My Sister's Voice

by Mary Carter

  You are a unique individual. There is no one and never will be anyone like you ever again. Harness your individuality! Change your blueprints, change your life. You are the Architect of Your Soul.

  She could give the workshop in her sleep. Joe, her fiancé and silent partner in crime, had seen to it. She wanted to give him the credit, if not all of it, then at least share it, but Joe wouldn’t hear of it. He didn’t want his colleagues making fun of him for one—they weren’t the “new age type,” and besides, he said, the idea would sell better coming from a gorgeous young woman.

  He loved her, he was helping her launch a career, supporting her creative endeavors. And some of the ideas had been all hers, hadn’t they? Although not everything was orchestrated the way she wanted it. The book belonged to her, but the enterprise, Help Yourself Inc.!, a series of motivational workshops, belonged to Josh Paris. Which explained the disco lights, confetti, and “Celebrate Good Times” that blasted at every interval. Not to mention the required sales pitches of all the other motivational books in the series. “Enterprise” was right; sometimes it all felt alien to Monica, and she prayed in the middle of some workshops that someone would just beam her up and she could be done with this workshop, and this life, altogether.

  Every job had its downside; she was lucky, she reminded herself. I’m helping people. I am helping people.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Monica Bowman.” At her assistant Tina’s introduction, the audience broke into applause. Monica touched the small plastic bottle in her blazer pocket just before she walked through the swirling flakes of colored paper falling from the ceiling. She stood center stage and lifted her arms.

  “Hello, Boston.” She waited for the response. They shouted hello back, but it was not quite the level of hysteria she’d contractually promised to generate. “I said, ‘Hello, Boston.’ ” This time they erupted into cheers; the cynics clapped only slightly louder, and the people pleasers leapt to their feet. They’d have sore throats tomorrow. “This is my hometown,” Monica shouted before they had completely died down. “It’s good to be home.” More shouts, a few whistles. “As you know, I am Monica Bowman, and I am the Architect of My Soul.” The loudest response yet. Monica allowed this one to completely die down before continuing. “But I am not the only one. You are all the architects of your souls. So why, some of you may ask, does life seem so unfair? Why are some of you living in broken-down RVs in the middle of nowhere, while the person next to you is luxuriating in a castle in the sky?” Monica had this down to a science: the split second it would take for the audience to glance at the person next to them, the laughter the room would generate when they caught on to the joke, the way they’d eventually settle in to listen, even the cynics. She was always attuned to their energy and would monitor her movements, her voice, and her cadence to match.

  “It’s not fate, or luck of the draw, that determines your life’s abode, my friends. It’s you. It’s the choices you’ve made up until now. And if you love that RV, then by all means, stay and enjoy, but if you want the castle in the sky, then stick with me this weekend, because I’m going to let you in on a powerful secret. You can have it. You can build it. You are not stuck with the blueprint you’ve been given. It’s as simple as ripping it up and starting a new one. That’s it. That’s the message. Sound simple? It is. Sound powerful? It can change your life. And I’ll spend the rest of the weekend showing you how.”

  Tina joined her in passing out booklets and breaking the crowd into small groups for the first series of exercises and discussions. Once Monica got through the embarrassing bits, and the small groups began sharing the “Fatal Flaws in their Foundations,” time flew. Monica truly wanted to send these people home with renewed hope, and once that desire kicked in, she felt truly alive. And the more Monica did the workshop, the more she realized people were basically all the same. They varied in dress, and background, and culture, but their inner cries were all the same:

  I work too much.

  I hate my job, husband, kids, house.

  I’m broke.

  I’m fat.

  I don’t have the time.

  I’m tired all the time.

  I’m too old. (A twenty-five-year-old girl said this once, sobbing as she lamented her recent birthday.)

  I’m not smart enough, pretty enough, thin enough, young enough, lucky enough—

  Enough, Monica wanted to shout sometimes. Just—enough. These are the moments she forgot she was here to help them, she had a job to do. She’d give another pep talk after the small-group activity, just to stop them from piercing themselves with their forks during lunch, and promised when they got back she’d teach them to “Build a Better Base.” Confetti would fly again, and disco music and lights would assure them that good times were coming. Sometimes she fully expected people to walk out, tell her she was full of crap, never return.

  They hardly ever did. It’s the only thing that kept her going. By the end of the day, participants seemed to really be getting the hang of it, and those brave enough came up to the front of the room to demonstrate how they could go about “Redecorating their Rooms.” Monica would assign them a little homework before dismissing them, a visualization exercise they should be ready to share the next morning. Tina gave her a thumbs-up at the back of the room, and the lights and music played, indicating their day was done.

  Monica left Tina to staff the book sales at the back of the room, and slipped out a side door. She was longing to get back to the privacy of her room. But just as the elevator doors were about to close, hands shot in and pried them back open. Tina, a five-foot-two bundle of sparks, smiled from the other side. Her short blond hair, cut like a pixie, was always slightly more spiked at the end of the day, as if the excitement they’d generated during the afternoon had actually lifted her roots. Green confetti clung to her left cheek.

  “Don’t forget your interview,” she said. “Seven o’clock by the pool.”

  “Oh, right,” Monica said. “I forgot all about it.”

  “He’s dreamy,” Tina said.

  “He’s here?” Monica asked.

  Tina nodded. “I’ll stand in for you if you want,” she said with a smile and a raise of her dainty eyebrows. Monica was sorely tempted to take her up on the offer; all she wanted was a hot bath and a glass of wine.

  “Join us if you’d like,” Monica said. “But I think I should be there.”

  “No prob,” Tina said. “Just—you know—do something about that hair, will you?” Monica touched her hair. Tina laughed. “And that body, and those eyes, and no matter what you do, don’t throw your head back and laugh. This guy is mine, do you hear me? I’ve already blueprinted him.” Monica laughed. Tina pointed at her. “That’s what I’m talking about,” she said. “Don’t do that.” Monica waved her away.

  “See you at seven,” she said.

  “Feel free to make it eight,” Tina said as the elevator doors closed.

  Monica’s new hotel room was better than the first one they gave her. All it took was a polite but firm phone call. She didn’t want a view of the parking lot, did they have anything facing the pool? She was proud of herself as she stood before the open window, staring down at the Olympic-sized outdoor pool, where any minute the lights surrounding it would start to glow and the table and chairs beyond it would fill with guests drinking wine and laughing into the night. Soon she would be one of the guests sitting down there, answering questions about her workshop for yet another newspaper reporter. A dreamy reporter, apparently.

  Monica kicked off her pumps and removed her gray blazer. Her feet were killing her. She sat on the edge of the bed and rubbed them. She flung herself back on the bed and took deep, cleansing breaths. There was always a slight letdown at the end of the day, a natural consequence of expending so much energy, she supposed. She would get the interview over with, get a good night’s sleep, and be raring to go tomorrow. Tomorrow was a new day. She would even think about leaving the pills up in the room.

/>   Maybe she’d have a glass of wine with the dreamy reporter. But just one; she was a lightweight when it came to alcohol. You’ve heard of load-bearing walls, right? she could hear Joe say. Well, let’s put something in the book about the load your soul can bear. It’s important to know the exact weight you can handle. Too little and you’re not carrying your full potential; too much and you’ll collapse!

  Your book is total crap. Monica froze. The voice, her internal critic, was back. So much for cleansing breaths.

  She sat up, turned, and caught sight of her reflection in the window, a ghostly version of herself. She was surprised by what she saw. You look sad, she thought. Why doesn’t anyone ever notice? She peeled off her hose and then closed the curtains before taking off the rest of her clothes. She stood in front of the closed curtains in her bra and panties, and entertained a strange urge to rip them open, stand there, and see if anyone would notice her. She’d never been an exhibitionist, and she’d no intention of starting now, but she was amazed that the thought had even crossed her mind, like a person discovering a hidden talent.

  Don’t dress sexy, she heard Tina tease. She should probably try and call Joe before the interview. Let him know how the day went. She walked over to the dresser where she’d tossed her purse and was about to go for her phone when she remembered. He was working on plans for a huge bid this weekend. Should she call anyway? Guess what I’m wearing?

  Joe wouldn’t be amused. Maybe the dreamy reporter will. What was wrong with her? Childish, that’s what she was this evening. She should call her parents. But then she remembered they were going to the cabin this weekend, getting ready for Aunt Grace’s big party. Forty-something, Aunt Grace would never tell. Monica and Joe and Tina would be headed to the cabin after the weekend. Monica was actually looking forward to it for once.

  At least it would take her mind off herself for a while. Off the bottle of pills in her pocket. Off the feeling that she was being watched, even though she knew better, she knew no one was there. It didn’t stop her from turning and looking, sometimes several times a day. Was she going crazy? Did she inherit the Bowmans’ “delicate states of mind,” as her mother described the family she’d married into? She was definitely having a glass of wine with Mr. Dreamy. It was too bad the hotel didn’t allow dogs; it would be nice to have Snookie to cuddle with tonight. She wondered, as she put on a rose sundress and slipped on her gold flip-flops, if it was a bad sign that it was Snookie, and not Joe, that she wanted to cuddle with.

  Tina was already at the poolside table, cornering the market on the head-thrown-back-in-laughter. In fact, Monica heard her before she spotted her. Oh, how she envied Tina’s frivolity. Some days Monica thought Tina should be the one giving the workshops; she certainly had the gusto. Despite her pixielike nature and light blond hair, she wasn’t exactly a beauty. Her nose was just a little too long, her eyes a tad too close together, but when it came to her personality, she outshone everyone; males and females alike were attracted to her endless enthusiasm. Monica knew within ten minutes of interviewing her that she would be her assistant. They’d been together two years now, and Monica knew she wouldn’t have come this far without her. Tina’s only downfall was men. Although she tried to brush it off with her usual carefree approach, Tina wanted to fall in love, get married, and have babies. Monica tried to tell her the book taught you how to change things you could control in life, not the randomness of love, but Tina was adamant she could use it to “hook a husband.” And from the sounds of her, she was in the middle of trying to bait one as they spoke.

  Maybe Monica should turn around and go back to the room, let Tina have the hunk all to herself. But it wasn’t Tina’s book, so Monica kept walking to the table. She’d make it short, answer the questions, then leave the potential lovebirds alone. Just as she rounded the corner, she saw him. He looked up, and their eyes locked. He was staring at her so intently she had to tell herself to keep moving. She smiled, although she felt slightly sick. He was very good-looking, all right; dreamy was an apt description. He had thick waves of dark hair, a strong face, and green eyes that surely drew as many compliments as her ice blue ones. He stood as she approached, and held out his hand. Monica didn’t dare look at Tina, whose laughter had abruptly stopped.

  “Hi, I’m Monica,” she said as their hands touched. He smiled as he gripped her hand in his, but shook his head slightly, as if he couldn’t quite believe he was meeting her. Monica felt her face flush; she wasn’t that famous.

  “I’m Mike,” he said.

  “Sit down,” Tina said, pulling out a chair. It was only then that Monica realized they hadn’t let go of each other’s hands. Monica pulled away first, and he waited for her to take her seat before taking his own.

  “This is so weird,” he said, gazing at her. Monica laughed, and glanced at Tina. Tina laughed too, but whereas Monica’s was nervous, hers was hollow.

  “I take it you’re a fan?” Monica asked.

  “A fan?” He sounded genuinely confused.

  “Of the book,” Monica said quickly. “I didn’t mean me.”

  “Oh yes, the book,” Mike said. “That’s totally why this is so weird.” He continued to smile, but no more words fell from his lips.

  “Who wants a drink?” Tina said.

  “A glass of Chardonnay would be great,” Monica said. Mike reached for his wallet.

  “I’ll get it,” Tina said. “You two can start the interview—get it over with—while I get the drinks, then we can just—relax and enjoy.” Don’t be desperate, Monica wanted to say. But who was she to judge? A motivational speaker who carried around a bottle of sleeping pills because just having them on hand calmed her down, that’s who she was.

  “What would you like, Mike?” Tina said. She gave a little hoot at the rhyme as she waited.

  “Uh—Chardonnay for me too,” he said.

  “Really,” Tina said. “I pegged you as a Pilsner Urquell guy.” She winked. “I’m a martini girl.” Mike smiled and held out his hands.

  “I’m open,” he said. “Surprise me.” Tina laughed and rocked up on her toes.

  “I like the sound of that,” she said. “Be right back.” Monica gazed out at the pool. The sun was just starting to set, the lights barely glowing but visible. Potted plants and shrubs completed the outdoor Eden. It was romantic, and he was gorgeous—she had to face it, he was gorgeous. That’s why her heart was tripping, why the thought of being alone with him made her giddy.

  “Where are you from?” she asked.

  “Philadelphia,” he said. She frowned. “Is something wrong?”

  “No—I just—assumed you were from a Boston paper.”

  “Oh. Right. That makes sense.”

  “What paper are you from?”

  “Um. It’s more of a local artists’ co-op,” he said.

  “Oh. Cool.”

  “Yeah. We have some of Philly’s most talented people in the co-op, if I do say so myself.”

  “Are you a writer too?”

  “I’m a sculptor, actually.”

  “Really?” Monica said. Dreamy and artistic. She’d better not have more than one glass of wine. “What’s your medium?”

  “I’ve worked with everything over the years, but right now I’m dabbling in steel.” Dabbling in steel. Very sexy. Luckily, she didn’t say this.

  “I’m impressed,” she said instead. “Maybe I should be interviewing you.”

  “Believe me,” he said. “I’d much rather hear about you.” He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a piece of paper. He laid it on the table and smoothed it out. Most reporters had little notebooks with them, or even tape recorders. He was different. Monica felt herself relax.

  “I don’t understand,” she said. “Why are you interviewing me? I’m not from Philadelphia.”

  “I know, I know,” he said. “But—um—your work has caught the eye of several members of our co-op—and, uh—well, to tell you the truth, we needed a little filler in our next newsletter.”<
br />
  “Oh,” Monica said. “I see.” This would be much better than a stuffy interview with a real newspaper. A co-op of artists wanting to interview her. How cool.

  “Do you have a pen?” Mike asked. Tina came back with the drinks, and Monica admonished herself for being disappointed as she handed Mike a pen.

  “You have a beautiful voice,” Mike said suddenly. Tina’s head jerked in Monica’s direction.

  “Were you singing while I was gone?” she asked.

  “No,” Monica said.

  “No,” Mike said. “It’s just—great to hear you talk.”

  “Huh,” Tina said. She looked at Monica and said, “It is nice to hear you talk. I mean, it’s not like I have to listen to you yak all day long.” She moved her hand in a talking-puppet position, opening and closing her fingers to signify the “yak, yak, yak” portion of her statement. Then she gave a laugh as if trying to underscore it was a joke. Finally, Tina picked up her martini and took a long sip. Monica picked up her wine and did the same.

  “So,” Mike said. “Let’s just go through these questions, shall we?” Monica nodded. “Okay. First question. Where are you from?”

  “Boston,” Monica said.

  “Right,” Mike said. He wrote something on the piece of paper.

  “Do you have a big family?”

  “No. Just me and my parents as far as immediate family goes.” Mike started to write, then hesitated. He looked at Monica. She felt her heart constrict. He looked—pained.

  “No brothers,” he said. He cleared his throat. “Or—a sister?”

  “Nope,” Monica said. “Just me.”

  “I have three sisters,” Tina said. “My poor father.”

  “Do you have brothers or sisters?” Monica asked Mike.