The Secret Language of Sisters

by Luanne Rice

  I already know.

  “You do? I love that. You’re just like Althea. She had such an artist’s vision, and she would have known in an instant which works were her best, which ones she would want the world to see. Of course, I think they’re all great. But you artists see things differently, more clearly.”

  I don’t feel that way. I can’t see my life at all anymore.

  “Oh, I think you can,” Martha said. “Just ask yourself what you want. That’s the hard part. There are so many choices, every minute.”

  It seemed strange, her saying that to me—I couldn’t choose much of anything, at least when compared to my old life. But she was right. And in a way, she was reminding me of what Christina had said about the plateau. Did I want to stay where I was, sink into despair, or use my gifts? Grab on to everything I could?

  I watched her reach into a crocheted bag and pull out some tiny sachets. They had been stitched of bright silk—turquoise, orchid, peach, and vermilion.

  “Roo, I brought you some herbs. They’re varieties that grow wild in Black Hall, and these are from my garden. I thought you might enjoy, even be inspired, by the aromatherapy. Shall I leave them with you?”

  Yes, please.

  “Okay,” she said, and tucked the sachets around my pillow. The smell of my hometown surrounded me and filled me with a combination of peace and excitement. If I closed my eyes, I could imagine I was on the path to Little Beach with Newton.

  Thank you, I said. I didn’t want her to go. I could have talked to her forever. I had a million questions, but I could see her gathering her things, clipping the red leash onto Lucan’s collar. So I thought of just one more.

  Martha, you studied poetry at college? I asked.

  “Yes,” she said. “People think they need to take economics or business, practical subjects that teach skills. But there’s nothing more practical than poetry. No matter which career you choose, how can you do your best in it, understand life the way it really is, without poems?”

  I agree. Who’s your favorite poet?

  “Rilke,” she said.

  Mine too.

  She beamed. Then she and Lucan approached closer. He touched my cheek with his cold nose; it felt like a blessing, a kiss. She bent down, touched her forehead to mine just as Tilly sometimes did.

  “‘Perhaps all the dragons in our lives are princesses who are only waiting to see us act, just once, with beauty and courage,’” she whispered the quote.

  And she left, leaving me thinking of those lines from Rainer Maria Rilke’s Letters to a Young Poet, trembling with love for all the princesses, all the sisters, for Martha and Althea, Luna and Willoughby Moon. For Tilly and Roo, for the dragons on Tilly’s shelf, and our secret language of cartwheels, the moon, and sculptures in a seaside herb garden.

  The morning sun felt hot on my back, working outside at Martha’s. Slater had stashed bottles of water under the tree, and I drank half of one and poured the rest over my head.

  Getting ready for the summer solstice exhibit was heavy-duty. For one thing, the grounds were really overgrown, and we had to clear six truckloads’ worth of weeds and vines—and we had to be careful, because what looked to us like weeds might, to Martha, be some precious wildflower or herb that had lived there since her and Althea’s childhood.

  Slater and I polished Althea’s outdoor bronzes, weathered by salt air and dust, until they gleamed. The expressions of the girls’ faces came alive, and their grace of movement made them seem ready to dance across the lawn.

  “These statues remind me of Central Park,” Slater said one afternoon. “My aunt got married in Harlem. I was a kid, the ring bearer, but they took wedding pictures in Conservatory Garden, in the north part of the park. We stood by this sculpture of three girls holding hands and dancing in a circle. It looked something like this one, maybe not as abstract.”

  “This one reminds me of sisters,” I said, rubbing the figures’ flowing hair with a soft cloth. I tried not to think of the fact that Martha had visited Roo two days earlier and, other than telling me she’d gone, had said almost nothing about it. Had Roo talked about me? Did she despise me worse than ever?

  “So you like Central Park?” I asked Slater, to keep my mind off those things.

  “It’s really cool. Not far from the park’s zoo, there’s a statue of Balto, that sled dog that saved Alaskan kids by bringing them medicine. He’s made of bronze, too. He has all these shiny patches on him, where kids climb on him, and touch him, and their hands rub the bronze clean.”

  “Do you miss New York?” I asked.

  “Every minute,” he said. “But I like Black Hall more.”

  “Why?” I asked, thinking of the times my parents had taken us to the city, to the Hayden Planetarium and to see Audubon’s Aviary, a fabulous exhibit of rare bird prints by John James Audubon at the New-York Historical Society. Afterward we always walked through the Upper West Side to have ice cream at Café Lalo. I loved New York. My energy was totally at home there. “It’s not half as exciting as the city.”

  “That’s for sure. But my mom’s doing better here. She’s finally relaxing, and her symptoms are improving. She and my aunt are getting along better, too. Settling in, I guess. Plus, you’re here.”

  “As if that’s any reason.”

  “It is,” he said.

  I let that go, but inside I glowed. I kept working, but when I glanced up, I saw him watching me, and that just made the glow burn brighter. He was sixteen and had his license, so he drove the truck to and from the dump on Four Mile River Road. My muscles burned, hauling all that brush. The day was hot, so we stopped at Hubbard’s Point to dive into the Sound. It was only June, schools were still in session, so summer families hadn’t arrived for the season yet. We pretty much had the beach to ourselves.

  “This is where you grew up?” he asked as we stood in shallow water, cooling off.

  “Yep. That’s our house,” I said, pointing up at the rock ledge towering over the beach. We both wore shorts and T-shirts, and waded in a little deeper because the day was hot and the water felt so good.

  “Really nice,” he said. “You’re lucky.”

  “We were,” I said.

  “Are, Tilly. Still are.”

  At that, I couldn’t help myself. I dove straight under, not caring that I was dressed. I was a fish, and I needed to swim. When I came up, I shook my head, and the water splashed Slater. He pulled his shirt off, tossed it onto the beach, and ducked underwater. I slid under, too. We came up for breath right in front of each other and started swimming, then raced to the big rock about fifty yards from shore. He beat me there by two seconds, but I climbed out faster.

  “It’s weird,” I said, out of breath as I hauled myself onto the ledge, giving him a hand and helping him up.

  “What’s that?” he asked.

  I didn’t answer right away. We lay back on the rock, looking up at the blue sky. After a minute I caught my breath. “I just realized this is my first swim of the year, the first swim since Roo’s accident. I can’t believe she won’t ever get to go into the water again.”

  “You don’t know that,” he said.

  “I pretty much do. She’s paralyzed.”

  “We were out of hope when my mom first got diagnosed. The researchers are making strides every day. She can do a lot more than we thought she’d be able to.”

  “Well, MS is different from locked-in syndrome.”

  “No doubt. But still. Disabled people can have good lives, too. Keep an open mind.”

  “Yeah, I’ll try.” I dove in so I wouldn’t have to talk anymore. I heard him splash behind me. We swam back to the beach, not racing this time. I slid through the water, thinking of the mermaids Roo and I used to be, how swimming was as natural to us as walking. And I thought, what if Slater was right, what if we could somehow get her to the beach, hold her afloat?

  When I came up for air, in the shallow water back at the beach, I saw Slater standing there in the gentle waves, w
aiting for me. He smiled, beaming at the sight.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “You,” he said. He reached out, touching my hand, but I backed away. Swimming with boys, it got me in trouble.

  “Let’s go back to Martha’s,” I said, blushing and feeling embarrassed, somehow confused and undeserving of whatever Slater was thinking.

  “Okay, Tilly Mae,” he said.

  We’d worked so hard on clearing the back property, Martha told us to take it easier for the rest of the day. She had opened the wide doors to the barn, where part of the exhibition would be held, to air it out. The space was filled with old farm equipment; she said her father had raised Christmas trees for twenty years. Later they had added a flower farm, rows of zinnias and snapdragons that they would sell at a stand out on Ferry Road, on an honor system where passersby would buy bouquets in mason jars, leave money in a tin box.

  Martha’s idea was that we should keep the farm equipment in the barn, just the way it was, so people could see the tractor and carts and plow and rusty old rakes and shovels, and remember how things used to be. We would hang Roo’s work on the silvered board wall.

  Until we had the actual photos, we wouldn’t know the position of each one, but since I knew the size of her prints, I could estimate. Slater measured the height from the floor and the width between frames, and I hammered in nails, so the barn gallery would be ready and waiting for Roo’s pictures.

  “Hey, Newton,” Slater said, and I glanced over to see him walking in. Was it my imagination, or was there a tone in Slater’s voice?

  “Hi, Slater,” Newton said.

  They stared at each other with definite attitude.

  “Can we help you?” Slater asked. I caught the we.

  “Tilly, your mom told me you were here,” Newton said.

  “Yeah, I’m working here now,” I said. Duh, wow, I could be brilliant sometimes. But I felt awkward. There was a tense vibe between Newton and Slater, and it felt like it had to do with me. Was Slater jealous of the kiss? And Newton seemed to be giving him a serious once-over. It made me nervous, but also gave me a secret thrill, honestly. Slater let it go and kept measuring.

  “I don’t want to interrupt,” Newton said. “But can I try something out on you?”

  “Like what?” I asked.

  “Well, you and Roo have the same-shaped face, right?”

  “Basically. Only hers is gorgeous, with perfect cheekbones, and mine is plain.”

  “Hey!” Slater said warningly. I blushed hard.

  Newton gave him a look, but basically ignored him.

  “I’m talking more about your eyes,” Newton said. “Their shape, and the distance between them. I remember you used to steal each other’s sunglasses. And if Roo was using binoculars, and passed them to you, you wouldn’t have to adjust them, right?”

  I thought about it, trying to remember. “Right,” I said. “That’s true.”

  “Okay, come here a second,” he said. He had definitely lost weight in the last few months, making him skinnier than ever. He hadn’t gotten new glasses since that disaster at the bight—his old ones, black-framed and ungainly at best, were now held together with electrical tape.

  I stood in front of him, with Slater right there watching. Newton frowned as he removed a six-inch ruler from the pocket of his blue-checked shirt. He balanced it on the bridge of my nose.

  “Close your right eye,” he commanded, squinting. “Now your left. Now open both.”

  “Like that?” I said.

  “Yeah, thanks.”

  Then he measured the length of my nose, the width of my forehead, the distance from the top of each ear to my cheekbones. He seemed to be doing calculations in his head, then jotting numbers down in a small notebook. I started off feeling self-conscious, then realized the tension between us was gone. I was more focused on the fact that Slater was watching.

  “I think I have what I need,” Newton said.

  “You doing something for Roo?” Slater asked.

  “Yeah,” Newton said. “Trying to.”

  “That is so cool.”

  “Thanks,” Newton said, seeming to relax with him a little. He gave the closest thing I’d seen to a smile in weeks.

  “Whatever it is you’re making for Roo, I’m glad,” I said.

  Newton just nodded. When he left the barn, I turned to Slater. Afternoon light slanted in through the open doors, and specks of dust glinted and danced in the sun. Slater was watching me, his eyes serious. I thought of him touching my wet hand as we’d stood in the water at Hubbard’s Point an hour ago, and I slowly reached out, linked my finger with his now.

  “Thanks for letting me be here with you,” I said.

  “It works for me,” he said.

  We stood there holding each other by one finger for a long time. I didn’t want to let go, and I knew he didn’t want to either. Sometimes the smallest connections are the biggest ones of all.

  The front of the postcard was a hazy, soft-focus shot of a beach, with rippling white waves rolling in, and a girl standing at the water’s edge.

  Dear Roo,

  Your photos are so much better than this one, and I hope you are ready to make this big leap and return to the camera. I hated to leave without saying good-bye, but there was an emergency, and sometimes my job doesn’t allow for real good-byes.

  You are a wonderful, talented girl. I am proud of you and honored to have worked with you. Keep going, Roo! Nothing can hold you back.

  With admiration,

  Dr. Tim

  Dr. Gold stood by my bed, backlit by bright June light flowing through the window, holding the card so I could read it.

  Thank you for delivering it to me, I said.

  “You’re welcome,” she said. “I know he feels strongly about you, and he felt terrible about the way he left.”

  So many patients, so little time, I said to disguise the emotion I felt.

  “Not too many like you, Roo,” she said.

  I stared at the card. I had felt embarrassed by having a crush on my doctor, especially thinking maybe he’d been flirting with me. What kind of idiot was I? No one would ever want me, not in a romantic way.

  I want to write him back, I said.

  “I’m sure he’ll appreciate it,” she said.

  What did he mean by “this big leap”? How can I return to the camera? He was going to help me with that.

  “I’m going to have to let someone else answer that question,” she said, smiling.

  Newton came through the door, carrying two large boxes and a sheaf of paper. He hadn’t been here for two weeks, and I tensed up at the sight of him. He looked uncomfortable, too, and ungainly, all elbows and angles, and he moved as if he was afraid he might drop everything all over the floor.

  “I know you’d rather not see me,” he said. “I understand, Roo. I respect your wishes, and after this, I won’t come back if that’s what you want.”

  “Roo, Dr. Howarth and I spoke a few minutes ago, and he asked me to stay until Newton came into the room. I’m supposed to ask you if it’s okay for him to stay,” Dr. Gold said.

  It is, I said.

  “Okay, then,” Dr. Gold said. “I’m going back to my office, but I’m just a phone call away. Ring for Christina and have her page me if you need me.”

  I didn’t respond. I was too busy looking at Newton. When something cataclysmic happens between two people who love each other, it’s like the planet going through an ice age. The world isn’t destroyed, exactly, but it’s not the same, either.

  Newton looked older, and skinny. His skin was pale, as if he’d spent all his time indoors lately. That was like him; I’d been the one to get him outside, into a kayak, or onto a trail. He would never sit on a beach if it weren’t for me telling him how good the hot sand would feel on his back, how refreshing the salt water would be. If it were up to Newton, he’d spend all his time with his books, in a lab.

  You look terrible, I said.

  “You loo
k beautiful,” he said.

  You never used to lie to me.

  “That’s not a lie,” he said, still laden down, his arms full as he stared at me. “You’re Roo. You’re the most beautiful girl in the world.”

  How did Dr. Howarth know you would be coming into my room at this very moment? I asked, letting that one pass.

  “I called him.”

  But he’s not here anymore.

  “I tracked him down in Toronto. We’ve had some long conversations and emails.”

  I thought you hated him.

  “I had my reasons. Okay, I was jealous,” he said, which gave me a little jab in the heart. I felt like smiling.

  So why did you track him down?

  “Because he’s the one who started developing a system for you to take photographs again. He developed the software, and he had the interface all figured out. All he needed was someone to invent the right headgear.”

  Headgear?

  “Yes,” Newton said. He placed the boxes on the shelf beside my bed. He seemed so nervous; his broad forehead was beaded with sweat, and he bobbled the papers he was holding. They flew onto the floor, and he bumped his head on my tray table, gathering them up.

  What are the papers? I asked.

  “They’re the blueprints,” he said. “The master plan that Dr. Howarth came up with. He sent me everything I need to know about connecting the camera to the computer. You can control the settings exactly the same way you do the cursor on this laptop.”

  Camera settings?

  “Yes. Once we open the page, you’ll have every choice you need—exactly the same ones you’d find if you were holding your Canon.”

  But I can’t hold my Canon.

  “Ah!” he said, holding up his left index finger. “But you can.”

  I watched him rummaging around in one of the boxes. He removed a slinglike collection of nylon straps, a bicycle helmet, an aluminum frame, and a six-inch-square wooden box painted glossy black, and placed them on the window ledge. Now that he was into his project, his nervousness was gone. He moved with the focus and economy of movement I had always found so attractive.