Sisters

She’s changed her hair. It’s a brick-red bob. The color reminds me of the redhead on Desperate Housewives. That character always makes me think of my perfect sister and her Southern belle Cinderella existence.

Skye’s life seems like a ball and chain to me. I’d take being happily single—well, unhappily divorced—and living in the city over her perfect life, with her perfect lawyer husband in their perfect three-quarters-of-a-million-dollar Tallahassee ivory tower. Her existence is so—perfect—even Martha Stewart would gag.

Unfair of me, I know. I guess that makes me the evil twin. That’s fine.

“I’m glad you could finally make it.” She leans in and air-kisses my left cheek. “Let’s get your bags and we’ll go right to the hospital.”

“How’s Ginny? Any change?”

She shakes her head. “Mama’s still the same. We’ll talk to the doctor when we get there. He’s usually in around three o’clock.”

A sound like a foghorn blasts, signaling that the baggage is ready to start its turn around the carousel. Skye walks ahead of me toward it.

As I follow, I notice with perverse satisfaction my sister’s put on weight since the last time I saw her. She’s a little fuller in the hips. Her waist is less defined. I suppose that’s what happens after popping out three kids.

It’s a wonder she hasn’t had work done. You know—a nip here, a tuck there. She and Cameron have the money.

Since they can afford it, my sister’s probably staunchly against it. I’m just surprised Cameron hasn’t insisted. A high-profile attorney doesn’t want a fat wife.

Skye turns around and catches me eyeing her.

“What’s wrong?”

I shake my head. “You look…tired. Are you okay?”

She smoothes a strand of hair behind her ear, smiles her gracious Junior League smile. “I’m fine. Just concerned about Mama.”

My bag appears around the bend and I grab it.

As we walk out the door into the muggy Dahlia Springs afternoon, a feeling of dread washes over me. Coming home is going to be harder than I ever imagined. Maybe that’s because no matter how I’ve tried to kid myself since I purchased the ticket, I know you can’t go home again.

Skye

On the trip from the airport to the hospital, the conversation goes something like this:

Summer (digging in her purse): “Do you mind if I smoke?”

Me (gripping the steering wheel at ten and two): “You can’t smoke in here.”

Out of my peripheral vision I see her pull out one of those nasty things despite my request. She doesn’t say anything for a few beats, just looks at me like she smells poop on my shoe.

My blood pressure rises. If she has the audacity to light up in my SUV, I will stop this vehicle and put her out along the side of the road.

Summer (sighing a long, exasperated sigh): “Fine.”

Me (offering nothing but a short, oh-well shrug): “If it’s so darned urgent, why didn’t you have a smoke before we got in the car?”

She doesn’t put the cigarette away. She fidgets with it as she stares out the passenger window. Her silence annoys me, and I know I shouldn’t say it, but—“I can’t believe you’re still smoking. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you how bad it is for you.”

“No, you don’t.” Her words are a warning.

I smooth a wrinkle out of my polished cotton skirt. I know the cigarette lecture presses her buttons. But she’s pressing mine sitting there so smug in her haute couture with her expensive haircut—I’m sure it’s expensive. I can just tell. The color’s beautiful—shiny, rich mink with chestnut highlights. And it’s a good cut, even if the style’s too long for a forty-year-old woman.

I know what I pay to have my hair done in Tallahassee—certainly not New York City prices—and that costs a pretty penny. I don’t begrudge my sister her luxuries, but I do take issue with her taking her sweet time when I asked her to come to the table during a family emergency. Still, she’s here. That’s all that matters.

I turn on the radio. Willie Nelson’s “Georgia On My Mind” is playing.

“Did you know Nick’s back in town?” she says.

I dart a glance at her. She’s looking at me with eyes just like mine—same shape, same slightly faded shade of green-blue.

A shiver courses through me.

“I didn’t know that.”

I do know he’s here. Mama told me, but I don’t care. I relax my grip on the steering wheel and signal before I turn left onto Orange Peel Street.

“I just thought you might like to know.”

Well, you thought wrong. I don’t give a darned dried apple about your ex-husband’s whereabouts.

Why would she bring up Nick? Because I won’t let her smoke? Well, too bad.

She twirls the cigarette between her fingers. The odor of tobacco and her spicy perfume waft toward me. There’s another note in the air I can’t quite put my finger on, but if I had to name it I’d call it eau de holier-than-thou.

I stop at a red light and steady myself before I look at her. “Are you going to look him up?” Even as much as I don’t want to know, I want to know.

“Maybe for a conjugal visit.”

Well, that’s vulgar. “Maybe not. I heard he’s involved with someone.” I don’t know if he is or not. I just say it to be spiteful and I know I should be ashamed of myself. I don’t know why this unbearable urge to one-up my sister takes over when we’re together.

Summer snorts. It’s amazing what she can imply in the resonance of a single, unladylike sound. Suggestions that tempt me to retort, Why, are you still trying to rub my nose in the fact that you stole him from me? That was another lifetime ago and you’re not even together anymore.

And Cameron and I are happily married.

The light turns green. I accelerate too fast, and the SUV bucks a little bit as I let off the gas pedal.

We ride in silence past the red Ford pickup that was broken down at the side of the road when I got into town two days ago. It’s still stalled in the same place. For all I know it’s been there years; past the Dairy Queen where I count five cars in the parking lot—the same Dairy Queen Mama used to take us to if she was in a good mood when we were kids; past the old Bargain Bin Dollar Store with the neon S that’s burned out so it reads Dollar tore. Was it always like that? I can’t remember.

Dahlia Springs looks every bit the same as it did when we were kids—like it’s stuck in a time warp. Oh, but a lot’s changed. Things that go way deeper than burned-out signs and Nick Russo and growing up and pretending you’ve moved on.

I take a deep breath, determined to change the subject. “I found Jane.” I glance at my sister to gauge her reaction. She stares back at me with wide eyes, surprise washing her face clean of contempt.

“How’d you find her? Where is she?”

“She’s in Springvale, Missouri. She’s living in a homeless shelter.”

CHAPTER 2