All of a sudden I thought, Screw them! I whipped off my top, stood there with my hands on my hips, and just stared daggers at them. After a minute or so of that, they started looking away and then turned their backs, trying to pretend I didn’t exist. I stood there for a while more, just to make them miserable. While I was doing that, of course, everybody got a good look at my new bikini and my new bod, especially the boys.
It wasn’t like they suddenly started swarming; they were more subtle than that. But not a lot more. I could feel their eyes on me.
At first I felt embarrassed. But after a little while I realized that the boys, unlike Alice and her crowd, weren’t laughing at me. If anything, they were drooling. I was enjoying their reaction, the sense of power it gave me. For a minute, it felt like my fantasy was coming true, that this really was the day of my transformation.
The fantasy didn’t last long.
I stretched myself out on the towel, making it even easier for the boys, and Peter in particular, to get a good look. Denise was sitting next to me, jabbering away about boys and sex, the two topics that dominated about 80 percent of her conversations. She was going on again, like she always did, about how I was probably the last virgin in our grade.
In retrospect, I realize that wasn’t true, but at the time I actually believed her. It made me feel backward, as though I were wearing a really ugly outfit that I needed to shed as quickly as possible. But at the same time, I really didn’t want to go through with it. I wanted that first time to be special, and everything Denise was describing to me sounded like the exact opposite of that, just steamy and sticky and cheap.
Anyway, I was starting to rethink the whole idea.
I wanted the boys—well, one boy, Peter—to notice me, but I wanted him to notice me. Not just my boobs and my body. But when he jumped out of the water and I saw that he was . . . aroused, I started remembering all the things that Alice had said in the car on the way over and I felt embarrassed and even angrier than I had before.
It was so ridiculous—it was just sister stuff, an older sister putting the younger in her place, the way siblings have done since the beginning of time, but for me, right then, it was more than that. It felt like she’d ruined everything, not just the day, but the whole way I saw myself in it. And the way I saw other people too. I suddenly felt like I couldn’t trust my feelings for anyone else, or their feelings for me, and that I never could again.
Later, right after lunch, I saw Alice talking to Peter, flirting with him. She was doing it just to get to me, and it did. I walked over and challenged her to race me to the dock at the far side of the lake.
I don’t know why I thought that was the way to get back at her, but at the time, it seemed like it was. Of course, Alice took me up on it. She was a much better swimmer than I was. She was probably the best in the whole school, as she was the best at so many things. But I was determined to redeem the day she had ruined for me and, for once, to be better than my sister.
We got into the water up to our ankles and everybody gathered on the shore to watch. Peter wished me good luck, but I’m sure he didn’t think I had a chance. Nobody did.
Somebody shouted, “Go!” We dove into the water, and sure enough, Alice shot past me. I think she was swimming as fast as she’d ever swum, but so was I. All that fury I was feeling coursed through my arms and legs, making them whir like well-oiled pistons. Nothing could stop me. I wasn’t going to give up for anything!
I sensed that I was closing the gap, could feel the flutter of Alice’s kicks troubling the water just ahead of me. That’s when I started to hear it, the muffled sound of voices, of clapping and cheering, getting louder as I came closer and threatened to rob Alice’s lead. The sound affected me like a syringe full of adrenaline, filled me with an energy and determination I’d never had before.
Though my arms were aching and my lungs felt ready to burst, I kept swimming, faster than ever. I could feel Alice next to me, could sense her presence and her desire to stay ahead. We battled side by side for a few seconds until, finally, I passed her.
And when I did, she suddenly just wasn’t there anymore. I didn’t know if I was getting faster or if she’d just given up, but it didn’t matter. I kept going, buoyed by the euphoria of knowing I had bested my sister and the roar of the crowd thrumming in my ears, a roar that got louder and more frenetic with each passing moment.
I thought they were cheering for me. I truly did. It wasn’t until I reached the finish, grabbed the dock with both hands, and then leapt up and thrust my fist into the air in triumph that I understood that the frenzied shouting from the shore didn’t signal excitement at my victory, but terror at my sister’s disappearance.
The instant I knew what was happening, I joined in the search, but it took so long before she was found; she was under the water for so long.... I was too slow. Too late. Too busy beating her to even notice what had happened to her.
After they dragged Alice from the water and laid her on the shore, after she finally started breathing, the paramedics wouldn’t let me ride with her. There wasn’t room in the ambulance. Mr. Tielens drove me and followed right behind, those red lights flashing in my eyes like a strobe.
My parents arrived in separate cars, but at nearly the same moment. I’m not sure how long it was after I got there, but not a long time. I was still in my swimsuit, my hair dripping, my T-shirt sticking to me.
Mom started asking me questions, but I couldn’t answer. I was crying too hard. The doctor came into the waiting room, told us that Alice was alive, but the prognosis wasn’t good. He said there was always hope, but he didn’t look like he believed it.
When the doctor left, Dad turned on me and started screaming, louder than he ever had screamed at me before, calling me all sorts of filthy names, pointing to my wet shirt, which was almost transparent over my breasts, screaming at me, “Where were you? Where were you? She saved you! You’d have frozen under the ice without Alice! Where were you?”
When she survived, everybody said it was a miracle. But in some sense, Alice—the Alice I knew—really did die that day. The Alice I knew was smart and quick and competitive, and, sometimes, a little bit cruel. Not often, but often enough. It wasn’t a cruelty that was out of the ordinary for a teenage girl, an older sister trying to keep a younger sister in her place; even at the time I knew so, but that doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt.
Sometimes, when a person dies young, her survivors unconsciously revise her history, choosing to recall only what was good, the acts of kindness and inclinations to nobility, beatifying her memory until she becomes in death what she never was in life: a saint.
But that wasn’t what happened to Alice, not exactly.
The Alice who disappeared beneath the waters that day was not a saint, but the Alice who awoke and inhabited my sister’s body after the accident was, or something near to it.
She was slow and kind and endlessly patient. She struggled and stumbled and made everyone she ever met admire her and feel ashamed of their own pettiness and dissatisfactions. Me most of all.
Alice’s unfailingly sweet nature and endless patience, the fact that she never complained or cast a word of blame in my direction even though I know she understood what she was like before and how much the accident triggered by my actions had narrowed her boundaries, were an ongoing reproach to me.
Before she died, Alice accused me of remembering wrong. But the truth is, I didn’t want to remember at all. Remembering only reminds me of all the ways I failed her.
I can never forgive myself.
Father Damon didn’t say a word, not until I finished. Then he took my hand in his. “It’s God’s place to forgive, Lucy. It is yours to accept that forgiveness.”
“I don’t know if I can believe that, Father. It seems like an out, like I’d be letting myself off the hook. If there was just something I could do, some way to make up for—”
He sighed. “Lucy, what penance could anyone require of you that you haven’t alre
ady laid upon yourself? Almighty God chooses to pardon you; what right have you to reject that pardon?”
He was quiet for a moment, waiting for me to respond, I suppose. When I didn’t, he said, “Do you remember the story of the woman caught in adultery in the gospel of John?”
“Not really.”
“The people of the town dragged her out with the intention of stoning her to death,” he said. “This was the legal sentence imposed for that crime. But Jesus put a stop to it, saying that whichever of them was without sin should cast the first stone. One by one, knowing that this was a standard they couldn’t meet, the crowd dispersed.
“When they were all gone, Jesus looked at the woman, wanting to know where her accusers had gone. ‘Does no one condemn you?’ he asked. When she answered no, he said, ‘Neither do I condemn you. Go now, and sin no more.’ ”
He looked at me with an expression of such compassion that I had to swallow back tears again.
“If Alice didn’t accuse you and God doesn’t condemn you, why are you standing stubbornly in the same spot, year after year, waiting for your stoning?”
He got up and made the sign of the cross over me, raising his voice so that the sound of it reverberated to the rafters and fell upon me like a hard and cleansing rain.
“Lucy Toomey, go and sin no more! Be joyful! Be grateful! Forgive others as you have been forgiven! Everyone—Peter and Celia and Alice, and even your mother and father. Let the past be past and the dead rest in peace. Live a life that is worthy of this love so freely given,” he commanded, then repeated the words of absolution.
“Amen,” I whispered and wiped my eyes one last time. “Thank you, Father.”
“Lucy? One more thing. Tonight before you go to bed, and every night hereafter, get down on your knees and pray, pour out your heart to God and let him pour out his heart upon you.”
He smiled. “That’s not a penance, my child. It’s a gift.”
Chapter 42
Once again, I didn’t sleep much, but not because I was plagued by guilt or sorrow or bad dreams.
After I returned home, I reheated some leftover lasagna and pulled a chair up close to the window so I could eat while looking out at the frozen lake, thinking how beautiful it was in winter, and how it would be even more beautiful with the coming of spring and summer and fall.
After I rinsed my dishes, I bundled back up, went out to the woodpile, and brought in as many logs as I could carry. I started a fire in the fireplace and sat cross-legged in front of it with a glass of wine and a pile of Alice’s old sketchbooks, turning the pages very slowly, taking my time, marveling at her talent, missing her terribly, knowing I always would, and thinking.
I closed the last sketchbook just as the last log split in two and fell from the grate, releasing a burst of bright orange sparks that rose into the black recesses of the chimney like a swarm of midnight fireflies. I carried my wineglass back into the kitchen, turning out lights as I went, and rinsed the glass in the sink. The tail of the Felix the Cat wall clock swung from right to left in constant rhythm and the eyes followed along, wide and unblinking, as if it were just as shocked as I was to realize it was almost morning.
After getting into bed, I closed my eyes, ready for sleep, but then remembered what Father Damon had said and rose again to kneel by the bed, saying prayers, giving thanks, asking for pardon and protection and guidance, some kind of sign, that would bring resolution and clarity to the jumbled tug-of-war that was playing out in my mind.
That was all. I got back into bed and fell immediately asleep, waking only five hours later yet feeling refreshed.
When I pushed back the quilts and looked out the window, I saw that more snow had fallen while I slept, covering the muddy tracks in the driveway, leaving every surface clean, smooth, and glittering, as if the entire world were making a fresh start.
Lunch with Maeve—I mean Jennifer—was wonderful. And kind of miraculous.
I was anxious on the drive to the restaurant, so much so that I actually felt a little nauseous. There was so much that could go wrong here. It was bound to be an emotional meeting for her. Surely she had been disappointed, even grief stricken, to have discovered her birth mother’s identity only to be told that Alice had died only weeks before. She might be teary. She might ask questions I wouldn’t know how to answer. She might have been raised in an unhappy home, or spent her whole life feeling unloved, unworthy, abandoned—not every adoption story turns out happily, does it? She might feel angry, bitter, resentful. She might be looking to lash out at someone. I didn’t mind that so much—I could take it—but I was so afraid I wouldn’t know what to say, how to comfort her. After the confrontation with Celia and then with Peter, I just didn’t think I could handle one more emotional scene. And it was obvious that I was no good at all in those kinds of situations.
Driving past the sign to Bailey’s Harbor, it occurred to me that I should have brought someone with me. Maybe Father Damon? He’d been a priest for something like forty years; by this time he had to know what to say in every situation, no matter how emotional. For a moment, I thought about turning the car around, driving back to Nilson’s Bay, and begging him to come with me, but that would take at least twenty-five minutes and I was already five minutes late. Damn. Why hadn’t I thought of bringing the priest before?
I found a parking space down the block, turned the key off in the ignition, and sat there for a few seconds, breathing deeply, trying to calm the butterflies in my stomach. It didn’t really help. I was so nervous that I almost got to the door of the restaurant before realizing I’d left the bag with Alice’s sketchbooks and had to go all the way back to the car to get them. While I was there, I grabbed a stack of paper napkins I had stowed in the glove compartment, thinking that, if things did get emotional and Jennifer started to cry, I could at least hand her something to wipe her eyes.
Arriving at the door a second time, I felt another jolt of panic as I realized that I had no idea what Jennifer looked like. Judging from the number of cars parked on the street, the restaurant was crowded. How would I know her?
As it turned out, the restaurant was only moderately full, but the bar, which stands at the front of the old building, was doing a brisk business, hosting a company Christmas party. I walked past the big aquarium by the door, pushing my way through clusters of chattering coworkers enjoying holiday cheer and trays of appetizers, until I reached the reservation desk in the restaurant.
“Reservation for Toomey,” I told the woman at the desk. “Sorry, I’m a little late. Has my guest arrived?”
She ran her finger down a list of names and frowned. “Toomey?” I nodded in confirmation. “Oh, wait. Your guest arrived a few minutes ago, but she didn’t want to sit down without you. She said she’d wait for you out front.”
I looked back over my shoulder, scanning the crowded room, half of whom were youngish-looking women. “Any idea which one? We’ve never met before.”
“Over there,” the hostess said, pointing in the direction of the fish tank. “The girl in the denim jacket.”
“Thanks.”
I pushed my way back through the scrum of bodies, murmuring apologies, until I saw a woman with shoulder-length brown hair, wearing a jean jacket, standing with her back to me, bending down and staring at the fish. I must have walked right past her before. I took a deep breath and tapped her on the shoulder.
“Jennifer?”
She straightened up and turned around. Her eyes, bright blue, were set a little wider than mine, and her nose was just a little shorter.
“Lucy?”
When I nodded, her full lower lip bowed into a smile, revealing two dimples in her apple-round cheeks. I started to cry.
She was Maeve. She was Jennifer. She was the girl in the sketchbooks, Alice’s little girl.
Though I hadn’t been quite willing to admit it, a part of me had worried that I wouldn’t like my niece. I mean, just because we shared some similar DNA didn’t necessarily mean we woul
d be in sympathy. She might have been sullen, or spoiled, or silly, or shallow, or just plain uninteresting. But I needn’t have worried.
Jennifer was bright and lively and openhearted and looked miraculously, amazingly, exactly like the girl in Alice’s drawings. Exactly.
And I don’t mean that she just looked like that now, as a young woman of eighteen, no. Alice had captured her perfectly at every stage of her life. I knew because Jennifer had thought to bring along some scrapbooks of her own life, with pictures of her adoptive family, their tidy little home in a suburb of Minneapolis, their vacations to Florida and San Francisco and, yes, even to Door County, her graduation from nursery school, from kindergarten, from middle school, from high school, pictures with her friends, her little sister, her dog and cats, her classmates, her church camp counselors, swim coaches, and piano teachers, and pictures of birthday party after birthday party.
The locations and settings in Alice’s sketches were different from those photographs, but in each year of life, Alice had captured her perfectly and imagined her happy. And she was.
“How did she do it?” Jennifer asked, her voice nearly breathless with wonder as she flipped slowly through page after page of Alice’s sketches. “They look just like me! How did she know?”
I wiped my eyes with the last of the paper napkins I’d brought from the car before putting it in my pocket with its sodden companions.
“Because you were never far from her heart,” I said, sniffling. “Come on out to my car. There’s something else I want to give you.”
Even though I was a complete wreck, going through a whole pile of paper napkins during lunch, Jennifer had done a pretty good job keeping a handle on her emotions. But when I opened the back of the car and started pulling out quilt after quilt, she lost it. So did I. Again. I should have brought more napkins.
The Second Sister Page 31
