Sister Dear

by Hannah Mary McKinnon

  I stared at the shiny band, mesmerized by the small stones adorning it, marveling at how the large square-cut one set on top caught the light. My mind raced as I reached for the ring, picked it up and held it between my fingers, watching it sparkle.

  It had to be Victoria’s—there was no way she wouldn’t have seen it as she’d chosen the lotion. She must have taken it off when she’d used the cream on her hands, become distracted as she’d talked about Charlotte’s husband. How long before she noticed she’d left it behind? How much time before she came rushing back to the bathroom and found me standing there with her engagement ring in my hands?

  As much as I didn’t want that to happen, I couldn’t put it down and leave—what if someone else took it? Equally, I didn’t want to walk up to their table and hand it to Victoria. Option three meant giving it to the restaurant’s manager, but what if they kept it for themselves? Later I tried to convince myself otherwise, but the real reason for what I did next was the fact I didn’t want to part with something belonging to my half sister, something so personal, so intimate.

  Before anyone entered the bathroom, I slipped the ring into my pocket and hurried to my table, where I slid a twenty-dollar bill under my plate, not bothering to wait for change. I headed for the front door, expecting a hand to clamp down on my shoulder, or the yell of a gruff voice saying, “Stop, thief!”

  But neither happened, and so, with a mixture of terror and triumph churning in my belly, I rushed home. With every step, I ignored the screaming voice in my head ordering me to turn around, questioning who I was becoming and demanding to know what the hell I’d do next.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  A SPIKY BALL OF ANXIETY nestled itself into my lungs, where it grew overnight. A shower, coffee and two headache pills for safety’s sake later, and it still hadn’t moved. I skipped breakfast, pulled on a clean pair of sweatpants—working from home came with its advantages—and settled at my table, trying to make myself research new clients.

  Victoria’s ring, though, had other plans. Despite it sitting on the counter, out of sight and carefully wrapped in a napkin, it burned a relentless hole in my forehead, demanding attention. After fifteen minutes of failing to ignore the damn thing, I snatched it up, unwrapped it and let it sit in the palm of my hand. Whatever bravado I’d felt the night before had long vanished, leaving me with one question: What the actual fuck had I been thinking? I’d swiped Victoria’s jewelry. The ring wasn’t mine. I was a thief. It was wrong to keep it, plain and simple. I’d already known that before I’d left the restaurant. No, scratch that—before I’d picked it up.

  I had to take it back to Le Médaillon, but what if they’d already called the police? What if stealing it—even for a few hours—meant I’d be charged? The ball in my lungs fell into my belly, digging itself into my gut. Had someone been to the bathroom after me, automatically becoming a suspect, too? Did the restaurant have security cameras? If so, had the footage caught my face? I’d paid cash for my food, they had no way of knowing who I was, but it would be easy enough to take stills and post them online, asking for help to identify me. My mind buzzed, trying to justify my actions, arguing with itself.

  You can’t keep it. You know it’s wrong.

  Yes, I can. It’s not my fault she forgot her damn ring.

  Oh, so you’re victim blaming, are you? You’ll get caught. You know you will.

  They might have me on camera, but they can’t prove anything.

  The last one happened to be true. Unless there was hard evidence Victoria forgot her ring, it was a classic case of her word against mine, although I suspected a judge would favor her version. Victoria didn’t need to commit insurance fraud, whereas anybody could tell a cash injection would do me no harm. My mind continued its interrogation.

  What would Dad think? What would he say?

  The thought of him watching over me, knowing what I’d done, made my knees buckle. I couldn’t keep the ring, had no choice but to give it back somehow. I’d been worried about him dying without me ever making him proud, and now this? Perhaps going to the police was the way to go. Maybe I could drop the ring off anonymously, otherwise they’d ask questions I didn’t want to answer. I weighed up the options over and over until another slithered into my brain with a soft whisper.

  Take the ring to her apartment.

  I could slide it into her mailbox—it was bound to be secure—or give it to the doorman, if the building had one. It wasn’t a perfect idea, but I had to pick from the solutions I’d come up with or think of an alternative. Stealing it had been an impulsive, stupid thing to do, and I needed to make it right before the cops came knocking.

  I decided to do whatever offered the least potential interaction with anyone—going to Victoria’s apartment building. As I changed, a pang of hunger hit me, reminding me I hadn’t eaten since I’d had the bowl of soup at Le Médaillon. I ignored it as I shoved the ring in my pocket, darted down the hallway and burst outside, where I pulled my hood down over my face. I pushed away the thought of walking straight into a pawnshop and taking whatever they offered, despite knowing if I did, it would lessen the financial pressure of finding work for a while.

  “I’m not pawning it, no way,” I said out loud, the force and tone of my voice startling an elderly woman hobbling ahead of me. She turned around, her bright yellow cane shaking in her hand. I apologized and picked up the pace as I walked past her, the spiky ball of discomfort growing larger still and continuing to dig itself deeper.

  I’d never stolen anything in my life—not unless you counted the cookie from Amy’s tea party. A few years later, as I’d come home from school one afternoon, I’d spotted a shiny brown wallet lying in the grass on the side of the road. I’d picked it up and peered inside to find ten crisp twenty-dollar notes. Even at that age, I knew the cash was somebody’s rent money or food budget. Whatever it was, it wasn’t mine, and I wouldn’t have slept properly keeping it. Maybe it was my personality, or my mother’s unforgettable punishment—whatever the reason, I’d handed it in and never taken anything that wasn’t mine, not even a paperclip from work. Yet, here I was with a diamond ring in my pocket, one I’d stolen with hardly any hesitation.

  Since last night I’d continued asking myself who I was becoming. Stalking my biological father, now my half sister. Stealing her things. That wasn’t me. I shuddered. Dad would be mortified if he knew. Then again if he hadn’t died, maybe I wouldn’t be in such a mess. If only he was still here, if only we’d had more time, maybe I wouldn’t be turning into a crazy person.

  I walked east, wrapping my jacket around me as I headed to Newbury Street. The wind picked up, whipping my face as I buried my chin in my scarf, taking faster and longer strides until I arrived at Victoria’s building, yet another place I’d examined from every possible angle on Street View, adding to my list of ridiculous behavior.

  My nerves got the better of me, made me stumble as I crossed the road. Before I reached the entrance, a woman wearing a long houndstooth coat and carrying a Prada bag you could fit a small child in pushed the door open, stepping out into the cold. As she turned and walked down the street, I reached for the handle before the door swung shut again. Fingers trembling, I pulled it open a fraction more and slipped inside.

  The lobby was such a marvel to behold, it was as if I’d stepped into another world. In comparison to my building—where dim lights flickered, beige paint bubbled and peeled from the uninspired walls, and the pattern on the brown hallway carpet was an assortment of indecipherable stains—Victoria’s place was a magical fairy-tale palace. Shiny black marble floors you could eat your supper off. White walls, which looked as if they’d been painted the night before. A futuristic silver light fixture as big as a small car, and probably more expensive, hung from the high ceiling, lending the place a welcoming glow.

  The air smelled of pumpkin spice, and while there was no doorman, an annoyingly early six-foot Chr
istmas tree stood sentry in the corner instead, decorated with silver and purple ribbons and baubles, with matching gift-wrapped parcels underneath. Even the letterboxes were smart-looking, not dented and scratched like the ones in my building. These golden handles were pristine—not a single scuff—the name tags engraved with a swirly font Santa himself could have penned.

  I cursed myself for dashing out of my apartment on impulse, for not coming prepared. Usually I was Little Miss Planner, always thinking ahead, expecting the worst and preparing for it, too. I should’ve at least put the ring in an envelope. Now the tatty tissue would have to suffice.

  As I was about to pull the ring from my pocket, the elevator bell dinged, announcing someone’s arrival. There was no time to make a run for it, I wouldn’t have reached the door. I considered crouching behind the Christmas tree before deciding to hide in plain sight, pretending to look for a resident’s name on the mailboxes.

  Turning my head slightly toward the doors, I glanced at the reflection of the elderly couple stepping out of the elevator, both of them smartly dressed in tweed jackets, their hair an identical shade of white. The woman looked at my back through her round glasses, but neither of them said a word. Maybe this was something else money provided—discretion and anonymity—and it couldn’t have come at a better time.

  Once alone in the lobby again, I touched Victoria’s mailbox, which was marked Victoria E. Gallinger & Hugh F. Watters. Her middle name was Elizabeth, his was Francis, and the more I read the names, the more regal and entitled they sounded.

  Dad had told me the story about how he’d chosen my first name because it meant “bright, shining one.” It was something I’d never felt I lived up to, but I liked it all the same until Amy bastardized it to Nellie. Hardwicke, on the other hand, became “hard dick” by taunting peers around fifth grade and stuck until I’d left high school.

  I bet Victoria had never been teased, and while it was pure assumption, I couldn’t help imagining her in an elite, prestigious and obscenely expensive private school where she was popular, revered by students and teachers alike. Head of student council, possibly. Valedictorian, probably. Definitely not a wallflower who’d been picked on for wearing her younger-but-taller sister’s hand-me-downs, which were a size too small around the waist.

  As I stood there and imagined Victoria’s perfect life, not only with a doting father but also a mother who wanted a relationship with her, the green-eyed monster within me woke up again and snarled, snapping its ugly, sharp teeth.

  Maybe I could keep the ring for a little longer, I decided. Was there really any harm? Would Victoria even miss it? Okay, that was ridiculous considering it was her engagement ring, but still. By now she’d probably claimed it on insurance, spoken to the jeweler and had a new one on order. Those things were easy for people like the Gallingers. And while I could accept money couldn’t buy happiness, it sure as hell had to make life a lot easier.

  When I heard the whoosh of the elevator being summoned upstairs, I decided not to risk another chance encounter with anyone else in the building. Within a heartbeat I’d pushed the front door open and gone back outside into the frigid air.

  I almost turned around on four separate occasions, wishing I’d shoved the damn ring in Victoria’s mailbox instead of letting it sear a hole in my pocket as if it were a blowtorch. I tried to justify my most recent bad decision by insisting it would’ve been foolish to leave something so valuable where it might be stolen—again—even though those mailboxes looked as impenetrable as Fort Knox.

  I slid my hand in my pocket, closed my palm over the ring. Victoria’s ring. My heart sped up and I didn’t bother trying to stop the smile from spreading over my face. I’d taken something from her. She didn’t have a clue, had no idea I existed.

  How had she felt when she’d realized her ring was missing? Had she cried when she’d rushed back to the bathroom and seen the empty spot where it had been? I imagined her, teary-eyed as she told Hugh. How had he reacted? Did he hug her, tell her it didn’t matter? Whisk her out to buy a replacement? Was everything always so easy for her?

  It isn’t fair she’s got a perfect life, is it? Don’t you think you deserve all of that, too?

  Instead of smacking down the voice in my head, I encouraged it, let it slither and slide around my brain, tell me it wasn’t right she had everything when all I’d ever done was struggle. Victoria was younger than me. I’d been born first and yet had been discarded by my biological father, unwanted by my mother, raised by a man I’d loved but who’d lied to me and who’d ultimately left me, too.

  I squeezed my fingers shut, pushed the stones into my skin, hoping they’d leave indentations, a perfect, permanent print. The satisfaction of knowing I’d taken something from Victoria, that I’d made her life a little less perfect, spread through my veins like a virus. But instead of it making me sick, it made me stronger. As I walked down the street, back to my sad little life, a tiny part of me—not far beneath the surface—wondered what else I could take from her, too.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  UNABLE TO FACE SITTING alone in my dingy apartment with thoughts pinging around my mind as if it were a psychotic pinball machine, I decided to visit the grocery store. My fridge and cupboards had gone from almost bare to destitute, begging to be filled.

  At first I stuffed the usual suspects into my basket: pretzels, chocolate, a frozen lasagna, mac and cheese for one. Cooking wasn’t a skill I’d cared to develop, and I preferred things I could shove in the microwave or, in a pinch, the oven. Today, all of those choices seemed as appealing as a bowl of hair soup. I put the items back, wandered over to the produce aisle, where, with a suspicious eye, I examined the yellow zucchini, green beans and fuzzy brown kiwis as if they’d arrived from an alien planet.

  I’d overheard Victoria order the maple balsamic salmon at Le Médaillon (“no rice, extra vegetables”) whereas Madeleine had chosen a plate of perch (“same, and no butter”), and Charlotte the braised ribs with duchess potatoes (“I’ll take all the trimmings”). The dishes had sounded mouthwateringly delicious, and I could still smell the delicate fish and rich gravy. They’d been far too expensive for me to try, but now I felt the urge to eat something homemade with more flavor than a piece of cardboard. Well aware I wasn’t proficient enough to tackle an elaborate recipe, and after looking at a couple of videos on my phone, I settled on fresh chicken breast, baby carrots, a small head of butter lettuce, half a dozen shiny apples and a box of green tea, something else I’d overheard Victoria order.

  I recalled seeing a cookbook somewhere in the depths of my kitchen cupboard, as well as herbs and spices I’d bought on a whim, but rarely used. By the time I left the store, the prospect of making myself a healthy meal filled me with more excitement than I’d felt in weeks.

  I’d been home for no more than five minutes, had half unpacked the groceries and put the kettle on, when there was a sharp knock on the door.

  I jumped up, hoping it was Lewis. Because I’d slept in late every day, I hadn’t heard him upstairs much. Not that I’d ever say it out loud, but I kind of missed him, which was ludicrous considering we barely knew each other. In any case, his gym had to be a raging success and keeping him busy, which was fantastic, but I still hoped he’d come to check on me again. I pondered whether to suggest we grab something to eat or offer to cook dinner, and groaned out loud. The idea was nothing but a recipe for disaster.

  I grinned as I opened the door, but my smile slid off my face when I saw my mother. She was dressed in her ankle-length red coat, adorned by a single row of large buttons, a black fedora sitting on top of her head. She removed it and smoothed down her hair, and although she’d colored it the same hue for years, I noticed it was similar to Madeleine’s, although not as expensively done or nearly as flattering.

  “Hello, Eleanor,” she said. I was about to tell her to go away, but she spoke again, this time in the soft, gentle voice usually
reserved for Amy. “Please, may I come in?”

  Curious, I opened the door, staying mute as she stepped inside, readying myself for her withering looks and scathing remarks about my apartment, which she’d never seen. Instead of giving the place the once-over before lampooning the color scheme—or lack thereof—and my choice of decor with verbal spears, she said, “How are you?”

  “Uh... I’m okay.”

  “I’m so glad your bruises have almost gone. I’ve been worried about you.”

  “Sorry?” She’d seen me but a few days ago, had been furious. Now she was concerned?

  “The attack, your father’s passing and finding out about... Well, you know.” She said the last two words with extra care, as if she’d covered them in Bubble Wrap to make sure they didn’t hurt me. “I had to come by to see how you are. Do you need anything? Can I help?”

  I wondered if I’d fallen in the shower, smacked my head on the floor and been taken back to the hospital. Maybe I was in a coma, and Nurse Miranda was speaking to me through the fog in my brain, somehow taking on the shape of Sylvia Hardwicke. I gave my head a shake.

  She took a step forward and I thought she’d grab my hands or give me a hug, at which point I’d have known for certain I’d stumbled into an alternate reality. “Eleanor, what’s wrong?”

  “Nothing, I’m fine,” I said, debating whether I should offer her a coffee, but deciding it would mean us spending at least enough time together for her drink to cool to a palatable level. The chances of us killing one another before that point were already at DEFCON 1.

  My mother walked past me to the living room and let herself drop onto the sofa, where she patted the cushion next to her. “Let’s sit down and have a chat.”

  “A chat?”

  She looked at me, pressed a hand to her chest. “You must miss your father so very much.” When I bit my lip, unable to answer, she sighed, adding, “I’ve been seeing things from your point of view. I owe you an explanation. More than one, actually.”