The Sullivan Sisters

by Kathryn Ormsbee

  Claire shook her head severely. “That’s not why I didn’t apply there. I wanted to go to … a prestigious school. One that’s hard to get into. One where it rains less and is close to an actually glamorous city, where life happens all the time. I don’t know, I got Yale lodged in my head. Like it was the perfect solution. Yale, or bust.”

  “Don’t plan for failure,” Eileen muttered.

  Claire looked to her sharply. “How do you know that?”

  “It’s on one of your fucking coffee mugs, Claire.”

  “Oh. Right.”

  “You think I escaped that Harper Everly bullshit? I practically got half her pep talks through osmosis.”

  Eileen wasn’t being kind, she knew, but Claire wasn’t being defensive, either. They were almost having an actual conversation.

  “Claire?” she said.

  “Hm.”

  “I’m sorry. That seriously blows. Like I said, they’re idiots.”

  “Yeah, Yale. A bunch of idiots.”

  Eileen pushed up from her sprawl, fixing Claire with an unflinching stare. “Fuck national rankings, Claire. You know who makes those? Elitist assholes. People who didn’t grow up like us, in a shit town, in a shit house, working shit jobs. Fuck rankings, period. Only rich, pretty people make those. And you’re better than that. Better than them. The Harper Everlys. Don’t waste good tears on them.”

  The knifing—the feeling—was excruciating. Eileen was mad at Claire for making her care, but she was madder at every vapid YouTuber who’d ever made her sister feel less than.

  “You’re not a loser,” she said, forcefully. “You’re not a Settler, or whatever dumb-ass term you use. You’re just a person, Claire. Someone who does good stuff and bad stuff too. Someone who’s complicated. Who’s really goddamn smart and started her own business and didn’t let life’s shittiness drain the hope out. So apply to U of O next year. Or don’t. Keep making your jewelry and move away on your own. You’re not doomed. It’s college. It’s an overrated, overpriced school.”

  Claire was looking at Eileen intently, a critic taking in a piece of art—absorbing the lines and colors before forming her opinion.

  Then she said, “I’m the one who needs to say sorry.”

  Eileen made a nasty face on instinct. What was this, a trick?

  “For what?” she asked, dubiously.

  Claire looked askance, to the burned-out fire.

  Without meeting Eileen’s eyes, she said, “I didn’t get into my program, but … you did.”

  TWENTY-THREE Claire

  News flash, Claire: I haven’t applied to any programs.”

  Claire was expecting this. She’d braced herself for caustic dismissal, because that was classic Eileen. And why would Eileen suspect Claire of doing what she’d done? It made no sense.

  It had made sense months ago, when Claire had been in Harper Everly’s thrall. Life itself had made sense. Not to Eileen, though. She was a mocker of inspirational quotes, a scoffer at all things related to the lifestyle vlog. If Claire was going to make this confession, she’d have to do so slantwise. It might ruffle Eileen’s feathers, but at least it’d be an approach she would understand.

  “Leenie,” she said, “why did you stop painting?”

  Eileen balked. “What?”

  Claire didn’t repeat the question. She waited. She’d wanted to know the answer for a long time, and in this moment she actually hoped Eileen would give it. Because in this moment Eileen had light in her eyes, and Claire hadn’t seen that light in what felt like ages. These past two years Eileen’s eyes had been dull, words monosyllabic. Claire had told herself that sometimes that’s how sisters turned out: You were close for a time, and then you grew into the people you were meant to be. Plenty of adults didn’t get along, sisters included.

  Sisters especially.

  Claire had thought Eileen was turning into a Settler. She’d thought it was for the best—the fights, at first, and then the complete lack of talking—because Harper Everly said you had to hang with the people you wanted to be.

  That was the funny part: Once upon a time, Eileen had been someone Claire wanted to be. When Claire had been fourteen and Eileen fifteen, Claire had thought her sister was the most beautiful person on earth. More gorgeous than any Instagram model she followed. Claire’s theory was that Eileen simply didn’t try. She didn’t contour or pluck her brows. She went to school barefaced, showing her prominent nose, sharp cheeks, and piercing eyes—all features Claire herself didn’t have. Eileen’s hair had been long back then, past her waist, and she’d only worn jeans and tees, but she’d made them look effortlessly elegant.

  And then there was her artwork. Paper brushed with bold watercolors—aquamarine and sage, gold and violet. Eileen had drawn portraits of girls with wistful gazes and purple hair. She’d drawn sunsets over apocalyptic worlds and done still lifes of trivial subjects, from crumpled-up candy wrappers to ripped tea bags. She’d been good. Her teachers had said so. In high school she’d begun to submit to contests and exhibits. A painting called The Unholy Trinity had even been featured in Eugene’s Register-Guard.

  Then Eileen had stopped.

  She’d cut her hair and begun to line her eyes, and she’d told Claire one night in late October, two years ago, that she didn’t want to share a room anymore. And Mom, distracted as always, had granted Eileen permission to clear out the garage and make it her drafty, concrete home.

  That had been the beginning of the fights. The beginning of the end.

  Claire knew the timeline very well. She just didn’t know why Eileen had quit painting, or why she’d lost the light in her eyes. So when she’d seen that light tonight, she’d decided to confess. Only, first, she was asking for a confession from Eileen.

  “I just stopped,” Eileen said.

  “No,” said Claire. “That isn’t it. What made you stop?”

  “Nothing.”

  “It can’t be nothing.”

  “It can. I used to like art, and then I stopped. Simple as that.”

  “You didn’t like art, Leenie; you breathed it. You were brilliant.”

  “Stop fucking saying that. I hate when you’re fake nice.”

  “I’M NOT BEING FAKE NICE. I HAVEN’T BEEN NICE AT ALL.”

  Claire hadn’t meant to shout, or for this to go wrong. Maybe, on reflection, there wasn’t a good approach. Maybe that was an excuse for her to avoid saying the skeletal truth. She clenched her jaw, a part of her desperate to keep it in. As she did, she could see the light fading, bit by bit, from Eileen’s eyes.

  “Harper Everly,” said Claire, and when Eileen derisively snorted, Claire talked louder, to shut her up. “She has this thing she calls the ‘Selfless Act Challenge.’ What you’re supposed to do is, you choose someone you know who has potential but isn’t living up to it. You encourage them somehow. You write them a note or tell them how proud you are, or you do something for them that they don’t have enough faith to do for themselves.”

  Eileen said, “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “I took your paintings. A few of them. I made copies and put them in a portfolio. It wasn’t hard. I filled out an application, and I sent it to this arts program in Eugene. It’s called the Myrtle Waugh Fellowship—this chance to work with local artists, program expenses paid for the full year. I sent your application the same time I sent mine to Yale. And you got past the first round of applicants. They want to interview you in person next. I’ve known for a week, but I didn’t tell you because …”

  Claire didn’t voice the because. That was still too difficult to say. She hadn’t told Eileen because it was too cosmically unfair that Claire would do a good turn for her Settler sister, and Eileen would be the one to succeed. Eileen over Claire, the most intentional Exceller. It wasn’t right, how Eileen’s golden moment had come the same day as Claire’s rejection. And as the days had passed, reality had only seemed more unjust, and Claire had kept on not telling Eileen.

  Until now.
r />   “I did that behind your back,” Claire said, “and then I didn’t let you know. I think … I didn’t want you to be happy. Not if I couldn’t be too.”

  There wasn’t a real expression on Eileen’s face. She breathed and blinked and offered nothing else.

  Claire wasn’t waiting for a thank-you. What she’d done was messed up—invading Eileen’s privacy, sending art without her consent. And Claire wasn’t pretending she’d done all that out of the goodness of her heart. She’d done it because Harper Everly had said selfless acts were good for one’s self-esteem. Really, Claire had been selfish to be selfless.

  So she wasn’t expecting a thank-you. In fact, she was ready for Eileen to yell at her that this was none of her business and how dare she interfere.

  Time passed, but Eileen didn’t speak.

  “I’m sorry,” Claire said, at a loss for anything else. “I’m … sorry.”

  The light in Eileen’s eyes suddenly burst, intensifying tenfold. A supernova, set in sockets.

  She said, “Do you remember my junior art exhibit?”

  Claire did. Even though she and Eileen had fallen out by then, Claire had attended the show, blending into the crowd of adults and students gathered in the high school gym. Every May, on the Saturday before graduation, upperclassmen at Emmet High were invited to display their works of art. It was typical fare: angsty poem board pastiches and decent self-portraits and the occasional out-of-the-box venture, like modeling clay–based “interactive art.” Claire hadn’t come for the other students, though. She’d wanted to see what Eileen had on display, and she hadn’t been disappointed.

  There had been five pieces, propped on rusted school easels. The most prominent was an oil-based painting on canvas—a portrait of three figures, their limbs disproportionate and their faces elongated, grotesque. They put Claire in mind of vampires, or ghosts, or a hybrid of the two. They were upsetting to see, but they were beautiful, crafted with deft precision.

  Eileen had labeled the painting THE UNHOLY TRINITY.

  And Claire had been proud of her, even then.

  “I remember,” Claire said.

  Eileen nodded. “Yeah, so. Afterward, there were comment cards. This great idea Ms. Medina had, for people who stopped by to leave anonymous notes about how our artwork ‘spoke’ to them. I think her head was in the right place, but, like, shitty idea, huh?”

  Claire hadn’t known about the cards.

  “I read my comments. And a lot of them? They were saying how disturbed I was. Not the paintings, me. They said, ‘This girl is super unstable.’ Or, ‘Way too bizarre for me.’ One of them? They called me a psychopath. ‘Eileen paints like a total psychopath.’ ”

  “Leenie,” said Claire. “It was high school. People are horrible. You know they were wrong.”

  “Do I?”

  There was a strange look on Eileen’s face. Claire had to look away as she said, “I don’t see what the issue is.”

  “No,” said Eileen. “You wouldn’t.”

  There was a pause, and Claire panicked, afraid this was over and Eileen was shutting down.

  Then Eileen spoke again. “Did you know Mark Enright was a painter?”

  Claire was thrown by the question. “I … remember Cathy saying something like that. What has that got to do with anything?”

  “YOU. GUYS.”

  The parlor echoed with sudden sneaker squeaks. Murphy was barreling into the room, beaming.

  Thoughts had been circling densely in Claire’s head. Now they scattered.

  “I have something to show you,” Murphy said breathlessly. “Come on. Come on. Stop fighting, or whatever. Come and see.”

  Annoyance plucked Claire’s chest. If Murphy could read a room, she’d see that Claire and Eileen were the furthest away from a fight as they had been in two long years. She had shattered the moment, oblivious as she squawked on.

  “Please? Come with me; I made us a surprise.”

  Claire looked to Eileen, and her heart sank to find that she was already on her feet.

  “Okay, Murph,” Eileen said. “If we see, will you lower the volume?”

  “No promises.” Murphy smirked and fled from the room.

  Irritably, Claire followed her out into the foyer. Murphy landed on the threshold of a sitting room, bouncing on the balls of her feet. Then Claire saw what her sister had to shout and bounce about:

  The room was a fortress of blankets and sheets, tied to curtain rods, swung over couches, fastened to floor lamps.

  Memory hit Claire, a brass-knuckled punch, as Murphy announced, “Welcome to the castle.”

  TWENTY-FOUR Murphy

  Cayenne Castle.” Eileen breathed the words out like a curse.

  “You remember it, right?” Murphy looked earnestly between Claire and Eileen with the unspoken plea, Be amazed. Notice. See.

  She’d known nothing good was happening when she’d peeked into the parlor and seen them there, sitting close, talking low. She was tired of them fighting, and it was Christmas Eve. Here was her trick: She’d pull back the curtain, reminding them of the past, and they would be amazed. They’d remember Cayenne Castle and the way they used to spend time, lazy stretches of hanging out together. No fights, no silences, and no closed doors. Murphy was going to remind them of everything the Sullivan sisters had been. It would be her greatest feat, worthy of a standing ovation.

  So far, the act was going according to plan. The best way to describe her sisters’ expressions was … wonderstruck.

  “Whoa,” Claire said, stepping into the room and reaching for the hanging quilt that doubled as both wall and castle entrance. “I haven’t thought about this in ages.”

  “Two years,” Murphy supplied.

  “Princess Paprika,” Claire said, under her breath. She turned heel, pointing at Murphy. “And Prince Pepper.”

  Murphy beamed. It was working. Operation Memory Making was a go.

  She pulled back the door-quilt and said, “Go in.”

  Eileen and Claire didn’t protest; they ducked their heads and walked through the castle gates. Murphy followed them, seating herself on the circle of couch cushions she’d arranged inside.

  “The throne room,” she explained. “I mean, the whole castle’s kind of the throne room. It’s a big downsize from last time, but there weren’t a lot of blankets.”

  Eileen was wearing a crooked smile. “You’re weird, Murph.”

  “Thanks,” Murphy replied.

  “Do you remember?” said Claire, eyes unfocused. “Remember the year I was trying to bake? Like, all the time?”

  “Because of the British show,” Murphy said, encouragingly. She meant to coax out every memory she could.

  “I made those holiday Bakewell tarts,” Claire said, before laughing a goosey honk, “and I forgot about them, because we were playing Apples to Apples.”

  “Oh my God,” groaned Eileen, swiping a hand down her face. “And you still made us eat them. Damn, they were bad.”

  “Yeah, whatever, Leenie. You ate, like, a bite.”

  “And you spit it out,” Murphy added.

  “Yeah!” Claire said. “And Murphy was a trouper and ate the whole thing.”

  Murphy felt luminescent. Claire remembered that, too: Murphy had consumed her entire slice of charred peach-mint tart, so Claire wouldn’t feel like a failure.

  “The icing was … good?” Murphy offered.

  Claire turned up her nose and smacked Eileen’s knee. “Hear that? It was good. I had a perfect feathering technique.”

  “Remember when Mom tripped?” asked Eileen.

  “Oh man,” said Murphy, giggling. “Oh man.”

  That had been one for the books. Leslie Sullivan had made a rare and unexpected appearance early in the evening of December twenty-first. She’d opened the front door and run straight into the west wall of the castle—a fitted sheet tied taut between two curtain rods. The girls had seen it from outside the castle, where they were drinking ginger ale on the west veranda.
The sheet had smacked into Mom’s forehead, sending her reeling out the open front door, tumbling backward onto the rain-slick porch, and from there, careening into the yard. The sight had been so cartoonish, and the sisters so shocked, they’d broken into stifled laughter.

  Then, of course, they’d run out to be sure Mom was okay, watching as she pulled herself out of the wet mulch. She’d laughed a little too and vaguely patted the girls on the shoulders, telling them she was fine. Then she’d slunk down the hallway, shut herself in the master bedroom for a rest, and that had been that.

  Mom, the originator of the closed bedroom door.

  But before that door had closed, a memory had been made, and it had the sisters laughing louder than they’d dared to then.

  “It was ridiculous,” Claire said. “Like something from Looney Tunes.”

  “Exactly!” cried Murphy.

  Eileen had turned quiet, looking around the castle’s fabric walls. “Can you imagine Dad living here?” she said. “As a kid. Growing up in this huge house. I wonder how rich the Enrights were, how he and Mom ended up the way they did.”

  “You mean not rich,” Claire clarified.

  “Cathy said he never came back from college,” Murphy said. “Not even for the funerals. Maybe he wasn’t on good terms with the family. Maybe they’d disinherited him.”

  “Well, obviously something like that happened,” said Eileen, “or Uncle Patrick wouldn’t have a whole house and its contents to give away.”

  “Maybe that’s why he left it to us,” said Claire. “Guilty conscience about inheriting everything?”

  “Maybe,” said Eileen, looking thoughtful. “Though if that’s the case, why didn’t he leave it to Mom?”

  Murphy considered what she knew of her mother, which admittedly wasn’t much. The long work hours, her frazzled trips to the grocery, the glaze Murphy had seen in her eyes when she passed by the bedroom and found Mom propped on the bed, watching late-night TV.

  “Yeah,” she said. “I guess Mom could use an inheritance too.”