A Gift for My Sister: A Novel

by Ann Pearlman

  “Thank you.” I guess you say that when someone tells you you’re sexy. Or at least when King does.

  “I like the orange.” He’s dressed in a gray silk suit without any sheen. I catch a glint of ruby cuff links when he moves his arm.

  “That’s new tonight.” I know I’m being an idiot, another stupid starstruck fan, and I need to get my wit back.

  “Hope that’s not all that’s new. Tonight.” He wets his lips with his tongue. “You might consider doing you with me.”

  But the way he says it, I’m not sure if he’s talking about having sex with him or singing with him.

  I back up.

  He reaches in his pocket and pulls out a card, flips it against his nail. “Think about doing a few tracks with me.”

  I lift my chin to seem bold.

  “Loyalty is my middle name. We could see where, exactly where, you and I could take it. I could use a talented keyboardist with a voice and sass.”

  Just then, Levy breaks through the line of suited men and runs to me.

  I pick him up. “Daddy lookin’ for you. He go, ‘Where Mama?’”

  “Oh, you Special’s baby-mama.” As though that discards my music.

  “He’s my baby-daddy.” Annoyance returns my spunk.

  He laughs. “Sparky. I like that.” He lifts one eyebrow. I swear to God he does. Just one, and keeps pinning me with his eyes. “You think you’re crucial?” He speaks that very softly, seductively, so that his words and his tone are at odds.

  I hear what he’s saying. I’m used to taking care of myself. “Hey. We’re doing great, our star is rising. And you? You’re telling me you’re ultimately selfish.” But he’s fanned my lack of trust.

  “I could give you a spotlight. You could help with a little highbrow edge and some crossover. You.” He nods when he says you but adds, “Li’l Key. The unpredictable one.”

  I don’t know what would happen if Aaron changed or if the congruency of our goals and dreams shifted. Right now he’s the leader and everything for us gets better. Maybe I’m allowing our desires to match, squashing my own voice.

  “You decide if you want to be with me for awhile. See what we can do. Just a little or a lot.”

  He turns and saunters toward Aaron and says something I can’t hear. The dudes block them from my field of vision. He shakes Larry’s hand. Larry is the entertainment lawyer who Troy hooked us up with. I wonder if Larry is King’s attorney, too.

  And then King strolls back to me, lifts my chin with his forefinger, and examines my face. “Yep. Hot as hell and a musician. And unpredictable. That’s for me and what I’ll be doing next.”

  “What about Special and the crew?” Maybe I could cut some grooves with him or do a few stadium concerts and bring along Special and the crew in some way.

  “I already have a crew. I need a keyboardist with a voice.”

  I’m not sure if I’ve been hit on or hired. I still can’t take the very tone of his voice for granted.

  He slides away, leaving the auditorium. Even his walk is sexy. He doesn’t need to open a door. He doesn’t need to think where he’s going next . . . he simply faces where he wants to go and his boys make his way. But at the door, he turns to me and flicks his finger as though he’s tipping an imaginary hat. Spins and dances out the door. Other than the honor of his request, the affirmation of me as an artist, I don’t know how I feel about him. He’s sexy. But so what?

  “What he want?” Aaron asks.

  I shrug. “What he say to you?” I slip King’s card into my back pocket.

  “Said we did a great concert. And you a diamond in the rough. That he was going to take you away from me.”

  I laugh.

  “Said it like I don’t even know what a blessing you are.” Aaron narrows his eyes slightly. “I know, babe. Believe me. He just worried about us as competition. Trying to break up our strength, you know?”

  I shrug. I don’t know if Aaron is reading King’s strategy or trying to block his play. Trying to make it seem like it’s not about me, but about him. “Not sure if he wanted to have sex with me or play music with me.”

  “Both. He wants both. Who wouldn’t?” He says it like he’s my friend and not my lover.

  The man with the NY baseball cap is from the L.A. Times and wants to interview Special. While they’re talking, I get some fried chicken and mini carrots. I haven’t eaten since lunch with the kids at Small World Café.

  T-Bone stands off to the side, his thumb hooked in his waist, leaning against a post, some pretty cocktail in one hand, watching the action. There are three women surrounding him. One with white hair and fake tits and jeans low enough to see her belly ring. Another traces the edge of his ear with her fingertip. The third just stares at me with green lenses and fake eyelashes as if her eyes watching what T-Bone sees will prove her empathy. He examines me with these three choices around him, calculating his next move. He’s the prettiest one of all. For the first time, I wonder if he’s really down-low, he’s so pretty and so perfect. Or maybe he’d die if he knew I thought that.

  Allie talks with Smoke. The man from the L.A. Times comes over to me and asks about my training. Turns out he studied classical and recognized the requiem notes. So I tell him what I tell everyone. I grew up bougie in Ann Arbor and my dad was able to pay for lessons. Lucky me. I remarked that that was the only thing my dad ever did give me. Lessons and genes. But the interviewer thought I meant the jeans I was wearing and that my father bought my clothes.

  Fat chance.

  I don’t even know if my dad knows what I’m doing. He’s only seen Levy once. But the lessons I appreciate.

  By then the mass of people have gotten what they came for. Or recognize they aren’t going to get more. T-Bone leaves with the three babes. Red Dog leaves with some women, too. Smoke is married and has a little girl. He doesn’t play around on her. Not that I know of, anyway. Perhaps, I assume every man is like my father. So it’s Sissy and Allie and Aaron, the kids, and me. The kids pull the curtain ropes. Then eat what’s left of the fried chicken and chocolate bars. They’ll be up all night from the sugar and caffeine.

  I inhale and ask again the question that everyone has avoided answering. “How’s Troy?”

  Allie glances at Sissy and shakes her head.

  “It’s twelve-thirty,” Sissy says.

  “I think they’ll still be up,” Allie replies.

  Finding a quiet place isn’t hard. I just go to the dressing room. I pick up Rachel’s bunny, Maddie, and sit her on my lap and push Mom’s number.

  She answers immediately, as though waiting for my call.

  “How’s Troy?”

  “How was the concert? I so wished I could be there.” Her voice is low and soft.

  “Fine. Great. Our best one. How’s Troy?”

  I hear her intake of air. “He passed, Tara. Two hours ago.” Her voice is soft, whispery.

  Right while we were singing the song about Detroit.

  “Sky and I are still with him. And his parents are here.”

  “Did they get to talk to him?”

  “He slipped into a coma right after they arrived. As though he was waiting for them.”

  “I should come.”

  “No. Take care of Rachel and we’ll stay here until they take him for cremation.”

  It seems to me that Rachel should say goodbye to him. But maybe that would be traumatic. It seems to me we should all be together at a time like this. But I’m always on the side, never part of the main action. I think of King telling me to take care of myself. How do I do that exactly? And then I get an image of the gray-haired lady playing Chopin in the street.

  “Can I talk to Sky?”

  “Here she is.”

  “Hi.”

  She doesn’t answer.

  “I was with Troy last night. Did he tell you?”

  Silence.

  “I’m sorry. So sorry. I love him.” Tears clog my throat. “I’ll always miss him. Is there something you want
me to do?”

  My questions are met with silence.

  “I love you, Sky. My heart goes out to you. To all of us. Is there anything I can do for you?”

  Then Mom’s voice says, “She can’t really talk.”

  I hold Maddie. The bunny has silky ears. I’m not sure what to do. Nothing, I guess. Take care of Rachel. Tomorrow we go to Las Vegas.

  “You want me to take Rachel to Vegas with us?”

  “No. Why don’t you come by the apartment before you leave.”

  “Okay. I’ll see you tomorrow morning, then.”

  Maddie’s paws hold a carrot in front of her mouth as though she’s taking a bite. Her eyes are shiny black cabochons that give her a look of wisdom. I press her to me, fold myself around her, and cry.

  “I’ll miss myself,” Troy had said. I’ll miss myself.

  I’ll miss him, but there’s a part of me that’s lost now, too. I miss myself.

  Next morning the Entertainment section of the paper blares a headline, DETROIT CAPTURES L.A. The review mentions a new twist to hip-hop music, expressing a profound lyricism and new unity. A tight crew that works as one to bring a fresh sound and consciousness to the scene. Healing old wounds, Motown rises again. I’m mentioned for my depth and pizzazz, my tone-filled hooks and unpredictability that are an earmark of creativity. I don’t think of myself as unpredictable, but that’s the second time in twenty-four hours I’ve been told that. But me, I don’t always know what I’m going to do before I do it. I told you that already. I read the review and think, Aaron and I don’t need King. But do I?

  We take the tour bus to Sky’s. The crew waits while Aaron, Levy, Rachel, and I go in. Mom has dark blue circles under her eyes and her lids are swollen. As soon as she sees us, she places a fingertip over her lips and whispers, “Sssssh. Sky has finally fallen asleep.”

  Mom looks pale.

  Rachel bursts with an eagerness that Mom’s caution can’t contain. She calls, “Mommy! Daddy!” as she runs through the house.

  Sky’s sleep is going to be disrupted.

  Mom’s and my eyes meet and then she looks away, sits down at the dining table, leans her head into her hand and twirls circles in her hair, a gesture of comfort and anxiety that I’ve seen throughout my childhood.

  “Has Sky made any plans?” I want to see her. But fear of her reaction prevents me from waking her up, hugging her. Crying with her.

  “There’ll be a memorial service in three days.”

  “Are you staying with her? Sky’s going to take a few weeks off work?”

  “Sky lost her job.”

  “I didn’t know.”

  “It just happened. The day Troy went into the hospital.”

  Mom sits and I stand trying to help, but helpless.

  “We haven’t made any plans. But I have to be in Chicago next week to speak at a conference.” Mom trains other insurance agents in sales and marketing.

  Rachel runs back to the family room, calling, “Daddy, Daddy.”

  Levy tugs at Aaron’s hand. “Here’s Daddy.”

  Rachel glances at Aaron and then runs back upstairs.

  “Someone needs to say something,” I say.

  “It’s Sky’s place,” Mom replies.

  I’ll miss myself, Troy said. The refrain keeps throbbing in my head.

  Maybe what I do next is wrong. Mom sits worrying circles on her scalp. Levy holds Aaron’s hand. Sky is in her bedroom, sleeping or hiding. Unavailable while Rachel runs around the condo searching for Troy. Sky’s condo, in spite of all the chaos of the last week, is neat. Brown and aubergine pillows fluffed on the sofa. The DVDs in the entertainment center perfectly stacked. The kitchen counter clear and all dishes, glasses, and appliances put away. External regulation maintaining order and calm. Outside the sea stretches across the world. I grab Rachel’s hand as she runs by me. Rachel is not my daughter, she’s not in my care, but I can’t bear her frantic hunt for her father. I grab her hand and kneel down so our eyes are even.

  “Daddy still in hospital?”

  “I have some sad news, Rachel.”

  She looks at me with those spooky gray eyes Sky has.

  I wonder if she already knows. Sometimes we don’t want to know things we already know. I hold both her hands in mine. And then grasp her close to me so she can melt into me. “Daddy’s gone,” I say into her ear. “Daddy loves you very much, more than the whole world, and he wanted more than anything to stay with you, but he’s gone. That’s why Mommy and Grandma are so sad. Why we all are so sad. We miss him already.” I start crying.

  “Daddy come back tomorrow?” She nods as though to reassure me.

  “No, Rachel. He can’t come back.”

  “Ever?”

  “Not ever.”

  And then Rachel starts wailing. I hold her tightly. Mom gets up and hugs her, too. Levy comes over, and then Aaron, and we kneel around Rachel, embracing her while she screams.

  Sky must hear these wails. They must penetrate her wall.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Unpredictable

  Sky

  I DON’T REMEMBER any of it. Not really. I just remember that he went in a transition as smooth as one of his dives. Ready ready ready. Poised in position. A minute bounce and a plunge with barely a splash. Just a finishing breath. Troy broke through to the other side as if entering water and then sank deeper. He divided existence so it didn’t know it had been disturbed.

  Hardly made a ripple. Hardly made a sound. Yet the dive is complete and the difference profound.

  The doctor asked me, did I want an autopsy? It might help them understand how the bacteria took such hold on him. She said something about one in a million, very unusual, so young and seemingly healthy.

  He’d been through enough, I told her. And I held his cold hand.

  Until Mom pulled me and said we had to go home. I had to sleep. They needed to take him.

  So I did. I did what I was told.

  I had a million things to do, to arrange. I completed what I could and let Mom do the rest. Mia’s husband, Marc, came. He knew just what to do, her death still so recent. He made the decisions. Got a place for the memorial service. Wrote an obituary. Called and emailed Troy’s friends, basketball team, and law firm. Our classmates. All that. He knew. He just looked at me and shook his head. Shook his head. I don’t remember him even saying a word. And Mom tried to support me, be with me. Only she knew where I was, where I’d been. She’d been with me through Dad’s death and now this. I list the calamities: My dad. Three miscarriages. A stillbirth. Mia’s death. My job. Troy’s death. I think of putting them in my iPhone; then maybe I’ll quit going over and over them in my head. I hit the note button and there’s my old shopping list: dish detergent, eggs, coffee, fabric softener, olive oil, cherries, almonds. I haven’t bought any of it.

  My father’s death. Three miscarriages. A stillborn. Mia’s death. My Job. Troy’s death.

  Am I being punished?

  Have I done something wrong?

  I sit at my window and notice a small bump on the framing that forced ripples, long dried, in the paint. The grain of the wood runs underneath the paint swirls created by the imperfection.

  I study these two separate patterns, the wood grain, once living, and the frozen paint wrinkles. I consider the ripples in the water that Troy made when he dove, and the stillness of the air after he drew his last breath. I envy the visible evidence of movement in the paint, in the grain of wood. I stare at the molding and wonder about the connection. Or lack of connection. I get lost for hours in my own thoughts.

  An ambulance siren blares. It comes closer. He’s gone already, no reason for an ambulance now. For a minute, my heart picks up as I have the thought, Maybe it’s coming for me.

  I curl up on my bed.

  Rachel comes to cuddle with me. She pushes me to respond. But I lie there. She peers into my face, I feel her doing that, but I don’t open my eyes. Her fingers caress my cheek. I can’t bear seeing her. Feeling her bre
ath on my face is hard enough.

  Off in the distance I hear wailing, but that has nothing to do with me. And then quiet returns. And then the lump that is Rachel is next to me, on Troy’s side, trying to curl around me. Her little arm rests on me. I smell her sweet baby-oil smell. And chocolate.

  And then one day I’m handed a box and told, very softly, gently, “Here they are. His ashes.” I open the lid and see some gray powder with lumps in a plastic bag. Soft as feathers. Troy?

  But I don’t put it down. I hold it.

  And everyone is there. All these people. Allie. And Sissy. And Tara, who just hugs me and cries and says something about how she promised him she’d take care of me. Aaron and his friends. A big very black man with blue eyes.

  He holds me in his big bear hug and smells of some fresh scent and says, “I’ve been where you are. I understand.” And then he looks at me with those ink-blue eyes. I almost see heaven, and Troy in there. In those eyes. And I just look at them like I look at that glob of paint, trying to discover something.

  The table is covered with food that people brought. Strawberries, cantaloupe, cherries, grapes. The colors seem gaudy. I can’t imagine eating anything so lurid. Plates of yellow plastic-looking cheese and crackers. Lasagna. Pasta salad. Chicken salad. Potato salad. Lettuce salad. Tabouleh salad. Tomato and mozzarella and basil salad. All greasy, oil-slicked, and slimy.

  Disgusting.

  I smile, but it feels like I’m baring my teeth at the world.

  I won’t shake anyone’s hand.

  Aaron comes to me, crouches down. “Troy and me went to the Palace to see the Pistons and, because all the traffic was rerouted, we ducked through an alley taking a shortcut. In the alley, a man was beating up a woman. She lay on the ground while he kicked her in her stomach.

  “Troy jumped out of the car. Together, we scared off the attacker, and then took the woman to the hospital.” Aaron stands in front of me. I sit on a chair. Troy’s ashes are on a shelf and I stare at them while he talks.

  “Troy acted when he saw something wrong, when most would walk away.” Aaron nods. “He reminded me that people can be good, unselfish.”

  I wonder why Troy never told me this story. Probably something else was going on. Maybe we were home after one of my miscarriages.