The Geometry of Sisters Page 12

  Darcy led Maura through her sister's house. Looking around, Maura felt pangs of longing and nostalgia. Bookcases were filled to overflowing, volumes two and three deep in the shelves, piled on the floor and under tables.

  Her sister's mysterious drawings of extinct birds and fish—studies for her sculpture—were everywhere, along with framed photos of Maura, Andy, Carrie, Travis, and Beck. Maura stared at the pictures she'd sent through the years—with a birth announcement, a birthday card, communicating with her sister just like all the others on her Christmas card list.

  They went into the kitchen, a rambling room with a huge stove and refrigerator—big enough to feed a restaurant—long oak table, chairs, two loveseats flanking a fieldstone fireplace, a deep red Murano glass chandelier, more drawings, paintings, and photos. There were bouquets of dried herbs hanging from rafters, pots of plants, bunches of fall flowers and dried grass, autumn leaves strewn across the table, glass bowls full of seashells and pinecones, several pumpkins of varying sizes.

  Darcy poured two mugs of coffee, showed Maura the milk and sugar. Maura numbly accepted the mug and drank it black.

  “Just like Kate! Your sister is hardcore with her coffee too.”

  “Where is Katharine … Kate?”

  “You call her Katharine! I'll have to tease her about that.”

  Maura remembered how her sister had never allowed anyone to call her by a nickname. Until one person: J.D. had always called Katharine “Tiger.” Standing there, quietly waiting, Maura found herself shaking.

  “Are you okay?” Darcy asked, reaching for her arm.

  “I need to see my sister.”

  “She's not here right now.”

  “Is she sick?” Maura asked, her insides turning to ice. With so much distance between them, she'd been afraid of this—having her sister become seriously ill without her knowing, having something terrible happen and not being there. And that made her think of Carrie, of the silence between them, and Maura had to brace herself against the door.

  “No,” Darcy said quickly. “Kate's in Providence.”

  “But that's not far—didn't she get my message?”

  “I'm not sure. She's teaching a seminar at RISD, staying at an apartment on Benefit Street…. I'd try her again.”

  Maura barely heard, looking around the kitchen as if she might find a clue to why Katharine hadn't returned her call, how since coming to Rhode Island she hadn't seen her sister once. The refrigerator was covered with pictures held on by magnets. She stared, realizing that most of them were of her kids.

  Her gaze shifted to the wall, where Katharine had framed finger paintings by Beck, a collage by Travis, a drawing by Carrie. As she gazed at her children's pictures, she realized that she'd sent more than she remembered. And Katharine had preserved them with love. She was a true aunt, even though she'd stayed away from her sister.

  Maura focused on the photographs. They were unmistakably Carrie's, and Maura herself had sent them, back when Carrie was still home: a self-portrait of Carrie holding Grisby, Beck climbing the tree by their back door, Maura studying for a final, a close-up of Beck's eyes, sleepy and dreamy. Shaken by the immediacy of Carrie's pictures, the horror of not knowing where she was came flooding in.

  “Maura, are you okay?” Darcy asked.

  “Tell my sister I miss her,” Maura said. “When she gets back from Providence. Will you ask her to call me?”

  “I will,” Darcy said, and Maura walked out of the kitchen.

  The autumn air smelled fresh—Katharine's land sloped down to the Sakonnet River, brackish as it mixed with the Atlantic. Maura stared at her sister's house, so full of love and reminders of her own children. The long silence between them had started because of J.D. Maura still remembered the panic in her sister's voice when she'd called her in Ohio to tell her what happened.

  “Why did he do that?” Katharine had cried. He was in surgery, with a broken back. “What did you say to him? Why would he jump off the bridge?”

  “He would never jump,” Maura had said, filled with shock and grief. “It must have been an accident.”

  “But what was he doing up there? What did you say, Maura?”

  Maura didn't tell her, and never would. The sound of Katharine's muffled sobs: in them, without words, disbelief and despair that Maura could have done so much damage.

  Still, they'd spoken all through the fall; Maura would call to ask about J.D., and Katharine would tell her about his progress. For a long time Katharine had expected Maura to change her mind and return to Newport. His recovery was rocky, going slowly, and she knew seeing Maura would make it better.

  But leaving J.D., as much as she'd known it was the only way, had broken Maura's heart. Now she had the baby to consider. She was pregnant; she had to make everything right with Andy. Seeing J.D. would make her doubt her decision more than she already did. It would tear her to pieces, seeing him paralyzed. She didn't think she could survive it.

  Maura called to invite Katharine to Columbus for Christmas. She asked, as she always did, about J.D.; by then Katharine had stopped telling her details. She'd become quiet, polite; she'd said he was the same. And as she always did, Maura said she was sorry. She felt Katharine judging her, as if she was cold and callous; how was it possible her sister didn't seem to know how devastated she was?

  Before they hung up, Maura asked if Katharine could bring some of the family ornaments. She meant it as a peace offering, a way of reminding her sister of their love and childhood, their forever connection. But Katharine seemed shocked, as if wondering how Maura could be thinking of something so dumb and superficial while J.D. lay injured. Maura hated that, but she didn't know how to smooth it out.

  The next week a box had arrived. Neatly packed, all the family Christmas decorations. No note. And no Katharine. Maura knew she'd done something terrible, but still, how could her sister turn so completely against her?

  “I can't have holidays without you,” Maura had said. “I need you, Katharine.”

  No answer, just hot silence pouring through the phone.

  “What about after the baby is born?” Maura asked. “Will you come then? To see your niece or nephew?”

  “Don't even go there,” Katharine said.

  “Katharine. Andy and I are trying to make a family,” Maura began.

  “What about J.D.?” Katharine screamed. “What about a family with him? You don't want him, you don't even care about him!”

  “I do care,” Maura said, shocked by the passion in her sister's voice.

  “His life is over, Maura. I'd give anything to make him better, make him stop thinking of you.” Katharine sobbed.

  “Katharine, I'm sorry,” Maura said, but her sister had already hung up.

  A glimmer: Were Katharine's feelings for J.D. more than the deep friendship she had always claimed? Maura couldn't let herself believe that; Katharine had vehemently denied it. Maura told herself her sister was reacting to J.D.'s suffering, to what Maura had done.

  They never talked about it again, and they never spent another holiday together. And last Christmas Carrie hadn't come home. Maura had taught her daughter to swim, knit, whistle, garden, do cartwheels. But she'd also taught her how to put time and distance between herself and the people she loved most.

  Turning her car around in the driveway, Maura headed out of the pumpkin patch onto the main road. Long, ragged white clouds scudded across the bright blue sky. Yellow leaves blew off the trees, dancing along the asphalt. Maura drove home, oblivious to the October beauty.

  Travis woke up with Ally in his bed. At first he panicked—his mother was in the next room. But Ally whispered she'd heard her drive away, the only person home was Beck, and she wasn't paying attention. She slid under the covers, still in her nightgown. It was silky, pink, and the slippery feel of it made Travis crazy.

  They kissed, his hands sliding down her body, over her curvy hips. She felt blazing, a heater against his skin.

  “I've missed you so much,”
she said.

  Travis couldn't answer. He'd barely kissed her last night, even after getting so worked up in the car. Not because of their fight, but because of what he felt inside. As he came fully awake, his thoughts raced. His body wanted her, but his mind knew it was wrong to be with a girl he didn't love. Building for a while, the feeling's force had hit him last night, and he knew what he had to do. Ally stroked his back with a light touch, her fingernails making him tingle. Her kiss was hot and searching.

  She reached down into his pajama bottoms; he pushed her hand away.

  “What's the matter?” she asked.

  “We can't,” he said.

  “Why not?” When he didn't reply, she peered at him. “You've been acting strange ever since I got here!”

  His arms were around her; he gazed into her eyes. This was the girl he'd loved and cared about all through high school. She'd been Carrie's friend; he'd never imagined not loving her, and he couldn't stand the idea of hurting her. But this had been coming for a while.

  “Ally,” he said.

  “What?”

  “We're so far apart now,” he said softly. “I thought it would be okay, but it's really hard.”

  “You think I haven't noticed that? That's why I'm here, Travis, why I flew out to be with you.”

  “I know,” he said, reaching over to stroke her hair.

  “Aren't you glad I came? Or do you wish I hadn't?”

  He swallowed hard, knowing he had to lie. “No, I'm glad you came.”

  “You don't seem it.”

  “This isn't a good idea. Us being together, when you're in Ohio and I'm here.”

  “I told you last night,” she said. “You should come home.”

  This is home, he wanted to say. But he weighed every word, trying as hard as he could to hurt her as little as possible. “I can't,” he said. “I have to be with my mother and Beck.”

  “And someone else?” she asked, her eyes filling.

  “Stop,” he said. “This has nothing to do with anyone but us. It's not fair to you, us trying to stay together when we can't even see each other.”

  “Just say her name,” Ally said, shoving him away, sitting up in bed. “Pell—it's about her.”

  Travis didn't want that to be true—he knew the honorable thing would be to finish things with Ally before letting himself have feelings for someone else. But every time he closed his eyes Pell was there—her sad, gentle eyes, the way they'd talked that night, the way her dark hair angled across her porcelain skin. Shaking his head, he tried to push those thoughts away. “No,” he said. “It's because of us.”

  “Why did your mother make you move away?” she asked, her voice rising. “It ruined everything.”

  Ally climbed out of bed, walked to the door. She looked vulnerable in her thin pink nightgown. Then she turned away, walked out of his room. Travis hesitated. He wished it could just be over. But he knew he couldn't leave things this way, so he climbed out of bed. Halfway down the hallway, he heard Ally enter Beck's room.

  “I have a question, Beck,” he heard her say.

  “Sure,” Beck said. One of the cats meowed, and Travis watched Grisby scoot out of Beck's room toward the kitchen.

  “Why did you lie?” Ally asked.

  Beck didn't reply and Travis froze, listening.

  “Yesterday you said you didn't know who Travis was looking at—when we were at the game, remember?”

  “I remember,” Beck said.

  “I asked you a question, and thought you'd be decent enough to tell me the truth about Pell,” Ally said quietly.

  “He wasn't…”

  “You haven't changed at all. Lying and stealing. You're a little thief. You stole out in Columbus, and everyone knew it. How long do you think it will be before you drive everyone here away? Carrie probably ran away because she can't stand you. Why do you think your family had to move here? Because of you. They're ashamed of you, just like Carrie would be.”

  Ally's words and Beck's total silence scalded Travis. He stepped into Beck's room, saw Ally glaring at her with rage. Beck pulled her legs up and sat huddled on her desk chair, head down on the tops of her knees. Travis walked past Ally, put his hand on his sister's shoulders.

  “Carrie wouldn't be ashamed of you,” he said. “And neither am I. I never could be, Beck.”

  “I was trying to get her to see that lying and stealing never works,” Ally said.

  “Neither does being a bitch to my sister,” he said.

  “It's incredible,” she said, backing away. “I don't even know you anymore. You can't see the truth when it's right in front of you. Thanks for having me fly all the way out here just so you could break up with me. I'm calling my father. I want to go home today.”

  “Ally,” Travis began, still gripping Beck's shoulder.

  “You think your family is so perfect? One sister's a liar, the other was pregnant. That's what everyone's saying, you know? Carrie was pregnant. And she never even had the decency to ask what Justin wanted to do about it.”

  “There's no proof any of that is true,” Travis said, shocked that Ally would say it. He knew what Beck thought, but he'd never repeated it to anyone. He stared down at his sister.

  “You're right—it came from her,” Ally said. “Carrie told her a secret, and Beck blabbed it all over town.”

  “Beck?” he asked.

  “I don't know what she's talking about,” Beck mumbled.

  “Lying again,” Ally said.

  Travis stood by his sister, staring at Ally. She was striking out at Beck to get at him. Maybe she even thought that if he turned against Beck he'd turn back to her. But what she didn't understand was that Travis never could. What was left of Travis's family meant everything to him. Ally kept talking but Travis blocked out her voice and thought of his two sisters, of how close they had been.

  And of how no one knew Carrie's secrets better than Beck.

  9AND I HATE ALLY, BUT SHE'S RIGHT, AND IT'S true: the rumors about Carrie being pregnant started with me. I couldn't keep my mouth shut. I told my two best friends. No one but me saw the way she kept holding her stomach that last day on the lake, gripping her belly and rocking back and forth as if she had a baby inside.

  I had to tell someone.

  I held my worries in as long as I could, but they leaked out sideways. That day at the lake, when they were searching for Carrie and my father, I remember asking my mother, “Is Carrie pregnant?” She said no, and a whole bunch of reasons why not, but nothing she said chased away what I'd seen in my sister.

  I couldn't stop thinking about it, but I never asked my mother again. Because after Carrie ran away from the hospital, we all fell apart. But she knew something was wrong with me, because I couldn't hide it. I wore Carrie's secret on my face. It was like being haunted, but not by a ghost: by an idea. By the idea that my older sister was going to have a baby.

  Telling your best friends is so much easier. Because you're all teenage girls and you think about sex, it's everywhere right in front of you, but your mother's your mother and your brother is a boy and there you go. They love your sister as much as you do. They don't even have to idealize her because she's already ideal. It just killed me to think of her keeping a secret like that. So I told my so-called best friends. I thought I could trust them.

  Maybe ghosts are easier. Lucy is right, our fathers are nearby and all we have to do is find the right formula to see them again. I want my father. I want him to be here with us, to talk to Travis and let him know I didn't mean to ruin things with Ally. It's true, I saw him looking at Pell. Ally was letting me sit with her at the game, and I didn't want to hurt her feelings. And I wanted to protect my brother. Travis says he isn't mad at me. I guess I'm just mad at myself.

  My father would understand. If he were here, he'd put his arm around my shoulder and say, “Hey take a ride with me.” He'd invent some errand—go to the hardware store, or to stock up on weekly specials at the grocery store, or check out the sporting goods depa
rtment at the Wal-Mart out on Connell Highway.

  I want my father for Travis, and I want him for me. I'd ask him about Carrie. About what they talked about in the canoe that day. I hope that wasn't them yelling; I hope it was just the wind that I heard.

  My father was the sweetest, nicest father. He was easy, he was calm. Back when things were perfect, I'd see him staring at my mother as if she made him so happy he thought he was dreaming. I almost expected to see him pinch himself. And late at night, after homework when we were all watching TV, she'd look at him with that sleepy, it's-been-a-long-day-but-I-love-my-life way. She was a housewife, but she liked it.

  Dad would be lying on the couch, very often with Desdemona curled up right on his chest. She only did that with gentle people, trust me. We had a good family.

  Once I asked my mom if her dad was like ours; if he was good, nice, kind, easy. I'd expected her to say yes—because, honestly, I couldn't imagine any other way. But she'd shaken her head. “He was different,” she said. “He never seemed to want to be home.”

  A dad not wanting to be home? What did that even mean?

  It made me sad for her and my aunt. I never met my grand parents; they died before I was born. But I felt sorry for them, that they hadn't had the kind of family we did. I know Carrie felt that way too. We were lucky.

  Our dad cared about everyone and everything, especially all of us. So I imagine him taking Carrie out for that paddle, trying to soothe whatever was bothering her. It had to be the storm I heard. I tell myself that even though I know it's not true. They were fighting, and it sounded violent. I heard Carrie crying.

  I don't feel like myself. Or at least, I don't feel like the Beck I used to be. The one out in Columbus before my family disappeared. We used to have fun. I used to wake up in the morning without a stomachache. I never used to steal.

  Lucy says people only see the obvious. The things right in front of them, in front of their faces. But what about the small, dissolving, invisible traces of people we love? When someone dies or goes away, do we feel differently about them? No. If anything, we love them more.