What Makes a Family

by Colleen Faulkner

  “You can bring it down later. Towels, too.” I put my hands together, realizing I have to say something about the will. Because Mrs. Brodie has pushed me to it. Her lying there so quiet. “Something else I need to talk to you about.”

  Abby looks surprised. I guess because I don’t usually tell people I need to talk to them. I just talk to them. “It’s about Mrs. Brodie’s will.” The second it comes out of my mouth, I wonder if we shouldn’t talk in the hall. Just in case Mrs. Brodie can hear us. But I decide to stay put. If she doesn’t like what I have to say, she can just get up out of that bed and tell me herself. And while she’s up, she can call Clancy and set things right.

  I take the afghan off the chair again. Shake it out again. My daughter’s watching me. I guess I shocked her with my boldness. Bold isn’t a word a person would use to describe me. Somebody might say I’m a hard worker, or I’m loyal, or I’m plain, but no one would say I was bold.

  Truth is, I’m surprising myself. “Where’s your brother?” I ask.

  She looks at me funny. “Um . . . in the bathroom, I think.”

  I lift my head in that direction. “Go get him. No need for me to say this twice.”

  “What?” She lets go of Mrs. Brodie’s hand.

  I point in the direction of the door. “Go get Joseph and come back with him. Where’s your sister?”

  Abby’s still looking at me funny. “Um . . . I think she and Ainslie were walking down to the dock. Marly couldn’t stay. She said to tell you she said hello, and she’ll see you tomorrow when she comes back for Ainslie.”

  “She ask how Mrs. Brodie was?”

  Abby shakes her head. “No, but I think Joseph—”

  “Go on, then.” I don’t give her the chance to finish. She told me what I already knew; Marly’s not all that interested in this family. Never was. Now I want to hurry up with this before I lose my nerve. “Fetch your brother and bring him back and not a word to your father or your sister,” I warn, the afghan in one hand so I can hold up a finger with the other.

  She takes one more look at me, and out she goes.

  I glance at Mrs. Brodie. “I know you’re not going to like what I have to say to them, but . . . this is a mess of your own making. You didn’t think I was going to just let you leave Celeste out without putting up a fuss, did you?” I listen to her not say a word. Then I realize what I’ve said. “No, I don’t guess you did expect me to do anything about it, did you?” I whisper, a lump rising in my throat. “Because when did I ever?”

  It’s not long before Abby is standing in the doorway with Joseph right behind her, tugging on the brim of his ball cap, looking like he’d like to be anywhere but here. Just like his father, that one.

  “Close the door,” I tell them.

  They come in and close the door behind them. They look so puzzled, I almost smile. Not often that anyone can say I surprise them.

  I clear my throat, taking my time, wondering how Mrs. Brodie would say this. She’d come right out and just say it, I guess, so I do. “Your father told me what’s in Mrs. Brodie’s will.” I nod politely in her direction. “About leaving money to you two but not Celeste.” Even though the door is shut, I say it quiet, on the outside chance Celeste is in the house. Because I’m sure not going to be the one to break the news. If she has to be told, it can be Little Joe who does the telling. It’s his mother who’s made this mess.

  Abby glances over her shoulder at her brother. She almost looks like a teenager, with no makeup and her hair all messy. She’s got what I’d call natural beauty. She doesn’t need face powder and lipstick like Celeste does.

  Abby meets her brother’s gaze, and they seem to communicate without words. The two were always close. She was like a little mother to him. I cared for him the best I could, but I think she filled in the gaps. I was always thankful for that.

  Abby speaks first. “We had no idea about the will until Daddy told us.”

  “Mrs. Brodie didn’t tell you she was leaving you a truckload of money?” I ask. Sounds just like her. To give somebody something without giving him or her the opportunity to at least say thank you.

  “She . . .” Abby comes closer. “She mentioned her will a couple of weeks ago to me. She said something about pin money, but I didn’t . . . I had no idea she was leaving me that kind of money, and I certainly didn’t know that Celeste wasn’t getting anything.”

  I don’t like having nothing to do with my hands, so I start lining up the peppermints on the nightstand. There are five. “What about you?” I ask Joseph. “She tell you?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  I look down at Mrs. Brodie, giving her one last chance to speak up. She doesn’t.

  “It’s not right,” I tell them. “Celeste needs her inheritance.”

  “Daddy says maybe Mom Brodie thought Celeste already got hers. More or less,” my daughter pipes up.

  “She borrowed money from Mom Brodie that she never paid back.” Joseph.

  “You don’t know that,” I say. “I don’t know that. I don’t see any IOUs.” I point to the bedside table. “You see any IOUs?”

  Joseph looks at his sister. She’s always been the ringleader, that one. Joseph’s a good boy, but he’s a follower. I worry that when his daddy can’t run this farm . . . the island, Joseph won’t be able to step into his work boots. I don’t know if he’ll be able to make the decisions that have to be made to keep a business running. Hard decisions. He’s got such a soft heart. Sometimes that’s a good thing, but sometimes it makes a person weak. Weak people don’t make good leaders. I know Joseph’s the male heir and all that, but Abby’s the one to give the job of keeping the Brodies going. I think Little Joe knows it. Maybe Joseph does, too. But it’s not something we’ve talked about.

  “And I think,” Abby goes on, “that Mom Brodie might have worried the money would just . . . go to waste.”

  “Not our business to say how Celeste spends it,” I counter. “Who’s to say buying whatever you intend to buy with the money is any better than what she’ll buy?”

  “I don’t know what we could do about the money if we wanted to.” Abby rests her hands on her hips. “The will is legal. Mom Brodie has the right to leave her money to whomever she likes.”

  “Don’t tell me she can leave it to that dog,” I threaten, holding up my finger.

  Abby cuts her eyes at her brother like I’m talking crazy.

  I ignore them. “I know what you can do. This is what you do. You put your money together”—I put my hands together—“the two of you, and you split it three ways.” I pull my hands apart. “Celeste doesn’t even have to know. She won’t ask to see the will. You tell her she’s getting money. She’ll ask how much. All she need know is that she’s getting a third of what Mrs. Brodie left to her grandchildren.”

  The two of them are looking at each other again.

  “Mom,” Joseph says slowly. “I have no idea how we would do that, tax-wise. It would be like giving her a big chunk of money. It’s different from inheriting money. The tax implications are different.”

  I shrug, moving toward the door. I’ve talked more today than I talk in a week, and I’m about talked out. Besides, I need to get the iced tea poured and find Little Joe some aspirin. “Figure it out. The two of you are smart. We’ve got an accountant and a lawyer, and there’s plenty more where they came from. I think between all of you, you’ll be able to work it out.”

  “What’s Daddy think of this idea?” Abby asks me.

  I shrug as I walk out of the room. “Don’t know. And don’t know that I care.”

  As I walk down the hall, I hear Joseph speak, then Abby, but they’re talking quiet enough that I can’t understand what they’re saying.

  For once I don’t think I care about that, either.

  25

  Sarah

  I catch Mom as she’s coming out of the big downstairs bathroom. “Mom?” I don’t say it too loud because I don’t want anyone else to hear me. “You can’t guess what I fou
nd.” I’m so excited; I’m bouncing on my bare feet like I’m a little kid. This place makes me feel that way, sometimes. This house. Not in a bad way, though. Maybe because I spent so much time here when I was little, and I was so happy here. Maybe because Mom did, too? I don’t know.

  Mom looks up at me. She has her worried face on. She comes toward me. She looks so young she could almost be my sister.

  My excitement falls off, and I hold my closed laptop to my chest, hugging it. “Oh, no. Mom Brodie didn’t—”

  Mom shakes her head.

  Then I see Uncle Joseph come out of the bathroom behind her, and I look at him and then at her. He slips past us like he’s trying to escape.

  “Ainslie’s here,” he tells me, walking backwards down the hall. “She was so excited when she heard you were here.”

  I smile because that seems like the right thing to do. “Are you staying for a sleepover?” Sometimes Ainslie spends the night when we’re here, and Uncle Joseph stays, too. I love it when they both stay. Breakfast is so much fun I actually get up for it. If Dad and Reed were here, that would make it perfect.

  It’s kind of weird that Mom Brodie’s impending death means a good time for me. I’m not sure what to do with that. Think about it later.

  “We’ll see about the sleepover.”

  The minute he turns into the kitchen, I look at Mom again. “Were you and Uncle Joseph just in the bathroom together? With the door closed?”

  When she doesn’t respond right away, I know something is up. “What’s going on? I know you two weren’t peeing together.”

  Mom exhales and pushes some loose pieces of hair back off her forehead like she’s hot. “Family business.”

  I stand there for a minute. I don’t believe her. Well . . . it might be family business, but it’s not about the price of soy beans or buying a house on the island to use as a rental property. It’s about us. I can see it in the little lines at the corners of her eyes. Which are what make her look like my mom and not my sister.

  I think about pushing the subject. I’m a Brodie, too, and I’m old enough to start being included in family dramas. This one obviously has to do with my aunt Celeste, because most of the dramas in this family revolve around her. Uncle Joseph gets the occasional one, like when he married Marly. And when he told everyone they were separating. But that died down pretty quickly, mostly because Birdie never liked Marly anyway. There’s never any drama with Mom, except when she gets into a fight with Birdie or Celeste, but she always ends up apologizing, even when she shouldn’t, and it blows over pretty quickly.

  “We should go outside. Your grandfather’s feelings will be hurt if we don’t make a fuss over the crabs.”

  “I got it; I got it,” I say, trying to lighten things up. “Wow, Grandpop, these are huge. And heavy.” I pretend like I’m lifting a crab. I am a vegetarian, but I eat crab. Not at a restaurant, but if it’s fresh and someone I’m related to by blood makes it or it comes out of water touched by Brodie soil. I also eat fish, and sometimes mussels when Dad brings them home from Mom’s favorite seafood place at home. Well, her second favorite seafood place. Her favorite is the public dock in town. Anyone with the last name Brodie walks down the dock, and people just hand us free fish and clams and stuff. People act like we’re these benevolent ladies and lords or something. Like on Downton Abbey. Mom and I binge-watched all the seasons in one weekend last winter when we got snowed in. I guess Grandpop and Mom Brodie are kind of like the Crawley family. Were . . . Mom Brodie won’t be bestowing any more acts of kindness on anyone.

  Mom looks like she wants to get by me, but I don’t let her. “Guess what I found out.” My excitement comes back to me.

  She presses her lips together. She’s really upset about whatever is going on. “What?”

  “Mom Brodie lied.”

  She blinks. Like her head was somewhere else, and now she’s trying to find her way to what I’m saying. “Lied about what?”

  “All kinds of things.” I lower my voice. I still don’t know where my snoopy grandmother is.

  Now Mom’s annoyed with me. She’s getting her hackles up. That’s what Dad calls it when she gets all stiff and her voice gets tight. “I’m looking for an example, here, Sarah.” Now it’s the Mom voice I rarely hear. The one that’s critical and judgey.

  “Her name, for one thing.”

  Mom’s looking at me like she doesn’t believe me.

  “There’s no Sarah Agnes Hafland born in Indiana in 1915, Mom. Or Chicago. The marriage certificate says she was born in Chicago.”

  “It was probably just a mistake.”

  “Right, because we all know she was born in Indiana. But there’s no Sarah Agnes Hafland born in Gary, Indiana, in that decade. Sarah Hafland doesn’t exist.”

  She frowns. “How do you know?”

  “The Internet, Mom.” I try not to get impatient. She and I have had this exchange a million times. I’m always saying “Google it” or “YouTube it.” “You can look up anything.”

  She glances past me, down the hall. “We need to be outside,” she says quietly.

  I nod. But I’m not going anywhere until I tell her what I found out. “Her name was Sarah Han-fland. She always told us it was Hafland. And that’s what’s on her marriage certificate. But I found her birth certificate, Mom. It was online. And she wasn’t born in 1915, either. She was born in 1917. Which means—”

  “She’s not a hundred and two,” my mother interrupts.

  “She’s not a hundred and two,” I repeat slowly as I meet my mother’s gaze. “It also means she married Great-Grandpop—”

  “When she was sixteen,” my mother murmurs, looking down at the floor, “not eighteen.”

  We both let that settle in for a minute. That means Mom Brodie was a year older than I am right now when she married Great-Grandpop and moved to Brodie Island. The idea is so unbelievable that it makes me a little dizzy thinking about it.

  Mom’s frowning so hard that her forehead is wrinkled. “How’d you find her birth certificate?” She turns and leans her back on the wall. “And don’t tell me the Internet. It might not be hers,” she adds.

  I lean on the opposite wall so we’re facing each other in the hall. “I’m telling you, Mom, this birth certificate is hers, and her name is Sarah Agnes Hanfland, and she was born in 1917. First I just Googled her name and nothing came up, but then I started Googling birth records in Indiana, and I was still not coming up with anything. But then this ad popped up about researching your heritage. There’s this online company that has access to all these records, birth records, immigration records, death records, and if you pay an annual fee you can see any records they have for a whole year. And you can also see all the records and information other members have found and posted.”

  “You bought a year’s subscription to Ancestry.com? How did you pay for it? You better not have used my credit card.”

  “I didn’t use your credit card,” I defend. “I was going to call Dad and ask for his number, but then I remembered that this girl on my hockey team was talking about how her mom used it to track down her birth mother and how now her mom’s all into it. So I texted the girl and got her mom’s password and stuff.”

  “You hacked into someone’s account?”

  I make a face. “I didn’t hack in, Mom. I had the user name and password. That’s not hacking.”

  “To-may-to, to-mah-to,” she says.

  I exhale in a huff. Now I’m getting annoyed with her. I thought she would think this was cool. Cool that Mom Brodie’s life was more interesting than we thought, which was obvious when the tattoo showed up. But I guess I was also hoping Mom was going to be impressed that I’d used my Benedict Cumberbatch (I’m secretly in love with Bennie) Sherlock powers of deduction to find Mom Brodie’s birth certificate from 1917.

  “I’ll prove it to you,” I tell her. “Don’t you want to see it?”

  “What I want to do, Sarah, is go sit outside under Granddaddy Oak and pick crabs a
nd have a beer with my family.”

  “Mom—” I cut myself off. “Fine.” I huff again. Then I turn and head for the kitchen, the laptop still in my arms.

  “We’ll talk about this later,” she calls after me.

  I try to think of a good palindrome for the way I’m feeling, and I say it as I go. “Parcel bare ferret up mock computer-referable crap.” It’s not a great one, but I feel better because I say “crap” really loud.

  26

  Sarah Agnes

  My heart is beating so hard that I feel like it’s going to fly out of my chest. And then I’ll just die because you can’t live without your heart. Which might be okay because right now I feel like I want to die. “I can’t do this,” I pant, pressing my hand to my chest. I can’t breathe. I feel like someone’s thrown a feed sack over my head.

  “Sure you can, mon cher amour.” Henri is relaxing on a pile of crates, whittling on a stick. He came up with this harebrained scheme that he was going to whittle barnyard animals from sticks and sell them to people waiting in line for the Ferris wheel. Sticks are free, he told me. And they’re everywhere. The only problem is, he’s been whittling going on two weeks and still hasn’t come up with a single thing that resembles an animal.

  Henri came back about a week after he took off. I didn’t say anything about the girl he was making business with, and he didn’t say anything about her either, but he hasn’t done it since. I don’t know that I can trust him, though. Both Minnie and Bilis have hinted it would be a mistake to think he won’t do it again. “ ‘Can the Ethiopian change his skin, or the leopard his spots?’” Bilis asked. It comes from the Bible, from Jeremiah, he told me.

  Being with Henri has been what Minnie calls an “eye opener.”

  When I left Bakersville, I had this crazy idea Henri and I were going to get married and settle down and have babies. I thought the carnival was just us sowing oats and that he was going to get some great job, or maybe buy a general store or something so we’d always have plenty of food to eat and shoes for our babies. I’ve learned a lot in the last six months, more than in my previous fourteen years on this earth, I think. Among other things, I’ve realized that men like Henri who work carnivals aren’t the kind of men who marry and settle down. I’m not saying some of them aren’t fine people, because they are. Bilis has been better to me than anyone in my life, my blood kin included. And I’m not just saying that because he loans me books and sometimes brings me little presents from the towns we pass through, like a china teacup and saucer with bluebirds with ribbons in their beaks. He really cares about me. He cares about what I think, and we talk about stuff. Important stuff, like how poor the country has gotten and whose fault it is and how much more complicated the whole thing is than most people think. I’ve learned about stuff like the stock market and what it meant when the papers said it crashed and how Post and Gatty’s flight around the world in a fixed-wing aircraft is going to change everything. But Bilis and I talk about silly stuff, too. Yesterday, we laid on our backs in the grass and watched the clouds drift by in shapes like an umbrella and an anteater. I didn’t even know what an anteater was until he took me back to his truck and showed me a picture in an encyclopedia.