Sister Mine

by Tawni O'Dell

  His energy expended, he lays his head down on the table.

  I have to stop myself from reaching out and stroking his hair the way I used to do with Clay when he was little and would get frustrated.

  “I remember when you wanted to be an astronaut,” I tell him.

  He raises his head a little and peeks out over his arm. His eyes beneath his cap are the pale blue of a snake’s belly.

  “Coal miners and astronauts have a lot in common,” he says and lifts his head a little higher. “We kind of do the same thing, only they’re in the sky and we’re underground. For instance, we’re both explorers. We go where no man has gone before.”

  “That’s true.”

  He raises his head completely and sits up a little straighter.

  “Did you know it used to be astronauts and coal miners were the only professions that couldn’t get life insurance?”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  “We both work in the cold. We both work in the dark. We both leave the surface of the earth,” he goes on with his list.

  “We know the job’s dangerous but we still do it. And astronauts, they aren’t just balls-out jocks and pilots; they have to be scientists, too. Coal miners know all about different kinds of damp. We know all about nitrogen and methane and carbon monoxide.”

  His enthusiasm is contagious.

  “You’re right,” I tell him. “Miners and astronauts do have a lot in common.”

  “And get this. ‘Naut’ is short for ‘nautical.’” He leans over the table and points at its surface as if I’m supposed to see the word written there. “I know this shit ’cause Clay loaned me tons of books on astronauts when we were kids, ’cause he knew I wanted to be one. ‘Nautical’ can mean something to do with the sea, but it can also mean something to do with navigation. ‘Astro’ means ‘space.’ ‘Naut’ means navigating like a sailor. So ‘astronaut’ means ‘space sailor.’”

  He sits back in the booth and beams at me like he’s just brought home a straight-A report card.

  “You know what that makes me?”

  I shake my head.

  “A rock sailor.”

  I smile back at him. I’ve heard him make the astronaut–coal miner comparison during interviews after the rescue, but I’ve never heard him call himself a “rock sailor.”

  “A rock sailor. That’s definitely what you are.”

  “Except I’m not anymore.” His face falls. “I’m nothing now. Nothing.

  “What if I live to be eighty?” he suddenly raises his voice to a panicked shout. “What if I keep on living? What am I going to do for all those fucking years?”

  I recognize the same glitter in his eyes and the same strain in his voice that E.J. gets when he’s about to lose it.

  Right after the rescue, all five of them were treated by J&P to a couple sessions with a shrink. The shrink also talked to family members to let them know what to expect. He told them the men could easily suffer from the same kind of post-traumatic stress disorder that soldiers coming back from war experience: panic attacks, nightmares, mood swings, paranoia, insomnia, listlessness, suicidal thoughts.

  It’s the suicidal thoughts that I’m starting to worry about.

  “Hey, I’ve got a great idea.”

  I reach out and pat his arm the way I do with E.J. A human touch seems to help bring them back.

  “Let’s go see Jimmy.”

  He tries to focus his eyes on my face.

  “I don’t want him to see me fucked up,” he says.

  “Are you kidding? He’s probably just as fucked up as you are right now.”

  “Jimmy’s fucked up?”

  “Almost every day.”

  “He always seems good when I see him.”

  “He’s good at seeming good. E.J., too.”

  A look of amazement passes over his face.

  “E.J.’s never been fucked up a day in his life,” he tells me assuredly. “He’s a rock.”

  “He’s got a rock for a head, that’s for sure.”

  I convince him to come with me and to leave the bottle behind.

  We find a fork and he brings Brandi’s leftovers and the change of clothes with him. As soon as he gets situated in the car, he tears off the foil and starts wolfing down the food.

  I get a call on my cell while I’m walking around to the driver’s side.

  I check the caller ID. It’s not a number I know.

  “Jolly Mount Cab,” I answer.

  “Shae-Lynn? That you? How’s my girl?”

  “Jesus Christ,” I breathe out.

  It’s been over twenty years, but I’d know the voice anywhere.

  “Well, hell. I’m flattered you could confuse us,” he laughs, “but it’s not Jesus Christ, honey. It’s just your old pal Cam Jack.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  SHAE-LYNN? YOU THERE, precious?”

  My stomach begins to churn. I try to respond, but nothing happens on my first attempt. My lips move but no sound comes out. I clear my throat.

  “Don’t call me precious,” I manage to say.

  He laughs again.

  “Whoa. Hold on. Don’t sue me for sexual harassment. I forgot. You’re one of those feminist types running around fixing your own car and being a cop. I suppose you think your gun is bigger than mine.”

  “I know my brain is bigger and that’s good enough for me.”

  He laughs again. It’s a big, hearty, privileged laugh, the kind that brings to mind images of fat fairy-tale kings holding jeweled chalices of wine and golden legs of dripping venison while roaring over the antics of a court jester no one else finds funny.

  “I suppose I always knew you’d turn out that way. You were that way when you were a kid, too. Always dressing like a boy. Covering up those great tits and legs of yours. Playing in the dirt. Getting into fights. Honestly. Tell me the truth. You wish you were a man, don’t you?”

  “No, I don’t. Do you?”

  This retort is met with silence.

  “Well, Shae-Lynn, I have to be honest with you,” he begins slowly, the merriment having left his voice. “I was hoping you might be a little happier to hear from me after all this time.”

  “What could possibly ever make you think that?”

  “Because we had some good times together. Times I thought for sure you’d remember with some fondness.”

  I’m too stunned to reply.

  “We didn’t part on the best of terms” is all I can come up with as an explanation.

  “That was your fault, not mine.”

  These words cut right through me. The falseness and injustice behind them makes them sharper than any knife, yet I know he believes what he’s saying, and trying to convince him otherwise would be a waste of my time.

  “That’s why I’m calling you,” he says.

  “Why?”

  “I’d say we have a little unfinished business.”

  “We have no business together, finished or unfinished.”

  “Yes, we do, sweetheart, and I need something from you and you’re going to get it for me.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “It’s not something I want to talk about on the phone. I think it’s best if we talk face to face. Meet me at the J&P building tonight at seven.”

  “No.”

  “Don’t make me go behind your back.”

  The kind of fear I haven’t felt since my childhood when I occupied the same room with my father sweeps through me.

  In my mind I’m watching and waiting, afraid to breathe or speak, sweating, every internal organ having turned to stone, every muscle tensed, my mouth filled with a metallic bitterness while he does nothing more remarkable than eat his dinner or watch a ball game on TV.

  I never knew when it would happen or if it would happen at all.

  I’ve dealt with many kinds of fear during my life: the fear of facing a dangerous situation on the job; the fear of ending up broke and homeless; the fear all mothers have for the wel
fare of their children. But no matter how intense the fear, I could always attach an explanation to the source: I’m a police officer doing my job; life is hard and expensive; there are illnesses, and drunk drivers, and an endless list of random accidents that cause the death of children.

  The fear my father inspired in me was entirely different. It was the free-falling terror of having been pushed from a cliff by an unseen hand without reason, without anyone to catch me, without any chance of survival.

  Each time he hurt me I felt like I was falling, and each time he stopped I felt like I had hit the bottom of a canyon. I would pick myself up and realize I had become a ghost looking at life from another dimension, unable to feel the things the living felt and unable to care about the same things they cared about. The only course left to me that could bring me any peace was to discover what had I done to make my own father want to harm me. I did everything he wanted and gave him everything he asked for. I had been as generous and uncomplaining as the hills he mined.

  “Did you hear me?” Cam Jack breaks into my thoughts.

  I’m trying to find my safe place, but for the first time in my life I can’t get to it. A fear bigger than the fear of what’s scaring me on the outside is keeping me from getting inside. It’s the memory of the face at the window—pale, blurred, desperate. That it could be someone who knows me or someone who doesn’t, that it could be trying to get in or trying to convince me to come out are equally terrifying thoughts to me.

  I glance at Dusty through my reflection on the driver’s side window. He’s scooping the last bites of waffle into his mouth.

  I hover on the glass, a specter of myself: colorless, translucent, temporary.

  “Yes,” I tell Cam.

  “Meet me in my office at seven.”

  “I will.”

  In Cam Jack’s case, I had been as easy to rape as the land he owned.

  Chapter Nineteen

  JIMMY STANDS AT HIS DOOR leaning heavily on his cane and looks from me in my snow bunny ensemble with my battered face to Dusty, diverting his eyes ashamedly like a penitent little boy swaying slightly and stinking greatly from the alcohol he’s consumed over the past few days. Jimmy doesn’t look the least bit surprised to see us.

  “Well I can’t say you’re a sight for sore eyes,” he says, “but you’re welcome to come in for a visit all the same.”

  He turns and walks slowly into the family room. He’s wearing his prosthetic today, which means Isabel is planning on taking him on an outing when she gets home from school.

  He lowers himself into his chair and looks exactly the same as he did when I left him yesterday, right down to his silver cowlicks, except for the addition of a second slipper.

  “So don’t tell me you two have joined forces and have been out terrorizing the countryside,” he comments as we take seats on the couch.

  “Our paths just crossed this morning and our conditions have nothing to do with each other,” I assure him.

  He clears his throat and gestures toward the kitchen with a toss of his head.

  I realize what he wants. I get up and return with a shot glass and the Bushmills.

  Jimmy’s in the middle of explaining our greeting ritual and providing Dusty with an example of an oxymoron.

  “I get it. Okay. I get it. Can I play?”

  Jimmy raises one eyebrow skeptically.

  “By all means. The more the merrier.”

  I pour the shot.

  “Student teacher,” I begin.

  He’s unimpressed.

  “Light heavyweight,” he counters.

  “Chocolate milk,” Dusty volunteers.

  Jimmy and I look at each other. Jimmy smiles and shakes his head.

  “A noble effort, son. Wait and try again.”

  “Minor catastrophe,” I say.

  He pauses to consider it, seems to like it, then offers, “Still life.”

  “That’s good,” I admit.

  “Row boat,” Dusty says.

  Jimmy almost bursts out laughing but catches himself. He bows his head and reaches out to pat Dusty’s knee encouragingly.

  “You’re getting the hang of it.”

  “She’s turned up missing,” I say.

  He reaches out and pushes the glass in my direction.

  I take it and toss down the drink.

  The whiskey hits my empty stomach with a hollow splash and spreads slowly like a warm sludge through my veins. I feel sick, but not as sick as I did while I was talking to Cam Jack.

  Dusty looks back and forth between us.

  “I don’t get that one,” he says.

  Jimmy reaches out and pats his knee a second time. He notices the bag Dusty has with him.

  “Are those clean clothes in that bag?” he asks him.

  Dusty nods.

  “Why don’t you go upstairs and take a nice hot shower and change into them. You’re a little ripe. And then we’ll talk.”

  After he’s gone, Jimmy reaches for the bottle and pours a shot for himself. I start to object but he holds up a hand to silence me.

  “How are you?” he asks me.

  “I’m fine.”

  I can feel him staring at the new bruise on my face, willing me to look him in the eyes. I finally do.

  “Shae-Lynn, you’re not obligated to go through life with bruises and broken bones. This doesn’t have to be your father’s legacy to you.”

  I don’t know how to respond to this.

  “I’m fine,” I repeat. “This has nothing to do with my father. It’s my sister.”

  “Shannon beat you?”

  “No, nothing like that. I haven’t even seen her since yesterday morning. She didn’t come home last night. This is from someone who’s looking for her.”

  “Someone looking for her attacked you? What kind of people is she dealing with?”

  “I still don’t have all the facts.”

  “Have you told Clay?”

  “He knows she’s come back and he knows she’s pregnant, but I haven’t told him anything about her plans for the baby or anybody else’s plans for the baby. There’s no point in going to the police. She hasn’t done anything illegal and as far as I know neither have any of these people who are looking for her.”

  I stop and think about what I’ve just said.

  If Shannon as a consenting adult in full possession of all her faculties offered to have sex with a man in exchange for fifty bucks she could be arrested and would be considered morally bankrupt. Yet she can get pregnant and hand over her baby in exchange for a suitcase full of cash and everyone’s okay with that.

  Jimmy seems to read my thoughts.

  “What an arse-backwards world we live in,” he says. “It’s against the law for women to sell a poke at their honey pots, but it’s fine for them to sell their children.”

  He takes a long, thoughtful drink of his whiskey.

  “Pardon my French,” he apologizes.

  “I thought it was very nicely put.”

  “What’s wrong with the lad?” he asks.

  “I think he’s losing his mind.”

  “It’s about time,” he says, looking almost pleased at my disclosure. “The resiliency of youth. I lost mine not long after it happened.”

  “I remember.”

  “But I got it back.”

  “I think he needs to talk about Jojo with someone, but he doesn’t realize that’s what he needs to talk about.”

  “And what about you? What do you need to talk about?”

  My thoughts go back to Shannon. I’ve been trying to reach her on her cell phone all morning and I keep calling my house. I get no answer. I wonder if Vlad would answer if he’s still there.

  She could have the baby any minute. Or maybe she did have the baby. Maybe she’s in the hospital. Maybe the delivery didn’t go well and she hasn’t been able to call me. All this time I’ve been assuming she’s fine and can handle herself. I was even starting to think that she might be staying away from me on purpose to ma
ke me worry, that she’s playing some kind of spiteful game with me, or even that she left again. I never stopped to consider the most obvious possibility.

  I excuse myself and tell Jimmy I have to make a phone call. I take the bottle of Bushmills with me and return it to its hiding place while he creatively curses me.

  I have the hospital switchboard’s number memorized from my days as a Centresburg cop. I’m put through to the maternity ward.

  I ask the nurse if a Shannon Penrose or a Jamie Ruddock has been admitted. She answers no to both names.

  I ask her if any single woman, mid-thirties, with dark hair, probably alone and with no health insurance was admitted.

  She asks me what’s going on. I’m the third person in the past twenty-four hours to ask for either a Shannon Penrose or a Jamie Ruddock and then ask for any random single woman in her mid-thirties with no health insurance when it turned out there was no such patient.

  I ask her if one of the callers was a man and one was a woman. She tells me that much but won’t tell me if either one of them left a name or phone number.

  So Kozlowski hasn’t found her yet, and Pamela must have lost her again.

  I hang up the phone and I’m overcome with the same wave of exhaustion that hit me in Lib’s yard where I wanted to lie down in his grass and sleep forever.

  I decide to take a drive home and see what’s going on there: if Shannon has shown up or the Russian has left.

  On my way out I ask Jimmy if I can borrow his cassette tape of one of the interviews the Jolly Mount Five did after the rescue.

  I want to play it before I see Cam Jack tonight. I want to have their memories and my own fresh in my mind.

  Chapter Twenty

  VLAD’S BLUE FORD IS gone from my driveway and Shannon’s car is still missing, too.

  Gimp is stretched out on a rug not far from my front door. He raises his head and thumps his tail.

  “Those who swap loyalty for meat by-products forfeit scratchies,” I tell him.

  He wags his tail more vigorously.