The Sullivan Sisters

by Kathryn Ormsbee

  This is your golden moment, Claire reminded herself. Riding in a junk van and enduring an endless barrage of carols—blasé as it was, the moment was happening. She had to focus on that—her unknown future—and not the past.

  She glanced at her phone, following the inexorable route of the pulsing blue dot northward, toward Rockport.

  Exceller mindset, she instructed herself. Keep moving forward.

  “I gotta pee.”

  Claire frowned at the glowing map. “You can’t hold it?”

  That was when she realized Eileen hadn’t spoken the words.

  She and Eileen jerked their gazes together. From the back seat a shadowy figure emerged.

  “Holy crap!” shrieked Claire.

  While Eileen shouted, “Look-at-the-look-at-the-look-at-the road!”

  A semi blared its horn and Claire swerved onto the highway’s right shoulder.

  From the back of the Caravan Murphy howled with laughter.

  NINE Murphy

  It wasn’t funny, but it was.

  If Murphy’s biological needs hadn’t forced her to ruin the surprise, it could’ve been even funnier.

  She’d meant to wait it out in the back of the van the whole way to wherever her sisters were headed, all furtive, in the middle of the night. Then, once they’d arrived, she’d sneak out and climb onto the roof of the Caravan, sprawl herself on its hood, and begin to sob hysterically. She’d draw their attention and then she’d cry out, “I had to hold on the whole way heeere!”

  It was too ridiculous to believe, but that wasn’t the point. The real punch of magic was in the curtain rise—that first glance. Eileen and Claire could think better of it after, could even get angry. In that first instant, though, they’d believe the preposterous, and they would be amazed.

  A magical twist with a punch line to boot. The aim of any true magician.

  Claire and Eileen would have to pay attention to her then.

  Murphy’s grand plan was shot to pieces now. She’d really, really tried to hold it. If only she hadn’t drunk a bottle of Dr Pepper a mere fifteen minutes before sneaking into the van.

  She’d been staying up late, taking full advantage of Christmas break and reading through her library copy of The Art of the Con. The plan had only occurred to her after she’d sipped the last dregs of soda. She’d heard Eileen emerge from her bedroom and head to the carport, Claire following immediately after.

  She’d snuck after them, leaning into the carport from the kitchen, listening to her sisters argue through the minivan’s open passenger door. At the end of it she’d heard Claire say, “Murphy won’t even notice we’re gone.”

  Claire had been wrong about that. She only thought Murphy wouldn’t notice because they wouldn’t notice if she were gone.

  Murphy, the spare tire.

  All she wanted was a little road time. Claire and Eileen could be going to Medford, to Los Angeles, to Tokyo—that didn’t matter. What mattered was coming along, making them see her, whether they liked it or not.

  That’s why, while Claire had been gathering her things, Murphy had devised the ingenious plan. She’d pulled on her coat, stuffing the right pocket with the new rope trick she hadn’t mastered. And of course she’d brought Siegfried’s coffin. She wasn’t letting go of him until she found a proper burial spot. She may have failed Siegfried in life, but she was going to make it up posthumously.

  Sneaking into the back of the Caravan as Eileen drank and Claire packed a bag—that had required utmost stealth and concentration. There hadn’t been time to pee.

  For the first half hour of the trip Murphy had kept perfectly still, lying on the back floorboard with her arms crossed mummy-style. She was wearing her purple puffer coat, and if she moved an inch, she’d crinkle. So she hadn’t moved.

  At first, it was awesome. Murphy was a legit stowaway, and Eileen and Claire’s fight had served her piping fresh info to digest:

  I read the letter.

  Uncle Patrick.

  Inheritance.

  This stuff didn’t happen in the real world; not Murphy’s real world, anyway. Murphy’s reality was not like life on TV. There were no FBI investigations or car chases or life-altering secrets. Murphy’s reality was SpaghettiOs that cooked too long on the stove. It was a string of Bs on her report card and Cs, always Cs, in science. Her reality was a turtle dying on her for Christmas.

  But this was prime-time TV. From what Murphy had gathered, the facts of her new reality were:

  1) She had an uncle

  2) Who was dead

  3) And whose death involved a house

  4) Which Eileen and Claire were going to inherit

  5) And maybe she was, too???

  Murphy wasn’t sure what points one through five added up to, but she’d figure out the details later. What was important was this: Drama was unfolding, and Murphy was going to be part of it. The stage was set for the performance of a lifetime. Murphy was waiting in the wings.

  That’s how it had been for the first couple minutes.

  Then Murphy’s bladder had begun to fill. She could practically see it expanding beneath her puffer coat, inflating like a balloon. Little stings shot through her body, making Murphy want to squirm. She couldn’t though. If she did, they might hear. She tried to focus on something else. Something solid, outside her body.

  The music was a good distraction, even when the same songs began to play over and over again:

  Eight maids a-milking

  Seven swans a-swimming

  Six geese a-laying

  Five

  golden

  rings

  As she listened, Murphy got to thinking. Deeply. Really, what kind of sicko Christmas presents were these? Who had room in their house for six geese, let alone the a-laying kind? And what newborn baby enjoyed a little boy drumming? Wouldn’t that keep him up, screaming through the night? Mary probably loathed that drummer kid.

  But even Murphy’s song-scrutinizing was interrupted by incoming signals that bladder bursting was imminent. Eileen—and then Claire, after that incident—had been driving for hours, and who knew how much longer there was to go. At last Murphy decided it was better to ruin the surprise than to pull her stunt in pee-soaked jeans.

  So she’d spoken up.

  And everyone had gone totally crazy.

  Murphy lost her balance when Claire swerved the van. She fell in an awkward squat, conking her head against an armrest.

  “Holy shit!” shouted Eileen, looking at Murphy as though she were one of the undead.

  They’d pulled off on the shoulder, and the van shuddered with every high-speed pass of a car on the highway.

  Murphy rubbed her head and decided to try the No, I’m affronted! approach.

  “What?” she demanded. “I wasn’t going to let you have all the fun without me.”

  “You’ve been in here the whole time?” Claire choked. She’d undone her seat belt and was up on her knees, staring at Murphy over the driver’s seat.

  It was time for the Shock them with what I know! approach.

  “This trip’s about an Uncle Patrick.” Murphy’s face heated up. “Well, if he’s your uncle, then he’s mine too. I’m your sister, and I deserve to know what’s going on.”

  Claire looked at Eileen. Eileen looked back. They were silent, both of them panting. Claire slammed an open palm to her face.

  “This is the last thing we need,” she groaned.

  Music played on, a crooner singing about Jack Frost nipping at your nose. Eileen cut him off midsentence by way of the volume knob and turned on Murphy with heavy-lidded eyes.

  Murphy gulped. Why had she thought this plan was ingenuous? Eileen had been driving buzzed, apparently, but what about Murphy? Had she been drunk on Dr Pepper?

  “You’re right, Murph,” Eileen said. “You deserve to know.”

  Claire, who was tapping frantically on her phone, jolted to attention. “What? Are you kidding me? You don’t give in to her. That’s not how dis
cipline works.”

  “Who the hell is disciplining her? She’s our sister, not our kid.”

  “I’m not a kid, I’m fourteen,” said Murphy.

  It was dark in the van, but not so dark that Murphy missed Claire’s glower as she said, “I seriously can’t believe you.”

  Murphy scoffed. “Me? You were going to leave me home alone! Overnight! Like, wow, how considerate.”

  Her sisters didn’t answer. No doubt because “being considerate to Murphy” hadn’t been at the top of their to-do list for years.

  Eileen leaned over the console and shifted the car into drive.

  “WHOA!” shouted Claire, pumping the brake. “What are you doing? We haven’t decided—”

  “We can decide when we’re not on the side of the road at four in the morning.” Looking to the rearview mirror, Eileen added, “Sit down and put your seat belt on.”

  Murphy wondered if Eileen was talking to her or to Claire. They both obeyed. Claire craned her neck to make out the oncoming traffic. When her path was clear, she revved onto the interstate.

  “Where are we going?” Murphy asked, because maybe this time she’d get actual answers.

  “What do you think, genius?” said Eileen. “We’re finding you a piss pot.”

  FOUR YEARS BEFORE

  CAYENNE CASTLE

  By its third year the castle had grown. Its blanket walls and quilted parapets stretched past the den, down the hallway, and into the kitchen, where snacks of chips and kettle corn—luckily, no bad chili—could be easily obtained.

  This year Claire went by an alias: Princess Paprika. She sat on her throne, a white-and-green lawn chair, tapping away at her brand-new phone.

  Well, not brand-new. The iPhone was used, purchased from eBay, and yes, it was four whole versions behind the latest model. Still, it was the best Christmas gift Claire had ever received.

  The sisters had decided two years ago to add a new tradition to the twenty-first: Once Cayenne Castle had been constructed in all its glory, they would exchange presents. It was Christmas before Christmas, and it was better, really, than the twenty-fifth itself, when Mom tried to be cheery but ended up dozing off on the couch by noon. Last year she’d napped so hard she’d forgotten the pecan pie in the oven. Only the fire alarm had woken her, and by then the kitchen was filled with smoke and the stench of burnt sugar.

  December twenty-first, though? That was just for the Sullivan sisters. A sacred celebration. For this round of gift-giving Claire had presented Murphy with a deck of trick cards. Murphy had given Claire a hot-pink day planner. Eileen had given Murphy a DVD of Penn & Teller, who she’d declared were “dope as hell.” Murphy had given Eileen a postcard book, each card a famous work of art, from Van Gogh’s “Sunflowers” to Jackson Pollock’s splatters.

  Then there had been Claire’s gift to Eileen: a set of watercolors made by a pricey brand that Eileen had told Claire she couldn’t afford. It had taken a lot of babysitting, but Claire had managed to save enough for the paints. She’d thought that no other present could beat them.

  And then she’d opened Eileen’s gift to her.

  Claire was going into high school next year; she needed a phone. Mom was stressed with work, though, and making ends meet, and an iPhone seemed so extravagant an ask. So Claire hadn’t asked, and she’d known, with dejected certainty, there was no phone in her future.

  But now.

  Now, she had freedom. Now, she could plan with ease, using a digital calendar. She could finally start an Instagram account. Maybe even look into an Etsy shop for her jewelry.

  “It’s old,” Eileen had told her, “and you’ll have to pay for the plan from here on out. But it’s something to get you started.”

  A start was all Claire needed. She’d find a way to make the payments. There were bright things ahead for this princess.

  Eileen had been dubbed Sir Sage by Murphy, who’d doled out both sisters’ titles wielding a remote-control scepter. Then there was Murphy herself: Prince Pepper, ruler of all she surveyed and master-in-training of a folding-paper quarter trick. She’d been working on the magic act for a week but hadn’t gotten the method down. It involved folding the green corner, then the blue, and—

  Murphy squeaked as the quarter flew from her hand and rolled into the kitchen, disappearing beneath the oven.

  “Crap,” she said.

  Murphy really wanted to get this right. On the twenty-first her sisters were a captive audience. They were busy with school and work other days, but December twenty-first was for hanging out: Murphy’s time to shine. A few years back Mom would have stopped for Murphy’s songs or speeches and tricks. Now? Murphy was lucky if she got a “hello” after school. Mom wasn’t … here. She worked longer hours than ever before, and most nights when she got home, she was too tired for Murphy. No time to talk about school or how Murphy wanted to join drama club, and definitely no time for a performance. Once, Mom had paid full attention. Then she’d heard without listening. These days, she didn’t even hear.

  Those were the gloomy thoughts on Murphy’s mind as she watched the quarter roll out of reach. So much for a magical beginning. Sighing, she returned to the castle, ducking under the U of O fleece.

  A moment later Eileen flung open a quilted flap, revealing a canvas the size of a textbook, painted with magentas, grays, and blues.

  “I call it Masque of the Red Death,” she said. “It’s based on a short story by Poe.”

  The announcement drew Claire out of her Instagram daze. She looked up from the phone and gasped, “Leenie, it’s a revelation.”

  “Super cool,” said Murphy. “Looks like blood splattered on walls.”

  “Murphy, gross.” Claire wrinkled her nose.

  “Well, it does.”

  “I guess,” admitted Eileen. “Anyway, where should we hang it?”

  “Over the dais, of course!” Murphy produced the boisterous laugh of a royal, as though to say, What a preposterous question, oh peasant!

  “Agreed,” said Claire. “It’ll be impressive there.”

  Together the sisters crouch-walked deeper into the den until they reached the fireplace. Stockings had been hung with care—Claire’s doing, not Mom’s, and it was Claire who removed the small wreath from the brick mantle and motioned for Eileen to hang the painting in its place.

  “Your work is welcome within our court, Sir Sage,” she said.

  Eileen nodded gravely and stepped forward, situating the canvas on the nail.

  The sisters scooted back admiringly.

  Murphy sighed. “I wish we could keep the castle up year-round.”

  “No,” said Claire. “It’s better to have a set date. The twenty-first forever, like a birthday. It’s the once-a-year part that makes it special.”

  “Dunno,” said Murphy, “I think life would be pretty special if every day was my birthday.”

  Eileen snorted and said, “You’re not wrong, Murph.”

  “My name is Prince Pepper,” Murphy corrected, pridefully raising her chin. “Or perhaps you didn’t recognize me without the crown.”

  Eileen wrapped an arm around Murphy’s shoulder. She wrapped the other around Claire’s. Some days, like today, Eileen noticed a sore spot in her gut—a realization, growing little by little. Mom wasn’t around anymore. Even when she walked through this house, she was more ghost than human, pale and vacant-eyed. Once, she’d bought Eileen craft kits and put her art on display in the kitchen. Not anymore.

  It wasn’t that Mom had grown cold; there were moments—glimmers—of her old smiling self. Eileen would probably get a glimpse of that in four days’ time, when Mom would try to arrange the best Christmas celebration she could.

  But that didn’t change the fact that Leslie Sullivan was distant, and Eileen didn’t know how to draw her back. Not when Mom was talking constantly about bills and rent hikes and debts that hadn’t been repaid since their father’s death—debts that never seemed to go down, but only up with interest. That’s what happened
, Mom had told Eileen once, when you got a bad cancer and had no insurance. She and Dad hadn’t been able to afford it at the time.

  Now, Mom wouldn’t be able to afford Dad’s bills in perpetuity.

  Soon, though, Eileen planned to get a bagging job at Safeway. Maybe the extra money would help. Maybe that would bring Mom back to the land of the living.

  Until then, at least Eileen had sisters by her side. Nobility, the three of them. Constructors of an impermeable fortress.

  “We made a good castle,” said Sir Sage.

  “We did,” Princess Paprika agreed.

  “And,” said Prince Pepper, “we’ll make an even better one next year.”

  DECEMBER TWENTY-THIRD

  TEN Eileen

  If we’d gone to the Dairy Queen bathroom, we could’ve gotten cheese curds.”

  “Dairy Queen isn’t open this early, and we needed gas. Wash your hands.”

  Eileen leaned against the tile wall, eyeing Murphy with annoyance.

  This trip was supposed to be about her. Eileen’s life, her family, her past, her secret. When she’d snuck into the Caravan, she’d envisioned a solo trip. A transformative journey. Just her and an old house, filled with memories she desperately needed to uncover. Documents, even a mere slip of paper, that could either confirm or deny what she’d suspected since she was sixteen.

  This was her goddamn self-revelatory journey.

  So how the hell were her sisters here? Claire, a briber, and Murphy, a stowaway? Eileen was pissed. But she needed the gas money, and there was no way they were driving Murphy the two hours back to Emmet. This was reality: She was stuck with her sisters. The only thing Eileen could control now was the damage. Whatever documents were in that house for her to find, she’d keep them out of her sisters’ hands. Whether or not the secret was true, they couldn’t know about it. She’d kept it from them for two years, and she could go on doing so for one more night.

  “I want cheese curds.” Murphy’s whining pierced through Eileen’s thoughts.