Sister Pact

by Stacie Ramey

  And then I realize the word that describes me. Alive. I am alive.

  Sophie wakes up from her perch by the window as I start to clean my brushes. She jumps on my leg, and I lift her up so she can kiss my face.

  “Let’s go in, Soph,” I say as I turn off the lights, then lock the door to my studio and head to the house.

  The clock above the stove says it’s three in the morning. As I climb the stairs to my room, I whisper, “I love you, Leah,” not expecting an answer, knowing that Leah has moved on and I need to also.

  The post-painting headache starts to kick in, and I know it’s going to be a bad one. I think about using the pain as a gateway to Leah, but I can’t do that anymore. It’s time to grow up.

  I lift the top of Leah’s last cherry ChapStick and trace my finger lightly over the waxy surface, trying not to disturb the last trace of Leah, knowing that that’s impossible. I bring it to my nose and breathe in, hoping some remnant of my sister remains. Not the made-up version from my cracked mind filled with too many drugs and too much need. Real Leah. But I’ve got nothing. She’s gone.

  I let the pain hit me, invite it in. It floods my body and makes me too heavy to move. I cry until I fall asleep.

  • • •

  When I wake up, it’s light out, Saturday morning, and I feel a little better, even though I’m not sure why. I go to my desk, open the top drawer, and her ring is there. I have no idea how. Was it left behind by my sister’s ghost? Or by Mom, who always wanted me to have it?

  It’s a sign, I think, simple and beautiful: Leah’s always going to be with me. Even if she’s gone. She loved me even when I didn’t measure up. And I loved her back. Even when she didn’t love herself. Even when I had to fill in the details and brush over her faults. I loved Leah. She was my sister. She still is.

  I pull out my phone and text John Strickland.

  Can you come over? My studio?

  BRT

  Sophie walks into the room and jumps on the bed. I pull her to me. She kisses my face and then runs to the door, barking and twirling.

  “Okay, okay.”

  I take her with me to my studio and wait for him there, texting Dad as I do. Sunday breakfast. No Danielle. No yelling. Deal?

  Dad texts back almost immediately. Deal.

  A shadow falls over the studio. John Strickland is there, leaning against the door. “Hi.”

  “Come in.” I stand. “I want to show you something.”

  He joins me and surveys the room. “You do all these?”

  “No.” I wave my hands toward the Leah pictures. “These.” And then to my four new canvases. “And these.”

  “Who did…”

  “Mom. Mom did.”

  “I didn’t know she…”

  “I know, right? I just found out myself.”

  “I love these.” He points to my ski lift painting and the one called Reign.

  “I thought you’d like the Leah ones.”

  He laughs. “I do. They look just like how she wanted people to see her. But this one”—he holds up Downfall—“this feels like her.”

  “I want to give this to you after I use it for my application to RISD. I can’t thank you enough for everything you’ve done for me. And for Leah.”

  “Really? Yeah. I’d like that.”

  “Wait. I have something for you now.” I get up and bring him Leah’s box. “I’m done with this. Thanks.”

  Our hands touch, and he notices the ring.

  “Oh, I guess I should give this back to you.”

  His voice gets choked up. “No. Not at all. It looks good on you.” He pulls me toward him and kisses me on the forehead. “Here.”

  “What’s this?”

  He hands me a card with his number written on it. “I’m moving. Going to Chicago. Going to try to learn to weld. Stay with my uncle. Don’t know why I didn’t go sooner really.”

  “Good luck.”

  “Call. Anytime you need me. I promised Leah I’d keep you safe. She said it was because she was upset about the Em and Max thing. But now I know…”

  “Yeah.”

  “Anyway. Keep in touch. You’re very special.”

  I watch him walk away. Sophie sits expectantly, wanting to play. I could use a little fresh air. And a first baseman with a better arm than mine. I text Nick, grab the battle plan notebook, and leash Sophie. We walk to Back Lake Park, where Nick is already waiting, hands in his pocket.

  “Hey, what’s up?” Nick says. “You said you needed a favor?”

  “I do.” I walk to the edge of the lake, Nick right behind me. I kiss the notebook, then hand it to him.

  “You want me to…” He points to the center of the lake, eyebrows raised.

  “As far as you can throw it.”

  I watch as he launches it into the water.

  Sophie barks at him. “Okay, Soph, your turn. Let’s play.” Nick takes her off her leash, then has to pick up the pace to keep up with her little legs that run like mad.

  The water in the lake sparkles with the sunlight. I watch the notebook sort of bob on top, then soak and disappear under the water. I almost think I see Leah in the water too, but when I squint and bring my hand to my eyes, it’s just the sun. Leah’s gone. Except in my heart and my head. How it should be.

  Acknowledgments

  There is no way to explain how many people helped me write this book and I’m sure I’m leaving someone super important out. To that person, please accept my apology. This writing stuff is hard.

  To start I’d like to thank my agent, Nicole Resciniti, for plucking me out of the slush pile and believing in this book to begin with. For saying it’s too beautiful of a book to stay on my computer, and for all of the hand-holding and endless explaining she’s had to do to date and will likely have to do in the future. You rock.

  Next, I’d like to thank Annette Pollert-Morgan for loving this book. And the incredibly talented and hardworking team at Sourcebooks for working tirelessly to polish this book, make a beautiful cover, market it, and help me at every stage of the way.

  As for my writing tribe, there are so many of you and I’m grateful for you all. Specifically, I’d like to thank Amanda Coppedge Bosky for being my first SCBWI friend and critique group leader. And Alex Flinn for being my first conference critique.

  My writing journey definitely started in Florida SCBWI, but I met Jacqueline Garlick Pyneart, Bridget Casey, and Tracy Clark in the Nevada Mentoring Program. They were my Inner Circle there, and I’m so lucky to have them in my writing life! While we are talking about Nevada, I have to thank Ellen Hopkins and Suzy Morgan Williams for their mentorship during and after that incredible program, and to my wonderful Nevada mentor who has now become a friend, Terri Farley. All of you were among the first people who saw potential in my writing. There are not enough thanks in the world for that!

  While we are discussing writing mentors, Joyce Sweeney has to top the list of best evers. She’s been a general when she’s had to, a nursemaid, a psychologist, a teacher, a be-all-end-all. Just so you know, I write these books just to make you cry in public.

  As for critique groups, I have to thank Linda Salem Marlow and Donna Gephart and the PGAs who may be the best critique group that’s ever let me in. You all are the real deal and teach me by example how to live my life as a writer. Thank you also to Sylvia Andrews and the Palm Springs Group. Sylvia is such a thoughtful leader who understands how to make writing personal. A special thank you to Jill Nadler who I met in both of those groups. She’s brought me chicken soup when I was sick and encouraged me when I was down. She’s the true definition of friend.

  Onto the Tuesdays. Jonathan Rosen has been more than the leader of that group. He’s been a great friend to me and terrific coach to us all, specifically Joanne Butcher, Melody Maysonet, Faran Fagen, and Cathy Castelli. You all have bee
n so key in my writing life and I’m glad I have you.

  To David Case and Laen Ghiloni, who saw very early drafts of this book, I thank you for your honest critique, always. Thank you to Jamie Morris who prompted me to write this book.

  Thanks to the Wellington critique group and my coleader, Gail Shepherd, who is one of the best writers I know.

  Two writing mentors don’t feel like enough, so I’d like to add Lorin Oberweger to the group. She’s been essential in helping me keep my sanity in a truly insane business.

  And to Steven Dos Santos who has been my pace car throughout this entire journey. Watching you and having you in my corner is what gave me the courage to follow your mantra just keep writing. Thank you for everything. Muah!

  To my HellYA girls, Marjetta Geerling, Jill MacKenzie, and Ty Shiver. Thank you for deciding that we were going to do this. HellYa we are!

  Now onto my family. To Wendy Hartmann Moore who isn’t technically part of my biological family, but has been in my life forever, has never given up on me, and who has been like a sister to me in all things and in all ways. I heart you, girl. The Kreiders and the Macphauls have also been like family to me. This whole writing gig started with you, Consuelo. Big smooch.

  To my wonderful mother-in-law, Kathleen Ramey, thank you for always being so supportive and for that ‘believe in yourself’ card. It seemed to do the trick. As for the rest of the Ramey clan, specifically, the west coast Rameys, including Emerson, Miles, and Meagan, thanks for your being your beautiful selves. You are the reason my family is always California dreaming!

  To my brother and sister, Bonnie and Mark. I know I kid around a lot about how you tormented me as a kid (that’s all still true which is why it’s in my official bio!), but to be completely honest and serious, (for once), you two have always been the best and most supportive siblings a girl could be lucky enough to have. You keep me tethered to the world. As do your beautiful children, my niece, Rachel, and baby niecey, Becca. Love them both so much. Also, big thanks to Heidi who helps make our family complete.

  To my children, Andrew, Gabe, and Lexi, you are amazing and creative and so positive in a world of crazy negative people. You are my world. To my doggies, Roxy and Fetch: Woof!

  To JKR, who, aside from being the most supportive spouse in history, is my universe, and without him, there is nothing.

  About the Author

  Stacie Ramey learned to read at a very early age to escape the endless tormenting from her older siblings. She attended the University of Florida, where she majored in communication sciences, and Penn State, where she received a master of science in speech pathology. When she’s not writing, she engages in Netflix wars with her children or beats her husband in Scrabble. She lives in Wellington, Florida, with her husband, three children, and two rescue dogs.