What My Sister Remembered Page 4

  “I was looking forward to taking it easy this weekend, just doing nothing for a change, maybe even going to the beach, maybe sitting under a tree in the park, maybe just staying home and relaxing ...”

  “She’s sleeping in my bed,” I told them. My dad was sitting in front of the fan, smoking and listening to my mom.

  “So now I have to make dinner for nine people. Of course, Jeff has to bring over a friend—some girl named Ginger—and it’s going to be another blazing hot day ... I need all this like a hole in the head.”

  “She won’t move,” I said. “She’s sleeping in my bed, and she won’t move.”

  My mother waved a hand at me to shut up, to stop interrupting her while she was in the midst of something important. “I’ll have to go shopping tomorrow, and I’ll have to spend the whole day cooking ...”

  “I’ll help,” my dad said sympathetically. “I’ll go out shopping early in the morning, and—"

  “I don’t even know what to make,” my mother cried, but in a low voice.

  “Lasagna,” both of us said together and smiled at each other. Lasagna was my mother’s greatest triumph—she wasn’t that good a cook otherwise, but nobody ever made lasagna the way she did. Nobody.

  “It’s too hot,” my mother complained. “Who needs the oven on when the temperature is in the 90’s? And who wants to eat lasagna on a miserably hot day?”

  “I could eat your lasagna on any kind of day,” my father said. “I could eat your lasagna on a hot day or on a cold day.” He paused, shook his head up and down, and added, “And I could eat your lasagna hot or cold or ...” Another pause. “Or room temperature. Nobody makes lasagna like you.”

  My mother lifted her chin, but she still pretended to be undecided. “And what about dessert?”

  “Can we have a German chocolate cake from Kings?” I said.

  “Well—I don’t know if Beth likes chocolate cake. And Mrs. Lattimore—she’s probably one of those people who doesn’t eat sweets at all.”

  “Who cares?” said my dad. “We like chocolate cake—right, Molly? So that’s what we’ll have.”

  “I suppose we could always pick up some strawberries too,” my mother said. “People like Mrs. Lattimore always seem to like strawberries. And I’ll make lemonade.” My mother nodded and began to look comfortable. ‘‘We’ll get up early and do the shopping, and I’ll start the sauce and then assemble the lasagna. I’ll just have to pop it in the oven for forty minutes, and maybe we can ask Alex to bring over his fan. Okay, if you really want me to, I’ll make lasagna.”

  That settled, I could get back to my problem. “She’s sleeping on my bed,” I said. “She took a shower, and then I guess I was on the phone to Cindy, and when I got back to my room, she was asleep on my bed. And she won’t wake up.”

  “I made up the trundle bed for her,” Mom said.

  “I know you did. I even showed her that you put on a brand-new sheet and a new pillowcase— in blue and white since she kept saying how much she hated pink. She knew you were making up the trundle bed for her.”

  “Don’t make a big deal of it,” my dad advised. “It’s only for one night.”

  “She did it on purpose,” I said, “just to be mean. She’s the meanest kid I ever met.”

  “No, no,” said my mother. “It’s not her. It’s her mother. She’s the one who ... who ...”

  The three of us drew together and spoke in whispers.

  “She seems nice to me,” said my dad. “A little wishy-washy but I think she really cares for Beth. And I think Beth is happy although she is kind of crabby ...”

  “I guess it all worked out for the best,” said my mother, looking very, very tired.

  “Did you see the bracelet Beth was wearing?” I asked them. “It’s a charm bracelet, and every charm is different and—"

  “Now you stop that!” said my mother. “You just stop it!”

  “Stop what?”

  “Just stop it! I think it’s crazy to let a kid wear an expensive piece of jewelry anyway. She could lose it or somebody might steal it.”

  “I bet she never takes it off,” I told them. “I wouldn’t if I had a bracelet like that.”

  “I’m warning you,” my mother snapped. “You just cut it out!”

  “Karen! Karen!” my father murmured, “Molly didn’t mean anything. You can’t blame her for admiring something beautiful.”

  “It has a gold heart with a tiny diamond. When she moves her arm, it flashes, and then there’s a little ...”

  “All right now—that’s enough!” Now it was my father snapping at me.

  “It’s her mother’s fault,” said my mom. “She probably gives her anything she wants.”

  * * * *

  I thought about Beth as I lay on the trundle bed later that night. My window was wide open, and the curtains were tied back, but there was no breeze stirring. My pillow heated up, and I kept turning it over and over to find a cool spot.

  Beth slept. Even though I thumped my pillow around and muttered out loud on purpose about how hot it was, she went right on sleeping, curled up and facing the wall, the way I did.

  Why was she here in the first place? And why was she so mean in the second place? I turned my pillow over and found one small, coolish spot over near the bottom which quickly warmed up after I lay my hot face on it. And why was she especially mean to my mom in the third place?

  I determined that I wouldn’t let her get away with making my mother feel bad anymore. If she said one more mean thing, I would ... I would ... my pillow grew so warm that I just tossed it on the floor and fell asleep finally without it.

  * * * *

  “Molly! Molly! Are you awake, Molly?”

  “No,” I said.

  “Molly, listen, Molly. I want to tell you something.”

  I opened my eyes. It was dark, and the clock on my bureau said 3:32.

  “Are you crazy?” I asked her. “It’s the middle of the night. I want to sleep.”

  “I guess I’m still on English time,” she said, sounding a little bit sorry. “But I have to tell you something.”

  “I don’t want to hear it,” I said, feeling my hot, heavy eyelids shutting. “Tell me in the morning. I can’t listen now. I can’t ...”

  * * * *

  As soon as I woke up the next morning, I turned toward my bed. Beth wasn’t in it. The clock said 9:07. I jumped up and hurried down the hall to the bathroom. I could hear voices from the kitchen, so I washed up, combed my hair, and went back up the hall.

  Beth was sitting in the kitchen, talking to my father. Both of them were smiling. My mother was nowhere in sight.

  “Good morning, Merry Sunshine,” said my father cheerfully. “Beth and I are arguing about politics.”

  “Where’s Mom?”

  “Oh, she insisted on going out to pick up some muffins for breakfast and some lemons. She’ll be back soon.”

  “The U.N. has to play a bigger role in world politics,” Beth announced.

  “The U.N.?” My father laughed. “The U.N. is just a big debating society.”

  “It’s much better to debate,” Beth leaned forward, “than to wage war. People get killed in a war—children too.”

  “Well,” said my father, nodding, “you’re right, of course, but I’m afraid until human beings change we’ll always have war. Anyway, I’m really impressed, Beth. You certainly take an interest in things, and you seem to know what’s happening out in the world. I wish ...” My father left the sentence unfinished, but glanced quickly at me and then away. I knew what he was thinking. He was thinking that he was the only one who read the newspaper and that neither my mom nor I showed any interest at all in what was happening to the rest of the world. It made me feel angry and jealous.

  “Then human beings will just have to change,” Beth said.

  “It’s hot,” I complained. “I’m going to take a shower.”

  “Good idea,” my father agreed as he leaned forward and continued talking to Beth.


  By the time I had taken my shower and dressed myself in a pink shirt, pink shorts, and pink socks, my mother had returned and was bustling around the kitchen. I could hear her chattering away even before I entered the room.

  "Whatever you like, Beth. I bought a bunch of lemons, and I can make you some lemonade.”

  “I don’t drink lemonade in the morning,” Beth said. She wasn’t smiling anymore. She was looking over at the kitchen window, and her face had its usual mean look on it. My father was no longer in the room.

  “Oh!” My mother said nervously. “Then what? ...”

  “Oh, I just like milk with a touch of nutmeg in it.” Beth continued looking at the window.

  “Nutmeg?” My mother took a breath. “I’m not sure I have any nutmeg.”

  “Water then,” Beth said as if she were talking to a waitress. “I’ll just have some water.”

  My mother hesitated and then said softly to Beth, “Your mother was a fussy eater too when she was a child.”

  “No, she was not,” Beth said firmly, her eyes still on the window. “She wasn’t a fussy eater when she was a child, and she isn’t one now either.”

  “I meant ... I meant your real mother.”

  “Well, so did I,” Beth said fiercely, turning and glaring now at my mother.

  “What is the matter with you?” I yelled at Beth. “She meant Kathy. You know very well she meant Kathy. You just stop picking on her.”

  Beth turned to look at me. “What do you know?” she asked. “You don’t know anything.”

  “I know plenty,” I said. “I know you’re mean and selfish, and you’re making my mother feel bad.”

  “She’s not your mother,” Beth cried in a shrill voice. “She’s your aunt.”

  “Well, if she’s not my mother,” I yelled, “Aunt Helene isn’t your mother either.”

  Beth stood up, and the two of us moved toward each other. Oh, I thought, if I could just land one punch on her mean face, and get one grab at her shiny, short hair ...

  But my mom got between us and put a hand on each of our shoulders.

  “No!” she said. “No!”

  The three of us stood there straining against one another, and then my father came into the room.

  “What’s going on here?” he asked. “What’s all the yelling about?”

  “She picked on Mom,” I yelled.

  “She insulted me,” Beth cried.

  “Girls! Girls! Girls!” said my mother.

  “You know what?” said my dad, laughing. “I think we need to call in the U.N. Right, Beth?”

  And then Beth began laughing too. My father put his arm around her shoulder, and she leaned against him. “I’m sorry, Uncle Walter,” she said.

  “You should apologize to my mother,” I told her, ‘‘not to my dad. She’s the one you should apologize to.”

  “Let’s just start all over again,” my father said. “Let’s have breakfast, and then the two of you can come shopping with me. We’re going to have the whole gang over later, and Beth, you haven’t tasted anything until you’ve tasted your Aunt Karen’s lasagna.”

  Beth made a face. “I don’t like lasagna,” she said.

  “Oh, you’ll like this lasagna,” said my dad.

  My mother was rummaging around in the cupboard and held up a small box. “Here, Beth. See? I do have nutmeg.”

  “Maybe I’ll get dressed first,” Beth said to my dad. “The three of you are already dressed.”

  “Good idea!” My dad patted her shoulder, smiled, and watched her as she walked off down the hall. Then he turned to me. He wasn’t smiling. “Molly,” he said, “I don’t like the way you’re acting.”

  “Me?” I protested. “She started it. Didn’t she, Mom?”

  But my mother only shook her head and began putting the muffins into a basket. My mother hardly ever remains silent during an argument, and I watched her in surprise.

  “I don’t care who started it.” My father took me by the arm and spoke in a very low voice.

  “She insulted Mom. She—"

  “Beth is your sister,” my father interrupted, “and she’s also your guest.”

  “She’s not my guest. I didn’t invite her.”

  My father shook my arm and said angrily but still in a very low voice, “Now, I want you to cut it out. Do you hear me? I want you to cut it out and behave yourself. If you talk nicely to her, she’ll talk nicely to you. I really enjoyed my conversation with her this morning. She’s a very intelligent, interesting girl—and she knows what’s happening in the world.”

  “She’s a stinker, and she’s mean to Mom.”

  Suddenly, my mother broke in. “Listen to your father, Molly,” she said. “You just do what he tells you.”

  “Mom,” I cried. “She was rude to you, she—"

  “All right now, Molly.” My father tightened his grip on my arm. “I want you to go and apologize to Beth.”

  “No,” I said, “I won’t.”

  “Oh, yes, you will.” My father began moving me toward the door. “You will go and apologize to her, and you will behave yourself as long as she is in this house. She is your sister, and you will make it your business to get along with her.”

  “She’s selfish and mean.”

  “No,” said my father. “You’re the one who’s selfish and mean. You’re only thinking of yourself, and you’re jealous because her family’s got more money than yours, and she’s got a fancy bracelet and more bathrooms in her house than you’ve got in yours.”

  The tears rushed down my face. It was all so unfair ... and maybe also a little bit true. I looked toward my mother. At least she should have been my ally in all this. Hadn’t I stuck up for her? But she kept her eyes away from mine and repeated, “You just do what your father tells you.”

  “Go ahead now!” He gave me a little push, and I went. Slowly. But I went.

  Beth was dressed, and combing her shiny, short hair when I came into the room. She stopped and waited.

  “I’m sorry,” I muttered.

  She still didn’t say anything, so I went on. “You’re a guest in my house, my dad says, so I have to be nice to you.”

  Beth shrugged. “You don’t have to be anything you don’t want to be.”

  “Well, I don’t want to be nasty, but you ... you ...”

  She was looking me over, up and down and sideways. Her eyes focused on my face. “You’ve been crying,” she said, with what sounded to me like pleasure.

  “No,” I protested, reaching up to wipe the leftover tears on my cheek. “It’s hot. I’m sweating.”

  Now she was smiling. “You always were a crybaby,” she said, “and you never were a very good liar.”

  “I’m not a crybaby,” I said, forcing the tears back, “and I’m not a liar either.”

  “Oh, yes, you were,” she insisted. Then she moved closer to me. “Do you remember anything?” she asked. “Anything about me?”

  “I remember ...” I began. But what did I remember about Beth? What was it?

  We stood there silently, and then, suddenly, I remembered something else. “What was it you wanted to tell me?” I asked.

  She shook her head. “What are you talking about?”

  “Last night—in the middle of the night. You wanted to tell me something.”

  “Oh,” she said, “yes, I did, but ...”

  “But what?”

  “I don’t know now,” she said, with a weird smile on her face. “It isn’t anything nice. Maybe you won’t feel good if I tell you.”

  And I didn’t want to hear it. I knew that. That weird smile on her face made me scared, very scared, and I wanted to stick my fingers in my ears and not listen. Whatever it was that Beth wanted to tell me, I didn’t want to hear.

  She stood there, watching me, waiting. I had to do something.

  “What’s your favorite color?” I asked her.

  “What?”

  “I know you don’t like pink,” I babbled. “So what c
olor do you like?”

  She moved back and shook her head. “What is it with you?” she asked. “What kind of dumb question is that?”

  It wasn’t going to work. I was scared, so scared that my knees began trembling. I sat down on the bed. “Please, Beth,” I said. “I don’t want to be nasty. Just don’t be mean to her. I won’t be nasty if you stop being mean to her.”

  “Who are you talking about?” She came and sat down next to me.

  I didn’t answer.

  “Who?” she demanded.

  “My mom,” I told her.

  Chapter 6

  “Listen, Molly,” Beth said, “I want to tell you something that I guess you don’t remember.”

  I didn’t want to hear it. “Just don’t be nasty to my mom, Beth,” I said. “She’s had a lot of disappointments in her life, and ... please, Beth—"

  “She’s had disappointments?” Beth repeated, but not in the way I had said it. In a mean way. But I knew that if I kept on talking, she couldn’t.

  “Oh yes,” I said quickly. “You know Alex had to marry Lisa because she was pregnant, and he had to drop out of school. My mom nearly freaked out about that. She was so proud of Alex, and now he’s working as a computer repairman, and she’s afraid he won’t go back to school.”

  Beth shrugged her shoulders.

  “And then there’s Jeff.”

  Now Beth looked interested. “What about Jeff?”

  “Well, he never even finished high school. He always thought he’d be a musician, and sing and play in a band.”

  “I remember. I remember,” Beth said. “He used to have a bunch of kids over playing guitars, and there was one guy who played a trumpet.”

  “Right—and Mrs. Palagonia from upstairs kept complaining and complaining, and my mom tried to have them go and play somewhere else.”

  “I remember Mrs. Palagonia,” Beth said, grinning now. Suddenly, I felt safe, and I grinned back at her. “Didn’t she have twin boys—funny-looking twin boys?”

  “Yes, she did. She does. But they’re grown-up now, and they got to be real good-looking. You’re right. They were funny-looking when they were kids.”

  “They had big noses?”

  “Yes, they did.”