Three Sisters
by Maggie Nerz Iribarne
(this is part II. Read Three Sisters from the beginning)
Unseen Star
Long Past
Cassie is dancing at our cousin’s wedding. Her long body and flowy dress whip around, her hands sway above her head, her eyes close above her pink smile. She opens them, fixes her gaze on me, standing in the sidelines, wiggles a pointer finger to motion me her way. I am her awkward younger sister, Laura. My face grows hot with hate for my cutesy pink skirt suit I chose for the event. Cassie does not relent, she approaches me with hands held out. I hesitate, acquiesce. She pulls off my jacket and throws it on a chair. I am now wearing a shimmery tank top and skirt. She twirls me around and I laugh. I am dancing with my big sister. I imagine everyone’s eyes on me, us. This must be what it feels like to be Cassie, I think.
Past
I am sitting beside my dying father. I am fixated on his breath. He is all bones, a hospital gown drapes over sharp points. The nurse enters, stands beside his bed, pulls open a sagging eyelid revealing a strange, fixed pupil. She holds his flaccid wrist. There is not much to know about a dying man except that he is dying. She glances at me.
“I think we’re close. Is there anyone else you think should be here?”
“No, it’s just me,” I say, wanting to add a litany of reasons why this is so: My mother has been dead for decades, my sisters are selfish, absent. My husband left for another woman. I have no children. I am stuck here alone, beside my dying father.
“Okay, well, maybe I can send the social worker here to sit with you.”
“I’m sure they have better things to do.”
“Not at all,” the nurse said, putting a chubby hand on my shoulder.
I don’t have the heart to call Ada. For some reason I don’t really blame her. I fantasize about calling Cassie, really letting her have it.
You owe me BIG. I want to say. You owe me an apology. You owe me. You owe me.
My father’s breaths take their time in between. I feel an impatience, immediately overpowered by guilt. He was a good man. A loving, doting father. He made excuses for my sisters.
“You gotta give Cassie and Ada passes,” he said once. “Cassie is dreaming big. Ada is saving the world.”
“What about me? When do I get a pass? Don’t I do something important?” I asked him.
“You’re the caretaker and I love you,” he said.
The resentment and guilt rise and fall like ocean waves. The image of Dad’s solid gold Rolex watch tucked in my nightstand drawer sparkles and then darkens in my mind.
I’ll take what’s mine. They don’t deserve a th-
“My beautiful daughters,” my father always said, like a chorus, an answer to every one of our disputes, as though his belief in our inner and outer beauty was enough.
His lips are parted, dry. Finally, he stops breathing. I sit for a moment, take my purse, leave.
Present
I am at a party, sitting in an overstuffed living room chair. Former neighbors invited me. I picture them saying, Poor Laura, she’s all on her own. They don’t know the half of it. They don’t know about Ada. I nibble on some Chex mix. Sip my wine. A man sits down beside me.
“You live on Wagner?” he said.
“Used to,” I say, “I moved into Dad’s over on Lincoln.”
“Oh. Lincoln. That’s nice.” He drums his fingers. “Where do you work?”
“At a bank,” I say.
I know I should ask where he lives, where he works. I don’t.
“You grow up here then?”
“Yes.”
“Family here?”
“Not anymore. ” My napkin falls to the floor.
In my car, I sit and stare for a while in the cold darkness.
Cassie returns my earlier message. The one where I tell her our little sister is almost dead.
That is a lie. Ada died yesterday morning. I enjoy deceiving my sister. You owe me.
“I will come,” she says, audibly choking back emotion.
“Well if you have time,” I say, “but it’s not necessary.”
Passive aggressive, I know. How I want to release the tears and anguish, the deluge of anger and grief. How I wish I could feel my sister’s arms embracing me.
I hang up, drive to my father’s house, throw my coat and purse on a chair covered with a sheet. Everything is covered with sheets – bumpy ghosts – the familiar made unfamiliar. I flip on all the lights, pick up the paint brush abandoned that morning and go back to work. I want everything fresh, new. I am physically, emotionally exhausted. My little sister’s body lies in the morgue. I paint into the night.
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