The Secrets Sisters Keep

by Abby Drake

  Medication had helped. Brian had, too. So had finishing college, becoming a mother, getting her master’s, and teaching ninth graders.

  She waved back now, checked the closure of the paisley quilted bag that she had made by hand (wouldn’t her sisters be shocked to learn she’d picked up a few sewing skills at the costume factory?), and waited for the bus to finish loading and head to New York City, with stops in Springfield, Hartford, and New Haven. In New York she’d change for Tarrytown, then take a cab to Mount Kasteel and the lake. She’d arrive around ten o’clock, in time for dessert and not dinner, thus avoiding having to stretch awkward small talk over several courses.

  She had no idea what to expect. The only thing for certain was that they were older.

  She’d seen Babe in the tabloids over the years and had been so surprised, proud, envious, that her little sister had really made a name for herself. It seemed only yesterday that Carleen had taught her how to walk in high heels, how to blow-dry her hair, how to apply mascara without sticking the wand in her eye. Who would have known that Babe, not Carleen, would turn out to be the real beauty in the family? When Babe’s first film was released, Carleen spent every afternoon for two weeks at the cinema watching the larger-than-life image of her sister. In the darkness, Carleen’s tears flowed nonstop. Hopefully, no one had noticed, because the film was a romantic comedy, not suited to crying.

  She was sad that Babe never had children.

  As for the others, Ellie and Amanda, Carleen didn’t know if they were married or had kids or had gone to the moon.

  She had, after all, done as she’d been told. She had left; she had never returned. Not once had any of her sisters tried to contact her. Not once had any of them tried to find her, to see if she was okay, to say they were sorry for all that had happened, to say they understood and that they forgave her.

  Not one of her sisters.

  Not once.

  She gripped her quilted bag again and wondered why she was going this weekend.

  Then the big engine rumbled to life and the door squished closed on its hydraulics. Carleen jerked forward, ready to lunge from her seat, race to the front and beg to get off.

  Then she remembered her decision to finally tell her sisters the truth.

  “Your husband must be a busy man,” Babe said to Amanda once Chandler and Chase had left the library with Wes.

  “And yours is still handsome,” Amanda mocked. “For his age and all.”

  “Do you think he’s dead?”

  “Your husband?”

  “No. Uncle Edward.”

  “Who knows. When we saw him at Christmas he looked rather peaked.”

  “Perhaps people look peaked to you unless they’ve wintered in the Caribbean or the Aegean.”

  “Better than the fake bronze tans of L.A.”

  “Enough,” Ellie said sharply before any more barbs could be traded. “We need to decide whether or not to cancel the party.”

  Amanda sipped her wine. “I think we all have a better chance of survival if we leave things as they are. Two hundred guests will be a distraction.”

  “From the fact Edward’s missing?”

  “No. From each other.”

  Babe toyed with her hair. “What if he doesn’t come back? What will we tell everyone?”

  “Babe has a point,” Amanda conceded. “The only thing worse than the gossip that would start if we cancel the party is if we act like it’s a big deal that he’s not here. Someone is bound to call the police. Someone will be convinced he is dead.”

  Dead. There was that word again.

  Ellie shifted uncomfortably on the Hepplewhite. “Edward is fine, he has to be. I suggest we have the party and see what happens. In the meantime, let’s talk about something else.”

  Amanda stood up again and traced her steps back to the wine. “So now we can’t talk about Edward and we can’t talk about Carleen. Have you compiled a list of acceptable topics?”

  Ellie looked at her sweet sister, Babe. She smiled. “Yes. Why don’t we talk about Babe. We haven’t seen her in a while, remember?”

  “It’s no fun to talk about someone when they’re in the room,” Amanda retorted. It might have been funny if it weren’t the truth. “Oh, all right,” Amanda continued, “do tell us, Babe. What have you been doing for the past twenty years?”

  “Actually, it’s only been nineteen,” Babe said. “And I’m sure you’ve read or heard most of it. Three husbands, no kids, two Emmys, no Oscars.”

  “Four nominations,” Ellie interrupted.

  “Two gone to Meryl Streep, one to Nicole Kidman, and the latest to that newcomer, Kate Winslet.”

  “She’s hardly a newcomer.”

  “Time flies.”

  “So what’s the real dirt?” Amanda asked. “What’s life really like in Hollywood?”

  Ellie could tell Amanda was being sarcastic, because she knew Amanda had no patience with the disingenuous film world. It was the one trait she’d inherited from Uncle Edward.

  “You could have visited anytime,” Babe replied.

  “Ouch,” Amanda said and poured herself more wine. “Well, sorry. I’ve been busy tending to my charities and raising my three children.”

  If the remark was meant to be cutting, Amanda succeeded.

  “Amanda,” Ellie said, “sometimes you are a pompous ass.”

  Babe laughed and stood up. “Well, this has been lovely, but while my husband is off on a search party and Amanda is getting drunk before dinner, I think I’ll go upstairs and rest. I’m sure you understand. It’s been a long day.”

  Ellie stood up, kissed her sister’s cheek. “I’ll call for you in time for dinner.”

  “I’ll be in my old room. The one in the back.”

  Ellie felt a sting but reserved comment.

  “Pleasant dreams,” Amanda called after Babe. “Oh, by the way, I hope you’ve brought something more appropriate to wear. You’re in New York now, you know. Civilization.”

  “Yes,” Babe replied. “As I recall, it’s where the world revolves around you. I’ll try to keep that in mind.” She swept from the room in a graceful departure befitting a dramatic actress of an earlier time, Bette Davis, perhaps, or Elizabeth Taylor.

  Ellie had to stop herself from laughing out loud.

  “Well, apparently she’s still a princess,” Amanda said.

  “Funny,” Ellie said, “that’s not quite how I saw it.” Still, she was considering asking Amanda to pour wine for her, too, when the doorbell rang again. Instead of asking for wine, Ellie held her breath.

  “I guess we’re going to have to get used to this for the next couple of days,” Amanda commented, and Ellie agreed.

  Chapter Nine

  Once again, it wasn’t Carleen. And it wasn’t Edward.

  This time it was Heather, Amanda’s daughter, the eldest of her brood, her contribution to Wellesley. The last time Ellie had seen the girl had been at Christmas, at which time her thick coppery-red hair had not been twisted into a loose topknot. She had not worn black eyeliner as she did now, or eye shadow of what appeared to be glitter. Ellie also did not recall that the girl had a large tattoo of a monarch butterfly on her upper left arm, or one that resembled a camilla in full bloom on her right.

  Judging by the widening of Amanda’s eyes and the veins that popped symmetrically on either side of her throat, she did not recall those things, either.

  “Hi, Mom. Hi, Aunt Ellie. This is Shotgun.”

  It appeared Heather was indicating that the name of the young man next to her was Shotgun, not that he was toting one by his side, though it might have complemented his slicked-back black hair.

  “Hello,” Ellie said, because Amanda was mute. “Come in. Sit down.” She half-wondered if the mass of tattoos that painted most of Shotgun’s flesh not covered by a black tank top or black leather chaps would rub off on the upholstery of Uncle Edward’s Hepplewhite chairs.

  “We missed lunch,” Heather said. “Can we raid the kitchen
?”

  “Sure,” Ellie said. “Dinner’s not until eight. But you can probably find something for sandwiches.”

  “Cool,” Heather said. “Any beer? Shotgun promised not to drink and drive, and now he’s absolutely dying of thirst!”

  It was hard to focus on what Heather was saying instead of being transfixed by her sparkling eyelids. Still, Ellie wondered if she should ask if Shotgun was of legal age. Then she realized she didn’t even know what legal age in New York was anymore. Being a recluse could be so informationally limiting. “Ask Martina,” she said. “She’s the caterer for the party. She should be in the kitchen.”

  “Cool. Oh, is anyone around to take our duffels? I promised Shotgun we’d get the room on the third floor that overlooks the lake. He absolutely loves the water, you know? He’s a Pisces.”

  The two tattooed young bodies then departed from the doorway and moved toward the kitchen.

  Amanda remained mute.

  Ellie was not sure what to say, so she just said, “Well.”

  Then Amanda came to, jumped to her feet, and said, “What did she say? I mean, she doesn’t really expect to share a room? With that . . . that boy? In this house?”

  Ellie didn’t know if she’d be more concerned about that or the tattoos or the transformation of Heather’s once pretty face. “Well,” she said again.

  Amanda’s two visible throat veins grew larger and more purple. “Well, nothing. Won’t Naomi just love that.”

  It took a second for Ellie to remember that Naomi really was Babe, that Amanda had often called her by her given name whenever she’d been filled with what came off as hatred but really was envy.

  “Amanda, please. We can work this out.”

  “She’s my daughter! I’m the one who has to work this out, not you! I’m the one! Not even her father! Because where is he, anyway! I’ll tell you where he is! He’s screwing a Brazilian back-waxer named Bibiana!” She flung her wineglass onto the Hepplewhite, where it bounced once, then landed on the floor and shattered—to smithereens their mother would have said. Then she marched from the room toward the kitchen shouting, “Heather! Heather! Come back here!” over and over the whole way.

  The room was different from what Babe remembered. A thick coat of eggplant-colored paint had replaced the princess-themed wallpaper; a large, queen-size bed stood where the canopy twin had once been. Instead of a pink organza bedspread, a beige comforter was topped with piles of throw pillows in shades of eggplant and olive; instead of ruffled, ribboned pink curtains, wooden blinds with wide slats hung at the double windows.

  Tucked in the corner, however, where the slant of the ceiling accommodated the angle of the eaves, a child’s oak table and two chairs still sat, as if waiting for little-girl-Babe to glue sequins onto her summer T-shirts, string glass beads into bracelets for her sisters, serve tea to her Cabbage Patch doll.

  If Babe closed her eyes, she might smell the bubble gum scent of the cologne she’d once loved.

  It was in this room that Babe had decided to be an actor. There had not been a specific date or a time, but it had been in this room, a sensation, a feeling, a knowing that had been present.

  She moved to the small chair now and sat down, her knees poking up toward her chin. The sequins, the bracelets, even the pretend tea had been part of a ritual she’d developed and perfected, a ritual of a make-believe world where there had been no older sisters to measure up to or compete with.

  “What did you think of the play, Mrs. Minerva?” Babe would ask her Cabbage Patch doll, who’d come with a name she couldn’t remember but who had been dubbed Mrs. Minerva by Uncle Edward. “Yes, yes, I thought so, too. A little weak in the third act. Not quite enough motivation for the resolution.”

  They were words she had learned by listening to Uncle Edward and his friends—just as she’d observed the nuances of great Broadway stars: the tilts of the heads, the gestures with cigarettes, the red lips that overworked syllables with each breathy word. Day after day, year after year Babe practiced the tilts and the gestures and the lip work in the maple-framed mirror that still stood on the bureau next to the table.

  The summer before Amanda started college, she had walked in on Babe rehearsing her ritual. “Oh, grow up,” Amanda had scoffed. With big hair and access to Edward’s sports car and her own credit card, Amanda thought she was someone special.

  Ellie had come up behind her and told her to mind her own business and leave Babe alone.

  Right after that Babe paid more attention to Carleen, who was only three years older than she was, three years more grown up.

  Babe remembered those early days and the innocence that had defined them. Choosing Carleen as her mentor had been her first big mistake. Falling in love at fourteen, her second.

  His name was Ray Williams, and he lived on the lake year-round. He was the same age as Carleen and had his driver’s license and use of his mother’s car, an old, beat-up Rambler whose front seats folded down. They spent a lot of time hugging and groping on those seats. But it wasn’t until the following summer, when Babe was fifteen, that Ray covered the upholstery with his mother’s crocheted afghan and they, at last, did it.

  Over the winter, she had planned the event. Staying in touch hadn’t been easy: her mother and father said she was too young for a boyfriend; Ray’s parents were fiercely protective of their only child and did not want him with one of Edward Dalton’s nieces. Edward, of course, was one of those wild theater people, one of those summer people who interrupted their lives for three months each year.

  But Babe was in love. Having followed Carleen’s growing-up lead for some time, Babe knew that to keep Ray, sex had to come next. She enlisted Carleen, who’d been happy to dish out advice: she said it must happen soon after they arrived at Kamp Kasteel for the season—that would guarantee Ray’s allegiance for the whole summer, no matter how hard his parents might try to keep them apart.

  Carleen, of course, knew everything.

  The Dalton nieces were shipped off to Edward’s on June twenty-first. On June twenty-third, Babe was lying on her back in Mrs. Williams’s Rambler, cushioned by the afghan.

  It was clumsy but lovely. Best of all, Babe didn’t have to pretend. She loved Ray, she knew it, with each touch, with each kiss. He was real; he was hers.

  When they were finished Ray held her and rocked her and told her he’d never met a girl as beautiful as she was or as sweet or as wonderful. He said he’d missed her so much over the winter that sometimes he’d felt sick deep inside.

  They made love all summer until the end, when Ray left for Virginia Tech, and Babe was left maimed, and Carleen took off for Poughkeepsie. Then everything changed. Abruptly. Painfully. With no turning back.

  Except for attending public high school, Babe spent most of the next three years in her room at Uncle Edward’s with the sequins and the glass beads and the Cabbage Patch doll that she had outgrown. She’d outgrown the house, too. Maybe they all had, because it had become silent. The parties had ended, the laughter had ceased. She never heard from Ray. She learned through the mailman that he was staying at college year-round. She was certain his parents had done that on purpose. She thought about going to Virginia but knew that was a daydream, another lapse into pretend.

  Three years later, Babe finally let go and moved to Los Angeles.

  With a small sigh, she stood up now, went to the window, and looked down to the grounds and the perky white and gold tent. It was good, she supposed, that she had come back. It was good there was going to be a celebration, a catharsis needed for so long. Perhaps it might not be so bad. As long as Carleen didn’t come.

  Chapter Ten

  “I don’t care what you did on Nantucket. You will not sleep together in Uncle Edward’s house. You will have some respect for this family. You will have some respect for him.”

  “Mother, no offense to him, but Edward’s an old queer. Do you honestly think he cares who sleeps with whom?”

  In another world, at another
time, Amanda would have raised her hand and slapped her daughter’s face, right or left cheek, it wouldn’t have mattered, anything to have let Heather know she was being a brat and that Amanda would not, absolutely not, tolerate her insubordination. Amanda suspected, however, that her daughter was trying to show off for the tattooed prince who now stood next to her in the kitchen, a fistful of Spanish almonds in one hand, a lager in the other.

  “I have said what I’ve said and that’s final,” Amanda replied. “If you don’t like it, you and your friend are welcome to leave.” She would not call the boy Shotgun, not if Heather begged her. Surely that was not the name on his birth certificate. Not if his family summered on Nantucket.

  “I’m cool with it, Mrs. Delaney,” whatever-his-name-was said. “I brought my sleeping bag. I can camp out.”

  She hadn’t expected the boy would take her side. “Well,” she said quickly, “you can put your sleeping bag in the boathouse. It’s probably not fixed up, but it would be better than sleeping outside. In case it rains.”

  “Mother, Shotgun is not sleeping in the boathouse. It’s moldy and damp and it stinks in there.”

  Amanda did not want to ask her daughter how she knew what the boathouse was like. Heather looked too much like—was too much like—Carleen, after all. And Carleen had a history of seeking out hideaways for boyfriends and sex and drinking and smoking pot.

  God! Amanda thought. How she hated thinking about Carleen! It was bad enough she was reminded of her each time she looked at her daughter and her daughter’s godforsaken hair, which Amanda had tried more than once to get Heather to dye. Black. Purple. Anything.

  She turned from the children—they were children, weren’t they?—and said, “I don’t care where he sleeps, as long as it isn’t with you.” She went into the hall and headed back to the library when she bumped into Babe, who was coming down the stairs.