The Language of Sisters: A Novel

by Amy Hatvany

  • • •

  On a Saturday morning a couple of weeks after Jenny’s ultrasound, I was in the kitchen with my sister when Mom came through the door from the living room, yawning.

  “Did I wake you?” I asked as I firmly pressed fresh raspberries through a sieve I held over a bowl. We’d barely been speaking; I’d given up trying to reach her.

  “Kind of. It’s early for seafood, isn’t it?” She nodded toward the pile of peeled and steamed shrimp that sat next to the sink.

  “It’s for the barbecue at Nova’s this afternoon. Right, Jenny?” I looked at my sister, who sat quietly watching me from her wheelchair. We had had a tough night. She was awake several times, moaning and crying off and on, and though I’d managed to settle her back to sleep each time, I could not figure out what was bothering her. Her eyes were a blank page, no messages left for me to read.

  She was up early in the morning, too. It was only seven o’clock, and I had already fed, showered, and dressed her in one of the maternity outfits Nova had passed on for her to use. She wore a short-sleeved, pale lavender top and matching stretch pants, tightly laced white tennis shoes, and a purple-and-white-checked headband in her dark brown hair. Despite her advancing pregnant state, the adult-style outfit looked slightly out of place on her child-size frame.

  She sat near the kitchen table, staring off into space, bottom lip sagging, drool leaking onto her shirt. For some reason, this annoyed me. “Careful, Jenny! I want to keep that outfit clean! Mom, could you put a bib on her?” The tips of my nerves felt raw from lack of sleep, as though an evil carpenter had rubbed them with sandpaper in the night. The compounded pressure of caring for Jenny alone and getting little rest was taking its toll; I felt as though if anyone asked me how I was doing, I’d fall to the ground weeping.

  Our mother reached for the bib on the counter and placed it around Jenny’s neck, then kissed her on the head. The ease of her gesture bothered me. If she wasn’t going to do the work involved in taking care of Jenny, why should she be entitled to the affection?

  “What’s the barbecue for?” Mom asked.

  I tilted my chin down and looked at her over the end of my nose. “Sort of a late Fourth of July celebration. Ryan got home last night from Alaska, and since he hasn’t met us yet, Nova wanted to throw a little party.” I paused. “She told me to ask you to come, but I was pretty sure you wouldn’t want to.”

  My mother reached for the coffeepot and poured herself a cup. “Why wouldn’t I?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe because you haven’t spent any time with us since we’ve been here. I guess I figured this wouldn’t be any different.” I opened a bottle of balsamic vinegar and carefully added a couple of teaspoons to the raspberry mixture in the bowl.

  “Maybe you figured wrong.” She lowered herself into a kitchen chair. “Will Star be there?”

  “Yes,” I said as I began to vigorously whisk the sauce. “I haven’t seen her yet, either. She’s been in Las Vegas and New York trying to get her jewelry line launched.” I set the whisk on the counter and glanced at my mother briefly. “I’m sure she’d love to see you.” This wasn’t exactly true; Star and my mother had never been close, but because of Nova’s and my friendship, they were at least always polite.

  When we were children, Star made a point to invite our family to their holiday celebrations and summer parties even though we rarely accepted. My parents didn’t understand the easy, open lifestyle Star and Orion championed. The Carsons touched readily in front of Nova, discussed politics and religion with her over dinner, and often took long walks around the neighborhood, holding hands and stopping to kiss every house or two, the love that flowed between them a palpable, glowing thing.

  The only memories I have of my parents touching were the few times when my father came up behind my mother while she tended to Jenny or worked in the kitchen. He’d rub his face into her neck, his hands on her waist. I remember watching the look on Mom’s face move from surprise to impatient tolerance, then finally disgust. “Mark,” she’d say, her voice thick with warning. And he would walk away, shrugging his skinny shoulders as though he were trying to rid them of a heavy weight.

  When I looked to the night sky, dreaming of what a marriage might be, I did not look for the story of my own parents in the stars; I watched for the constellation of Star and Orion.

  As I began arranging the shrimp concentrically on a lettuce-lined wicker serving platter, I thought about how much I was looking forward to seeing Nova’s parents, knowing they would be equally happy to see me. I also knew Garret would be there, and the idea of talking with him again made my stomach warm and fall in on itself like a deflated soufflé. Thoughts of him had often invaded my mind since our last meeting at Nova’s house; I saw his easy smile, heard his chuckling laugh, felt the tips of his fingers brush mine when we parted. I felt like a teenager again, my belly full of twittering muscles and my mouth overcome by spontaneous, happy grins.

  My attempts to quell these feelings fell heinously short even as my conversations with Shane increased. Feeling guilty, I’m sure, after our last phone call, he was calling me every night when he got home from the office, no matter how late that was, but after a long day with Jenny I found I had little to talk about with him. I knew he wasn’t interested in hearing about my sister’s latest enema or crying jag; in fact, I was pretty sure he was thankful when I didn’t bring her up. Since my days were full of such details, my end of the conversation was fairly limited.

  Mostly, I listened to the difficulties he was having with a particular case or coworker and offered words of comfort or advice. He’d talk about restaurants we’d gone to together, plays or movies we might have seen if I’d been there, but oddly, I didn’t feel as though I were missing anything. My life there almost seemed as though it hadn’t happened, as if it might have all been a dream. I ended the calls feeling frustrated and empty. I considered whether our relationship had always been like this and being so close to him, I had refused to see it. Once again I took Nova’s advice and thought about what I might say to a therapy client if she was in a similar situation, and I found that I wasn’t ready to hear my own advice.

  “I’d like to come, if that’s all right with you,” my mother said, now, interrupting my thoughts.

  “Of course it is,” I said, trying to sound sincere while keeping the surprise I felt from my tone. “We’re glad you want to, aren’t we, Jen?”

  “Ahhh!” Jenny screeched, angrily clapping her hands together. Irritated that I had to stop what I was doing and wash my hands, I inspected her from head to toe in order to make sure there wasn’t a physical cause for her outburst.

  “You’re fine, Jen. Everything’s fine.” She was still tense, a balloon filled too full with air. When she quieted again, I went back to the careful work of finding the perfect balance of sweet and sour for the shrimps’ raspberry dipping sauce, trying not to be too wary that Mom wanted to come with us to the barbecue.

  A while later, after Mom had gone to shower and get ready for the day, the phone rang, and I quickly ran my hands under the faucet to clean them off before grabbing the receiver. “Hello?”

  “Nicole Hunter?” A man’s voice, low and professional.

  “Yes?”

  “This is Jack Waterson. Shane Wilder gave me your number.”

  “Oh, yes. He said you’d be calling.” So wrapped up in the everyday details of Jenny’s care, I hadn’t had much time to focus on the case against Wellman. Stretching the receiver’s cord, I moved to stand in the kitchen’s entryway so I could keep an eye on my sister.

  “I’m sorry to bother you on a Saturday,” Mr. Waterson said apologetically, “but I’ve just gotten off the phone with the D.A.’s office, Ms. Hunter, and they’ve informed me that the police are narrowing in on Mr. Zimmerman’s whereabouts. What I need to know is—and I swear I’m not client chasing here, but Shane did tell me to call you—are you interested in going forward with a civil case against Wellman, and if so, do you want
to have me represent you on your sister’s behalf?”

  I looked over to Jenny’s belly and thought I saw something jump beneath her shirt. Could that have been the baby? My sister froze; the look on her face was one I had not seen there before. “Oh, my God!”

  “Is everything all right, Ms. Hunter?”

  “What? Oh, yes, everything’s fine. Well, not fine, but right this minute, yes, I’m fine. Something just surprised me.” I took a breath. “Sorry. I’m not really as scattered as I sound.” Ha. Little did he know. “I am interested in going forward with the suit, Mr. Waterson, and Shane’s recommendation of you is more than enough credibility for me. Do we need to discuss your fee?”

  “I’m paid only if you are, Ms. Hunter. Forty percent of whatever you get. And let me say I believe this will be a fairly open-and-shut case. Wellman will most likely settle to avoid the potential negative publicity a trial would bring about.”

  “That’s what Shane said. What kind of settlement are we talking about?” I twisted the phone cord around my fingers and stuck my tongue out at Jenny, trying to amuse her. She ignored me, her eyes locked on some unseen point behind me. She looked as though she were trying to leave herself, the soft outline of her spirit seeking reprieve from the body that imprisoned it. I shook my focus back to the phone. “I only ask because I need to find a new placement for Jenny, and I guess I’m wondering what kind of money I’ll have to work with.”

  “It should be a substantial amount. I’ll ask for five million, and we’ll go from there.”

  Stunned, I almost dropped the phone. “Five million?”

  “Five million what?” my mother asked as she walked back into the kitchen, once again reaching for the coffeepot.

  I shook my head at her, pointing to the phone.

  “Oh,” she said. “Sorry.” She poured the steaming liquid into a white mug, then sat at the table next to Jenny’s chair, crossing one leg over the other. She wore blue jeans, sandals, and a baggy cotton candy pink sweater. The pastel hue made her usually translucent complexion appear washed-out. It made her look a little bit ill.

  “Yes,” Mr. Waterson continued in my ear. “Five million. We’ll probably get it, too. After my fee and taxes, your sister will have more than enough for the finest of care. Have you visited anywhere?”

  “No. I don’t really know where to start.” I dreaded this search, the inevitable wandering through places too horrible to even imagine visiting, let alone leaving my sister to live.

  “I hope you don’t mind, but on the chance that you did decide to hire me, I had my secretary research a list of the highest-rated homes in Washington State. They’re all privately managed, small-population group homes. Nothing state-funded, like Wellman. They’re pricey and some have long waiting lists, but the sooner you start looking, the sooner you’ll find something. Why don’t you give me your address and I’ll get it in the mail to you today?”

  “That would be fabulous. Thank you so much.” We set up a time to meet, and I was still reeling from the amount he’d quoted for the settlement when I hung up the phone. Mom looked at me expectantly.

  “Who was that?”

  I stepped back to the counter and began cleaning up the mess I’d made. “The lawyer Shane recommended for the civil case against Wellman.”

  “I didn’t know there was a case.”

  “Well, I’m filing one. They should pay for allowing that man to do what he did to her. They’re responsible.”

  She nodded. “I agree.”

  I stopped wiping the counter and swung my head around to look at her, my mouth open in disbelief. “You agree? You’re the one who wanted to leave her there to have the baby!” I could not believe what I was hearing. Was it the prospect of the money? I hadn’t thought of this before, but because our mother was guardian to Jenny, the settlement would be under her control. Was this the cause for her sudden interest in spending time with us? I wanted to strangle her.

  “I know. I was wrong, okay?”

  “It’s about time you admitted it.” I could not keep the venom from creeping into my voice.

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  I narrowed my eyes at her and threw the washrag into the sink. “You know exactly what that means.” Living under the enormous weight of our unspoken history had simply become too much for me to handle. I realized that I had had enough of tiptoeing around; it was time to demand the truth.

  “No, I don’t. Perhaps you could enlighten me.” She recrossed her legs and folded her hands over her knee. Her foot shook impatiently.

  Jenny looked anxiously back and forth between us, moaning uncomfortably. The muscles in her face tightened almost imperceptibly before her entire body tensed and an ear-piercing shriek erupted from her mouth. She slammed her hands together, then violently shoved them between her teeth, as though trying to quiet herself. Panic rose in her blue eyes like a wave on the ocean.

  I rushed over to her. “Jen, what’s wrong? Honey?” My hands searched her body again for skin caught in a zipper, a waistband pinching too tight on her bulging belly. Nothing. She screamed again.

  “Has she had any dairy this morning?” my mother asked, a tight edge to her voice. “It gives her terrible gas.”

  “I know that, Mom. Don’t you think I know that?” My heart was pounding a horrible, remembered rhythm in my chest. My nerves throbbed. These fits had dissipated at Wellman. The doctors wrote them off as family-induced, emotional outbursts, never again searching for a physical cause.

  “She hasn’t done this in years,” my mother said, anxiety wriggling its way across her face, moving like a fog over her green eyes. She set her coffee down on the table. “Has she been like this all night?”

  Jenny shrieked again, her legs rigid and stuck out from her body in hard, straight lines. I knelt down in front of her and massaged them vigorously, the muscles like wood under my hands. “No. She was up a lot, crying, but not screaming.” I looked up to my sister’s contorted face, distress oozing through my own body. I gripped her legs tighter. “Jen. Stop it, honey, okay? Would you please just stop it?” Any patience that might have remained within me had fled. I felt something dark rising up through my body, something ancient and angry, something that had been hiding in the shadows of my heart for years. Before I knew what I was doing, my fingernails dug viciously deep into the skin of her legs and I shook her, hard, pulling another scream from her throat. “Stop it right now!” I shrieked at her.

  Surprise popped up on her face like runway lights. Fat tears rolled down her cheeks. Why? whispered in my heart, and I let her legs go, looking at my hands as though they did not belong to me. They belonged to my father.

  “Nicole,” my mother said gently, reaching out to grasp my fingers. “It’s all right.”

  “No, it’s not. Did you see me? Oh, God, did you see what I just did?” I looked at her, pleading, my hands raking through my red curls, another gesture that belonged to my father. I shuddered at the thought. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Can you help? Please, Mom, can you help me?” Tears strangled my words.

  A strange calm overtook my mother’s face, and she looked at Jenny with a long-forgotten tenderness. Her expression softened; her entire body seemed to relax. It was like watching the mother I used to know move back into her body. “Has she had a bowel movement this morning? Maybe she’s constipated.”

  I swallowed my tears, shaking with guilt. “No, her diaper was full when she woke up. I’ve been making sure she gets lots of fiber to balance the iron in her prenatal vitamins.” I racked my brain, trying to pick what I had done wrong, what I had forgotten that was causing my sister so much pain. I felt like a child again, helpless and lost, watching Jenny spin into a chaos she could not control. Then something hit me: the jump of her belly beneath her blouse. “Do you think it might be the baby? What if she’s having contractions? Maybe I should call Dr. Fisher.”

  My mother rested her hands on Jenny’s belly, settled them there for several moments. She shoo
k her head. “I don’t think so. Her stomach is relaxed. It’s her legs that look tense.” She squatted on the opposite side of Jenny’s legs and we both rubbed them, my touch as tender and loving as I could make it. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry was the message I massaged into her flesh. My sister watched us both with contemplative eyes, quieting some as we moved our hands over her calves, her thighs, her feet. Then I remembered.

  “Klonopin!” I exclaimed, jumping up to the counter where I kept all her medications. “I forgot to give her Klonopin last night.” I broke the pill up beneath the flat side of a knife and mixed it quickly into some applesauce.

  “What does that do for her, again?” My mother continued rubbing as she spoke, watching my sister’s face for any relief she might feel.

  I carefully spooned the small bites into Jenny’s mouth. “It’s for muscle spasms in her legs. The nurse at Wellman told me they’re like double-whopper charley horses. Do you think they’re what made her scream all those years?”

  “I don’t know. It’s possible.”

  Within minutes, Jenny’s legs began to relax, and a small measure of peace returned to her entire body. The screaming stopped, but Mom and I kept at her legs, moving the ache out of her body until she smiled at us both, joy sparkling in her eyes again.

  How could she forgive me so quickly? I wondered. Did she forgive my mother? Could I? I hugged her and whispered more apologies into her ear, then turned to my mother, who had moved back to her seat at the table.

  “Mom?”

  “Um-hmm?”

  “Maybe I shouldn’t be doing this.” I was overcome by the urge to escape again, though I had no idea where I’d go.

  “Doing what?”

  I dropped into a chair and threw my arm around the room. “This. Being here, taking care of Jenny. Maybe I should just find a place for her as soon as possible and go back home.”

  “Oh, honey, no. Bringing her here was the right thing to do. You’re doing such a wonderful job taking care of her. Better than I ever did.” Something hung heavy in her expression, black and unnameable.