What Happened to My Sister

by Elizabeth Flock

  “I ain’t no babysitter!” I hear him calling after me. I know he’s just saving face, so I don’t pay it any mind. If he didn’t give a hoot, he wouldn’t know all their comings and goings like he does.

  “Okay, girls, we’re homeward bound,” I say, closing the car door behind me.

  “Yay!” they say in unison. Carrie is aping everything Cricket says and does.

  Before putting the car in drive, I turn back to Carrie. “You sure you’re fine coming over for a little bit, Carrie honey? You feeling a little better now?”

  “Yes, ma’am, thank you so much,” she says. Her eyes are real wide, like getting to come to our house is winning the lottery.

  “Well, all right then. You need to buckle your seat belt back up and we’re off.”

  “What’s with everybody telling everybody what they need to do,” I hear Cricket say to Carrie once we get under way. “Like what you need to do is get a needle to get that splinter out …”

  Carrie laughs as Cricket assumes different voices:

  “What you need to do is take your second left,” she says, her voice as man-deep as she can make it.

  “I’ll tell you what you need,” she says, now in a high-pitched voice, “you need to read up on the French Revolution if you think you’re going to pass that test next week.”

  More laughter from Carrie. I can’t remember the last time Cricket’s held court like this. Then Carrie chimes in:

  “Or, wait wait, I got one! What you need is a good slap—that’ll wake you up!”

  The only one laughing now is Carrie.

  “What in the …” I see it clear as I’m pulling into the driveway.

  “What’s that thing on the front door of Grandma’s house, Mom? Why’s there yellow tape up?”

  Cricket bounds out of the car and up the front steps and is reading it aloud before I even have the keys out of the ignition.

  “Slow down, Cricket, and wait for your guest! Sorry, Carrie, she’s fast like this all the time. Oh, don’t worry—I’ll clean that up honey, just leave it. You just go on in with Cricket.”

  “Hey, Mom?” Cricket calls out, “what’s foreclosure mean?”

  CHAPTER TEN

  Carrie

  My head’s a windshield wiper going back and forth on the drive from Wendy’s, listening to Cricket, who is the coolest and best human being on the whole entire planet, and looking out at the mansions we’re passing. I sure do wish Emma was here so she could see me going through neighborhoods like these. Momma wouldn’t like it much, but I bet her head’d be going left and right too just like mine. You don’t have to like what you see to want to see it. Most places have bushes cut in squares outlining the yards that are more like green carpets. The driveways are clean and smooth blacktop, with mailboxes neatly setting at the end, their family names in block lettering and what number the house is. We passed one mailbox in the shape of a mallard duck, another had a picture of two black dogs laying nestled into each other, and a third showed a horse jumping over a fence. I cain’t imagine what the houses look like inside if they take so much care for the mailman.

  The grass here is like the Emerald City when Dorothy sees it across the fields of flowers. At the Loveless there’s a dried-up ring of spiky grass circling the old empty pool set behind the rusty chain-link fence that comes up to about my armpits. When no one’s around I climb over it and the dead grass crunches hard underfoot. I have to wear flip-flops doing it because it’s so parched it hurts to set my bare feet on it. At first I was sad the pool had no water but I’ve come to like laying on the bottom of it. I pick at the chipping paint with my fingernail, stopping only when a shard cuts under the quick. There’s dead leaves, some empty cola cans that’ve been there so long they’re rusty, and tangled up in a dirty old plastic grocery sack was a lady’s brassiere, but I cleared a lot of it to the side so I could lay on my back and pretend I’m on a raft floating in the blue Bermuda sea. Lately though I been having nightmares of being down there, laying on the pool floor staring up at the clouds when someone turns on the water. I dream that they don’t see me and the pool’s filling up fast and I holler to shut it off but they cain’t hear over the rush of the spigot and then I’m splashing around like crazy trying to keep my head over the waterline and … then I wake up. I tell myself I’m not going to go down there anymore but stupid me, I forget about the nightmares until I swing my second leg over and let myself fall onto the spiky grass, then it’s too late and anyway I figure sooner or later my brain’ll get tired of having the same old stupid dream.

  It’s like someone made a law against burnt-up spiky grass in Cricket’s neighborhood. Here they got flower beds along front walks. They got garages connected to their houses and right two houses before Cricket’s, I see a garage door open like magic and a car roll out all quiet, down the driveway out into a life that’s probably got magic all through it. I cain’t help but notice, as nice as these yards are, not one person’s out in them. Not a one. They go to all that trouble making it nice and soft underfoot, planting and mowing and picking up after they-selves, and I don’t see a single solitary person out enjoying what they worked so hard to make pretty. One place has a slope that would be perfect to roll down.

  Cricket undoes her seat belt before we come to a stop, and that’s how I know we’ve reached their house. Here’s the God’s honest truth: I ain’t never seen a place like where Cricket lives. Not in real life at least. In picture books there are places with picket fences and new-looking front porches with rocking chairs and fern plants and hanging baskets of pretty flowers but I never seen them in person. But then I never knew folks like Cricket and Mrs. Ford, so I guess it figures.

  Mrs. Ford says, “What in the …,” and Cricket runs to the front door and Mrs. Ford fusses but I cain’t hear any of it on account of me being about to go inside the biggest house I ever been in before. The front steps don’t even creak. They’re swept clean. The porch wraps around the entire house like a moat around a castle. There’s a metal sign next to the door that says WELCOME, VAGABONDS with a man’s fancy top hat and cane spelling out some of the letters. The front door is thick heavy wood. When it closes you feel safe and sound.

  The first thing I see is all the dolls. It’s a doll museum maybe, is what I’m thinking. Dolls, dolls, dolls. There must be thousands of them, lined up in perfect rows on perfect shelves. And on the fireplace mantel. Ever-where you look, more dolls in all sizes. I never even seen a store with as many dolls in my whole life much less someone’s real-life home. There’s no sign saying NO TOUCHING like the one hanging by the fabric at Zebulon’s, but the way these dolls are set out you just know not to touch them. And this is a home not a store for goodness’ sake. I feel bad thinking it—them being so kind and all—but it don’t feel much like a home in this front room. There’s doilies on every chair back, even on the couch, like they’re readying for company, but it smells like an attic and the pillows aren’t dented so I’m thinking this is a room no one visits. Here’s another incredible thing about it: the dolls are boy dolls, all dressed the same, all in black suits head to toe. With round hats—black. And canes. Some of the boy dolls hold canes up and down, proper, some swing them off to the side like to show they’re happy. All of them have little bitty black mustaches. They’re all kinds of sizes.

  “What is this place?” I ask out loud without knowing who is there to hear me. There’s something about the way the dolls are staring that keeps my eyes trained on them. One, in particular. He’s bigger than the rest, about halfway up to my head if I stood by him I bet, and his doll eyes twinkle and follow me if I move. I try going left, they watch me. Right, the same. I tiptoe closer to him and wave my hand in front of his face in case it’s a trick.

  “So freaky, right?” Cricket says.

  I jump at her voice—I hadn’t heard her come up behind me.

  “What are these?” I say. I whisper because I feel like I shouldn’t be talking about the dolls in front of them. “What is this place?”


  Cricket pulls at me and rolls her eyes. “It’s kinda embarrassing. It must seem weird, I mean. Come on, let’s go upstairs. I’ll show you my room.”

  “Wait, what are these though?”

  “It’s my great-great-uncle,” she says, shrugging. “He was a big movie star before they had sound in movies. When movies were black and white. Charlie Chaplin is his name. It’s okay you haven’t heard of him. He’s been dead forever.”

  She says the name Charlie Chaplin in a grown-up accent like a butler in a movie, and makes a mustache with her finger under her nose, and waddles from side to side like a penguin.

  “This is how he walked,” she says, laughing. “My grandma’s, like, obsessed with him. Everyone is. It’s freakish. Before my grandma had a hard time getting around, she used to have tour groups come in to see all the stuff. Grandma had a lot more out than she does now believe it or not. I bet she’s in the Guinness Book of World Records even. He was super-duper famous. Actually, he kinda walked like this,” she says, splaying her knees out in a duckwalk, “and he always got in weird situations. Ugh, I don’t know. My grandma will tell you all about him, trust me. Hey, come upstairs! Mom, we’ll be up in my room!”

  She takes the stairs two at a time and I hear Mrs. Ford hollering at her from another room to slow down. At the foot of the stairs in the hallway is a glass case with sparkly crystal glasses and silver plates and lots of expensive stuff in shapes I hardly know and all of it jingles when Cricket bounds by.

  Each side of the stairs has old-timey pictures of the real-life man the dolls were made after. Charlie Chaplin doing all sorts of activities surrounded by all sorts of fancy people smiling at the camera. There’s even pictures of people taking pictures of him. There he is without his hat on a horse. Here he is with rich ladies and nice-dressed men standing in front of old-timey cars. I wonder how other people say his name—I only hear Cricket with that accent making the name take longer to say. Chah-lie Chap-lunnn. In the middle of the way upstairs is a movie poster for The Kid—they must’ve used that to model all the toys. Who is Charlie Chaplin? We ain’t never heard of him where we came from. Momma would surely have mentioned a man who has posters and fans and dolls made after him.

  “Carrie? You coming?” Cricket calls for me from down a dark hall. I follow the sound to a door with cutout words made into signs stuck to the outside: STAY AWAY and KNOCK BEFORE ENTERING and CRICKET’S CRIB tacked up alongside a poster-size butterfly in rainbow colors.

  “Hey,” I say, pushing the door open to a room full of pillows and stuffed animals enough for every kid in my school to have one and then some left over. It feels like I walked straight into a circus, what with so many things laying ever-where. I have to step over a stack of books to get to the middle of the room that’s even got a window seat.

  “Wow,” I say.

  “It’s a total disaster zone,” Cricket says. “My mom’s going to kill me if I don’t clean it up tonight. Ugh!”

  I’m so busy noticing all the brightly colored clothes crammed into her closet I don’t realize I’m saying out loud what I’m thinking inside until I hear my own voice say, “Y’all are rich.”

  “No, we’re not,” she says.

  “Are too.”

  “I’m not usually this messy,” Cricket says. She kicks some clothes into a pile in the corner then falls back onto her bed and puts her hands behind her head, staring up like she’s counting clouds. “Hey, check it out: I put these up a couple of nights ago.”

  I lay down on her soft bed, careful to keep my grimy feet off her bedspread, which smells so clean and pretty. Ever-thing’s clean in this house. I feel bad, like I’m tracking in the dirt from my life, messing up theirs.

  “I like those stars you got on your ceiling,” I say.

  “Thanks. They glow in the dark. My dad gave them to me for Christmas one year. I had them in my room in my other house and I know it’s stupid and all but I thought I wouldn’t be able to fall asleep without them overhead so I peeled them off and stuck them up here. Watch.”

  She turns off the lamp by the side of her bed and crosses the room to untie the curtains so it’s nearly nighttime dark.

  “Look up,” she whispers.

  It’s the prettiest thing I ever seen inside a home. Her whole room feels like the outdoors, like we’re camping and sleeping under the big sky.

  “It’s nice, right?” she says.

  “It’s like a magic land,” I say. “So pretty. I’d never have a single nightmare if I slept under glow-in-the-dark stars like these. You’re so lucky.”

  The lights come back on and she moves around the room, picking up more clothes and tossing them into a hamper, putting her things in order.

  “I love your room,” I say. “It’s so big! I cain’t believe you have it all to yourself. Or, wait, your sister probably shares with you. Duh.”

  “My sister’s, um, oh, never mind. It used to be my uncle’s room when he was little. He and my mom grew up in this house. So did my granddaddy and his daddy before him. Lots of Chaplins lived here. Blah blah blah—booor-ring! Let’s put on some music. What do you listen to? Here, let me find—I can’t find my iPod—wait, did I take it with me today? Uh-oh. If I lost it I’ll die a thousand deaths I swear.”

  I watch her zigzag around, dig through her backpack, open drawers, rifle through the hamper she just filled, looking like a dog digging a hole in the sand the way she flings clothes back out one by one in her search for what I don’t know.

  “Here it is! That was close. My mom would’ve totally killed me if I ruined another one,” she says, moving lickety-split back over to her painted-pink desk. “Okay, what do you wanna hear? I got Gwen Stefani—wait, what about Miley? I bet you like Miley Cyrus, right? I used to love her when I was younger, that’s why I still have her on here. No offense, I mean she’s fine and all but—Ooooh, here! Maroon 5! Why’re you looking like that? Don’t even tell me you don’t like them. Don’t even say it. Everyone loves Maroon 5.”

  I don’t have any earthly idea who she’s talking about or what the thing in her hand is that she’s looking down at. It’s about the size of a box of cigarettes but thinner and it clicks every time she touches it. It’s bright pink like just about ever-thing else in her room: the pillows, a blanket, the round rug in front of her bed, and, like I mentioned, her desk.

  “What’s that?” I ask her.

  She looks up from it and glances around to see what I’m asking her about.

  “What’s what?” she asks.

  “That,” I say. “That pink thing you got in your hand.”

  She looks down at it then back up at me like she doesn’t understand my question then something blooms on her face, like it just took her a minute to catch up with my words.

  “Oh-Em-Gee, you don’t know what this is?” she asks, holding it up just to make sure she’s on the right path. “For real? You’re kidding, right.”

  I shake my head no, I’m not kidding.

  “It’s an iPod!” she says. Like now it should make sense.

  “What’s an eye-pod?”

  “Oh-Em-Gee.” She keeps spelling out letters that don’t make any word I ever knew. “Okay, this is an iPod. It’s got music on it … Here, come sit on the bed and I’ll show you. I never met anyone who didn’t know about iPods. iTunes lets you store any song in the universe. Here in the music library.”

  She goes on to explain it ever which way she can and I nod and say, “Oh, yeah, okay I get it,” but really I don’t get it one bit. Then she goes and plugs it into this box on her desk, hits a button, and music’s booming through the room from that one thin little thing she held in her hand just a second ago!

  “So who do you like and I bet I have them on here,” she yells over the song.

  I find myself wishing I spoke her language and then I realize she’s speaking English, just not in any kind of sense. She’s watching me and I can feel my cheeks get hot. I’m gonna blow it. I want to cry because I know in a few minu
tes she won’t like me anymore and I’ll be back where I was in the mountains. No friends. I cain’t let that happen again. She don’t even know me yet—for all she knows I was the coolest kid in my whole entire school. Think, Carrie. Think, think … say something. Anything, just say anything. What is wrong with me? Oh Lordy.

  “You okay?” Cricket says, turning down the music. Her eyebrows tilt up in worry. “You look like you don’t feel so good again. Here, I’ll show you the bathroom in case you need to hurl again or whatever. Follow me.”

  I never had someone hold my hand like she is. And she doesn’t think it’s weird or anything—she took my hand like it’s totally normal, and I for some reason, probably because I’m a half-wit like Momma says, I want to cry. From being happy! Things are all backwards and upside down in this house.

  The bathroom is right next to her room. It’s got flowered wallpaper and hundreds of different-size bottles of lotions and potions covering every inch of space beside the sink. Nail polish in every color. And the toilet seat has a sweater on that’s the same pink as in her room. The toilet seat!

  “There you go,” Cricket says, moving aside to let me in. “Sorry you don’t feel well. I hate that. You want me to get my mom? No? You sure? She’s really good when people are sick. She doesn’t mind at all, don’t worry.”

  “It’s okay,” I tell her. “I’m okay.”

  “All right,” Cricket says. “Just holler if you need me.”

  She closes the door. There’s a pink robe hanging on the back of the door that must be hers because it smells like a rose patch. She is without a doubt my number one favorite human being I ever met in my whole entire life. She’s so pretty and nice and her momma’s great—even better than Mrs. Bickett, my old best friend Orla Mae’s momma, who used to bake us cookies and sometimes even have me to supper. And look at all she has. I touch ever-thing, undoing the tops of some of the bottles and sniffing—most of it is pretty-smelling but some is like the pure grain alcohol Mr. Wilson took nips of back in Hendersonville. She’s got tons of photographs taped up on all sides of the mirror. Her in sports uniforms. Her with a bunch of other kids. Her with her momma and a man I bet is her daddy and a girl—oh Lordy, that must be her sister, Caroline. The one they say looks just like me and you know what? She does. It’s like I’m in the picture with them. I try to find other pictures of Caroline with Cricket. There’s one of the two of them wearing matching dresses in front of a Christmas tree. I trace the outline of them and close my eyes to help bring up the piney smell of the tree. Caroline looks like she’s a few inches taller than Cricket, which makes sense on account of her being older. I stand on my tippy-toes to see if maybe that makes us look even more alike. She’s skinny, like me. She’s smiling in every single picture. Real smiles too. Not the kind where the mouth’s turned up in the shape of a smile but the eyes stay cold. Like the one picture I saw from when Momma married Richard. If you look real close you can see that even though the bottom half of Momma’s face is in smile-shape the top half is stone-cold. Richard has his arm around Momma and looks like he just heard a funny joke. But Momma has empty eyes. Dead eyes.