far as I can work it out, this is it, the only life we get. Don’t waste it on Time Management crap. Don’t waste it on Thin Thighs in Thirty Days. How to Catch a Man When You’re Out of Bait. This workshop isn’t going to take two days. It may not even take twenty minutes. And don’t worry, if you’re not fully satisfied, I’m sure Help Yourself! Inc. will be more than happy to refund your money. Right, girls?” Monica gestured to the two assistants. They slunk as far as they could in their seats.

  “If you prefer the flashing lights and eighties music, get an iPod and a disco ball. If you’re expecting words like ‘up sales’ and ‘down sales’ with smiling presenters dripping in bling, bragging about another new idea or product to shove down the throats of the gullible American public, then just go across the hall. I’m sure there’s one of those over there. Scream yourself silly and convince yourself you can only be happy if you have more things. A new house, a new car, diamonds dripping from your wrists.

  “But that’s not what I want for you. Or me. I’m going to tell you a few simple things that I think could be stopping you from leading your best lives. They’ve certainly kept me from leading mine.” Monica reached into her pocket and pulled out the bottle of sleeping pills that had been her constant companion the past year.

  “These are sleeping pills,” she said. “I’ve been carrying them around like a security blanket for the past year. And not because I was having trouble sleeping. In fact, I was pretty sure if I ever broke the seal on them, I would swallow every single one. Luckily, when it finally happened, I only took about half. I really thought I’d only taken three, but I was kind of dizzy from all the paint fumes. That’s another story. I vandalized a hotel room.” There was a small eruption of noise from the audience, gasps, and at least one “Oh my God.” A few people looked around, as if wondering if it were their hotel room she’d “vandalized.” Knowing a heart-to-heart when they heard one, the audience quieted down, afraid to miss a single word.

  “At the same time that I was contemplating taking my life, I was standing up here, pretending I could help people like you live better lives. I, myself, was given everything growing up. I had two parents who loved me. Two nice homes. Money. Privilege. But something was missing. A sadness lived inside me. I couldn’t get rid of it, and I certainly couldn’t outrun it.” Monica stopped and took a deep breath.

  “I’ve recently been lucky enough to hang out with some artists,” she said. “I asked my friend the painter what drove her to paint. I asked my friend the sculptor what drove him to sculpt. An actor what drove him to act. The essence of their answers was exactly the same. The pursuit of two things. Truth and beauty.” Monica stepped forward.

  “I wondered how I too could apply truth and beauty to my life. Because carrying a bottle of sleeping pills around because I wasn’t sure I wanted to live wasn’t beautiful. And pretending to be the author of a book I didn’t really write was not the truth. And then I wanted to get to the root of every ugly lie that’s been weighing down my life.”
For the first time since she began, Monica looked at the front row. “My mother and father are here today,” she said. “I’m sure it’s been very difficult for them to listen to this, my truth. It’s so hard to look at the people you love and tell them the truth. Isn’t it, Mom? Isn’t it, Dad?” Her parents stared back. At least they were still there, they hadn’t walked out. It gave Monica the courage to continue.

  She gazed out at the audience. “I wonder how many of you are keeping secrets, both large and small, from the people you love. I know they’re weighing you down. Forcing you to build a false self in front of the true you.” Monica took off her jacket; her armpits were soaked. She took a sip of water, then looked at the four empty seats on the stage.

  “Mom, Dad,” she said. “Please join me on stage.” This was it. From here on out, she would not be able to control what her parents did. They could walk out. They could deny everything. But she was willing to take that chance. Then, no matter what they did, she was going to live the rest of her life out in the open. She caught Mike’s eye in the second row. He smiled and gave a slight nod.

  Her mother stood first, then the Colonel. Monica could tell his left leg was stiff from sitting, and his jaw was locked with tension. He gave her a look she knew well, the look that said she was humiliating him in public and he would not forget it. Strangely, she took this in without the usual dose of guilt or shame. She wasn’t here to humiliate them, she was simply facing the truth. She also knew with a sudden and sure clarity that they were her parents and she would love them no matter what. Her mother had tears in her eyes. She looked at Monica, then headed for the stage.