The Sullivan Sisters

by Kathryn Ormsbee

Eileen growled. “You, I guess.”

  “Who empties the trash?”

  Eileen was quiet. She had the sudden urge to puke.

  “I read the letter,” Claire said.

  “What … the hell.”

  It came together as Eileen remembered the envelope’s torn top. She thought she’d made that tear in a drunken stupor. She’d been wrong.

  “I called Mr. Knutsen myself,” Claire said, with utmost composure. “He wouldn’t tell me details, since I’m not eighteen, which I guess is fair. You have the details, though. So we’re going to do this.”

  Eileen couldn’t remember ever being this surprised. It felt kind of nice to feel something this much. But that didn’t mean she was okay with it.

  “We’re not doing anything,” she said.

  “Sure we are. We’re going to our dead Uncle Patrick’s house. I know you visited Knutsen this afternoon.” Claire tapped the manila folder resting on the dash. “You left that on the kitchen counter when you came home and peed. I saw the address. Rockport, right? That’s where we’re headed.”

  Eileen narrowed her eyes. “When did I invite you?”

  Claire’s lips curled upward. Another thing Eileen couldn’t remember: the last time Claire had smiled at her.

  “I’ve got money,” Claire said.

  Eileen was quiet.

  “Unlike you, I didn’t blow mine on a van. I’ve got thousands. Thousands, Leenie.”

  Eileen studied Claire, incredulous. “Are you … bribing me?”

  “One hundred dollars,” Claire answered, “for the use of your vehicle. I looked up the address, and it’s a three-hour drive north. You’re the only one with a car, and no Lyft is that cheap. It makes perfect sense.”

  Eileen shook her head at Claire. “You’re unbelievable.”

  “Well?” Claire pressed. “One hundred. I bet that’s twice the money you’ve got to your name.”

  Eileen stayed quiet. There was a crumpled dollar in her back jeans pocket.

  One dollar.

  That was it.

  “Why do you care?” Eileen asked. “Why’s it worth a hundred bucks to you?”

  Claire looked at Eileen like she was dense. “Because it’s my inheritance too. I want to know what I’m working with. Anyway, I’ve made you a fair offer.”

  “Three hundred,” Eileen said tonelessly.

  Claire looked surprised for only a moment. She countered, “Two.”

  “Two-fifty.”

  Claire screwed up her eyes. “You know, I already wrote down the address. That’s your leverage.”

  “I’ve got the van,” said Eileen. “That’s plenty of leverage still. Two-fifty, you ride. Any less, and I drag you out of this van by your goddamn messy hair bun.”

  This time Claire didn’t miss a beat. “Two-fifty, fine. We drive, we check out the place, and we get home by morning. Murphy won’t even notice we’re gone.”

  Though it was technically Eileen’s victory, she didn’t feel triumphant. Instead, she got a twinge of guilt thinking of leaving Murphy home alone overnight. But Murphy was fourteen, a high schooler. She could take care of herself. And nothing bad ever happened on their street.

  Unless you counted Dad’s death.

  Or Eileen’s everyday life.

  This was a perfect example: Eileen had won the argument, but in the end she felt screwed over. Claire had still gotten what she’d wanted. She’d known she was going to get it from the beginning. She had the money. The real leverage.

  That’s why she was smiling.

  “You freak,” said Eileen. “Reading my goddamn mail.”

  Claire’s smile opened wide, revealing two rows of crooked, ultrawhite teeth. “I’ll be back with my things.”

  Eileen waited, watching Claire open the kitchen door with laughable slowness, clearly afraid a single creak might wake Murphy.

  God. She was going to turn this trip into a downright ordeal.

  Eileen eyed her keys, dangling in the ignition. She could still leave. What was $250 to her, really? Then she eyed the gas gauge, where the red arrow sat tauntingly close to empty. She could probably make it to Rockport on fumes, but one dollar wouldn’t buy her the gas to get home.

  What exactly had been her master plan?

  How had she intended to get that money? By robbing a bank?

  Eileen hadn’t thought this through. She’d never been a big-picture person.

  But Claire sure as hell was. She was the planner.

  Eileen needed a drink.

  Not too much. A shot. Sure, she’d already taken two tonight, but she could handle that much fine without risk of driving impaired. Eileen opened her backpack and removed the flask. She pulled a swig and let the liquid rest for a moment, sitting cold on her teeth, burning hot on her tongue. She remembered again what Mr. Knutsen had said: documents.

  She stowed the flask in the glove compartment and, for the second time that night, she crossed her fingers.

  Only then did she swallow.

  EIGHT Claire

  Claire had reached her limit. Christmas radio had been piping from the minivan speakers for two hours, and in that space of time the station had broadcast not one, not two, but three variations of “The Twelve Days of Christmas.” It was enough to drive anyone up the wall—even a patient Exceller like Claire.

  She had said nothing for a long time. In fact, Eileen and Claire hadn’t spoken since Claire had returned to the van with her packed Vera Bradley tote, and they’d driven into the silent night.

  If they spoke to each other, they would fight. That was inevitable. So the sisters had wordlessly agreed to keep the peace. Eileen drove and Claire sat scrolling through Instagram, avoiding the urge to double-tap any of Ainsley St. John’s posts from the last week. Occasionally, she glanced out at the green-gray landscape of I-5: fields and mist and overpasses, illuminated by streetlights, and beneath it all, the music of Christmas.

  When Claire had first found Mr. Knutsen’s letter in Eileen’s room two days ago, she’d been stunned. She wasn’t a scavenger; she didn’t normally snoop through Eileen’s things while taking out trash. But the words OPEN IMMEDIATELY in bold red had been conspicuous. They’d caused Claire’s fingers to itch. So much so that, for the first time in years, Claire did something rash. Unplanned. She’d opened the envelope, she’d read the letter, and she’d promptly called Mr. Knutsen, attorney-at-law.

  The lawyer had been hopelessly vague, informing Claire that his client had given him strict instructions: Claire would get her own letter and explanation when she turned eighteen, not before. Meantime, she could calm any expectations she had about earning fast money; the house could not be sold until Claire’s little sister inherited. Only then could the siblings decide what to do.

  The phone call had deflated some of Claire’s hopes. Though Claire earned a decent wage from her Etsy shop, her current college fund was barely enough for moving costs and maybe books. For the rest of her expenses, she’d been counting on student loans. And student loans were for students, not for college rejects who simply wanted to flee their awful hometown. Claire needed actual money if she was going to get out of Emmet. For one moment, she’d hoped the inheritance would be that: a direct answer to her problem. But as it turned out, whatever money was to be made wouldn’t come her way for another four years.

  That night Claire had gone to bed as she had the six nights before—bitter and helplessly confused. None of her plans had come to fruition, and not even this mysterious inheritance could help her achieve them.

  Then, yesterday morning, Eileen had walked into the house and left that folder in the kitchen while she used the bathroom. It had been pure chance: Claire had heard the kitchen door slam, which reminded her she was hungry, and she’d abandoned her Etsy work for a snack. That’s when she’d found the folder, and she hadn’t been able to resist. She’d grabbed it, looking through its contents, taking quick photos on her phone, like a trained spy. Then she’d returned to her room to reflect.

 
; Her plans hadn’t worked. And this house? She didn’t see how it could help her in the here and now. But Claire reached a conclusion—one that had been brewing inside her since her time in that purgatorial post office: This situation was precisely what Harper Everly called a “golden moment.”

  You only got so many golden moments in your life. They might strike you as nonsensical, or even as distractions on your path. But golden moments were where true growth and personal innovation occurred. Take, for example, Abraham Lincoln, who lost his senate race before becoming president. Or Bill Gates, whose first business flopped before he went on to found Microsoft. Or Michael Jordan, who’d been cut from his high school basketball team before becoming … well, Michael Jordan.

  If any of those successful people hadn’t persevered, where would they be? You had to recognize your golden moment, and you had to seize it and squeeze it dry of every good thing. This wasn’t the time for Claire to despair, to stay home for a dreary holiday, bemoaning what she’d lost. This was the time to move forward. To be—did Claire dare think the word?—impulsive.

  Just this once, Claire wasn’t going to plan. She was going to pack a bag and go along with Eileen on a harebrained, midnight trip. Because maybe this—the mysterious 2270 Laramie Court—was her golden moment.

  Claire had done what sleuthing she could at home, searching the address online. There had been no listings, though; nothing on Zillow or other realty sites. When she’d tried to glimpse the property on Google Maps, there’d been nothing but blue check-in dots scattered throughout the coastal town. No street view. No clue as to what her inheritance looked like. And then there was the matter of an uncle Claire had never known. A family secret her mother hadn’t told. Claire would be lying if she said she wasn’t curious. There were so many reasons to go on this trip.

  She wanted a distraction from her bad news.

  She wanted a way forward, to better things.

  She wanted her golden moment.

  So, planning be damned, she was taking it.

  Here was a hitch, though: Harper Everly hadn’t warned Claire about the trials preceding golden moments. Like two hours’ worth of insipid Christmas tunes.

  Claire kept thinking Eileen would get annoyed and change stations, but as the songs played on, she seemed impervious. Claire chose her words carefully. This didn’t have to be a big argument.

  “You know,” she said, “they sell cassette converters. Like, for your iPhone. You could use one to play your own music in the car.”

  Eileen flinched, like the sound of Claire’s voice had been a bullhorn. She looked at Claire with glazed eyes, uncomprehending. “My iPhone?”

  Right. How could Claire have forgotten? Eileen didn’t have a phone. She’d foresworn them two years ago, when she’d read an article about the working conditions of smart phone manufacturers.

  “You could always get one secondhand,” Claire said, not sure where she was going. “Then you wouldn’t be … you know, directly contributing to … whatever.”

  “I’m acquit—” Eileen frowned, correcting herself: “acquainted with eBay.”

  Yes. Claire knew that, too. She still remembered the best gift she’d ever received. A lot had changed since that Christmas four years ago.

  “Sure,” she said. “Yeah, okay.”

  Eileen breathed heavily out her nose. Her profile was eerie and shadowed—severe cheekbones, knife-sharp nose. The heat from the vents was warming her jacket, filling the van with the scent of leather … and something else. A biting scent. Sharp, like vinegar, or—

  The truth sucker punched Claire.

  “Oh my God,” she said, sitting up straight. “Have you been drinking?”

  Eileen didn’t answer. She kept her lips shut tight. That had been her mistake: She’d spoken to Claire, thereby letting out the damning stench of whiskey.

  “Pull over,” Claire ordered.

  Eileen’s body was tense, shoulders drawn too tight—trying to act sober. She wasn’t, though. Claire got it: the flinching, the stumbling speech, the glaze in her eyes that Claire had mistaken for tiredness.

  Thirty-six days of Christmas could be endured. This could not.

  “Did you hear me?” Claire raised her voice. “Pull over. NOW.”

  “I took a shot, okay?” Eileen groused. “I’m fine. You don’t know my toler—”

  “Uh, I know you drank, and now you’re driving. Which means you’re drinking and driving. So pull over the car, or so help me—”

  The car juddered, swerving violently onto the shoulder. Tires screeched beneath them as Eileen pumped her foot on the brake, bringing the Caravan to a graceless stop.

  Claire breathed out rapid breaths, staring at Eileen through the dim light. She could believe that Eileen would drink and drive; she’d known her sister’s not-so-secret habit for a while. She couldn’t believe Eileen would actually pull over.

  And who knew how long that rationality would last? Claire had to act now. She threw off her seat belt, pointing to the driver’s seat.

  “I’m taking over,” she announced. “Switch out.”

  Eileen ran her tongue over her teeth for a languid, thoughtful moment. Then, shrugging, she unbuckled her seat belt.

  “Yeah, whatever. I’m sick of driving anyway.”

  Claire stared, disbelievingly. What was happening? Was Eileen listening to her? Or did Eileen know she was buzzed? Was she … acknowledging defeat?

  Whatever the reason, Claire didn’t hesitate.

  She’d taken her golden moment, and now she was taking the wheel.

  * * *

  Claire gripped the steering wheel, squinting at I-5 through swishing wipers.

  God rest ye merry gentlemen

  Let nothing you dismay

  She hadn’t bothered changing the Christmas station. She was too bewildered by what had gone down. Yes, she’d known Eileen drank, but this was a new low. Driving like that, with Claire in the car—did she have no respect? And then switching out with Claire on demand, only to shut up and sulk? Claire glanced at Eileen, who was glaring out at the road, head rammed against the passenger window. What was with her? Claire didn’t want to know. She focused instead on the music:

  O tidings of comfort and joy

  comfort and joy

  O tidings of comfort and joy

  Those weren’t even close to the tidings Claire had received from Yale.

  Suddenly, thoughts of Eileen were gone, the rejection back on Claire’s brain. How could it not be? For months Yale had been the only thing Claire thought about. She’d pictured her New Haven future, pumped with living color the way it had been in the admissions brochures. She’d envisioned it, done the work.

  Where had she gone wrong?

  Where had Ainsley St. John gone right?

  And how could Claire ever respond to Ainsley’s text?

  The pain was fresh, a knife twisted into a vital artery, so deep that Claire was afraid to move.

  She took in the view in her periphery: wide open fields, dotted by grand firs. Her mind strayed, unexpectedly, to the subject of Murphy. Claire did feel bad, leaving her home alone without warning, or even a note. She couldn’t send a text, either, since Murphy didn’t have a phone. Then again, Murphy practically lived home alone, as it was. Claire barely saw her, too busy these days with Etsy and schoolwork. And God knew Eileen rarely emerged from her garage cave. Mom was almost always working a late shift. Tonight wouldn’t be unlike any other, would it?

  Claire didn’t need to feel guilty. This was a six-, maybe seven-hour roundtrip. She wasn’t abandoning Murphy for a five-day Bahamian cruise, like Mom.

  Mom.

  Claire remembered nights when Mom hadn’t worked late, when she’d fixed them Hamburger Helper dinners in the Crock-Pot, and they’d eaten together and talked about their day. She remembered school field days when Mom had shown up and cheered Claire on in a three-legged race, afterward telling her what a good job she’d done over cups of lemonade.

  Once, Mom had
been Mom. The older Claire had grown, though, the more removed her mother had become—an untethered kite drifting higher, toward the sun. Claire knew, from TV shows and friends at school, that teenage girls weren’t exactly supposed to get along with their mothers. It wasn’t that Claire didn’t get on with Mom; it was that they didn’t get anywhere. They didn’t even fight, because Mom wasn’t around to do the fighting. The closest Claire had gotten to that had been two days ago, when Mom had left for her cruise, and Claire had yelled for her to just go.

  Mom had tried hard to make this year’s Christmas special, but didn’t she get it? December twenty-first wasn’t Christmas. It was a difficult date, an open wound. Mom had given them presents like she cared, but didn’t she understand? The presents were a giveaway that she didn’t know her daughters anymore.

  She’d given Claire a backpack for college, colored bright pink.

  “Your favorite color,” she’d said brightly.

  As though Claire were seven, not seventeen.

  If Mom was a mom who knew her daughter, she would have asked Claire about early admission a week ago. Maybe Claire would have even told her about not getting into Yale, and Mom would’ve realized that a backpack for a nonexistent future was the worst possible gift.

  She hadn’t known, though, and Claire had lost her calm—a very un-Exceller thing to do. She’d yelled at Mom.

  The hard truth was, the Yale rejection was driving her mad. She was having a breakdown. Was that possible, at seventeen? What was this, a fifth-life crisis? She was acting way out of character, getting in this van without a plan.

  All she could tell herself was, golden moment.

  This was her golden moment. And maybe, when she arrived at the house she’d inherited, it’d all fall into place.

  Claire had wedged her phone into the console cupholder after plugging 2270 Laramie Court into the GPS. Now, according to the app, her exit was coming up soon. The path that would take her to Uncle Patrick’s house.

  Did that sound strange: Uncle Patrick. Uncle Anything.

  An uncle she’d never known, who’d died and left an inheritance, like Claire was a Dickensian orphan.