by Mary Carter
“Hey there,” Tina said.
“Are you listening to me, Monica?” Aunt Grace said. “Are you listening to me?” Monica looked at her mother and mouthed, Get Dad.
“Lacey, Lacey, Lacey,” Aunt Grace said. The crowd in the living room began to part, and quiet, as they tuned into what was sure to be a family fight.
“Who is Lacey?” Monica said. It was barely a whisper, but the name burned in her throat. She saw her mother’s jaw start to quiver.
“Grace!” At the sharp sound of the Colonel’s voice, everyone turned. Even Aunt Grace fell silent.
“Thank God,” Monica heard her mother whisper.
“That’s enough nonsense,” the Colonel said. “It’s time to cut the cake.”
The blazing birthday cake stole everyone’s attention. Monica tried to catch her mother’s or father’s eyes but they didn’t glance her way once. Neither did Aunt Grace. She was staring at the flames on her cake as if she was considering diving into them. Joe put his arms around Monica’s waist, nuzzled her neck. Her father must have been semi-nice to him. Then, everyone started to sing. Everyone but Monica, who moved her lips but couldn’t find her voice. Someone yelled, “Make a wish!” and finally, Aunt Grace looked at Monica.
“I wish,” she said.
“Aunt Grace,” Katherine interrupted in a high, tight voice. “Don’t say it out loud or it won’t come true.” Aunt Grace closed her eyes and clasped her small hands below her chin. She took a breath, bent down, and blew on the candles with thin, quivering lips. The effort made her cough. The crowd applauded. All but two candles stuck in the middle were extinguished. Aunt Grace looked at them and once again raised her gaze to Monica.
“Why, look,” she said, pointing at the two candles. “My wish will come true.” She smiled at Monica. The Colonel stepped up and extinguished the last two flames with his thick fingers. Aunt Grace snatched them up and held them to her lips.
“I’ll get the plates,” Katherine said. She disappeared into the kitchen. Monica extracted herself from Joe and followed. Her mother was hunched over the kitchen sink.
“Mom,” Monica said. “Who’s Lacey?” Katherine turned. Her eyes were red, her makeup smeared. She inhaled, wiped her nose with the back of her hand. “Mom,” Monica said softly. She went up and put her arms around her. After a moment her mother put her hand on Monica’s back and gave it a pat.
“You had a sister,” Katherine said.
“What?”
“Her name was Lacey.”
“What?”
“She died at birth.”
“Oh my God.”
“I don’t ever want to speak of this again.”
“Mom, I’m so sorry.”
“I can’t listen to that woman say her name anymore!”
“Shh, Mom, it’s okay.” Katherine opened the cupboard and began taking down little plates. Duty comes first, always. Monica stepped in to help. The door swung open and the Colonel stepped in.
“They’re waiting,” he said. “Monica, what have you done to your mother?”
“It’s okay, Richard,” Katherine said. “I told her about Lacey.” Monica had never seen her father stand so still. “How she died as a baby,” Katherine said. Monica hated the pained look on her mother’s face. The plates were shaking in her mother’s hand. Monica had so many questions, but it wasn’t the time or the place. A sister? Who died as a baby? It was so sad. Why hadn’t they ever told her? Monica always wanted a sibling, especially a sister to share her life. Once she’d even yelled at her mother for not having more children, a memory that now filled her with shame. She was constantly letting her parents down. Had the wrong child survived?
“Monica, would you take the plates to the table?” The Colonel took the plates out of Katherine’s hands and handed them to her. When she left the kitchen, her parents were standing by the kitchen sink, and her father looked concerned. Good. Hopefully he’d make her feel better. Monica couldn’t imagine a parent losing a child. Sure, she’d lost a sister, but it wasn’t the same. Had she been older or younger? Was it way before she was born? Monica would give it some time, wait until her mother was up for the conversation. Maybe she’d talk to her father instead. He handled things better, less emotionally. By the time the plates were passed out and everyone was eating cake, Monica found she couldn’t even take a bite. She had the beginnings of a tummy ache. She needed to lie down. She put down her fork. She’d wait until people finished their cake, then get up as if to help clean up, and sneak out.
“Why aren’t you eating? ” Joe whispered in her ear.
“I don’t feel well,” she said.
“I don’t like Tina’s new boyfriend either,” Joe said. Startled, Monica looked over at Mike. He’d been watching her, but when she looked up, he immediately looked elsewhere.
“Why?” Monica asked.
“He stares at you a lot,” Joe said. Monica snuck another look at him. To her surprise, he was standing next to Aunt Grace, whispering in her ear.
“He certainly likes to charm the ladies,” Joe said.
“At least Aunt Grace looks normal again,” Monica said. It was true, whatever Mike was saying had done the trick. She looked relaxed and happy; she was even clasping his hands in hers. Monica noticed her father staring at them too, only instead of relieved, he looked concerned.
“Grace,” he said. “It’s time for your present.” He handed Grace an envelope. She kept her eyes locked with the Colonel’s as she opened it.
“Oh my,” she said. She was holding a ticket.
“What is it?” Monica said.
“Italy,” Aunt Grace said. “A trip to Italy.”
“Oh my God,” Monica said. “That’s so great.” As long as Monica could remember, Aunt Grace had talked about going to Italy.
“I don’t know what to say, Dicky,” she said.
“Say you’ll go,” the Colonel said. “Say you’ll get some deserved rest. Say you’ll just relax and let things be.” Aunt Grace smiled.
“You’re right,” she said. “I don’t need to control everything.” What was she talking about now? Monica wondered. Her mood swings were so hard to follow. Maybe she shouldn’t be traipsing off to Italy by herself.
“Is there anyone who could go with you?” Monica asked.
“It’s a tour,” the Colonel said. “She’ll be with a whole group.”
“Thank you, Dicky,” Aunt Grace said. “Thank you, Katherine.” To Monica’s surprise, Grace reached out and grabbed Mike’s hand. He’d been standing behind her the entire time. “Your handsome friend would like to see the grounds,” Grace said to Monica. “Would you like to join us?”
“We’d love to,” Tina said.
They strolled the grounds, all seven of them. First Tina had insisted on joining in, then Joe, then her parents. And why shouldn’t they? It wasn’t like Monica wanted to be alone with Aunt Grace and Mike, did she? They gave Mike the grand tour: the target practice range, the vegetable garden, the maze of flowers and shrubs, stopping just short of the woods.
Let’s go into the woods. Maybe you’ll remember—
What had Aunt Grace meant by that? What did it have to do with her sister dying at birth? Was she buried in the woods?
“So, Mike,” the Colonel said. “What is it that you do?”
“He’s an artist,” Tina piped in. “A sculptor.”
“For a living?” the Colonel asked.
“Yes,” Mike said. “I do all right.”
“That’s so rare,” Aunt Grace said. “You’re one of the lucky ones.”
“I’d love to see your sculptures,” Monica said. Her face flushed the minute it was out of her mouth. She didn’t dare look at Joe.
“As it just so happens, I have an art show coming up,” Mike said. “Ten days from now. Nothing fancy, but any and all are welcome to come.” They stood in a semi-circle by the woods, smiling at Mike. Once again, Monica noticed he was mainly looking at her.
“Oh, you should go, Monica,” Aun
t Grace said. “Don’t you just love art shows?”
“Sure,” Monica said. “Is it in Philadelphia?”
“Philadelphia?” her mother said.
“You’re an artist in Philadelphia?” the Colonel said. Was it her imagination or did her parents just exchange some kind of look? What did they have against artists in Philadelphia? She hated to admit it, but sometimes, her parents were snobs. “Enough standing around,” the Colonel said, putting his arm around Mike. “Why don’t you and I do a little target practice.”
“Sounds great,” Joe said.
“No, thanks,” Mike said. “I’m not a gun person.” It was all Monica could do not to cheer. He’d actually stood up to her father. Not an easy thing to do, especially given the look on the Colonel’s face, but Mike didn’t look frightened.
“Not a gun person,” the Colonel repeated. “We’re talking target practice, son. Shooting cans. But don’t worry—when we’re done, we’ll recycle them.” Mike looked at Monica and smiled.
“Now I see where you get it from,” he said.
“What?” Monica said.
“Your stubborn streak.”
“I have a stubborn streak?”
“Yes,” Mike said. “You both do.” Then, without another word, he followed her father.
“My father was a piece of work tonight.” Monica was lying in bed, staring up at the moose. Joe lay beside her reading the newspaper. Who reads the newspaper before bed? Why was she being so critical? Why couldn’t she get Mike out of her mind? Tina, it seemed, changed her mind about spending the night; she couldn’t get Mike out of there fast enough. But not before Mike had a chance to hug her good-bye, and here she was, replaying every second of his touch over and over again in her mind. He’d slipped something into her hand. She immediately slipped it into her pocket to read later. Imagine. Like children passing notes in school. Just because hugging him felt so good, just because she’d wanted more, just because in that split second she forgot all about Tina, and her boyfriend, and her dead baby sister.
Please come, the note said. Followed by the time and address of the art show. Why was she so disappointed? What did she think the note said? I’m crazy about you? I can’t stop thinking about you? Monica tried to remember when she fell in love with Joe. She wanted the feeling back.
I’m not a gun person, Mike told her father. She was dying to ask Joe how their target practice went, but she knew she wouldn’t get the kind of detail she wanted. Why wasn’t she telling Joe about her conversation with her mother in the kitchen? A sister who died at birth. Lacey.
“The world could use more men like your father,” Joe said suddenly, putting the newspaper down. “It’s a shame the army turned that man down.”
“He has one leg slightly shorter than the other. He’s walked with a limp his entire life.”
“So? That wouldn’t have stopped him.”
“Say what you want—I’m happy my father never went to war.”
“He would’ve been a great leader, that’s all.”
“And, I might have wound up an orphan.” Joe reached over and took her hand.
“I didn’t mean it like that. I just think he would’ve been something.”
“He’s done all right with air rifles.”
“He sure has.” Monica sat up. She wanted to throw open the shades and look at the night sky. It would start a fight; Joe always liked the room dark. He didn’t even like Monica to play the radio. There was something about the combination of dark and silent that always put her on edge.
“What are you doing?” Joe whispered. He always whispered in her father’s house. Even though they had an entire floor to themselves and there was no way anyone could hear them. Monica climbed on top of Joe. When he didn’t protest, she started kissing his neck.
“Monica,” he said.
“Shhh,” she said. She took off her pajama top. Sat on him with her breasts exposed, wishing he would tell her he liked them, or at least show her. They weren’t going to be this perky forever, didn’t he know that? Didn’t he want to savor her, sink his lips into her? Wasn’t he attracted to her? Why was she the one always initiating sex? Why did he turn her down so much?
“It’s a full house tonight,” Joe said. He handed back her top. She tossed it to the ground.
“So be quiet,” Monica said. She started kissing his neck.
“You’re just doing this to annoy me,” Joe said. Monica stopped. She rolled off him and leaned over to retrieve her top. She slid out of bed.
“Monica,” Joe said.
“Shut up,” Monica said. Joe sat up.
“Hey,” he said. “I don’t talk to you like that.”
“Oh, you don’t? So suggesting that I’m trying to have sex with you just to annoy you was supposed to be a compliment?” Joe ran his hand through his hair, then slapped his thighs.
“I didn’t mean it,” he said. “Come back to bed.” Monica walked over to the window and yanked open the curtains. She could see stars. She wanted to wish on one. She wanted Joe to be a wild animal in bed. Hell, at this point she’d settle for a domestic pet. She wanted to write a second book. All by herself this time.
“Monica,” Joe said. “Shut the curtain.” Monica opened it a little wider.
“I had a sister named Lacey,” she said.
“What?” Joe said.
“She died as a baby,” Monica said.
“Oh my God,” Joe said. “You never mentioned this.”
“I never knew,” Monica said. “Aunt Grace told me. Well, she tried to. Then Mother told me the rest.”
“That’s sad, ” Joe said. “But it was a long time ago.”
“What does that mean?” Monica said. “I can’t grieve? Just because I never knew her? Just because it was a long time ago?”
“Please don’t start a fight,” Joe said.
“I’m sorry. It’s just—shocking, you know?”
“I can imagine.”
“I can’t believe they kept that from me.”
“That was another generation,” Joe said. “Personally, I think there’s something to be said for privacy. Nowadays, everyone has to air their dirty laundry on national television. I respect the strong, silent types.”
“Thanks, Joe.”
“Come back to bed. I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“I know.” Joe pulled her side of the covers down. Monica got back into bed. He turned off the light. Then, he leaned over and kissed her. She tried to keep him there, tried to hold his head to hers. He eventually pulled away.
“Good night,” he said. “Sleep tight.” Monica lay in the dark for several minutes without speaking.
“Joe?” she said.
“Yes?”
“I’m going to write a second book.”
“I’m not sure I’m up for that anytime soon,” Joe said. He reached over and held her hand.
“I didn’t say you,” Monica said. “I said me.”
“So you’re ditching me, huh?”
“It’s not like that.”
“It’s not like I’ve asked for any of the credit. Quite the opposite, I’ve—”
“You’ve pretended it’s all mine. But we both know it’s all yours, Joe.”
“I can’t have this conversation again, Mon, not tonight.” Monica fell silent again. Soon, Joe’s breath slowed, and he turned away. Monica waited a few more minutes, until she was convinced he was asleep. Then, as quietly as she could, she made her escape.
She stood in the hall, stepping lightly to avoid splinters and creaks, wondering if she should go back into the bedroom and put on shoes. It was too late, she was out, there was nowhere to go but forward. She crept to the attic door. But when she opened it and flipped the light switch, the steps leading up remained bathed in darkness. She would need a flashlight. There were at least a dozen boxes up there, mostly seasonal decorations and pictures. Would any of them hold a clue to her baby sister? Pictures? A birth certificate? A death certificate? Sympathy cards?
&
nbsp; There was no point searching in the dark. Besides, what if someone heard her? She would have to carry each box down the ladder and open them in the hallway. It wasn’t practical. A better bet would be to come back to the cabin another time, by herself. Monica turned away from the attic and headed downstairs.
She went out onto the porch. She loved summer nights. She loved being able to stand outside in bare feet and no coat. The air smelled like the earth, and the scent of lilacs from the tree in the front yard. Lightning bugs pulsed in the darkness, a beacon of hope. She looked at the edge of the woods. Why had Aunt Grace wanted to take her there? There was no way she was going into the woods alone in the dark. This was all so ridiculous. She would simply ask her parents more questions in the morning. Where was the baby buried? That was all she needed. A picture. A grave. A sympathy card. They had to have buried her, right?
She would visit the grave, bring flowers. Why had her parents kept her a secret all these years? Tomorrow she would ask more questions, she would feel better. Monica stood a little longer in the porch, staring into the darkness. How different would her life have been with a sister? She would have had a playmate, a confidante. Monica closed her eyes and imagined holding her baby sister. Was it possible to love someone you’d never met? It must be possible. For this sister, the one she never knew, the imaginary one she was rocking in her arms beneath the earth-scented stars, she knew she loved with all her heart; and she mourned deeply for her. She kissed her dead sister gently on the head. “Good night, Lacey,” Monica whispered into the darkness. “Sleep tight.”
And then silently, guiltily, she imagined herself wrapped in Mike’s arms, imagined he would have no problem appreciating her, savoring her, desiring her—and for a second she allowed herself to imagine what he would be like in bed, imagine his lips on her lips, and neck, and breasts. Her hands on his strong chest. She wanted to feel his skin against hers, she wanted to know what he smelled like. What was the matter with her? What if Joe was up there right now wondering what some other woman would smell like? It was nothing, just a fantasy. That’s all. Women were allowed to have fantasies, of course they were. It didn’t mean anything. Sexual fantasies, perfectly normal. It wasn’t only men who had them; they just got all the spotlight. Monica laughed. She never imagined herself as a “bra burner” but she could see herself now. Come on, ladies! Share your sexual fantasies. Tell the group how you wanted to rip into the stock boy at your local grocery store. She laughed. She was awful. But it was a good idea for a workshop. Much more jazz.
