When We Were Sisters: An unputdownable book club read about that bonds that can bind or break a family. Emilie Richards
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people think my sister is just an empty-headed publicity hound with big boobs and a bigger voice, but Cecilia hasn’t gotten where she is by chance. She understands the big picture. How else would she have gotten to the top?
“Michael will move away,” I said. The Weinbergs’ house would be filled with memories, and he and Channa would see Talya everywhere. They had never, as hoped, filled the house with children, and the stone and frame Colonial had always seemed too large for just the three of them. For two it would be impossible.
“If he does move, you’ll stay in touch. Talya would want you to.”
I squeezed her hand and dropped it. “You’re going to wait here?”
“We’ll park down the road to leave room for mourners. We’ll pull back around when it’s over.”
I didn’t ask her to come with me. Cecilia’s presence would be a distraction. When the door opened I stepped out into bright sunlight wearing her blouse and a skirt I had rolled three times at the waist. The glare gave me an immediate headache, and I fished in my purse for the sunglasses Cecilia had given me, nodded to the driver and started down a grassy slope to the graveside.
Channa and Michael, as well as his family and Talya’s, hadn’t yet arrived, but someone had set up a lectern with a guest book, and I signed my name and scribbled a quick condolence before I moved forward. Until I saw Gretchen sitting under a canopy in a row of chairs at the very back, I didn’t recognize anyone in the gathering of about sixty. Her black clothes didn’t suit her pale blond coloring, nor did the red-rimmed eyes or the narrow bandage across her forehead. I made my way around the crowd to sit beside her.
“This is my fault,” she said when I kissed her cheek in silent greeting.
“Of course it isn’t.”
“I should have seen him coming. I should have—”
I had an unwelcome glimpse of the SUV streaking toward us, a rocket about to launch. “There was absolutely nothing you could have done. He came out of nowhere.”
“Did you know there have been other accidents at that intersection? Other people have run that stop sign. Other people have died!”
It was like Gretchen, political to the bone, to focus on the civic problem instead of what was about to happen. But I nodded, because I understood. I wished I could be angry today instead of frightened and lonely.
Except, of course, I was angry. Angry at God, and angry at my husband who was supposed to be here to let the Weinbergs know how much Talya had meant to us.
“I didn’t expect you to come,” she said. “Not after... You’re...okay?”
“Okay enough. And you?”
“Just cuts and bruises. They let me out bright and early yesterday.”
“Thank God. And Margaret?”
“She’s out of the woods, but she’ll need rehabilitation. Lots of it.”
Her eyes had filled again. I looked away. “I repeat—this was not your fault.”
“You’ll tell me that for a while, won’t you? Because it’s not getting through.”
Nobody understood that better than I did.
A fleet of black limos pulled slowly into view. My heart beat faster, and I glanced at Gretchen. She had seen them, too, and she reached for my hand. We remained that way until the prayers were said, the eulogy given and it was time to line up to scoop dirt onto Talya’s coffin.
Afterward we didn’t approach Michael or any of Talya’s family, although almost a dozen neighbors I hadn’t noticed when I arrived joined us to flank the path as the family went back to their cars.
As she walked past, Channa saw the tears rolling down my cheeks and broke ranks. She darted over for a hug before she continued on with her father. Michael nodded to me, and I could see he was barely holding himself together. We would speak when we went to the house to sit shivah. If we could find words.
Only then, after I’d said goodbye to Gretchen and was walking up the road where I saw the Town Car in the distance, did I catch a glimpse of Kris alone in our silver Acura cruising slowly past, as if he were trying to find a parking space.
I kept walking.
* * *
Nik and Pet weren’t home when Cecilia and I arrived. Ideally Kris should have taken them out of class for the afternoon and let them accompany him to the funeral. I don’t believe in protecting children from death or from the necessity of goodbyes, and I would have brought them with me if I’d been in charge.
I don’t know if Kris chose not to include them because of conviction or logistics. And since he didn’t get to the service in time anyway, what did it matter?
“Get a drink and make yourself at home,” I told Cecilia. “I’m going to change. Then I’ll join you.”
She would pour herself a diet Dr Pepper, one of her few food vices. I always keep them for her, even if she hasn’t visited for months. It’s one of our little secrets. She never drinks any kind of soft drink in public. My sister is a vegan food crusader. Talya, who grew up in a kosher home, was less concerned about what she ate at my table than Cecilia is.
Upstairs I noted our bed wasn’t made, but the room was otherwise neat. I knew if I went into his closet Kris’s dirty clothes would be in his hamper and his shirts would be hanging according to sleeve length and color. He’s not obsessive, he’s just busy, and anything that saves him time in the morning is a bonus. I might find hair in the sink, or the toilet seat up, but his toiletries would be sitting in single file in the order he needed them each morning.
I wasn’t glad to be home, and I added that to my load of guilt. Views of the Weinbergs’ house would be a constant reminder of Talya. When would I stop expecting her to drop in with half a coffee cake her mother-in-law had baked or a handful of exotic herbs she wanted me to try?
I removed Cecilia’s skirt and blouse, dark brown designer pieces that had hung on my thinner frame like sackcloth, and folded them neatly. I pulled on leggings and an oversize T-shirt before I went downstairs again. I could see Cecilia outside on the deck. Blessedly it’s on the garden side of our property, and the Weinbergs’ home is barely visible through the trees.
There are no words to express how much I love this house and our garden, which I created myself and tend with only minimal help from a local landscaper. Meadow Branch is a newish development on what was formerly a horse farm. Our home was the original farmhouse, burgundy brick with a high peaked center gable and a ground level front porch that was probably tacked on as an afterthought.
The house was built in the late 1800s, when bathrooms weren’t recreational and bedrooms were mostly for sleeping, but it was so filled with character, so settled, that after one look, Kris and I knew it belonged to us. We didn’t allow the developer to tear it down to build two houses on our one-acre lot, as he could have. We bought it exactly the way it was, multiple flaws and all, and slowly renovated it without destroying its character. Eventually we added a master suite upstairs, and a combination family room and sunroom below, along with a compact studio for me and a dark room, which gets very little use since digital photography came to stay.
I’m not sure why the neighborhood children always found our house so appealing. But as Nik and Pet grew, we were usually the center of activity. We had no basement rec room, as all of them did, with built-in bars and home theaters. But the sunroom was open to our kitchen, and snacks and drinks were always in easy reach, along with games, both board and video, and pillows and blankets to make tunnels. And outside? Outside we’d splurged on climbing equipment and a wooden playhouse that could be a fort or a palace.
I miss the comings and goings, the slamming of doors, the chatter, but today I was glad for the silence.
I poured myself a glass of ice water, took two ibuprofen and went to join Cecilia outside. My head was pounding, but the nurse had warned