What My Sister Remembered Read online

  “Okay, okay!” My mother pulled herself away. “Now tell me how I look.”

  She straightened herself up and made a half smile while she waited for me to say something.

  “You look ... you look ...” What could I say? She was nearly fifty years old, she had wrinkles on her face and neck, a skinny body, and her clothes—a pink shirt and matching pants—hung on her like the skin on an unstuffed turkey. I thought of the last photo I’d received of Mrs. Lattimore— trim, smiling, and fashionable in her white tennis outfit with a white cardigan carelessly draped over her shoulders. My mother didn’t play tennis, and her clothes didn’t fit her the way Mrs. Lattimore’s clothes fit her. What would it feel like to have a fashionable mother who played tennis and had a white cardigan draped carelessly over her shoulders? I knew it would feel wonderful. Guiltily, I looked at my own mother standing there, waiting for me to say something, a half smile on her face.

  “You look fine,” I told her.

  “Well!” My mother turned to look at herself again in the mirror.” I could wear a couple of gold chains around my neck. What do you think, Molly? Would they go?”

  * * * *

  They didn’t show up until nearly three. Mom had put the food in the refrigerator because she said it would spoil in all this heat. We took turns jumping up and going to the bathroom—Mom and I did. Dad just kept on smoking and reading his paper the way he said he would, and when he finished that, he leaned back in his chair and took a nap.

  When the bell rang, he jumped up in his chair and said, “What? What?” the way he always did when he woke up suddenly from a nap.

  “You go, Mom,” I said. I felt shy suddenly.

  “No, you go,” she told me, turning toward the kitchen. “I’m going to take the food out of the refrigerator.”

  “Please, Mom,” I whispered, “please. Let’s go together.”

  “All right,” she whispered back. “We’ll go together.”

  * * * *

  They were standing there, outside the door, smiling at us and holding a bunch of flowers. That is, Mrs. Lattimore was smiling and holding a bunch of flowers. Beth wasn’t smiling. Not doing anything. Just standing there and not looking at us.

  “Well, hello,” said Mrs. Lattimore. “It’s so wonderful to see you again.”

  “Come in, come in,” said my mother, and the two grown-ups began talking at the same time. “... So lucky you were home ... wonderful that you had the time ... exhausting trip ... lunch ... no trouble ... terrible heat wave ...”

  Beth raised her eyes and looked at me. I looked back at her. Neither of us said anything. She was thirteen and at least half a head taller than me. She was also thin, with dark eyes, dark skin, and a long nose. Her hair, like mine, was dark but, unlike mine, it was cut short. She tossed it, and it made a wonderful wavy curve against her cheek. I broke down first and said, “Hi, Beth.”

  “Hi,” she answered. I moved forward to kiss her cheek. She let me but stood still while I was doing it.

  “Beth and I just couldn’t wait to see you all,” Mrs. Lattimore gushed, handing the flowers to Mom, “and just look at Molly. She’s so ... so ... why, she and Beth look so much alike, don’t they?”

  “I need to go to the bathroom,” Beth said.

  “Oh, sure, honey,” said my mother. “It’s just down the hall and ...”

  “I know where it is,” Beth said, moving quickly past my mother.

  My mother looked after her, surprised, and Mrs. Lattimore said, “She really does have an amazing memory. I’m always astonished at the things she remembers.”

  “But she hasn’t been here for ... for ...”

  “It must be well over eight years,” Mrs. Lattimore said, “but she can remember things that happened to her way before that.”

  My mother continued standing there looking after Beth. I said, “Hi, Mrs. Lattimore. Did you have a good trip?”

  “Call me Aunt Helene,” she said, bending down to give me a hug and kiss. “It was a lovely trip, and we brought you some surprises from Paris and London. Beth picked them out, but they’re still in our suitcases. We’ll get everything unpacked in our hotel later, and maybe one day ...”

  “Come in, come in.” My mother had come to life again. “Come in. Walter’s in the living room.”

  “Oh, how is he?” Aunt Helene moved down the hall, an arm around my shoulder. “And the boys? Just think—Alex is married. What’s his wife like?”

  “She’s pregnant,” I said, and Mom quickly added, “It was a very small wedding—just the immediate family—otherwise we would have ...”

  Dad was standing up when we walked into the living room, holding the paper.

  “Well, Walter, how are you?” Aunt Helene asked, dropping her arm from my shoulder and moving toward him. They shook hands, and both of them began talking at the same time. “... Fine ... how’s your husband? ... sends regards ... staying a few more weeks in London ... broiling hot summer ... several lectures ... sit down, sit down ... lunch in just a few minutes ...”

  “We’ve already eaten lunch.” Beth stood at the door.

  “Well, we just had a bite.” Aunt Helene laughed. “I could certainly eat something else, but you shouldn’t have gone to any trouble. Beth, come and say hello to your uncle.”

  “Hello.” Beth remained standing at the door.

  “Hello there, Beth,” my father said. He hesitated for one moment and then walked over to her, bent down, and kissed her on the cheek. Beth stood still. Then my dad looked down at her and said, “Well, you certainly have grown into a young lady since the last time I saw you.”

  “Thank you,” Beth said, not moving.

  My father smiled, patted her shoulder, and continued. “You’ve changed a lot. You and Molly used to look a lot alike, but now I don’t think you resemble each other at all.”

  “Thank you,” Beth said, looking up at him and smiling for the first time.

  “Oh, I think she looks a lot like Molly,” said Aunt Helene.

  My mother moved in slow motion over to Beth. Before, at the door, Beth had gone off to the bathroom so quickly, they hadn’t really had a chance to kiss.

  “Beth,” my mother said, very softly, “I’m glad to see you, Beth.” She bent over and tried to kiss her right cheek, but Beth turned her head away so quickly that the kiss landed on her left cheek.

  It made me angry to see how rude Beth was to my mom. I knew how much my mother suffered because Beth had chosen to be adopted by the Lattimores rather than by her own family. I knew, even though my mother never blamed Beth, how all these years she must have felt rejected and hurt. She should have been the one who turned away from Beth’s kiss instead of the other way around. It made me angry, and it made me feel guilty, too, for some of my own daydreams about living with the Lattimores. And as the grown-ups, for the first time, stood around silently, I shouted out at Beth, “I know a riddle I bet you don’t know.”

  “What is it?”

  I told her. “Brothers and sisters I have none, but that man’s father is my father’s son.”

  “Oh,” she said, “everybody knows that one. That man is the son of the person who’s speaking.”

  Chapter 3

  As soon as we sat down around the kitchen table, Beth pointed up at the window and asked, “What happened to the curtains?”

  All of us looked at the window, which was covered by a white blind. Right now the blind was raised to let in the air because it was such a hot day. Usually, we pull it down because all you can see from that window is the kitchen window in the house next door.

  “Curtains?” my mother repeated. “What curtains?”

  “You had curtains with vegetables on them,” Beth said. “There were carrots and green peppers and tomatoes.”

  “Oh?” My mother’s face drew in as she thought. “Oh ... yes ... but that must have been ten years ago at least.”

  “They were here eight years ago,” Beth corrected, picking up her plate. “I remember them when I ca
me back from the hospital after the accident.”

  “I don’t remember them,” I said.

  Beth turned the dish in her hand. “And you had different dishes. They had green flowers on them, big green flowers with red leaves.”

  My mother didn’t say anything, but my father laughed. “What a memory you have, Beth. You’re right about those dishes. I think I liked them better than the ones we have now.”

  “I like these better,” I said, looking at my mother’s face.

  “This is just delicious.” Aunt Helene picked up a small piece of bread. “That’s one thing about New York. The bread is really wonderful here. Beth, try a piece.”

  “I’m not hungry,” Beth said, “but I am thirsty.”

  My mom leaped up. “What would you like? I have Coke, 7-up, milk ...”

  “Do you have lemonade?”

  “No, but ...”

  Beth shrugged. “I’ll just have water then.”

  “I can make you some lemonade,” my mother said. “I mean, if there are lemons ... I can’t remember if I have any lemons.” She opened the refrigerator door and began rummaging around inside.

  “Oh please, Karen,” Aunt Helene said, “don’t bother. Beth is kind of a fussy eater.”

  “I am not a fussy eater,” Beth said. “I just like lemonade, but I’m perfectly willing to drink water.”

  My mother held up a lemon and a half. “Here,” she said breathlessly, “I can make you some.”

  “Please don’t bother, Karen,” Aunt Helene said.

  “It’s no bother at all.” My mother began frantically opening and closing the drawers of the cupboard as she searched for the juicer. We hardly ever squeeze lemons in my family.

  “So—how was Europe?” my dad asked as my mother noisily moved things around.

  “The weather was terrible,” Aunt Helene said, “especially in Paris. If you think it’s hot here—-it was just broiling there, and London-—I think it rained almost every day. It’s good to be back. Poor John is still in England. He has to give a few more lectures. Suddenly the whole world is interested in eighteenth- and nineteenth-century American painters.”

  “Is that so?” inquired my father, trying to look interested.

  “Oh, yes!” Aunt Helene nodded her head up and down. “When he went into the field, there was absolutely no interest at all, and nobody wanted to publish his first book. "Now”—she took a tiny bite of the piece of bread in her hand—"now he has three major publishers trying to outbid each other for his next book.”

  My mother found the juicer and began squeezing the lemon and a half.

  “I don’t like any of the lemon pieces,” Beth said. “I like to have my lemonade strained.”

  My mother stopped squeezing the lemons and began opening and closing the drawers of the cupboard again as she looked for the strainer. We eat the kind of meals in my house that don’t require juicers or strainers.

  “Are you going right back to California?” my father asked.

  “No. I thought we’d run up to Maine for a week or so. You know my sister and her family live there. We haven’t seen her since Christmas—she and the kids were out to see us then. We usually visit back and forth a couple of times a year. We’re very close.”

  Beth and I looked at each other. I wondered if she was thinking the same thing I was thinking. In the eight years since we were separated, we hadn’t seen each other—not even once. Not that I had missed her, the way I sometimes do miss my brothers. But I’d always wanted to go to California and stay in Beth’s big, rich house and play with all her toys and see for myself if they really had five bathrooms.

  “I don’t want to go to Maine,” Beth said.

  My mother brought Beth her lemonade and placed it in front of her. She had filled one of the tall, fancy, pink glasses and set it down on a saucer. It looked delicious with the ice glistening inside it. My mother’s face was red and wet with perspiration. She stood there waiting as Beth picked up the glass, sipped it, made a face, and said, “It’s not sweet enough.” I noticed that Beth had a gold charm bracelet on her wrist with tiny little charms that quivered as she moved her arm.

  “Well ...” My mother hurried off to find the sugar bowl and set it down before Beth. “Here, Beth, just add some more sugar—as much as you like.”

  “Sit down, Karen,” Aunt Helene urged. “Beth is fine. It was very sweet of you to go to all that trouble for her. At home she usually makes her own lemonade.”

  I watched Beth add one ... two ... three teaspoons of sugar. She tasted her lemonade after each addition while my mother stood there, waiting. Finally, after the third teaspoon, Beth set down her spoon and began sipping. Then my mother sat down. Beth didn’t say thank you to my mother or smile at her. She just drank her lemonade with a sour face, and I decided that I didn’t like Beth.

  “So—Karen, tell us about Alex’s wife. Her name’s Lisa, isn’t it?”

  “She’s pregnant,” I said again.

  “Will you stop that!” my mother snapped. She turned to Aunt Helene. “She’s . . well ... she’s very nice, I guess. Very intelligent.” My mother said the word intelligent in a way that meant she really didn’t think Lisa was intelligent. “They both met at college only ... only now Alex had to stop and find a job. I mean since they got married.”

  I could hear the bitterness in my mother’s voice. Alex is the smartest one of the three of us. A straight-A student all through school, and only a year to go before he would have finished college and gotten his degree in mathematics. We all expected him to go on to graduate school, but all of a sudden, he and Lisa decided to get married.

  “He’ll go back,” my father said, trying to sound cheerful. “Maybe he can finish at night. It’s all right.”

  “Alex also has a good singing voice, doesn’t he?” Aunt Helene asked.

  “No, Mom, I keep telling you.” Beth put down her glass of lemonade. “Jeff is the one who sings. He’s older. He’s twenty-four, and Alex is twenty-one—only eight years older than I.”

  “Oh, that’s right,” Aunt Helene said. “Well, Karen and Walter, I wish them both lots of luck, but I do agree with Karen that it’s better to finish your education before you marry. John and I waited until he finished his degree.”

  I wanted to repeat that Lisa was pregnant and that was why they had to get married because Aunt Helene didn’t seem to understand. But my mother had a strained look on her face, so I kept quiet.

  “Jeff had a beautiful voice,” Beth said. “He always said he was going to be a singer.”

  “He still does,” my mother said grimly. “He always knew lots of songs.” Beth turned to me for the first time. “Does he still know lots of songs?”

  “Oh, sure,” I told her. “He’s always coming up with new songs. He’s the only one in the family who sings. Nobody else can carry a tune.”

  “I can carry a tune,” Beth said.

  “Actually, Beth has a lovely voice,” her mother said. “She’s quite a musician. You should hear her on the piano. Her teacher thinks she could be a professional if she wanted.” Aunt Helene laughed. “John and I love music, but neither of us has much talent. I studied piano for years, but I never could play as well as Beth.”

  My mother cleared her throat. “Molly could have played too,” she began, but my father interrupted, shaking his head.

  “She didn’t want to practice,” he said.

  “Now, Walter,” my mother protested, “that’s not exactly true. You remember that was the year she had all those colds, and she just didn’t have the energy.”

  “Nothing can stop Beth from practicing,” her mother said. “Even when she’s sick, she’ll get up and practice. I remember once when she had chicken pox ...”

  Aunt Helene went on and on, bragging about what a prodigy Beth was. I felt like throwing up. Beth was pretending to examine the little charms on her bracelet, and she was smiling. My sister was turning out to be a real drag.

  My sister? It was hard for me to th
ink of Beth as part of my family, I watched her pick up her lemonade and begin sipping it again. Even though she had the same dark eyes and the same dark skin and the same long nose—even though she looked kind of like me and my mom, and even though my mom was her aunt and my aunt too, and my brothers were her cousins and my cousins too—she didn’t feel like a part of my family.

  Her mother stopped talking.

  Beth looked at me suddenly and asked, “Are there still two beds in your room?”

  “Two beds?”

  “Well, you’re sleeping in Jeff and Alex’s old room, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, now I am.”

  “They used to have a trundle bed in their room, and sometimes when we slept over, we slept there, and the boys slept on the pullout couch in the living room. Do you still have that trundle bed?”

  I looked over at my mom. Her face was pale and unhappy. I knew she must be thinking of how Beth chose to go with the Lattimores instead of staying with us. How she had her own big room in San Francisco instead of sharing my small bedroom and the trundle bed.

  “Yes,” I said to her coldly, “I still have that trundle bed.”

  Beth finished her glass of lemonade and stood up. “Let’s go see your room,” she said.

  Her mother looked down at her watch and said, “Beth, we should be going soon.”

  “Why?” Beth asked over her shoulder as she headed toward the door.

  “We need to check in at the hotel. I said we’d be there before six.”

  Beth turned. “Can’t you call from here and tell them we’ll be coming later?”

  My mother cleared her throat. “Are you staying in the city tonight?” She had that nervous look, which meant she would have liked to invite them to stay over but was worried about where to put them.

  “Actually,” said Aunt Helene, “we’ll be staying three or four nights. John wants me to meet with some of the publishers and also to check out a few museums ...” Her voice drifted off. “We’ll probably take off for Maine next Tuesday or Wednesday.”