Sister Dear

by Hannah Mary McKinnon

  “I’m fine.” I wrapped my cardigan around my middle. “I must’ve fallen asleep on the sofa. What time is it?”

  “Six forty-five.” When he caught my confused look, he added, “Saturday night. God, for a moment there I wondered if I should break down the door.”

  “For a moment there I thought you had.”

  He grinned and held out the bag. “Hungry? The fish-and-chip shop around the corner always serves monster portions. There’s enough for two.”

  I looked at him, tilted my head to one side. “Fish and chips? You mean every personal trainer’s nemesis? Don’t you think carbs and fat are the work of the devil or something?”

  He grinned again, faint lines appearing around his eyes. They complemented the dimples in his cheeks I’d almost convinced myself I hadn’t noticed. When he leaned toward me, I could feel my pulse tap-tapping in my neck.

  “After training for two hours today, I think I’ll be all right,” he said, then whispered, “but promise you won’t tell the workout police?”

  “Two hours? That’s more than I’ve done in a year. Come in before you pass out.”

  He followed me to my tiny galley kitchen. I pulled out two polka-dot-covered plates, knives, forks and some napkins from the cupboard and drawers, retrieved ketchup and mayo from the fridge and set everything on the table along with glasses of water. Meanwhile, Lewis opened the various containers, releasing the glorious smell of deep-fried food, making my stomach growl. I wouldn’t eat much, I promised myself, not after all the cookies I’d had, and I hated dining with others anyway because I always felt judged, that people were thinking, I wouldn’t eat that if I were you.

  “Was that taken in Portland?” Lewis gestured to the framed picture hanging on the wall. The photograph was of couple standing outside a café on a cobbled street, lost in an embrace while huddled under a red umbrella. You couldn’t see their faces, but it added to the charm.

  “Yeah,” I said. “I took it on Wharf Street.”

  “It’s yours? You’re a photographer?”

  “Amateur. I dabble.”

  “I’d say it’s more than dabbling. It’s captivating,” he said. “Do you know who they are?”

  “Haven’t the faintest idea.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. I enjoy taking pictures of people when they don’t know I’m there...” I rolled my eyes. “God, that sounded weird.”

  Lewis grinned. “Only a bit.”

  “I meant I enjoy capturing something that isn’t rehearsed or staged. It makes it more...intimate, I guess, more interesting. I’ve always wondered if they’d been together long.”

  “Now you’ve got me wondering if they still are. It’s a great photo really,” Lewis said as we sat down at the table. After taking his first mouthful, he added, “How’s the head?”

  “Much better,” I lied, popping a greasy chip into my mouth, trying not to shovel in another, reminding myself I wasn’t supposed to have anything until morning as a punishment for my earlier indulgence. I looked at Lewis, whose fingers still hovered over his plate. “Honestly, I’m fine,” I said, but could tell he wasn’t quite buying it. “I worked for a bit—”

  “You worked?”

  “I didn’t have a choice. One of my clients wasn’t exactly happy with me.” I tried not to shudder as I thought about how stern Kyle had sounded when I’d called him back, how frustrated and annoyed.

  “You work from home, don’t you? What do you do?” Lewis picked up a napkin and wiped his mouth before taking a sip of his water, waiting for my reply.

  “Website designs. I set up my own business a few months ago.”

  “Congratulations.” Lewis smiled. “I wish we’d met before I’d opened Audaz. I’d have asked you to do my site.”

  We both fell silent again. Self-consciousness coupled with the renewed realization Dad was gone and the conflicting thoughts about him and Stan—which I kept trying to push away—made my stomach turn itself into uncomfortable knots. I’d never been great at conversation, and felt so out of practice, we might as well have been speaking different languages.

  “Did you get ahold of your mom?” Lewis put his fork down when I shook my head. “How come? Is everything okay?”

  I wanted to nod and brush him off again, but without warning my face crumpled. Putting a hand over my mouth, I shut my lips and eyes tight, trapping the sobs and tears inside.

  “Hey.” Lewis reached over the table and put his hand over mine. “Eleanor, I’m here. You can talk to me. You don’t have to do this alone.”

  I opened my eyes, taking in his kind face full of worry, and once again an urge to talk rose from deep within me. This time I didn’t ignore it, but instead I took a few seconds to get my thoughts in order, hoping it would help me articulate them properly.

  “Last night...” I paused, forced all the air from my lungs in one big push and started again. “Last night I found out that Dad isn’t...wasn’t my biological father.” Each word resounded in my ears like thunder, hurt harder than a punch to my gut, making me wince.

  Lewis’s eyes went wide. “Fuck... Sorry, I mean, hell, that’s a lot to take in.”

  “Yeah...that’s precisely how I feel,” I said with a shake of my head.

  “He told you all this before he died? Was it a confession or something?”

  “No, and that’s exactly it. I wasn’t supposed to find out. I overheard him and my mother talking and I confronted them, got angry and...and then he collapsed.” My lips wobbled, stretching across my bottom teeth and I struggled to keep control. “My mother told me to leave and, coward that I am, I did. Then I got mugged, and Dad died and I feel like such a shit because I have all these unanswered questions I don’t know what to do with, and—”

  Lewis squeezed my hand. “I’m sure he didn’t mean to hurt you.”

  “I know,” I whispered. “But I hurt him. How can I ever forgive myself for that? And he died with all these secrets and I don’t know how to deal with them. It’s such a mess.”

  I paused again, wondered how much more I should say. I noticed the way Lewis leaned forward, giving me his undivided attention. He was there out of some kind of savior’s guilt, perhaps, yet I felt I could trust him, and he’d listen. With everything that had happened in such a short amount of time, the protective bubble of self-preservation I’d wrapped myself in wasn’t enough tonight. I needed a friend.

  “One of the last things my dad did was give the nurse a name,” I said. “I—I think it’s my biological father’s.”

  Lewis raised his eyebrows. “Do you know him?”

  “No.”

  “Could you ask your mother?”

  “Definitely not. Like I said, things between her and me are—”

  “Complicated. I remember. Has it always been that way? Difficult, I mean?”

  I almost laughed. “That question will take eons to answer.”

  “I’m not in a hurry,” he said gently. “You said your parents divorced?”

  “Yeah. Dad was the nicest, most hardworking man you’d ever meet,” I said, wanting to smile at what would only ever be the memory of him, and unable to get my mouth to cooperate because of it. “It wasn’t enough for her. I guess he didn’t meet her expectations. She threw him out when my sister, Amy, and I were at school one day. The day before my eleventh birthday.”

  Lewis whistled. “What a crappy gift, to say the least.”

  “It was horrible, and I’ll never forget him showing up at the bus stop that afternoon. He gave me this massive hug, smelling of Old Spice, and his beard prickled my forehead. I was so happy until he gave me a kiss and said he couldn’t live with us anymore.”

  “And you couldn’t go with him?”

  I shook my head, remembering how I’d longed to do so. After he’d dropped us off at what became “Mom’s house,” I’d rushed inside,
packed a bag and patiently sat on my bed, waiting for my mother’s curt instructions to join him. The order never came. “Dad traveled a lot for work, and Mom wouldn’t let me. I don’t know, I think it was her warped way of punishing us both because we got along so well. She got custody of Amy and me, and that was that.”

  “Christ, no wonder things with your mom turned sour,” Lewis said.

  “Oh, no, they were bad way before. Our relationship had already been strained for years.” I pushed my plate away, stretched out my legs. “I know this sounds petty and juvenile, but she’s always favored Amy. I guess I always felt—no, knew—my mother didn’t want me around despite insisting I live with her. Like I said, it’s complicated, and the put-downs, the lack of interest, the punishments—”

  “She beat you?”

  “Oh, no, it was never physical. She was a little more subtle, but locking me in the basement whenever I’d done something she considered wrong was fairly typical.” I shuddered at the memory of the first time it had happened. I’d been seven, had swiped a cookie from a plate intended for Amy’s tea party with her dolls and been caught chocolate-handed with fresh crumbs around my mouth.

  “This is for your own good,” my mother had insisted as she forced me downstairs. “Stealing is bad. And you don’t need cookies, not with your physique.” Her footsteps had faded away while I’d sat on the creaky wooden floor, knees close to my chin, crying—begging—for her to let me out or put the light on for a while, and that I was sorry, I was so, so sorry.

  I didn’t share any of that with Lewis, but simply said, “She’s not a nice person.”

  “What about your sister, or your dad? Didn’t they stick up for you?”

  “Dad did when he was around.” I looked away, not wanting to say I’d been angry with Dad at times, not only for him being away so often, but also because he wouldn’t stand up to my mother as much as I thought he should. “She only did it when he was away, and when I told him, she ordered him to mind his own business, said disciplining me was up to her because he wasn’t there. And Amy? Well, she was always the good girl, on Mom’s side.”

  “I’ve never understood how a parent can have a favorite kid,” Lewis said. “Then again, I don’t have any and I’m an only child, so I’m hardly an expert.”

  “What about your parents? Do you get along with them?”

  Lewis folded his napkin in half and dropped it onto his plate. “Mine divorced, too. I was about fifteen and lived with my mom after my dad left. God, we fought like crazy, her and me.”

  “Because of the divorce?”

  “No, because I was a dick. My dad had a lot of issues. He drank and gambled. I kept telling her to leave him but she wouldn’t. She couldn’t see she deserved better. Then he met someone else and she was devastated, and I despised her for that, too.” He shook his head. “Frankly, I was a stupid kid who didn’t know how complicated life can be, how difficult it is to get away from an abusive relationship. The only thing I knew was that I wanted to leave and told her so on a regular basis.”

  “Is that why you joined the army?” I said.

  “Partly, I guess. I mean, I wanted to serve my country, but the added bonus was being on the other side of the world, away from all the crap at home.” He smiled, let out a small, wry laugh. “Get this, the day before I left for my first tour in Afghanistan I yelled at her, told her I knew she was glad to see the back of me. I said I bet she was hoping I wouldn’t come home.”

  “Ouch. That’s vicious.”

  “It was bullshit. A self-preservation thing, you know? I was scared out of my mind to go but wouldn’t admit it. Anyway, when I got back, she hugged me so hard I thought she’d break me in half, and that’s saying something. She’s barely five feet tall.” He smiled again, the dimples in his cheeks deepening. “Distance has a funny way of putting things into perspective. She lives with my stepdad in Colorado now. They’re great together, but I wish I could go back in time and be more supportive, help her when she needed it most.”

  “What about your dad? Do you still see him?”

  Lewis shook his head. “He died last year.”

  “Oh, gosh, I’m really sorry.”

  “Me, too.” He paused. “He was all alone, barely any friends or family, no money. Mom flew back to help sort out all of his things. When I asked why she’d do that after the way he’d treated her, she said it was her way of making peace with him, of forgiving him.”

  “She sounds like a strong woman.”

  “She’s awesome.” He paused again, let a few moments pass. “Look, you’re right when you say I don’t know your mom, but maybe it’s not too late to salvage the relationship.”

  I let out a laugh and waved a hand. “Trust me, that bridge has been blown up, not burned.”

  “Maybe not forever,” Lewis said. “And she might have more answers about your biological father, when you’re ready to ask her.”

  “Unless I decide the questions don’t matter.”

  “Can you?”

  I looked at him, shrugged. “I’m not sure.”

  “Lots to think about.” Lewis reached for my plate as he stood up, and when I was about to protest, he added, “You sit. I’ll take care of this.”

  I watched him walk across my kitchen, his frame so big he took up the majority of the space. There being another person in my apartment felt almost alien, but Lewis moved with such confidence, putting leftovers in the fridge, washing and drying the plates and cutlery before stacking them in the cupboards, it was as if he’d been there a thousand times. Like he belonged. I reprimanded myself for imagining anything other than a distant friendship developing between us, that he could be more than the guy upstairs who said a friendly hello in the hall.

  “I’ll let you rest,” he said, snapping me out of my daydream. “Will you be okay?”

  “Yes. I’m sure I’ll be fine.”

  “I hope you sleep well, Eleanor,” he said as he walked to the door where he paused, his fingers on the handle. “Thanks for the chat. Call me if you need me. Anytime. Okay?”

  I had a sudden impulse to rush over, stand on my tiptoes and kiss his cheek, take in the scent of his aftershave, feel the warmth of his skin, the stubble on his chin. I didn’t want to be alone. For a fraction of a heartbeat I wondered what he’d say if I asked him to stay, and what his reasons might be if he said yes, but it was too late because he slipped into the hallway and pulled the door closed behind him.

  CHAPTER TEN

  AFTER LEWIS LEFT, I sank onto the sofa, staring at my laptop on the coffee table. All I needed to do was open it and run a search. Stan Gallinger. It would take a second. I shook my head, squished my hands under my thighs to prevent myself from touching the computer, and still my mind raced. It was a bit of research. Something to satisfy my curiosity. That was all. No harm done.

  My fingers reached for the laptop, hovered over the keyboard as I opened it. This could be the start of a new chapter in my life, and yet the mere thought felt like the ultimate betrayal toward Dad, as if I would leave him behind somehow. I’d never replace, let alone forget, him. He was my dad, my true father, but I couldn’t stop myself from thinking about Stan Gallinger, and that he was family, too. If I had another chance to belong somewhere, I had to look into it. At the very least I needed to know where I came from. Surely Dad would understand why, maybe he even wanted me to, especially since he’d given Nurse Jelani Stan’s name.

  With trembling fingers I typed Stan Gallinger Portland in the search bar, trying to talk myself into—and subsequently out of—hitting Enter. When I couldn’t bear it any longer, I held my breath and pressed the key.

  Within an instant pages and pages of hits flooded my screen. News articles. Interviews. Blog entries. All of the same person. And right at the top was a picture of him. Stanley Gallinger from Portland. My biological father. Alleged biological father, I reminded myself as I p
eered more closely, zooming in on the photo.

  Dad had always made jokes about being vertically challenged, barely reaching five foot seven in his shoes, and I’d always assumed I’d inherited my distinct lack of stature from him. He’d had a round, friendly face, which complemented his soft, squidgy belly, and he’d proudly sported his bald head, saying oncoming drivers could spot him more easily because their headlights bounced off his skull. The only suit I’d seen him in was when he’d dressed up as Santa, making Amy and me squeal with delight when we were kids.

  Stan Gallinger was about as diametrically opposed to Dad as could be. He looked immaculate in every photograph I examined, including the ones from thirty years prior. The definition of his features was so sharp, you could cut yourself on it, and his ice-blue eyes, salt-and-pepper hair and the custom-tailored suits all screamed money and success.

  If this man was my father, then determining what my mother had seen in him—at least on a superficial level—was hardly a challenge. He could have been a sophisticated, suave model, and, two clicks later, there he was again, gracing the front of the local newspaper with his charming bright white smile. They’d written an entire feature about him and his company, Gallinger Properties, detailing his journey from past to present, including how he’d inspired hordes of up-and-coming entrepreneurs, in Portland and beyond, to follow in his footsteps.

  I opened another tab, brought up my mother’s LinkedIn profile, which she meticulously kept up-to-date, and remembered how she’d proudly boasted there wasn’t a single gap in her career save for two “exceedingly” short periods of maternity leave. I scrolled down, my breath catching as I spotted the company name. She’d worked at Gallinger Properties as an accountant the year before I was born.

  “Jesus,” I whispered as the certainty that Stan was my biological father cemented itself onto my bones.

  I reminded myself to breathe and flicked back to the article. A quick calculation and I figured he was sixty-four, which made him thirty-four when I was born. He’d grown up locally, came from a modest background. His father was a steelworker, his mother a hairstylist. After winning a college football scholarship, he’d studied business, but during his third year he’d been involved in an accident when the rear wheel on his girlfriend’s car came off, sending them straight into a tree. His girlfriend was killed on impact, whereas Stan sustained injuries so serious, he was almost taken off life support. He’d been forced to drop out of university and, after his yearlong recovery, worked three jobs until he’d saved enough money for a down payment on a decrepit factory nobody wanted. Everyone called him crazy until he converted the building into trendy office spaces and sold them for a hefty profit. Gallinger Properties was born, and the privately held company was now valued at millions.