So I don’t need to worry about Dad, but I still have plenty of qualms about this outing.
If you are going to venture out to a concert the night before your mother’s funeral in a small town where everybody knows everybody, then the last thing you want to do is go with a tall, dark, sizzling-hot fireman. In his black leather jacket and well-fitting blue jeans, he looks like he belongs in one of those Hot Fireman calendars they put out. Probably naked and holding a cat. This image does things to both my imagination and my body that are not safe for public consumption.
The brewpub inhabits a warehouse. There are two levels, but it’s open all the way to the roof, and the upstairs is more of a railing-enclosed mezzanine. The downstairs part of it, where the stage is set up, has long trestle tables and chairs. Only a couple of the tables are occupied when I arrive, fortunately not by anybody I know. A group of teenagers is playing pool, completely oblivious to our arrival.
I select a table upstairs, near the railing, where I figure I can get a good view of Marley without being in her direct line of sight.
“Are you sure you want to sit all the way up here?” Mia asks. “We’re early. We could sit front and center.”
Tony rescues me. “I think she’s doing incredibly well to just be out of the house. Maybe front and center isn’t the best idea for tonight.”
I go with this. It’s true enough. The very thought of loud music and laughter sends a full-body cringe running through me. And I want to avoid being seen by anybody in town who might recognize me. But the real reason I’ve chosen this particular spot is that I want to watch Marley without her watching me.
“I’d like to be closer,” Elle says. “Probably. Maybe we should hear them first. They might suck.”
They don’t. Elle has been playing YouTube videos all week. I’m not crazy about country music, but as far as I can tell, this band is tight and smooth. And Marley has a voice that could be described as smoky and sultry, a whiskey voice. The sort of voice that stirs the emotions in your belly like a spoon stirring cream into a coffee cup, but then maybe that’s because she’s my sister.
The waitress who comes around apparently went to school with Mia, and the two of them chatter about the fact that the band set up and did a sound check earlier, then zipped out to grab a bite to eat somewhere else. They left their sound guy to watch the equipment. She points him out, a man leaning against the railing to the left.
I glance in his direction, trying not to stare. Buzzed head. Bulging biceps and pecs stretching the limits of a black T-shirt with a skull on it. Full tattoo sleeves on both arms. I wonder what this says about Marley, whether he’s a part of her life or a hired hand who happens to be good at his job. Tony orders us pizza and a pitcher of ale, with a root beer for Elle.
“Anybody want to play pool?” Mia asks. “Since we’re going to be waiting.”
“Me!” Elle says, bouncing up as if she’s been ejected from her chair. “I always wanted to play. Can you teach me?”
“Absolutely. I’m fantastic at pool. Anybody else? Maisey?”
Her dark eyes sparkle, and she holds a hand out to me. It’s a genuine invitation, and somewhere, beneath my layers of shock and grief and anxiety, I’m touched by it and want to respond.
But I shake my head. It’s bad enough to be here at all, and I don’t think my knees would hold me if I tried to walk right now. Ale is probably a bad idea, but the waitress arrives at this exact moment, setting a pitcher filled with foaming amber ale on the table. She pours a mug for me and sets a glass of water down in front of Tony.
“Thanks, Cass,” he says.
“You got it, babe.” She smooths her hair as she smiles at him, and then sashays away with a sway of the hips that tells me she has not failed to notice his hotness. Hell, they know each other. Maybe they’ve dated. Maybe they are dating now.
And why should that matter to me? Still, I watch her with a tiny shard of envy pricking at my heart, wishing I’d been born with those sorts of curves, that easy ability to smile and chat and be amusing.
Tony lifts his glass. “Cheers,” he says.
“She forgot your mug.” I gesture at the pitcher and his half-empty water glass.
“She remembered just fine.” He says it casually, but there’s a flat finality in his tone that means this topic is closed for conversation.
I ask anyway. “Not a drinker?”
“Not so much.” He smiles, but it’s not a real one this time. His eyes drop to the table, and he grabs a handful of peanuts and starts shelling them, making a little pile of shells on one side, peanuts on the other.
I pick up a peanut of my own, but just turn it over and over in my fingers. The vibe between us has shifted into a minor, discordant key. My fault for persisting with the nosy question. I keep telling myself it doesn’t matter whether I’ve pissed him off or why he doesn’t drink. But the people I know who swear off alcohol are all either former alcoholics or severely religious. If I’m going to have Tony around Elle, I tell myself, it’s important to know. For Elle. Not that it matters to me.
“My father was a drinker,” Tony says, glancing up and meeting my eyes with an intense blue gaze. “A very good drinker. Meaning he could consume more than his temper could handle on a regular basis. Kind of put me off the stuff for myself.”
“I’m sorry.” Whether I’m apologizing for my having asked, for his father having been an angry drunk, or for the messed-up state of the universe altogether, I’m not entirely sure.
And then it doesn’t matter because the door opens down below and a group of people come in, carrying instruments.
The band has arrived.
I’m on my feet and leaning over the railing before I realize that my body has decided to relocate. There are two men, one with a dark ponytail down the middle of his back, the other wearing a baseball cap. But I have eyes only for the woman.
I get only a quick glimpse of her face before she sails up the steps onto the stage. She walks like my mother, with the same quick, confident steps. It’s instantly clear that she’s the boss. The men defer to her, listen, follow her lead like sunflowers follow the sun.
Marley waves to the tattooed guy at the sound booth. A smile changes his face from thug to lover in a heartbeat. And then her head turns, and her eyes scan the rest of the balcony, casually assessing.
What if she recognizes me? What if she doesn’t? I hold my breath, waiting, but her eyes pass over me as if I’m invisible. She says something to her companion. He laughs and opens his guitar case. My legs have turned to mush, and my fingers have grown roots into the railing. I can’t move. Can’t breathe. Can’t anything.
And then I feel Tony beside me. Breathe in the scent of leather and shampoo and a hint of wood smoke. “Excited?” he asks. “You must have access to way bigger bands than this, coming from Kansas City.”
“We don’t get out much,” I tell him. Maybe later I’ll tell him the truth. Maybe I won’t.
Mia and Elle join us, surrounded by an energy cloud of enthusiasm and excitement. Mia is holding a glass half-full of ale, clearly not following in Tony’s path of abstinence.
“I put the eight ball in the corner pocket,” Elle says. “Oh wow. There she is. Right up close and personal. She looks fantastic, don’t you think?”
There is no doubt that my sister looks amazing.
She’s wearing a sparkly black shirt, form-fitting, and spandex pants with cowboy boots. Either she’s spent more time at the gym than I have, or she has inherited better genes. Her blonde hair is braided in a thick rope. She has one of those expressive faces made for the stage.
The lights come up behind her, the band starts checking the tuning on their guitars. Marley doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t introduce the band. Just plays a chord, makes eye contact with each of her band members in turn, and starts to sing.
The band is tight, polished, but she dominates the stage. Her voice is conviction. The room is hers. The world is hers.
She is the daughter my mother always wa
nted, the person I forever failed to be. She is also, inexplicably, the daughter my mother abandoned.
I am utterly undone by the reality of this perfect sister. My knees, jelly before, become nonexistent. They are going to drop me.
I’m saved by a strong warm hand at the small of my back, a voice in my ear telling me to come and sit. Tony supports me back to my chosen table and into a chair. His attention, unlike every other human in this room, is not on Marley but is fully focused on me. He sits across from me, arms resting on the table, blue eyes and all his attention mine.
He is an anchor, a bulwark. My breathing adapts to his, the slow breath in, the easy breath out, and little by little bees stop buzzing in my ears. My heart settles into an easier rhythm.
“Better?” he asks.
“Better.”
He shoves his water glass across the table, and I accept the hint and drink, slowly, letting the sensation of cool liquid on my tongue ground me in my own body even as the music keeps trying to sweep me away.
“Maybe this wasn’t such a hot idea,” he says, between songs. “You’ve had a rough week. Can you eat something?”
No. The answer to that is vehemently no. My stomach is raising a rebel army. There will be no eating. And no more drinking of anything but water. When the pizza arrives, I start mouth-breathing, unable to tolerate the smell of garlic and tomato sauce.
Mia and Elle drift over to inhale a couple of pieces, then disappear down the stairs to be closer to the music. It doesn’t take long before the two of them are right up front and center, dancing. I can’t help wondering how Marley can miss the fact that the adoring tween beaming up at her is family. Blood. Maybe she feels the draw, because for a minute there, she seems to be singing directly to Elle.
For me, the concert lasts an eternity. A thousand times I flow back and forth between the decision to talk to Marley after it’s all over or just slip away without saying a word.
Not that Elle would let me. In the middle of the last song, she runs upstairs to get me, face aglow with excitement, her hair sweat-curled around her face, cheeks flushed.
“Come on! They are almost done! I can’t wait to meet her.”
Tony raises his brows in a question.
“We are going to introduce ourselves to the singer, apparently. If you don’t mind waiting?”
I’m hoping maybe he’ll tell me that he can’t wait, that he has an urgent appointment or has to be at work and we need to leave right this minute.
Instead he smiles at Elle. “Cool. I’ll wait here. Mia is going to be forever anyway.”
Chapter Eighteen
Marley, coiling up cables on the stage, hears us walk up behind her. She turns, ready with a professional smile, probably expecting a fan.
I open my mouth to tell her who I am. Some version of, “Hey, guess what? I’m your long-lost sister!” but my voice box freezes.
Her eyes travel from me to Elle and back again. Her lips flatten out into a thin, compressed line. It’s Mom’s displeased expression, perfectly replicated on a stranger’s face.
I swallow. “Hi, my name is Maisey and—”
“What do you want, an autograph?” She turns her back and continues coiling up a power cord, looping it around her hand and elbow.
“No, I—this might sound weird, but I’m your sister.”
“I know who you are. The fabled Maisey. And Maisey Junior, if I’m not mistaken.”
“You know about me?” Somehow, this seems worse than my not knowing about her.
“Trust me. I know plenty.” Her voice is hard, dismissive, as far from the warm friendly tone she’d used on the crowd as I am out of my comfort zone. “What I don’t know is what you’re doing here.”
Elle stiffens beside me and my anger sparks. “Go find Mia,” I tell her.
For once she doesn’t argue.
I follow Marley across the stage. “How?” I ask her. “How could you possibly know about me?” Dropping the cord into a box, she swings around to face me. Her feet are planted shoulder-width apart. She’s a little shorter than me. Her eyes are the same shade of blue-green as my own, but manage to be decisive and calculating.
“I’ve always known about you, from Grandma and from Dad. You were always my mother’s favorite. Spoiled and cosseted. She left us and took you with her, and there we are. He still keeps a picture of her on his bedside table, God only knows why. What do you want from me?”
“What? Nothing! I just—”
“This chick bothering you Marl?”
It’s the sound guy. Up close he’s a mighty muscle machine, all testosterone and tattoos and intimidation. He plants himself beside her, feet spread, arms crossed. And then his face changes as he gets a good, long look at me.
“She looks like you, Marley,” he says. “Same eyes, anyway. The rest of her, not so much.”
“She’s my sister. My twin sister, to be precise.”
His tough-guy persona dissolves with these words, and he forgets all about me. “You have a sister?” He sounds like a little kid who has just figured out Santa Claus is a lie.
Marley doesn’t even look at him, her eyes still burning a hole into me. “It’s no big thing, JB. Trust me. Go help the guys pack up. I’ll just be a minute.”
He hesitates, then walks away from us, but he looks back over his shoulder at her, at me, and what I see is more hurt than hostility.
“When I was a little kid, I had an imaginary friend,” I blurt out. “Her name was Marley. We did everything together. Played games. Read books. I used to set a place for her at the table.”
Marley’s face could be carved from stone for all the softness I see in it.
“When I was a kid, I’d have been beaten half to death over stupidity like an imaginary friend. I made towers out of empty beer cans and stole books from the library. Glad to know I was having fun somewhere.”
The words pulse between us, ugly and full of rage.
“What are you pissed at me for? I didn’t even know you were real.”
“And now you know. What were you expecting? Some sort of happy family reunion?”
“Answers, maybe,” I tell her, which is true, but not the truth. I wanted my sister. I want the imaginary Marley, the one who loved me. The one who knew all the good words and had all the good ideas. The Marley who would know what to do about Mom’s secrets and Dad’s disintegration.
This Marley barks a harsh laugh. “You’re in the wrong place if you’re looking for answers. All I’ve got is a lifetime of questions. Ask your mother. What do you think I can tell you?”
“She’s dead. I can’t ask her anything.”
Marley freezes in the act of turning away.
I feel the tears coming and do everything I can think of to stop them. Squeeze my hands into fists and dig my fingernails into my palms. Blink. Swallow. Look at the ceiling. I will not cry in front of this hard, sarcastic stranger who is also my only sister.
But, of course, the tears come anyway, a humiliating river of them. I choose to ignore them, rather than wipe them away, keeping my chin up, trying to hold a modicum of dignity.
“Oh hell,” Marley says. She turns back to face me. I can’t read the expression on her face because she’s all blurry with my tears. Her breathing sounds loud, but maybe that’s just my own. “Listen, Maisey. Some stones are better left unturned. We’ve never been family before; we’re not going to start being family just because your mother died.”
“Our mother,” I whisper.
Marley shakes her head in denial. “Not my mother. I don’t have one. Look, I’ve got to go. We’re driving back tonight, and none of us are eighteen anymore. As for you and me? We’ve met. You’ve done your due diligence and tracked me down. Write it in your journal or whatever makes you happy, and let it go. Don’t come looking for me. Understand?”
“I hear you.” Her words feel like sucker punches to my gut. One-two. One-two. Add a right hook to the jaw, and Maisey is down for the count. I manage to get my unsteady feet
moving away from her, but then she calls after me.
“Hey, Maisey!”
I turn back. Her bandmates are staring now. The sound guy comes back. Touches her arm.
“Marley,” he says. “Easy.”
“I told you,” she says, softer now. “I warned you. Go home. Leave me alone.”
I was going to tell her about the funeral. I was going to ask her what she remembers from our childhood, who our father is, if she knows why—why—Mom would have left her there and taken me.
Every muscle in my body feels shredded. My brain keeps spinning round and round, trying to make sense out of what makes no sense at all. What my mother could have been thinking. How my only sister can sing so beautifully while packing around so much venomous hate. My thoughts and feelings are so jumbled and bruised, I can’t begin to know what I think or feel.
Elle, who didn’t go find Mia after all and has been witness to this whole exchange, comes running up and flings her arms around me, clinging. “I don’t understand,” she says. “Like, at all. I thought she’d be happy to meet us.”
“Not so much, apparently.”
I can’t stop shaking. My hands, my legs, my insides, keep shivering like it’s twenty below zero.
Elle and I climb the steps together, and I fall numbly into my chair.
“What was that all about?” Tony asks, aiming for casual and missing by a mile. “The singer doesn’t like fans? Couldn’t hear what she said, but she didn’t look so happy.”
“Marley is . . .”
My voice fails me. I suck in a breath and try again. “Marley is my sister.”
The words feel strange and familiar at the same time. I used to talk about Marley all the time, before my mother chased the words away from me with spankings and scoldings and trips to the counselor. She told me I was imagining things. That it wasn’t healthy.
Even now I sneak a peek over my shoulder to see if Mom’s behind me, ready to administer a quick swat to my behind for saying the forbidden words.
Tony blinks and looks confused. “You two are sisters?”
“Twins.”
“Whoa,” Mia says. “I need another drink.” She pours one from the pitcher and gulps.
Whisper Me This Page 17
