The Sister Season (15 page)

B
acon and eggs. Cinnamon rolls. Skillet potatoes. Fresh-squeezed orange juice. French toast. Sausage links. Pies. Cakes. Pastries wrapped around fruit curd. Ham.

This was the same Christmas breakfast that had been made in the McClure Farm kitchen since Elise could remember. When she was growing up, it had been her job to collect the eggs early in the morning, some of them steaming in the basket as she raced through the cold yard back to the kitchen. She’d learned how to roll out cinnamon rolls from her mom, who had learned it from her mom. She’d watched as Aunt Nannie peeled potatoes, always wearing a red and green stocking cap, even though it was so warm in the kitchen the ladies would use dish towels to sop away sweat as they cooked.

When she was a child, there had been singing. Christmas carols and hymns, led by whoever had one in her heart and taken up by everyone who knew the lyrics. The kitchen was always a hub of activity—chopping and peeling and sizzling and shouted greetings and laughter and children racing through and good smells—the meal almost a gift in its own right.

She had tried her best to keep up the tradition as the farm deteriorated and the family dispersed. She had tried to make it her own tradition as the girls grew up.

But Robert had always resented the large meal. He’d felt it gluttonous, counter to biblical teachings about want. He’d always been hungover and sour, and he’d always punished the girls more freely during that meal than at any other, as if to make a point.

Her hands shook as she tried to crack the eggs into a bowl for the French toast. The image of that pendant flashed in the back of her mind over and over again. A heart. For God’s sake, why? Why a heart, of all things? Why a gift at all? Her stomach lurched with guilt. What if he’d been ready to try anew? Would that have changed things the night he died?

She finally got all the eggs cracked and poured in a dollop of vanilla, a dash of cinnamon. She whisked, her arms stiff and tense as she felt anger rise up in her.

The man had beaten her. Hit her. With his fists. Broken ribs, twice. He’d berated her. A lifetime of being called worthless and lazy and stupid and ugly. He’d fought against her parenting sensibilities, and she’d gone along with him, always along with him, hoping her acquiescence would create harmony, hoping he would see she was on his side, and he never did see, it never did get any easier, and she’d ended up being a shitty mom in the process. Her girls, her poor girls. How she’d made them suffer his injustices. How she’d watched him punish them too harshly, abuse them as well. How she’d kept her mouth shut year after year after year until poor little Claire, with all her bravado, had finally done what she did that awful night at the Chuck Wagon. Oh, how Elise never blamed Claire for that night. How could she?

Who the hell did he think he was, to abuse her for decades, to change from the sweet, intense man who’d wooed her into a monster who’d made her cry out in fear and shame and sadness and bitterness and loneliness and hatred, only to leave her a gift after he’d died?

How dare he take her hatred away from her?

How dare he make her feel so guilty, as if she didn’t already feel guilty enough?

How dare he?

She finished beating the eggs and dropped the whisk into the sink, and suddenly it was as if someone had drained the very life out of all of her muscles. Her back to the cabinets, she sank to the floor slowly and rested her forehead on her knees as the bacon began to sizzle in the pan.

She sat there, images of her husband racing through her mind. His hands, big and brutal, lunging toward her. His eyes, cold and hard, mocking her.

His hands, shaking, clutching at his chest, reaching for her, for help. His eyes, the pleading in them, the pleading, oh, God, the pleading.

Around and around the images chased, until there was a beeping in her brain, incessant and loud. Bleating. Bleating. Voices, alarmed.

And then there were feet racing toward her and hands clutching at her robe, her shoulders, underneath her arms, lifting, lifting, scraping her back against the trim of the cabinets she was resting against.

“Mom!” someone was shouting. She looked up, thought she saw the face of one of her daughters—Which one was it? Was that Claire?—but the face was as if on the other side of a cloud. Was she in heaven? Had she been the one to die instead of Robert? No, couldn’t be. Surely if she’d died, she’d have gone to hell after what she’d done.

But then things began to snap into place. The beeping, the cloud, they weren’t in her head. They were real. Smoke. An alarm. Claire pulling her up, yelling something about getting outside for some fresh air.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” Claire kept saying. “Just a little grease fire. Bradley’s got it.”

And her son-in-law. She couldn’t decide if he was misunderstood or a son of a bitch. Given her daughter Maya’s reaction to him this morning, she guessed something really was wrong, but who would intervene in the plights of someone else’s marriage? Who would she be to get involved, after the marriage she’d been through, after the way she’d let it end? Her son-in-law, ripping the old fire extinguisher out from under the sink and racing over to the stove with it. Blasting white foam all over the food. Ruining the eggs, the French toast batter, the cinnamon rolls.

The Christmas Day breakfast, which had been a tradition at McClure Farm since before Elise was born, was, for the first time ever, not going to happen.

T
his place was such a freak show.

Seriously, all the sneaking out at night and the crying and stomping off and the two aunts not speaking to each other and the uncle who skulked around like a thief. Makes a guy not want to even bother getting out of bed.

Not that he very often wanted to get out of bed anyway.

And then, of course, when he finally talked himself into getting up—it was Christmas Day, after all, and his mom had already been to his door once and was going to start flipping out if he didn’t get up soon—and forced himself to go out to the den where everyone was, only the kids and Uncle Bradley were there. And then his grandmother had some sort of meltdown in the kitchen and nearly burned the whole place down.

By the time they’d gotten back in the house and all the smoke cleared out, everyone was in a bad mood and they all went their separate ways. Even his mom went to take a shower, and there he was, sitting by himself in the den, opening gifts with nobody to thank. Story of his freaking life.

He’d called his dad later in the day.

“Hey, buddy! I didn’t think you’d call today. You were pretty mad last time we talked.”

“Yeah. Sorry. I just wanted to say . . . you know . . . Merry Christmas and everything.” That was a lie. He’d wanted to talk to his dad because he knew his dad would be there. Totally there. Not the there-in-body-but-in-mind-far-away kind of there that his mom always was. But
there
there.

His dad paused. “So how are you feeling today? Things better?”

He shifted uneasily on his cot. “I got some aftershave from Grandma Elise.” He involuntarily palmed the side of his face. He hadn’t even started shaving yet. He hadn’t even begun to grow hair on his legs, much less on his face. All the other guys at school had. Just not him. Another way he was different. Another thing for them to jerk his chain about.

His dad laughed. “Well, you can save it,” he said. “Hey, listen, Sharon and I have a few things over here for you. You think you might come by when you get back up to KC?”

He grunted. It was meant to sound like an affirmative. But he knew that he hoped to never make it back to KC. If he had his way, he wouldn’t. But he couldn’t tell his dad that.

“Tell your mom to call me, okay?”

“Yeah, sure, Dad.”

There were some uncomfortable silences then, punctuated by even more uncomfortable small talk. His stepsister had gotten straight A’s last semester. Sharon pulled a ligament in her knee. They’d made custard pies, extra nutmeg. Two of them, because they knew how much he loved them. But soon there was no more left to talk about, and his dad started to say, “Okay, well . . .” a lot, which was his way of saying he was out of small talk and ready to get off the phone.

“So have your mom call me, okay?” he repeated.

“Okay.”

Another pause, then, “Are you sure you’re doing okay, Eli?”

“I’m great, Dad,” he lied. “I’m happy.”

“Well, it doesn’t sound like you’re very happy. I used to have to peel you off the ceiling on Christmas morning.”

“It’s been a long day here. There was a fire in the kitchen and it kind of threw everyone’s mood off.”

“A fire? You sure you’re okay? I can come get you.”

“I’m good, Dad. It was bacon grease. No big deal, really.”

But it had been a big deal. Nobody seemed to want to be in the same room together anymore. Nobody wanted to speak. Even the cousins seemed subdued, playing with their new toys in the den or in their bedroom, quietly bickering every so often. It was as if everyone was trying not to wake someone, even though nobody was asleep. Maybe it was more like everyone was trying not to wake some . . . thing.

He didn’t even need to wait for nightfall this time. His mom was on the phone with his stepdad, his aunts were God knew where, his grandmother was sitting on the floor by the Christmas tree, clutching some necklace and staring into the fire. His uncle had gone to the store with a grocery list. His cousins were, last he checked, taking turns diving into a drift of snow by the garage door. He was—typically, he noted—alone, even in a houseful of people.

He put on his shoes and a coat and headed outside. The snowfall had finally died off and the sun was shining. It was still cold as hell, but it was warm enough for some of the snow to begin melting. The result was a world glistening and gleaming so bright it made his eyes water to look around.

He took a walk this time. He felt like he had all the time in the world.

He climbed over the pasture gate, the metal cold under his hands, and hopped down on the other side. Then he walked through the pasture, leaving a trail of footprints in the snow that snaked toward the creek where his grandmother and Aunt Maya had left birdseed a couple of days ago. He doubled back toward the barn, which was empty, save for a few bales of hay and some twine snaking haphazardly across the floor. A few barrels were lined up by one wall and he opened them. The first stank of mildew, but was empty. The second was about a quarter filled with what looked like moldy corn; a mouse scurried down into it as soon as he opened the cover.

He walked the entire length of the pasture, then ducked under the barbed-wire fence into the derelict garden, dead stalks barely poking out through the snow. From there, his pace grew less meandering, more steady, more determined.

He noticed a couple of trails of footprints in the snow. They were leading to and coming back from exactly where he was headed: the tree line and the pond beyond it. He knew exactly whose footprints they were, but why Aunt Claire and Uncle Bradley had kept trudging to the pond in the middle of the winter nights was beyond him. Maybe Aunt Maya was right. Maybe they were screwing each other’s brains out. The thought grossed him out. He hoped he didn’t stumble across any lovers’ dens on his way to the pond.

To the pond. The very thought made his pulse quicken.

If Christmas Eve was a shitty day to commit suicide, Christmas Day was even shittier. He wasn’t sure if he could do it, quite honestly. But he wasn’t going to be offered solitary moments like this much more often, was he? In two days, they would go to his grandfather’s funeral and then they would go back home, and if he was still alive at that point, he knew exactly what would happen to him. His mom would be all up in his grill, asking him those idiotic questions she was always asking now. Probably make him go to therapy. That was if his dad didn’t make good on his promise and wrestle him away in a court battle. As bad as his mom would be, his dad would be worse. He’d never have a moment alone again. His dad wouldn’t rest until he was cartoon-character A-OK.

Today might be his only day. The family was so fractured his absence wouldn’t be noticed for a while. Maybe not until tomorrow.

Even if today was Christmas Day.

He plunged into the tree line, noting how much colder it was with the sun blocked by the branches, even though there were no leaves on them. He shivered, zipped his coat higher. He wondered if he would be uncomfortable in the freezing water. If he’d shiver down under the ice. Or if he’d just go numb immediately. He hoped for numbness. He didn’t want to suffer. He pretty much felt as if he’d done enough suffering for one lifetime, thank you very much.

For a brief moment, he wondered if his mom had ever walked through these trees. Surely she had, growing up on the farm. But she never talked about it. She never seemed to want to relive her childhood like so many of his friends’ lame parents did.

But if this week had been any indication, was it any wonder why she wouldn’t want to talk about her childhood? This place sucked. This family . . . it was the worst.

On some level, he felt sorry for his mom. She may have been a crappy mom who never seemed to really care about his life until she thought he might end it, but maybe she was that way for a reason. Maybe she was a crappy mom because she was raised by a crappy mom. Maybe all the fighting and the grudges had gotten to her, like . . . deep. Maybe she never had a chance.

He could see the pond ahead, through the trees. The ice was dull and covered with massive drifts of snow. But the center still looked wet, kind of slushy. It wasn’t thick ice. He knew that. One good jump, or two, would probably do the trick.

He walked across the bank, toward the near end of the pond, where the biggest snowdrift was. He climbed to the top of it, remembering being a little kid and playing King of the Mountain with his stepsiblings. It had been fun. Addictive. They never even felt the cold. He wished life hadn’t veered from that. He wished he could still be king of something.

He looked out across the ice, noting that the footsteps of his aunt and uncle that he’d been following stopped at the pond’s edge and didn’t seem to venture out onto the ice. Another good sign. They probably thought the ice too thin to stand on. Or lie on. Whichever they were doing.

He closed his eyes against the sun and held his arms out.
This is it,
he thought.
This is my last moment on earth.
He was happy to find that he felt somewhat peaceful, if not a little ramped up. Images flooded his mind, all of them bad. Unjust. Name-calling. Punches. Ignored pleas for attention. Hurt feelings. Embarrassment. Humiliation. Teachers who didn’t give a shit. Evil bus drivers. He felt a tear slide down one cheek, leaving a warm line in its wake. He didn’t care anymore about those people, about those things. This was his revenge. This was his justice. This was his peace.

Without opening his eyes, he took a step forward, down the drift and toward the ice. Then another and another until he was standing on the ice. Holding his arms straight out to his sides for balance, he walked, slowly, assuredly, toward the middle of the pond. The closer he got to the middle, the more he could hear the ice strain and creak under his weight. He liked the sound. His breathing began to quicken, and he wasn’t sure, but he thought he might be hyperventilating a little. That was okay—all it would take was one or two breaths under water and it would be over.

“Hey!” he heard, and then a peal of laughter.

His eyes snapped open and he whipped around. He was almost to the middle of the pond, but back at the bank, climbing up the drift he’d just climbed off of, were his little cousins. They were giggling and pulling at each other, just as he’d done when playing King of the Mountain all those years ago. The ice creaked again under his feet, and he had a sudden realization that he couldn’t do this right here, right now. Not with his little cousins watching. They would never get over the image of seeing their older cousin drown on Christmas Day. He couldn’t do that to them.

“Hey!” he yelled, almost like an echo. But he was holding his palms out toward them, stop sign style. “Get off of there!”

But they weren’t listening. They were too busy playing. Too busy being kids with nothing at all wrong in their world.

“Hey!” he yelled again, a little louder this time. “You guys, it’s not safe!”

“Look out below!” Will called, bending low at the knees and then springing from the top of the drift to the ice below. Even from where he was standing, he could hear the dull crack of the ice under the little boy’s feet.

“Will! Molly!” he cried, in a near panic this time, but they still weren’t paying attention. Will had raced around to the back side of the drift to climb up again while Molly bent at the knees, readying her own jump. He began running toward them, no longer caring about shivering or hyperventilating or breathing under the ice. He could see the small cracks that spiderwebbed out from under his feet with every footfall, but still he kept running, full tilt, his hands out in front of him, his voice scratching out warnings. “The ice isn’t thick enough! You could fall through! Will! Molly!”

Finally, he got their attention, and Molly froze, her knees still bent in jump preparation. She stopped and straightened as he reached the drift.

“What are you two doing out here?” he panted, pulling them off the mound of snow and onto the frozen bank. “The ice isn’t safe.”

“You were on it,” Molly countered.

He took a few ragged, deep breaths, his hands shaking from adrenaline and fear. He started walking toward the tree line, ushering them with him. “I shouldn’t have been,” he answered. He looked over his shoulder at the ice, which from a distance looked pretty much exactly as it had looked when he’d arrived.

“I shouldn’t have been,” he repeated, and led the kids back to the house.