Sister Dear

by Hannah Mary McKinnon

  She laughed at her feeble attempt of a joke, but it came out too shrill, too loud and it wasn’t funny to begin with.

  As she set her hat on the cushion beside her and undid the buttons of her coat, I lowered myself onto one of the dining chairs, observing her as if she were a deadly viper, waiting to strike.

  “I want to tell you about Stan,” she said. “About what happened. Would that be all right?”

  “Yes,” I whispered, working hard not to break the spell by blurting out who are you? Or how come? Or why now?

  “I met him at work,” she said quietly. “He’d started Gallinger Properties a few years prior, and the company had taken off. I worked in their finance department, a temporary thing, you know? Covering for somebody’s sabbatical for a few months.” She paused, dropped her gaze as her cheeks reddened. “Stan was—”

  “Married?” I offered, unable to help myself.

  She met my stare, nodded and looked away again. “I was going to say my boss, but yes, he was married, and yes, I knew it, right from the start. He was intelligent and charming. Handsome. Exceedingly handsome.”

  “Quite the catch, apart from the obvious,” I said, wishing I could stuff the words back into my mouth. My mother had come with information about my biological father. This wasn’t the time to be snide. “What happened?”

  “I liked him right away. Offered to work late and the flirting began,” she said, her tone wistful, making her sound my age. “It led to lunch and then dinner and, well...other things. I loved him deeply, and...and he said he loved me.”

  “And you believed him?”

  She let out a sigh. “I was young, stupid and terribly naive.”

  I almost snorted. My mother was many things: cold, hard, tenacious—naive had never been one of her attributes. I could picture her thirty years earlier, with Amy’s looks and a knockout figure she’d worked hard for, digging her sharp claws into Stan, deciding she wanted him, and married or not, she’d have him. Naive? Give me a break.

  “The affair lasted a few months,” she continued. “When I found out I was pregnant, I was sure he’d leave her for me. He didn’t. Instead he insisted I get rid of the baby. When I refused, my contract was terminated and they escorted me out of the building as if I were a criminal.”

  “Did you see him again?” I said.

  “He wouldn’t return my calls so I waited outside the office one day.” She looked at me. “It was incredibly humiliating, Eleanor, the way he treated me. You have no idea.”

  “Oh, I can imagine.”

  “Yes, well—” she smoothed down her clothes “—now you know why I’ve always told you to become self-sufficient, and why I’ve never begged a man for anything.”

  I raised my eyebrows. “Was that before or after you took his money?”

  “It wasn’t—”

  “Wasn’t it?”

  “No. I know it sounds cold and calculating, but we reached an agreement. He’d pay me and I’d never publicly or privately speak of what happened or that he was your father. Not to anyone. Not even you...” She fiddled with the buttons on her coat. All her feelings—remorse, guilt, shame—seemed genuine. My mother had never worn her emotions on her sleeve, but right now they were wrapping her up like a blanket.

  As I looked at her, I tried to put myself in her situation: in love with a married man who’d said he loved her, too, but walked away as soon as he’d found out about the baby. My mother, alone and pregnant and, by the sound of things, without a job, too. Had she tried to trap him, wanted to force him to leave Madeleine? If so, she’d made such a classic mistake it was almost laughable, except I was the result, and there was nothing funny about it.

  “Basically Stan gave you money so we’d disappear from his life forever?”

  “That’s right. He worried about his marriage collapsing, and of course his reputation would’ve been in tatters if word had got out. Can you imagine? The golden boy of Portland falling from his bejeweled pedestal?” She shook her head, leaned toward me. “But his main reason was family, Eleanor. More to the point, his wife’s. His father-in-law gave him a loan to buy his first property—”

  “I read he’d worked multiple jobs, saved all his money—”

  “True, although not enough to buy the building. But playing the poor kid who became successful through elbow grease and grit is far more appealing to the masses than him getting a leg up from his wealthy Canadian father-in-law.” Her eyes narrowed, and I could see even after all these years she still despised Stan Gallinger, possibly more than I did.

  “I found out Stan and Madeleine had a prenuptial agreement,” my mother said. “If they’d divorced, he would’ve had to pay back the loan plus interest, and it would’ve ruined him financially. His business was stretched thin, it could’ve gone under.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I worked in their finance department, remember? Besides, when it came down to it, he loved her more. You can’t force someone to love you, however hard you try.”

  I blinked, the irony of her statement settling between us with the subtlety of a brick wall. “So when he offered you money, you took it,” I said.

  “It made financial sense. Nobody wanted to hire a pregnant accountant, so it gave me time to get back on my feet, and I was able to buy a house.”

  That explained why Dad had left the marriage with next to nothing. Up until then, I’d assumed it was because he was too kind, too soft, and let my mother have whatever she wanted, because it was how their relationship had always been. “Where did Dad fit into all of this?”

  My mother didn’t answer straight away. She blinked a few times, and finally, she said, “I told you the truth about how I met him in a café, when I spilled my coffee on him and he bought me another.”

  “He told me you got pregnant a few months after meeting him.”

  “I did, it wasn’t a lie,” she said. “But I met him while I was involved with Stan. Bruce and I became friends, and when Stan left me, Bruce asked me out and I agreed.”

  “But you were pregnant?”

  “Yes.”

  “And Dad knew?”

  “From the start. Bruce didn’t care I was carrying someone else’s child, he said it didn’t matter. He told me he loved me on our third date, asked me to marry him a week later.”

  “Really?”

  “Believe it or not, I wasn’t always such a hard woman,” she said. “I swore Bruce to secrecy about Stan, and we agreed it wouldn’t make sense to tell you the truth—” she put a hand up when I opened my mouth in protest “—and I can see now how that was wrong. You had every right to know, and I’m sorry.”

  Her apology, her whole demeanor, head bent, fingers still fidgeting with her coat, threw me again. I’d never seen her this way before. “Didn’t Stan want to see me after I was born?”

  “No, and it still makes me so angry, him treating us like that.”

  Us. I searched her face, saw vulnerability and, for the first time, understood how much effort it took for her to let her guard down. It was a glimpse of what Dad might have seen when they first met, a side to my mother I’d never discovered or knew she had. Like me, she didn’t let many people close, had never remarried or had another longtime partner, at least in part because she’d been hurt. I couldn’t begrudge her that, could I?

  “Why do you hate me so much?” I said, the need to know forcing the words out.

  “I don’t—”

  “But you’ve always pushed me away.”

  She tilted her head to one side, her eyes searching my face. “I blamed you for a lot of things,” she said quietly. “Marrying a man I didn’t love as much as another—”

  “But Dad was—”

  “A good man, I know that, Eleanor, but I’m ashamed to say I felt trapped. If I hadn’t got pregnant with Stan’s child, or if he’d wanted to be wit
h me, my life might have been different. More glamorous, more exciting.” She looked away but I didn’t dare interrupt. This was the most we’d spoken in years. “You remind me of him sometimes. The way you move, your hand gestures. Sometimes it was more than I could bear, and I’m truly sorry, because none of this was ever your fault.” She let out another breath. “Stan still riles me. I don’t want to have anything to do with him. I don’t want my name associated with his. I hope you understand.”

  “I do.”

  “Are you sure? Because I don’t think you know what kind of person he is,” she said. “Do you know what he told me when he called about your visits? He said if you contact him again, he’ll go after my business, convince my clients to change accounting firms.”

  “What?”

  “He wasn’t who I thought he was in the end.” She swallowed, her bottom lip quivering. “But that’s not your fault, either, and it doesn’t mean we can’t be friends. Would you... I mean, do you think it’s possible? Could we try at least?”

  My heart thudded. These were words I’d longed to hear my mother say ever since I was little. At times I’d vowed I’d throw them back in her face with a vehemence reserved for only the most appalling of enemies. Now, with her sitting in front of me, a hopeful, desperate look on her face, I couldn’t do it. It meant something, her coming here and confiding in me. No, not something—everything. Maybe Lewis had been right, and it wasn’t too late for us, after all. Perhaps she and I could somehow find our way to the relationship I’d given up on years ago. Maybe I could still have a parent in my life.

  “Yes, Mom. I’d like that, too.”

  “Oh, thank you, Eleanor, thank you. Would you... No, never mind.”

  “Would I what?”

  “Well...I was going to ask if we could start by going out for coffee.”

  “You mean now?”

  “Yes, if you’re free? I saw a place a block down. The Coffee Pot, I think it’s called. Have you been? Their chocolate cake looks delicious.”

  “It is,” I said, remembering the huge slice I’d bought for half price on opening day, and decided I’d only have coffee this time. “And yes, I’m free.”

  “Wonderful. I’ll take a minute to freshen up and we can go talk some more.”

  She smiled at me again as she made her way to the bathroom, closing the door softly behind her. I couldn’t shake the surprise from my face, couldn’t believe this was happening. My mother, the person who’d shoved me away more times than I could count, wanted to spend time with me. But the best part was hearing her say it hadn’t been my fault. She hadn’t disliked me for me, per se, but because of Stan. The way she’d treated me, alienated me and pushed me aside wasn’t something I could easily forget, but in time and with effort on both sides, maybe there was still enough to salvage.

  An image invaded my brain: her, Amy and me sipping margaritas on a sunny afternoon, the three of us laughing at an inside joke the way Victoria, Madeleine and Charlotte had. I was still smiling when I heard the buzz of a cell phone. Not mine, but Mom’s, half-wedged between the sofa cushions. I picked it up, a frown hijacking my face when I saw the twinkling words on the screen. A message from Amy.

  Seen N yet? What did she say? Will she do it?

  My mother’s security settings were infantile. Two guesses and I’d figured out her passcode—Amy’s birthday—and opened the message app. As I read the exchanges between my younger sister and my mother, the pink and fluffy, happy-family thoughts vanished one by one, replaced by the familiar rage-filled storm clouds swelling inside me.

  Mother: I’ve found a way to pay for your acting classes & coach

  Amy: How? So expensive :(

  Mother: Nellie will get money from S

  Amy: He’ll pay her?

  Mother: She’ll make him

  Amy: Wth??? N agreed???

  Mother: She’ll do as she’s told

  Amy: How? She won’t tlk 2 u

  Mother: I’ll become her best friend and make her think he threatened my business

  Amy: Sneaky! BTW aren’t u my BFF? LOL

  “Ready to go?” My mother had returned from the bathroom, wearing what I now identified as a masterful but fake expression on her touched-up face. “Sweetie, are you okay?”

  Sweetie. She’d never used the name, any pet name, not once. With the single word, she’d not only revealed her hand but thrown it away, and I couldn’t believe she’d almost succeeded in deceiving me.

  I held up her phone, waggled it midair. “You dropped this.”

  She took a step. “Oh, thank you. It must’ve fallen—”

  “Amy sent a text.”

  “Did she? I’ll read it later. She can wait.”

  “I’m not sure she can,” I said slowly, deliberately, every word a sharp, piercing blade aimed at her heart, at her soul—except she didn’t have one anymore because she’d sold it thirty years ago for a hundred thousand dollars. “She wants an update on how the blackmail plans are going. Probably wondering if I’ll do as I’m told.”

  My mother’s eyes flashed. “You read my messages? You’re invading my privacy—”

  I laughed out loud, could hardly stop long enough to say, “Nice try, Mom. You came here for one reason only. Use me to get money from Stan. For Amy. Didn’t you?”

  “Eleanor—”

  “What, were you too chicken to try to blackmail him yourself? Worried he really would go after your clients if you did? You know, you almost had me convinced. I wanted to believe deep, deep down that you’re a decent person and could be a real mother, but—”

  “I can, Eleanor,” she said, but she’d forgotten how well I knew her, for how many years I’d studied her, trying to get her to love me. She had no idea how the tone of her voice betrayed her now. Maybe she should’ve considered hiring an acting coach for herself rather than Amy.

  My blood boiled, spilled over, raced through my veins, throbbed in my temples, threatening to make my head burst. “Get out,” I said, teeth and fists clenched. “I never, ever want to see or speak to you again.” She wouldn’t move, not until I shouted at her once more to leave, grabbed her arm and yanked her to the front door.

  “You’re making a mistake,” she said as I shoved her again. “We could—”

  “Get. Out.”

  She stared at me with her foot over the threshold as she adjusted her sleeves. “You know, I was like you once, Eleanor, years ago. Not quite as heavy of course, but with little backbone. The difference is I grew more. Made something of myself. Took pride in my appearance, and worked hard. But you? You’ll never be anything unless we—”

  Ignoring her foot, I slammed the door, pushed my back up against it in case she had the strength to blow it down like the big bad wolf I knew she was. She knocked a few times, demanded I let her in, but I didn’t move, not until I heard Mrs. Winchester’s voice.

  “What’s going on out here?” my old neighbor said. “Why are you making such a racket?”

  “Mind your own business,” my mother snapped, banging on the door again. “Eleanor!”

  “I’ll call the police if you don’t leave,” Mrs. Winchester wheezed. “Right now.”

  My mother didn’t speak again, but I heard her footsteps beat a hasty retreat down the corridor. A moment later there was a soft knock on the door.

  “Are you okay, Eleanor?” Mrs. Winchester said. “Is everything all right?”

  I bit my lip, telling myself not to cry. I would not cry. This was a dance my mother and I had practiced for years, our sickening pas de deux taking us closer and closer to the precipice before we’d finally plunged over the edge. Did it matter? Did I care?

  “I’m fine,” I called out. “Really.”

  “Mmm-hmm,” Mrs. Winchester replied. “Come find me if you need to talk. You hear?”

  “Yes, Mrs. W. Thank you.”

&nb
sp; I slunk to the window, waiting for my mother to leave the building, and stood a few feet back in case she turned around and spotted me, but shouldn’t have bothered. Sylvia Hardwicke strode across the street and out of my life, her steps determined, red coat flowing behind her as if she was going straight back to hell. And this time, I vowed, she’d been exorcised for good.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  THE NEXT COUPLE OF days passed in a blur. I spent my time working, doing a few website fixes in between hunting for new business, a search that remained unsuccessful. I hadn’t heard from Kyle Draper, either, odd considering he was late emailing me his weekly list of updates. He was the kind of person who regarded being on time as late, but he was also a busy man, and he had a reputation as a terrible delegator. Maybe for the first time since I’d met him he’d become overwhelmed and had dropped a few of the hundred balls he typically juggled with ease. I briefly wondered if I should call him, decided it would be best to wait until he contacted me rather than risk upsetting him by pointing out he was behind his self-imposed schedule.

  At least his payment for the last month had arrived. Still, I had too much time on my hands and on Wednesday morning, after I’d spent an hour examining the clown-shaped water stain on the ceiling, thinking about Dad, my mother, Amy and the Gallingers, I decided to get outside before I drove myself insane.

  I hadn’t been to the cemetery to see Dad since the funeral the week before, and the thought made me feel like an utter piece of garbage, however hard I tried justifying my absence. My headaches from the mugging had all but disappeared, and I’d read enough about PTSD to know so far I wasn’t suffering from it, but the cemetery wasn’t a busy place, and being there with nobody else around made me feel on edge.

  When I got to Dad’s grave, despite vowing I’d be chirpy and bright because I’d promised him I wouldn’t be sad, the first thing I did was cry.

  Tears spilled over my cheeks, seeped into my scarf as I clenched my fists. I missed him more than I’d ever missed anything or anyone. Grief was an absolute bastard, and while I’d known there were different stages—denial, anger, bargaining and so forth—what I hadn’t appreciated was that a song on the radio, a commercial on TV, a similar voice, a photograph, the smell of cherry pie or whatever else happened to trigger a memory could slam you right back to the beginning. Yes, grief was an absolute bastard, and a spiteful, malicious one. At home I’d been coping—barely—but here I felt unmoored, without compass, as if I’d float around in this ocean of despair, forevermore trying to find my way home. I sank to my knees, the cold ground making an immediate assault on my legs.