The Second Sister

by Marie Bostwick

  I pointed my rental car north and drove to Door County in the dark, submerging my thoughts into the white noise of rubber on asphalt, drawn into the current of traffic that swirled through and past the city, eventually spilling out onto country roads, taking me past landmarks that had been familiar for the entire first half of my life but that now were so disconnected from who I am that they seemed like mirages, objects and places that might melt away at my touch.

  Barney met me at the hospital. He’d been waiting for me, holding vigil, I suppose, his eyes red from crying. Barney, my last living relative, an apple farmer and lifelong bachelor, is about twice my age, his hair completely white and his leathery face lined with wrinkles. He’d always been nice to Alice and me when we were little, teaching us to drive the tractor, saving the best apples to give us as treats, pretending he couldn’t find us when we played hide-and-seek, comforting me when Alice would challenge me to a race through the orchard and I would inevitably lose, assuring me that I’d get bigger and catch up someday, drying my tears and carrying me back to the farmhouse on his shoulders. But that day, I was the one comforting him.

  He was an emotional wreck and so exhausted. I hugged him, thanked him, absolved him, and sent him home to get some rest, promising I could take it from there and would join him at the farm as soon as I could. After he left, I talked with the attending physician, tried hard to focus as he explained what had happened, the damage done to Alice’s liver, the complications caused by the length of time between the ingestion of the pills and the discovery of her unconscious form, and the possibility that her other overdose, all those years before, had caused some previous damage.

  It was hard to understand, but I nodded as if I did, absolving him as well without quite believing it was my place to do so, wondering why I wasn’t crying and worrying about what that meant.

  There were papers to sign, calls and arrangements to make. I phoned Jenna to let her know that I would have to stay in Wisconsin for a few days, then sat in the waiting room waiting for the men from the mortuary to arrive, drinking bitter coffee and working on an obituary for the newspaper, going through five drafts before putting it aside, realizing I had no idea what to say.

  By the time I dealt with the most pressing concerns, it was nearly dawn. I drove the rental car to Barney’s house, surprised that I still remembered exactly how to get there, and went to sleep in his spare bedroom under a blue-and-white granny-square afghan my mom had crocheted and given him for Christmas in 1989.

  I remembered that too. Strange how it all comes back.

  Chapter 7

  I woke up around noon. Barney made me a plate of bacon and eggs; that and spaghetti were the only things he knew how to cook that didn’t come from the frozen-food aisle.

  When I finished eating, I drove to Sedgwick’s Funeral Home. Father Eugene Damon, pastor of St. Agnes of the Lake, the parish I’d grown up in and out of years before but which Alice had attended faithfully, met me there.

  Something about the sight of a clerical collar makes me feel instantly exposed, as though any person wearing one can see right through me, knows all my secrets and failures. In the case of Father Damon, this was probably true. He’d been the priest and confessor to my sister as well as my parents and probably knew more of the Toomey family secrets than anyone in town, perhaps even more than me. It was a disconcerting thought.

  But when George Sedgwick, the funeral director, started asking questions about the service, the interment, the disposition of the remains, I was glad Father Damon was sitting next to me. He stepped in, answering questions I had no answers to, making me feel as though I were doing well and that everything was being handled properly.

  “Saturday is better for the service. That way people won’t have to take off work to attend. But solid brass handles won’t be necessary,” he said, shaking his head when Mr. Sedgwick made the suggestion. “And a simple hardwood casket will be fine, don’t you think so, Lucy? Maybe with the cherry stain? It’s a nice, warm color. Or the pecan?”

  I nodded and said “pecan” not because I felt certain of my choice, but because it was the last word I had heard and I couldn’t remember what the other options were.

  Father Damon smiled encouragingly. “Good choice,” he said. “Alice wouldn’t have wanted to spend the money on a bronze or copper casket. She liked to keep things simple.”

  Mr. Sedgwick set his lips into a line, nodded tersely, and made a notation on the pad in front of him. He clearly didn’t appreciate the priest’s interference with his profit margins, but couldn’t say so.

  “I assume burial will be in the family plot?”

  I was confused, so George explained further.

  “When your folks purchased their plots, they bought some for you and your sister as well. They wanted the family to rest together for eternity. When the time comes, you’ll know you always have a home here in Nilson’s Bay.”

  He gave me a liquid sort of smile, as if he couldn’t imagine a more thoughtful expression of parental regard.

  They’d bought me a plot?

  I could understand my parents making such a purchase for themselves or even Alice. But for me?

  Of all the things of value my parents could have given me—and there had been precious few over the years—why would a burial plot rise to the top of the list?

  Maybe the folks had gotten a group discount for buying all the plots at once—a four-for-the-price-of-three offer? I wouldn’t put it past Dad. He never paid retail for anything if he could help it, aside from groceries, and he did his best to get around even that. I was in college before I knew what less-than-day-old bread tasted like.

  I suddenly had a vision of my father sitting in this very room, in this very chair, talking to Mr. Sedgwick, saying, “Well, what about that plot on the end? Throw that in as a sweetener and you’ve got yourself a deal. I know it’s six inches too short for a regular casket, but Lucy’s small; she can squeeze in.”

  The corner of my lip twitched, threatening a smile, but I quickly cleared my throat, keeping my expression neutral.

  “Well, it’s good to have that settled in advance.”

  “Isn’t it, though?” the mortician said earnestly, leaning across his desk. “You’d be amazed how many people go through their whole lives without giving a thought to the hereafter.” He sighed regretfully before picking up his pen and moving on. “Now, what would you like to do about flowers?”

  “Do about them?” I asked, looking at the priest for clarification. “Don’t people just send them?”

  “They do,” Father Damon replied. “And a spray of roses on the casket is nice, perhaps a wreath or standing arrangement as well, but you only need so many flowers. After the service they just wilt and get thrown away. You might want to give people the option of doing something more lasting by making a donation to a charity instead. Perhaps to the pet rescue?”

  Why hadn’t I thought of that? Alice loved her work at the pet rescue. It only paid minimum wage but, realistically, it was one of the only jobs in town she could have handled. And she adored working with animals. When she was young, she wanted to be a vet, just like Dad. If not for the accident, she probably would have been.

  “Yes, a memorial fund for the pet rescue. Alice would have liked that.”

  “I’ll add that to the notice in the paper,” Mr. Sedgwick said, scribbling a note before looking up at me. “One more thing. Do you want to add a satin pillow and coverlet to the casket? To give the impression of her being asleep? People sometimes find that comforting.”

  “Yes to the pillow,” Father Damon said, answering for me. “But the coverlet won’t be necessary. The FOA is making a quilt to go into the casket. They’ll deliver it first thing on Saturday, before the service.”

  “The FOA?” I asked. Was this some kind of community group or association? Friends of Animals? That made sense, since we were talking about my sister.

  “Friends of Alice,” Father Damon explained. “Rinda Charles, Daphne Ol
sen, and Celia Brevard. All three of them moved to town within the last few years, and you know how Nilson’s Bay can be—slow to accept strangers. Anyway, Alice sort of adopted them, just the way she did with animals, like they were strays. They were all very close. One day, somebody made a joke about them forming their own club, the Friends of Alice Society, and the name stuck. Now people just say FOA. Alice never mentioned them to you?”

  I’d never heard of the FOA, but the names—Rinda, Daphne, and Celia—were familiar. I knew they sometimes did some sewing together. Alice had taken up quilting during that time in the psychiatric hospital—occupational therapy—but I couldn’t remember much else about her friends.

  Alice talked so often about so many people, animals, and events that it was sometimes hard to follow the conversation. The world was very immediate for Alice and also very small. She sort of assumed that everyone she knew, knew everybody else and so didn’t offer much in the way of explanation. Honestly, I hadn’t asked for any. In my defense, it didn’t help that she tended to call me in the middle of the night. I’d just lie there with my eyes closed and the phone to my ear and let her talk; every now and then I’d mumble, “Oh?” or “Really?” or “Uh-huh.” But I wasn’t truly listening. I was too tired to pay attention. Now I wished I had.

  Rinda, Daphne, and Celia . . . At least one of them had children—of that I was sure. I remembered Alice sometimes said something about one of the daughters coming over, but I didn’t know more than that. And one of them was a teacher of some kind and one had moved from Chicago. I didn’t remember anything more about the FOA, but, obviously, they were very close to my sister. Closer than I’d been.

  “You never see one without the other three,” Father Damon said, and then stopped for a moment, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed back his emotions. “Well, not until now.”

  When we were finished with the funeral arrangements, Father Damon walked me to the car. The day was bright and crisp. A gusty wind stirred up piles of dry leaves and sent them skittering across the pavement.

  “Thank you for coming, Father. You made this a lot easier.”

  “Not at all,” he said, waving off my thanks. “Funeral arrangements can be overwhelming. It’s good to bring a wingman along. And, you know, Alice was dear to me. She was dear to a lot of people in town. If you didn’t know that before, you will on Saturday. I predict a full house.

  “Of course,” he said with a smile, “any funeral in Nilson’s Bay attracts a crowd. Being such a small town, people feel more or less obligated to attend even if they didn’t like the deceased. But people did like Alice. You’ll see. I know that you hadn’t spent much time with her in the last few years, but when she was feeling herself, your sister was easy to like.”

  “What about when she wasn’t feeling herself?”

  I don’t know where that came from; I honestly don’t. The minute I said it, I looked at the ground, then clicked the key fob to unlock the door of the car, too embarrassed to face the priest, hoping he hadn’t heard me. But he had.

  “Lucy,” he said after an uncomfortable pause, “is there something you want to ask me?”

  “No. Not really. I was just . . . I guess I was wondering . . .”

  “You were wondering?”

  He looked at me straight on, his gaze so solid. I couldn’t get away from it.

  “When I was growing up, the church had . . . certain rules about conducting funerals. I think things have changed since then, but you’ve been in the priesthood a long time, Father, and I . . .” I bit my lower lip, trying to figure out how to phrase the question. “I guess I was just wondering if you felt any hesitation in performing the service on Saturday?”

  “Lucy. If you’re asking me if I think Alice committed suicide, the answer is no. She suffered from depression on and off for many years; I’m not telling you anything you don’t know. But was she depressed enough to end her life?” He shook his head. “Absolutely not. Alice wanted to live and to live happily; she just didn’t always know how.”

  He lowered his head slightly, his eyes boring into me again. “Nothing you said or did or didn’t do caused or contributed to Alice’s death. It wasn’t your fault. Nor was it Alice’s. It was an accident.”

  I nodded and swallowed back tears. My first instinct about the old priest was correct; he could see right through me.

  “Thank you,” I whispered, pressing a clenched fist to the corner of my eye.

  Father Damon nodded, then shoved his hands into his pockets and changed the subject. I was grateful for it.

  “How long will you be staying in Nilson’s Bay?”

  “I’ll be leaving right after the funeral. Sunday at the latest.”

  Father Damon frowned. “But won’t you need to stick around and help clear up the estate? You’re Alice’s closest living relative. I don’t think she had much in the way of worldly goods, but there is the cottage. Surely she must have left it to you.”

  The cottage? He was right. Who else would Alice leave the family home to? How had I forgotten about that? But death has a way of re-ranking your priorities and clearing your mind of debris. Maybe that is part of its purpose. On the other hand, maybe death is just death.

  “You should stay in town for a while, a few days at least. From the look of you,” the old priest said, “you’re long overdue for a vacation. But the election must have been very exciting. You know, I saw you on television once, right after the Iowa caucuses. You were very good. Don’t tell anyone,” he said, glancing from left to right. “As a priest in a small parish, I’ve learned it’s best to keep your politics to yourself—but I voted for Ryland. He’s a man who can bring the country together again.”

  “Thank you, Father. When I see him, I’ll tell him you said so. But that’s why I’ve got to go back as soon as I can. There’s a lot of work to do. I should get to Washington and help with the transition.”

  “So you’ll be getting a job in the new administration? You don’t look too happy about it.”

  “Oh, I am,” I assured him. “Who wouldn’t want to work for the president of the United States? They can’t offer me a big job, of course. Even though I ran the campaign . . . for a while. I don’t have any White House experience or the kind of technical knowledge required for the top positions.”

  I stopped myself; there was no need to go into specifics.

  “Anyway,” I went on, “with my background, I won’t get an offer for anything that important. Maybe an assistant to an assistant undersecretary in some department. Which is fine,” I said, resting my backside against the door of the car. “It all matters. But, between you and me, I’m not crazy about the idea of going back to Washington.”

  Father Damon shoved his hands even deeper in his pockets, looking puzzled. “Really? I visited once and it seemed like a wonderful city. There’s so much to do. All the museums and monuments—”

  “I’ll never get to see any of them. Politics is a great career, especially if you win. But, if you’ll forgive the analogy, it’s also something of a mad monk society.”

  Father Damon laughed.

  “No, seriously,” I said. “If you work in politics, there is this silent agreement that you will have no personal life, no outside interests, no outside anything. People who sleep more than four hours in a night are considered slackers. It’s a competition to see who can kill themselves quickest.

  “It’s not so bad when you’re doing a campaign, because there’s this . . .” I looked up into the branches of the nearest maple tree, trying to find the right word. “. . . this adrenaline rush. I think that’s why they call a campaign a race. That’s what it feels like, like racing.

  “You’re pushing yourself as hard as you can toward the goal, throwing everything you’ve got into it. It’s as if your whole body is flooded with endorphins and you feel powerful, like you’ve got a chance to change the world! Your mind is so sharp, your thinking so clear. You know exactly where the goal line is and nothing else matters. The differe
nce is that instead of lasting for one hundred yards, or a mile, or a marathon, the feeling lasts for weeks or months or, if the finish line is the White House, even years! But the feeling of winning is . . .”

  I stopped myself again.

  If I told him that in the middle of rushing to my dying sister’s bedside, I had, for a moment, been having the best day of my life, Father Damon would think I was a terrible person. Maybe I was.

  “Well . . . it’s hard to describe. It’s amazing. And fleeting. As soon as the win is over, you start racing again. Governing is just as intense, but the course is even longer and the goal is harder to define. And you know when you finally reach the finish line, four years later, or even eight,” I said, thinking that in eight years I’d be forty-four years old, “there is no way you’ll be able to match the high of that first victory. Nothing could top that.”

  “Why not join a new campaign?” the priest asked. “Find a new candidate.”

  I shook my head. He didn’t understand. How could he? Even with his imposing white collar and wise gray head, he was still just a civilian.

  And I was a card-carrying member of the Mad Monk Society.

  “It doesn’t work like that, Father. Not for me. I’ve spent my whole career with Ryland. There will never be another candidate like him, not for me. I’ll follow him anywhere. Even to Washington—the city with the largest per capita population of pompous, self-absorbed horse’s asses in these United States.” I laughed nervously. “Sorry. I guess I shouldn’t say ‘ass’ to a priest.”

  He smiled. “I’ve heard the word before. And met more than a few right here in Nilson’s Bay. Don’t ask me to name names. But you think that our nation’s capital has more than its share?”

  I opened the car door and sat down in the driver’s seat, rolling down the window so I could continue the conversation.

  “Definitely. And I’m not just talking about members of Congress—though some of them definitely qualify. Do you know that when you go to a cocktail party on Capitol Hill, nobody makes eye contact? I’m serious!” I declared, countering the silent skepticism in Father Damon’s eyes.