Blood Sisters

by Paula Guran

  Daddy had died while I was out. He hadn’t wanted me to go, though he would never have said so. He hadn’t liked the man, any man, I was with. When I came home—earlier than I’d intended though not early enough, determined not to see that man again—I’d found my father dead on the floor. If I’d been there I could have saved him, or at least held him while he died. I owed him. He gave me life.

  Struggling to stay in focus when the boys burst in, I kept my eyes on Kelly. The transformation was remarkable. Many times after that I saw it happen to her, and I was always astounded, but that first time was like witnessing a miracle, or the results of a spectacular compact with the devil.

  She filled out like an inflatable doll. Color flooded into her cheeks. Her shoulders squared and she sat up straight. By the time her boys found us and rushed into the living room, bringing with them like sirens their light and fresh air and energy, she was holding out her arms to them and beaming and the white fur jacket had slipped from her shoulders onto the hearth behind her, where I thought it might burn.

  I stayed at Kelly’s house for a long time that first day, though I hadn’t intended to. When Kelly introduced me as an old friend from college, Joshua, the younger child, stared at me solemn-eyed and demanded, “Do you know my daddy, too?” I admitted that I did, or used to. He nodded. He was very serious.

  We had a picnic lunch outside on the patio. I watched the children splash in the sprinkler and bounce on the backyard trampoline, watched Kelly bask like a chameleon in the sunshine. She was a nervous hostess. She fluttered and fussed to make sure the boys and I were served, persistently inquired whether the lemonade was sweet enough and whether the sandwiches had too much mayonnaise, was visibly worried whenever any of us stopped eating. She herself didn’t eat at all, as if she wasn’t entitled to. She didn’t swat at flies or fan herself or complain about the heat. She hardly talked to me; her interactions with the children were impatient. She watched us eat and play, and the look on her face was near-panic, as if she couldn’t be sure she was getting it right.

  I was restless. I wasn’t used to sitting still for so long without something to occupy me—television, a newspaper, knitting. At one point I got up and went over to join the boys. I tossed the new yellow frisbee, spotted Clay on the tramp, squirted Joshua with the sprinkler. I was clumsy and they didn’t like it; my intrusion altered the rhythms of their play. “Quit it!” Josh shrieked when the water hit him, and Clay simply slid off the end of the trampoline and stalked away when he discovered I’d taken up position at the side.

  Somewhat aimlessly, I strolled around the yard. Red and salmon late roses climbed the privacy fence; I touched their petals and thorns, bent to sniff their fragrance. “Ron likes roses,” Kelly said from behind me, and I jumped; I hadn’t realized how close she was. “That’s why we planted all those bushes. They’re hard to take care of, though. I’m still learning. Ron buys me books.”

  “They’re beautiful,” I said.

  “They’re a lot of care. He’s never here to do any of it. It’s part of my job.”

  Clay appeared at my elbow. He was carrying a framed and glass-covered family portrait big enough that he had to hold it with both hands.

  “Clay!” his mother remonstrated, much more sharply than I’d have expected from her. “Don’t drop that!”

  “I’ll put it back,” he said lightly, dismissing her. “See,” he said earnestly to me. “That’s my dad.”

  I didn’t know what I was supposed to say, what acknowledgment would be satisfactory. I looked at him, at his brother across the yard, at the portrait. It had been taken several years ago; the boys looked much younger. Kelly was pale and lovely, clinging to her husband’s arm even though the photographer had no doubt posed her standing up straight. The uniformed man at the hub of the family grouping was taller, ruddier, and possessed of much more presence than I remembered. “You look like him.” I finally said to Clay. “You both do.” He grinned and nodded and took the heavy picture back into the house.

  I sat on the kids’ swing and watched a gray bird sitting in the apple tree. It was the wrong time of the season, between blossom and fruit, to tell whether there would be a good crop; I wondered idly whether Kelly made applesauce, whether Ron and the boys liked apple pie. “My dad put up those swings for us!” Joshua shouted from the wading pool, sounding angry. I took the lemonade pitcher inside for more ice, although no one who lived there had suggested it.

  Being alone in Kelly’s kitchen gave me a sense of just-missed intimacy. I guessed that she spent a good deal of time here, cooking and cleaning, but there seemed to be nothing personal about her in the room. I looked around.

  The pictures on the wall above the microwave were standard, square, factory-painted representations of vegetables, a tomato and a carrot and an ear of corn, pleasant enough. On the single-shelf spice rack above the dishwasher were two red-and-white cans and two undistinguished glass bottles: cinnamon, onion powder, salt, and pepper. Nothing idiosyncratic or identifying. No dishes soaked in the sink; no meat was thawing on the counter for dinner.

  I remember thinking that, if I looked through the cupboards and drawers and into the back shelves of the refrigerator, I’d surely find something about Kelly, but I couldn’t quite bring myself to make such a deliberate search. Now, of course, I know there wouldn’t have been anything anyway. No favorite snacks of hers secreted away. No dishes that meant anything special to her. No special recipes. In the freezer I’d probably have found Fudgsicles for Clay and Eskimo Pies for Josh, and no doubt there was a six-pack of Coors Lite on the top shelf of the refrigerator for Ron. But, no matter how deeply I looked or how broadly I interpreted, I wouldn’t have found anything personal about Kelly, except in what she’d made sure was there for the others.

  I set the pitcher on the counter and moved so that I was standing in the middle of the floor with my hands at my sides and my eyes closed. I held my breath. It was like being trapped in a flotation tank. I could hear the boys squealing and shouting outside, the hum of a lawnmower farther away and the ticking of a clock nearby, but the sounds were outside of me, not touching. I could smell whiffs and layers of homey kitchen odors—coffee, cinnamon, onions—but I had never been fed in this room.

  I opened my eyes and was dizzy. Without knowing it, I had turned, so that now I was facing a little alcove that opened off the main kitchen. A breakfast nook, maybe, or a pantry. I rounded the multicolored Plexiglas partition and caught my breath.

  The place was a shrine. On all three walls, from the waist-high wainscoting nearly to the ceiling, were photographs of Ron and Clay and Joshua. Black-and-white photos on a plain white background, unlike the busy kitchen wallpaper in the rest of the room. Pictures of them singly and in various combinations: Ron in uniform, looking stoic and sensible; Clay doing a flip on the trampoline; Joshua in his Cub Scout uniform; the three of them in a formal pose, each boy with his hand on his father’s shoulder; the boys by a Christmas tree. I counted; there were forty-three photographs.

  I couldn’t bring myself to go into the alcove. I think I was afraid I’d hear voices. And there was not a single likeness of Kelly anywhere on the open white walls.

  Later, a grim and wonderful thought occurred to me: it would have been virtually impossible for a detective to find out anything useful about Kelly. Or for a voodoo practitioner to fashion an efficacious doll. There was little essence of her left. There were few details. By the end, it would have been easy to say that she had no soul.

  For the rest of that summer and into the fall, I spent a great deal of time at Kelly’s house. It started with lunch on Saturdays, always a picnic lunch with the boys on the patio, sandwiches and lemonade and chips. She never let me bring anything; she seemed to take offense when I tried to insist.

  “Why don’t you and I go somewhere for lunch, Kelly? Get a sitter for the boys or take them to the pool or something.”

  “The pool isn’t safe. I don’t like the kind of kids who go there. And I would neve
r leave them with a sitter.”

  Kelly and I never seemed to be alone together. Her sons were always there, in the same room or within earshot or about to rush in and demand something of her. I chafed. I didn’t much like the boys anyway; I found them mouthy and rude, to me but especially to their mother, and altogether too high-spirited for my taste.

  “It’s nice to see a mother spend as much time with her kids as you do,” I said once, lying, trying to understand, trying to get her to talk to me about something.

  “We’ve always been—close,” she said, a little hesitantly. “They both nursed until they were almost two. Sometimes Josh will still try to nip my breast. In play, you know.”

  Somewhat taken aback, I said, “You seem to enjoy their company.” I didn’t know whether that was true or not.

  She shrugged and laughed a little. “I think I’ve inherited my father’s attitudes toward children. They’d be fine if you could teach them and train them and mold them into what you want. Otherwise, they’re mostly irritating.” She laughed again and shivered, hugged herself, passed a hand over her eyes. “But I don’t have to like my kids in order to be a good mother, do I?”

  For a long time, I didn’t see Ron. He was always at work when I was there, and, no matter how late I stayed, he worked later.

  “Come with me to see this movie. I’ve been wanting to see it for a long time, and it’s about to leave town, and I don’t want to go alone.”

  “There’s a movie that the boys want to see. One of those kung fu things. I promised I’d take them this weekend.”

  Kelly’s roses faded, and the marigolds and petunias and then chrysanthemums came into their own. The apple tree bore nicely, tiny fruit clustered all on the south side of the tree because, Kelly speculated, the blossoms on the north side had been frozen early in the spring. That distressed her enormously; her eyes shone with tears when she talked about it. The boys went back to school.

  “Now you have lots of free time. Let’s go to the art museum one morning next week. I can take a few hours off.”

  “Oh, Brenda, the work around here is endless. Really. I have fall housecleaning to do. I’m redecorating Clay’s room. There must be a dozen layers of wallpaper on those walls. My first responsibility is to Ron and the children. You’re welcome to come here, though. I could fix you lunch.”

  One crisp Wednesday in late September I had a meeting over on her side of town, and I didn’t have to be back at the office until my two o’clock staff meeting. Impulsively, I turned off onto a side street toward her house.

  I had never been to Kelly’s house on a weekday before. I had never dropped in on her unexpectedly. I had seldom dropped in on anybody unexpectedly; I liked to have time to prepare, and was keenly aware of the differences between people in private and people when they met the world, even the small and confused part of the world represented by me. My heart was skittering uneasily, and I felt a little feverish, chilled, though the sun was warm and the sky brilliant. The houses and trees and fence rows along these old blocks had taken on that sharp-edged quality that autumn sometimes imparts to a city; every brick seemed outlined, every flower and leaf a jewel.

  I parked by the side of her house, across the street. I opened and shut the gate as quietly as I could. I stood for a while on her porch, listening to the wind chimes, catching stray rainbows from the lopsided paper leaf Josh had made in school and hung in the front window. She had moved the plants inside for the winter, and the porch seemed bare. Finally I pushed the button for the doorbell and waited. A few cars went by behind me. I touched the doorbell button again, listened for any sound inside the house, could hear none.

  When I tried the door, it opened easily. I went in quickly and shut the door behind me, thinking to keep out the light and dust. I was nearly through the front hall and to the kitchen before I called her name.

  “In here, Brenda,” she answered, as though she’d been expecting me. I stopped for a moment, bewildered; maybe I’d somehow forgotten that I had called ahead, or maybe we’d had plans for today that I hadn’t written in my appointment book.

  “Where?”

  “In here.”

  I found her, finally, in the master bedroom. She was in bed, under the covers; she wore a scarf and a stocking cap on her head, mittens on the hands that pulled the covers up to her chin. Around her neck I could see the collar of the white fur jacket. Her teeth were chattering, and her skin was so pale that it was almost green. I stood in the doorway and stared. The shaft of light through the blinded window looked wintry. “Kelly, what’s wrong? Are you sick?” It was a question I could have asked months before; now it seemed impossible to avoid.

  “I’m cold,” she said weakly. “I—don’t seem to have any energy.”

  “Should I call somebody?”

  “No, it’s all right. Usually if I stay in bed all day I’m all right by the time the boys get home from school.”

  “How often does this happen?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Every other day or so now, I guess.”

  I had advanced into the room, stood by the side of the bed. I was reluctant to touch her. I now know that the contagion had nothing to do with physical contact with Kelly, that I was safer alone in that house with her than I’ve been at any time since. But that morning all I knew was cold fear, and alarm for my friend, and an intense, exhilarating curiosity. “Where’s Ron?” I demanded. “Is he still out of town? Does he know about this?”

  “He came home late last night,” she told me, and I had no way of appreciating the significance of what she’d said.

  “What shall I do? Should I call him at work? Or call a doctor?”

  “No.” With a great sigh and much tremulous effort, she lifted her feet over the side of the bed and sat up. I could feel her dizziness; I put my hand flat against the wall and lowered my head to let it clear. Kelly stood up. “Take me out somewhere,” she said. “I’m hungry. Let’s go to lunch.”

  Without my help, she made it out of the house, down the walk, and into the car. The sun had been shining in the passenger window, so it would be warm for her there. There was definitely a fall chill in the air, I decided, as I found myself shivering a little. “Where do you want to go?” I asked her.

  “Someplace fast.”

  In Denver I have always been delighted, personally and professionally, by contrasts, one of which is the proximity of quiet residential neighborhoods like Kelly’s to bustling commercial strips. We were five minutes from half a dozen fast-food places. Kelly said she didn’t care which one, so I drove somewhat randomly and found the one with the least-crowded parking lot. She wanted to go inside.

  The place was bright, warm, cacophonous. I saw Kelly wrap herself more tightly in the fur jacket, saw people glance at her and then glance away. She went to find a seat, as far away from the windows and the doors as she could, and I ordered for both of us, not knowing what she wanted, taking a chance. There was a very long line. When I finally got to her, she was staring with a stricken look on her face at the middle-aged woman in the ridiculous uniform who was clearing the tables and sweeping the floor. “I talked to her,” Kelly whispered as I set the laden tray down. “She has a master’s degree.”

  “In what?” I asked, making conversation. It seemed important to keep her engaged, though I didn’t know what she was talking about. “Here’s your shake. I hope chocolate’s all right. They were out of strawberry.”

  When she didn’t answer right away I looked at her more closely. The expression of horror on her face made my stomach turn. Her eyes were bloodshot and bulging. She was breathing heavily through her mouth. Her gloved hands on the tabletop were clawed, as if trying to find in the Formica something to cling to. “That could be me a few years from now,” she said hoarsely. “Working in a fast-food place, for a little extra money and something to do. Alone. That could be me.”

  “Don’t be silly,” I snapped. “You have a lot more going for you than that woman does.”

  Suddenly sh
e was shrieking at me. “How do you know that? How can you know? I’ve let everybody down! Everybody! All my teachers and professors who said I had so much potential! My father! Everybody! You don’t know what you’re talking about!” Then, to my own horror, she struggled to her feet and hobbled out the door. For a moment, I really thought she’d disappeared, vanished somehow into the air that wasn’t much thinner than she was. I told myself that was crazy and followed her.

  The lunchtime crowd had filled in behind Kelly and was all of a piece again. I pushed through it and through the door, which framed the busy street scene as though it were a poor photograph, flat and without meaning to me until I entered it. I looked around. Kelly had collapsed on the hot sidewalk against the building. Her knees were drawn up, her head was down so that the stringy dark hair fell over her face, the collar of the jacket stood up around her ears. Two women in shorts and halter tops crouched beside her. I hurried, as though to save her from them, although, of course, by then Kelly wasn’t the one who needed protecting.

  I met Ron at the hospital. From the ambulance stretcher, in a flat high voice that almost seemed part of the siren, Kelly had told me how to reach him. I hadn’t wanted to; I hadn’t wanted him with us. By the time I made it through all the layers and synapses of the bureaucracy he worked in and heard his official voice on the other end of the line, I was furious. But I hadn’t missed anything; Kelly was still waiting in the emergency room, slumped in a chair. Ron did not sound especially alarmed; I told myself it was his training. He said he’d be there in fifteen minutes, and he was.

  They had just taken Kelly to be examined when he got there. I was standing at the counter looking after her, feeling bereft; they wouldn’t let me go back behind the curtain with her, and she was too weak to ask for me. When the tall blond uniformed man strode by me, I didn’t try to speak to him, and no one else did, either. I doubt that Kelly asked for him, or gave permission, or even recognized him when he came. None of that was necessary. He was her husband. She was part of him. He had the right.