Sister Mine

by Tawni O'Dell

  I jump out of bed, too.

  “You have to have your lunch. I’ll make you something. Don’t worry.”

  “It’s okay, I have my dinner pail and my thermos in the truck. They’re already packed.”

  “You brought them with you last night already packed?”

  He pauses with one foot in his jeans and smiles.

  “Yeah, well, I was hopeful.”

  I smile back.

  “And prepared. You should get some kind of Boy Scout badge for that.”

  “Which one? The looking-to-score badge?”

  I hand him his shirt.

  “What are you doing today?” he asks me.

  “Working. Hopefully. It’s been pretty slow lately.”

  “I mean about Shannon and about Clay.”

  “I’m not doing anything about Shannon. At least I know she’s alive and well. I guess that’s something. I’m not going to chase her. She knows where I am if she ever wants to see me again.”

  “And Clay?”

  I wasn’t able to tell him everything about my troubles with Clay. I actually told him very little last night, only that I think I may have done something rotten and harmful all the while believing it was heroic and good.

  I wasn’t able to tell him about Cam Jack. The reopened wound is too fresh for me to be able to talk about it, plus this new phase of my relationship with E.J.—where I’m a human being and a piece of ass at the same time—is too new and experimental for me to risk jeopardizing it by telling this particular story. If the man were anyone else but Cam Jack, I might be able to do it.

  “I’m not going to chase Clay either,” I say.

  I follow E.J. to the door. We’re in such a hurry I don’t even take time to put on clothes or grab a robe.

  He gives me a kiss in the doorway.

  “I like this new phase of our relationship,” he says, grinning.

  “The love phase?”

  “The naked phase.”

  He slaps my bare butt hard and runs off to his truck, whooping in triumph, the way he used to when we were kids after he’d just knocked me down and pinned me for the heck of it.

  I dress quickly, feed Gimp, and head into Centresburg to take care of some unfinished business that has nothing to do with my cab. My night with E.J. aside, my house has a barren, depressing feel to it this morning and I’m eager to leave it. Shannon and the baby were in it for such a brief period of time, but even a few hours of a baby’s presence is enough to make a lonely house come alive.

  I gave Pamela a call last night to see if she had heard from Shannon, more specifically to find out if she was now the proud new mother of a bouncing baby girl.

  I decided it was too exhausting to keep coming up with lies, so I leveled with her and told her Shannon was my sister and explained briefly why I didn’t tell her all this in the first place.

  She took it better than I thought she would. She was too preoccupied with the news about the baby to care much about anything else.

  With Dmitri in the picture, I imagined Shannon would be eager to simply dump the baby for as much cash as possible and to do it as quickly as possible so she could pay him and get rid of him. But then again, I know nothing about her relationship with him and maybe she’s not eager to get rid of him.

  I also don’t know to what extent Dmitri’s loyalty to his employer stretches. He may insist Shannon sell the baby to this Mickey character with the crazy bimbo wife.

  And I also don’t know how far Kozlowski’s legal powers extend, if he has some binding contract he can slap Shannon with, if he can only find her, and then the baby will go to the Larsons.

  Pamela hadn’t heard from her as of last night.

  We promised to contact each other if either of us heard from Shannon. Otherwise, we planned to meet for breakfast at Eatn’Park.

  I find her sitting alone at a booth by a window staring out at the parking lot.

  She’s wearing a raw silk blazer in pale orange. She’d probably call it crushed tangerine or maybe melon pearl. A camisole of the same color peeks out from beneath it.

  I check under the table before I sit down to make sure her shoes match the jacket. They do.

  I’m seated and have already ordered coffee before she bothers to glance my way.

  Her face looks amazingly fresh and unlined for someone who should have had a sleepless night. I only detect the slightest lavender shadow of exhaustion beneath her eyes that her concealer was unable to completely cover.

  It’s the eyes themselves that give away her advancing age and the haggard condition of her inner self. The decisions she’s made, the goals she’s pursuing, the ongoing struggle to make ends justify means: All of it is reflected in their muddied blue depths and none of it can be quickly and easily erased. There’s no Botox for the soul.

  “I haven’t heard anything from Jamie, I mean Shannon,” she tells me. “I’m sorry. I can’t get used to calling her that.”

  She picks up her coffee mug with one hand and lays the other hand flat on the table with her fingers splayed out, her flawless nails like an arc of candied almonds.

  “I haven’t heard from her either.”

  “How do I know you’re not lying?”

  Her question surprises me: the content and her tone.

  “Why would I lie? What would my motivation be? I’m only here at all because I feel bad for you.”

  “You feel bad for me?” she says, offended. “I certainly don’t need your pity.”

  “I mean, I feel bad about what my sister did. Even though I haven’t seen her for eighteen years I still feel somewhat responsible.”

  “Why?”

  “I raised her.”

  “You raised her?”

  “Our mother died when Shannon was only a few days old.”

  “So Shannon didn’t have a mother?”

  She takes a sip of her coffee and ponders this.

  “Maybe that’s why she turned out to be so callous and awful.”

  “I know plenty of people who have mothers who turned out to be callous and awful. I think maybe not having a mother is why she can’t be a mother.”

  “Then why get pregnant?”

  “I think in some warped way she thinks it’s her duty.”

  “Her duty? I don’t understand.”

  I don’t know what to say to her. I can’t explain duty to her. I can’t make her understand the way we think. I can’t spell out an unwritten code of conduct that is never explained or taught to any of us but is simply lived: Whatever situation is put in front of you, you find a way to endure it; whenever you’re told to do something, you try to do it well; wherever you end up, you remember where you began.

  I can’t make a sensible argument for whatever it is that makes E.J. go back into the mines every day after he almost lost his life there and has been treated so poorly by the man who employs him; or what made Lib go to a jungle halfway around the world to fight in a war he didn’t understand instead of moving seven hundred miles north to a country similar to his own where he would have been safe; or what made me incapable of leaving or even hating my abusive father until I had a child of my own to protect.

  We live life in a parallel universe to hers. We don’t do what we want in order to get the kind of world we want; we do what we should in order to survive in the world we’ve been given.

  I wasn’t lying and I wasn’t being condescending; I do feel bad for her.

  “I guess it doesn’t matter why she does it,” I say with a finality I hope will put the topic to rest.

  The waitress comes back, pours my coffee, and hands me a big laminated menu.

  I’m starving this morning and dive into the pages eagerly.

  Pamela declines a menu with a wave of her hand and a pursing of her lips.

  “What do you think she’s going to do?” she asks me after the waitress departs.

  I’m busy studying the pictures.

  I don’t look up as I tell her, “I’m not sure. It turns out I wa
s right. There was another family she promised the baby to besides you. And there’s another family that she promised an earlier baby to and backed out on the deal who also thinks they have a right to this baby.”

  “I can’t believe it.”

  “She still might decide to give you the baby, but it’s not going to happen here. I’m sure she’s left again for good. The father’s involved now, too.”

  “The father? She told me there was no way the father could ever find out or would even remotely suspect she was pregnant with his child.”

  “Hard to believe she’d lie. I know.”

  The waitress returns. I order two scrambled eggs, bacon and sausage, a buttermilk biscuit, and a side of hash browns, then call her back at the last minute and ask for a cinnamon bun to start it all off.

  Pamela looks appalled.

  “I don’t usually eat like this. Great sex this morning. Great sex last night, too. Revs up the appetite. You know how it is.”

  I can tell by her expression that she doesn’t.

  “Sorry,” I tell her.

  “This father. How do you know about him?”

  “I met him.”

  “He was here?”

  I start dumping packets of sugar into my coffee.

  “Yep.”

  “Was he attractive?”

  “In a dark, menacing, Cold War sort of way, yes. Definitely attractive. I can’t say for sure if he has all his toes, though.”

  She doesn’t seem to get my joke.

  She falls silent and begins to absentmindedly finger the several braided strands of coral wrapped around her neck.

  I imagine she must be sad. Hurt, probably. Regretful, maybe. Disillusioned? Disappointed? Livid? Suicidal? Or preoccupied with thoughts of a spring trip to the Caribbean? I can’t tell, since her face shows so little expression and her eyes have gone blank.

  I think about Shannon’s description of the nice ladies, well dressed and smelling good, who came to visit her at the home for pregnant teens and then abruptly stopped coming once the baby was gone. I wonder if they ever thought about her again.

  “Let me ask you something. Just out of curiosity. I know right now you’re angry at Shannon and rightfully so—she stole a lot of money from you and broke a promise that broke your heart—but while you were together, did you care about her at all?”

  She stops playing with her necklace and folds her hands in front of her on the tabletop.

  “Of course I did. I was very fond of her. And I’m sure I’ll be fond of the next one, too.”

  “The next one? After what you’ve been through, you’re going to try again? Aren’t you afraid the same thing will happen again, or something worse?”

  “Every time I go through this I learn something new. Eventually I’ll get it right.”

  “How many times have you been through it?”

  “Let’s just say several.”

  The waitress returns with my cinnamon bun. I start pulling it apart and popping pieces into my mouth.

  Pamela can’t watch. She turns her attention out the window again but continues talking to me.

  “With any adoption, there’s always the fear of the knock on the door someday. Maybe the biological mother has found a way to contest the adoption, or she’s shown up with the father and he’s going to contest it for her, or she has no intention of contesting anything but simply wants to ruin the life you’ve established with your child by planting an idea in his head that he was stolen from her or some other equally damaging story.

  “There are always risks,” she finishes, “but if it’s something you want badly enough, you’re willing to face those risks.”

  I nod my agreement while I finish chewing and swallowing.

  She begins to stand up.

  “I hope you don’t mind if I don’t stay. I really want to get back home. It’s a very long drive.”

  “No, I don’t mind at all. But let me ask you one more thing before you go. You said you learn something new every time you go through this. What did you learn from Shannon?”

  She picks up her purse off the booth—the one that matches Shannon’s—and slips it onto her shoulder.

  “The only way to be absolutely sure an adoption is safe is to make sure the biological mother is dead,” she answers me.

  She holds her hand out to shake mine, sees the sticky condition of it, and thinks better of it.

  “It was nice meeting you, Shae-Lynn. Good luck to you and your son. Here. Let me pay for this. I insist.”

  She leaves twenty dollars on the table, reconsiders, and puts down another twenty.

  “Thanks, Pamela,” I call after her departing back. “Good luck to you, too.”

  I pocket the two twenties, smiling to myself. It’s a five-dollar breakfast.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  KOZLOWSKI IS WAITING FOR ME outside the Comfort Inn when I swing by around noon.

  He looks exactly the same to me as he did when I picked him up at the Harrisburg airport a few days ago: same clothes, same bored expression on his featureless features, same stance with his black jacket hooked on a finger and thrown casually over one shoulder.

  He comes walking toward the car, and I get out to stop him.

  “I’m afraid I’m not going to be able to take you to the airport, Gerald. Something’s come up.”

  “I have a flight to catch.”

  “I know. I’m a professional. I would never leave a client stranded. I’ve arranged another ride for you. A friend of mine. You’ll be in good hands.”

  He looks skeptical.

  “I admit to not being overly fond of you and what you do, but I’m not a judgmental person. I try to see life from inside everyone else’s shoes. I have a feeling your shoes weren’t always six-hundred-dollar Prada loafers, and I also have a feeling you used to have an accent you were embarrassed by—Polish, maybe, or maybe it was your dad who had the Polish accent you were embarrassed by and yours was from Brooklyn or the Bronx—regardless I’m going to cut you some slack. I’m disappointed in how you turned out. You’re obviously a smart guy, an ambitious guy, a resourceful guy. I think you should have used your powers for good instead of evil. That’s all.”

  He watches me blankly the entire time I’m speaking. Once I’ve finished he takes his time perusing my outfit: black Caterpillar work boots with yellow laces, black jeans, a tight black tank top with DUMP HIM written across the front in silver glitter block capital letters, a red satin Kansas City Royals baseball jacket, and my pink Stetson.

  “I was just thinking that you dress like my neighbor,” he comments. “My gay neighbor. My male gay neighbor.”

  He checks his watch.

  “I’m going to be late.”

  “You’re going to be fine.”

  “Are you sure Shannon was traveling with Dmitri?” he asks me.

  “They left together but in separate cars. Whatever that means.”

  “I don’t understand. It’s so out of character for her. Shannon gets pregnant from one-night stands. That way she never sees the father again and he has no way of ever knowing she was pregnant in the first place.”

  “So not only are you creating innocent little lives for the sole purpose of selling them, but you’re also making fathers out of men who will never know they’re fathers and will never know their children.”

  “And would never want to know them. Trust me.”

  “I’d rather not,” I reply disgustedly.

  He unzips the outside pocket of his bag and takes out a bottled water.

  I reach into my pocket and take out what was left of my Eatn’Park cinnamon roll wrapped in a napkin. I couldn’t finish everything at the time, but I’m getting hungry again.

  “She met Dmitri over two years ago when she was pregnant with the baby before this one,” he explains to me as he unscrews the cap, watching me uncertainly. “It’s hard to believe they’ve had a relationship all this time.”

  A happy thought occurs to me.

  “Maybe
she’s planning on keeping this baby. Maybe she and Dmitri really are having a relationship and—”

  “And what?” he interrupts me with a laugh, the bottle hovering in front of his mouth. “They’re going to settle down and buy a house in the suburbs and raise a family?”

  My optimism disappears.

  He takes a long drink and returns the bottle to his bag.

  I finish eating and lick icing off my fingers.

  “Didn’t you say they had a fight over him wanting his cut of the money?” he asks me.

  “It wasn’t specifically over the money, but I’m sure that’s what he meant. He said he wanted a say in who adopts the baby.”

  “So she must still be planning on selling the baby, but to whom? The only possible advantage of knowing the identity of the biological father is if he signs the adoption papers. Then the adoption is airtight. Otherwise, as long as he’s out there—even if the mother claims she doesn’t know who he is—there’s always the possibility he can show up and contest it.”

  “That doesn’t make sense either,” I say. “She ran out on him before she got his signature.”

  “Knowing Shannon, she was trying to rip him off, too, and not pay him his share, but she knew if she didn’t get away with it she could still pay him off and get his signature and make the adoption fail-safe. But I don’t know why she’d want to mess with any of that. It’s easier to get pregnant by a stranger you’ll never see again.”

  “I think that’s the new motto for the Pennsylvania Domestic Abuse Hotline,” I tell him.

  An old pickup truck pasted in peeling red, white, and blue bumper stickers and in need of a new muffler comes rumbling into the parking lot.

  I smile at Kozlowski.

  “Here’s your ride now.”

  Choker pulls up in front of us.

  Kozlowski doesn’t move.

  “Hey, Choker.”

  I wave at him.

  He puts his truck in park, gets out, and comes walking over to us to help Kozlowski with his bag. I told him this was a job and I expected him to act accordingly as a representative of my cab company.

  “Sorry I’m a little late,” he tells me when he arrives in front of us. “There’s a big wreck on Electric Avenue and traffic’s all blocked up.”