The Good Sister

by Wendy Corsi Staub

  Jen finds herself wishing that they had waited until tonight’s viewing hours to attend the wake with Thad, who’s planning on coming after work. He’s always a calming presence in a storm, and Carley isn’t the only one who can use his quiet strength right now.

  Jen’s father would be the next best thing. She turns to scan the crowd over her shoulder, hoping to see her parents’ faces.

  They aren’t there. She notices the middle-aged couple directly behind them watching something and turns to see that they’re staring at Carley as she leans briefly against the back of a wingback chair near the archway. Jen notices, for the first time, that she’s wearing stockings and flat leather loafers instead of sneakers with her school uniform today.

  She would have suggested it if she’d thought of it herself. She swallows hard, touched that Carley did it on her own.

  “Is she a friend of Nicole’s?” the woman behind Jen asks sympathetically.

  “Yes.”

  “Poor thing. She looks upset.”

  Jen nods. No kidding.

  “I used to work as a paralegal in her father’s office, years ago,” the woman goes on. “Terrible tragedy.”

  Used to work . . . her father . . . years ago . . .

  It takes a moment for Jen’s thoughts, swirling with concern for Carley, to process that. Her father, her father . . .

  Oh. Nicki’s father. Debbie’s husband, Andrew.

  Jen doesn’t know him very well. Despite her friendship with Debbie, they don’t socialize as couples. Andrew is a busy attorney, rarely home, and the marriage isn’t the most stable one around. In all those years of playground conversations and carpools, chaperoning class trips and girls nights out, Debbie hasn’t ever gone into much detail about her relationship with her husband, other than to say they live separate lives.

  “He does his thing and I do mine,” she’s often said, with a slight shake of her dark head, her eyes betraying not a hint of emotion.

  Feeling a touch on her sleeve, Jen turns to see Carley motioning that the line has moved forward again.

  “Are you sure you want to do this?” Jen asks her.

  Carley nods, and together, they make their way toward the coffin. A large framed photograph of a grinning Nicki sits on a flower-bedecked pedestal beside it.

  The unmistakable sickly-sweet perfume of Stargazer lilies permeates the room, mingling with the stale cigarette smoke and cooking smells wafting from the folds of mourners’ coats. Jen can smell the flowers though she can’t see them, and the distinct scent triggers an unpleasant memory that plays at the edges of her mind.

  She refuses to let it in. Not here, especially. Not now.

  Not so soon after walking the empty halls of Sacred Sisters, trying to forget . . .

  Here, there are flowers, other flowers, everywhere—mostly in chalky shades of white and cream. Standing out among them, Jen spots the large spray of roses she ordered from the neighborhood flower shop.

  “Are you sure you want to do hot pink?” the florist had asked over the phone. “We’re mostly doing whites . . .”

  “Hot pink,” Jen said firmly. It was Nicki’s favorite color.

  She sent the flowers with a card that reads simply, With Deepest Sympathy, The Archer Family.

  “Is there anything else you want to say?” the florist asked.

  Yes. So many other things she wants to say . . .

  But none seems appropriate or meaningful enough to write on a card sent with funeral flowers for a fifteen-year-old girl who killed herself.

  Positioned by the casket, flanked by her husband and her mother, Debbie Olivera seems to have aged a decade in the couple of weeks since Jen saw her last. The skin around her eyes and mouth is sallow and sunken; her shoulder-length auburn hair is streaked with wiry silver strands.

  Ordinarily, she’s a flashy dresser, layering on the jewelry and favoring bright colors like turquoise, coral, and her daughter’s favorite hot pink. Today, she’s subdued and frail in a simple black crepe dress that envelops her slender figure and renders her neck, wrists, and ankles inordinately spindly.

  Seeing Jen and Carley, Debbie steps toward them and falls onto them, weeping uncontrollably. Jen can’t find her voice and quickly stops trying, sobbing along with her heartbroken friend and her daughter until Nicki’s father steps in.

  “Deb,” he says quietly, “pull yourself together.”

  Jen immediately resents the words.

  But when she looks up and sees the stark pain in Andrew Olivera’s eyes, she reconsiders.

  You don’t judge a grieving parent. Ever.

  “I’m so sorry,” she says thickly to Andrew, and to Debbie and her mother, Rosemary, before the trio is enveloped by a fresh cluster of mourners.

  Jen looks at Carley. Her daughter appears shaken.

  “Let’s say a prayer,” she suggests, and together, they walk over to wait their turn at the kneeler beside the flower-covered casket.

  All around them, people are gathered in small groups. Some are wiping tears or leaning morosely on each other. Others are reconnecting with old friends, introducing them to spouses or children, the atmosphere one of an oddly restrained cocktail party.

  It’s always this way at a wake, Jen thinks. People talk about how they only see each other when something terrible happens, and promise to get together again soon under happier circumstances.

  But do they ever?

  Probably not. Life has a way of sweeping you along in day-to-day business, and old friends and extended family are too easily lost.

  “You really need to start social networking on Peeps,” Jen’s sister Bennie said in a recent phone conversation from the opposite coast. “Then we could be in touch every day.”

  “You mean Peopleportal?”

  “Peopleportal, Tumblr, Twitter . . . I keep up online with tons of people I never thought I’d see again, Jen.”

  “Really? I thought that was mostly something teenagers do.”

  “Well, that’s why I started in the first place—I wanted to keep an eye on what my kids were up to.”

  Probably nothing good, Jen thought, knowing her niece and nephew. Bennie’s two children have been a handful since they were born.

  “Now I think the kids have me blocked,” her sister went on, “but I’m on Peeps all the time anyway. It’s addictive.”

  “How do the kids have you blocked?”

  “Oh, it’s easy. There are settings so that you can choose who sees what, even if they’re on your connections list.”

  Jen has never been comfortable with the thought of broadcasting any kind of personal information on the Internet, let alone allowing her daughters to do it. She said no when Emma asked if she could get a Peeps page last fall. Carley has never even brought it up.

  “Mom.”

  “Hmm?” She snaps out of her reverie to see Carley gesturing at the empty kneeler.

  “It’s our turn.”

  As she sinks down and makes the sign of the cross, Jen finds herself on eye level with the fragrant bouquet of Stargazer lilies, positioned on the floor directly in front of the coffin.

  They must be from someone who also knew Nicki well enough to be aware that bright pink was her favorite color.

  Jen finds herself looking down at the florist’s card to see who that might be, and is surprised to see that the signature reads only, A friend.

  Who, Jen wonders, sends funeral flowers without putting a name on the card?

  Particularly an elaborate bouquet of distinct blooms as these.

  Enveloped in the scent, she again balks at the powerful memory trying to work its way into her consciousness. She hasn’t allowed herself to give that unpleasant incident more than a passing thought in years. And now, twice in one day . . .

  No. Don’t let it in.

  Pushing it away once aga
in, she bows her head and closes her eyes, losing herself in silent prayer.

  Afterward, she and Carley make their way over to sign the guest book lying open on a nearby stand.

  “You can sign for both of us, Mom.” Carley plucks a fresh tissue from a strategically placed box and wipes her red, swollen eyes. “I’m going to go find a ladies’ room.”

  “Do you want me to come with you?”

  “No thanks.”

  She watches Carley, with her head bent, weave her way through the crowd, then turns glumly to the guest book. After signing their names on the page, she scans the signatures above to see if her parents have already come and gone.

  Just a few lines up, a name jumps out at her.

  Michael Morino.

  Startled to see it, she glances around, wondering what he’s doing here.

  He knew Debbie, of course, back in the old days, and not just because he and Jen were dating. Mike played sports for Cardinal Ruffini, and Debbie was on the Sacred Sisters squad that provided cheerleaders for the teams at the boys’ school.

  Jen herself hasn’t seen Mike in . . . what? Twenty years? Twenty-five?

  Not since they broke up that final time, right before she met Thad.

  Is he still here?

  She furtively checks out every tall, broad-shouldered man in the room who might possibly be Mike, wondering whether she’d even recognize him—and vice versa. After all, they’re older, and—

  Whoa. There he is, standing off to one side talking to Glenn Cicero. The two of them were good friends back in the old days.

  Glenn looks every bit the middle-aged man, jowly with a scant fringe of graying hair around his ears.

  But Mike hasn’t changed a bit—dammit. It would have been somehow satisfying to see him balding with a beer gut. Instead, he’s lean and handsome as ever, with a full head of dark hair that’s shorter than it used to be. There’s just enough wave in it to remind her of the days when she’d playfully—or passionately—run her fingers through it.

  About to turn away before he spots her, she hears a voice calling, “Genevieve? Genevieve Bonafacio, is that you?”

  Everyone in the vicinity—including Mike Morino—turns to look at her.

  No one ever calls her by her given name these days, unless she’s at her parents’ house, surrounded by family. Even then, her sisters usually call her Jen, just as she refers to them by their American nicknames.

  Which mildly offends their mother, because, as she says, “It’s not like we’re right off the boat. You girls are third-generation Americans! I gave you beautiful Italian names to celebrate your roots, and you have nothing to be ashamed of.”

  Jen and her sisters have long given up trying to convince their mother that it’s not a matter of shame; it’s a matter of convenience. It’s much simpler to go through life as Jen, Bennie, Frankie, Jessie, and Maddie than as Genevieve, Benedetta, Francesca, Giuseppia, and Madonna.

  “I thought that was you! I’d know you anywhere!”

  “Marie!” Forgetting Mike, Jen finds herself face to face with a woman she hasn’t seen since she was, what? Fourteen? Fifteen?

  Yes—Carley’s age.

  And Nicki’s age.

  It’s as if a taut bungee cord has jerked Jen back to the sickening reality of the present.

  This is a wake. Nicki’s wake.

  Caught up in nostalgia for childhood innocence unmarred by senseless tragedy, her own and Carley’s, Jen is once again on the brink of dissolving into a puddle of emotion.

  “It’s so good to see you after all these years, honey, but not like this. Not like this.” Marie Bush pulls her into a bear hug.

  Years ago, she was a frequent substitute teacher at Sacred Sisters and gave piano lessons to all the kids in the neighborhood. Everyone adored her, parents and daughters alike—even Debbie, who didn’t see eye-to-eye with many teachers. But it was impossible not to get along with bighearted Marie, an attractive woman with stylishly short blond hair, big blue eyes, and a hearty laugh.

  Pulling back to look at her, Jen says to Marie exactly what she’d just been thinking about Mike: “You haven’t changed a bit!”

  “Thank you, honey. I’m in the herbal nutrition business now. Keeps me looking young. Feeling young, too.”

  “You don’t teach piano anymore?”

  “A little bit on the side. In fact”—she lowers her voice, shaking her head sorrowfully—“I had just started with Nicki this past fall.”

  Nicki was taking piano lessons? Debbie never told her that—nor did Carley. Suddenly, the recent rift between the girls seems even wider.

  She remembers Carley mentioning that the Oliveras had bought a baby grand piano right around the time school got out—an eighth-grade graduation gift for Nicki.

  “Wow—that’s some present.”

  Jen and Thad had gotten Carley a pair of birthstone earrings and a bookstore gift card that was ostensibly from Emma, who, when Jen showed it to her ahead of time, declared it a lousy gift. She wanted to know what Jen was going to get for Carley to give her in return when it was her turn to graduate from eighth grade, because—“just saying, Mom”—she didn’t like to read and would much rather get cash.

  Carley loved the bookstore gift card and the earrings, and she didn’t seem to resent that Nicki’s graduation gift was far more extravagant than her own. She was used to the fact that money never seemed to be an object in the Olivera household. Andrew and Debbie were always buying expensive cars, artwork, the latest electronic gadgets.

  “You should hear this piano, Mom,” Carley said last June. “Nicki played it for me.”

  “I didn’t know she plays.”

  “Just the bottom part of ‘Heart and Soul.’ But it sounds so much better on their piano than on ours.”

  Not surprising. The Archers’ old upright hasn’t been tuned since they got it.

  Marie Bush looks over at the coffin, takes a deep breath, exhales heavily. “I just can’t believe this happened.”

  “Neither can I.”

  Marie pats her arm.

  For a moment, they’re both silent, but comfortably so, with Marie’s graceful piano-playing fingers resting on Jen’s arm.

  “What are you up to now, Genevieve? You’re not still living here in the neighborhood, are you?”

  “No, we’re down in Woodsbridge. I’m married and we have two girls. My oldest, Carley, is—was a close friend of Nicki’s.”

  Past tense is appropriate in more than one way.

  “She was a nice girl. So talented. I never in a million years imagined that she could possibly . . .” Marie trails off, the four earrings dangling from her double-pierced ears swaying rapidly as she shakes her head.

  “You know, my daughter Carley took piano lessons for a while,” Jen says spontaneously, needing to change the subject lest she find herself on the verge, again, of erupting in tears. “I always thought she had a natural talent for it. If you’re still teaching, maybe I should look into lessons again.”

  “Give me a call,” Marie says promptly, reaching into her bag. “Here’s my card. No pressure if she’s not interested.”

  “I think it might be good for her.”

  God knows Carley’s self-confidence and her spirits could use a lift, and it would be so nice if she found something at which she could excel.

  “I give lessons in Woodsbridge on Friday afternoons,” Marie tells her. “I’m usually booked solid, but I might be able to—oh.”

  Seeing the realization in her eyes, Jen easily reads her mind: Now she’ll have a vacant slot available. Nicki’s slot.

  “Hi, Marie.”

  They both turn to see that Mike Morino has come up beside them.

  “Michael.” As Jen watches Marie embrace him just as fervently as she had Jen, he shoots a sidelong glance in her direction.


  She shifts her own gaze uncomfortably. Though it was great chatting with Marie again after all these years, she wishes she had beaten a hasty retreat before Mike spotted her. Now she’s stuck, and she isn’t in the mood to make small talk with him, of all people.

  There was a brief time, years ago—after Mike dumped her but before Thad came along—when she would have given anything to run into him somewhere and reconnect. After all, if you’ve spent years of your life loving, and gradually losing, somebody, you tend to crave some kind of closure. But God knows she’s long past needing it at this point.

  So, no, she doesn’t want to talk to Mike right now, or ever.

  All she wants is to take Carley home.

  She looks around to see if her daughter has returned, but there’s no sign of her.

  I’ll say a quick hello, she promises herself, and then I’ll go find Carley and get out of here.

  “Is Taylor with you?” Marie is asking Mike, and Jen assumes she must be referring to Mike’s wife. She heard through the grapevine that he married years ago, and he’s wearing a thick gold wedding band.

  Taylor: The name belongs to a head turner. Jen wouldn’t suspect anything less from Mike. He always did appreciate beautiful girls.

  He tells Marie, “Taylor’s not here. She didn’t know Nicki.”

  “Genevieve’s daughter was a friend of hers.” Marie gestures at Jen.

  At last, Mike looks directly at her, and she’s bombarded with memories. Mostly about how much she once cared about him—and what a jerk he turned out to be.

  How on earth did it take her so long to figure that out? His character—or lack thereof—is so obvious now. She’s spent less than a minute in his company and can’t miss the hint of self-importance in the air. Any longer, any closer, and it would be as sickening as the scent of those Stargazers, which only serve as further reminder of his cruel streak—especially now that her own daughter has been victimized by mean-spirited teenage bullies.

  “Jen,” he says with an outstretched arm, “it’s good to see you again.”

  “You too,” she lies, and goes to shake his hand. Instead, he clasps hers and gives it a lingering squeeze.

  “So you two know each other? I was about to introduce you.”