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Sisters
Nancy Robards Thompson
Two halves of a wholeOnce, long ago, Skye and Summer had looked so much alike that no one could tell the twin sisters apart. Now there was barely a trace of a resemblance. Once, the two of them had been huddled together against a world that neither one of them could deal with alone. Now they hadn't seen each other for years.But it was time for them to get together once more–for Skye Woods and Summer Russo were on the road again. And this time they're in search of their other sister, Jane–the piece of the puzzle that, once inserted, might finally just make their family whole.Not normal, mind you. But whole…
“You can’t leave. You just got here.”
Oh, yeah? Watch me. I long to say the words, but my throat feels like it’s closing up.
“How can you do this, Summer?” Skye glares at me, her chin jutting forward. “I cannot believe you’re leaving….” She puts her hands on her temples, like the drama queen she is. “No, wait, yes, I can. It’s just like you to hightail it when things are tough.”
Oh. I’m tempted to slug her. My mouth is so dry, but I manage to choke out, “Now you wait just a minute.”
Skye throws up her hands. “Go your merry way and leave it all to me. You are undoubtedly the most selfish woman I’ve ever known.”
All I can think of as I watch her walk away is No one knows you like a sister.
Unless your sister doesn’t know you at all.
Nancy Robards Thompson
Award-winning author Nancy Robards Thompson is a sister, wife and mother who has lived the majority of her life south of the Mason-Dixon line. As the oldest sibling, she reveled in her ability to make her brother laugh at inappropriate moments and soon learned she could get away with it by proclaiming, “What? I wasn’t doing anything.” It’s no wonder that upon graduating from college with a degree in journalism, she discovered that reporting “just the facts” bored her silly. Since hanging up her press pass to write novels full-time, critics have deemed her books “…funny, smart and observant.” She loves chocolate, champagne, cats and art (though not necessarily in that order). When she’s not writing, she enjoys spending time with her family, reading, hiking and doing yoga.
Sisters
Nancy Robards Thompson
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
From the Author
Dear Reader,
Before I started writing fiction full-time, I worked as a reporter for a Central Florida business newspaper. While there, I wrote a story about a local chef who’d organized a food bank that served the area’s homeless shelters and soup kitchens. Talking to him was a real eye-opener. He pointed out that in many cases people don’t choose homelessness because they’re lazy, that often mental illness plays a large role in the downward spiral that lands someone on the streets.
In my book Sisters, which is adapted from my manuscript that won the 2002 Romance Writers of America Golden Heart Award, a mother and her twin daughters set out on a road trip to find the youngest sister, who ran away from home when she was sixteen and chose to live on the streets despite numerous offers of family help. In the process, they confess secrets that heal wounds that have kept them apart for years and discover how compassion and understanding can lead to a richer purpose in life.
I hope you are inspired by their journey and that life brings you many blessings.
Warmly,
Nancy Robards Thompson
This book is dedicated to my wonderful brother,
Jay Robards, whose gentle ways and compassionate heart
set an example we should all live by. Thanks for helping me
with the details of homelessness and shelters.
Jay, your work changes lives. I am so proud of you.
Thanks to Gail Chasan and Tara Gavin for seeing
the vision in my work; and to Michelle Grajkowski for your
sage advice and unwavering support.
Thanks to my father, Jim Robards, for mapping
out the route from Florida to Missouri.
Thanks to Robin Trimble and Susan Pettegrew for educating me on the ups and downs of bipolar disorder.
Thanks to Pamela LaBud for teaching me
about coma recovery.
Deepest appreciation to Brock and Sarah McClane
for input on fractures.
Love and thanks to Teresa Brown, Kathy Garbera,
Elizabeth Grainger, Catherine Kean and
Mary Louise Wells for reading chapters at a moment’s notice,
for helping me when I’ve plotted myself into a corner
and for your constant friendship.
As always, deepest love to Michael and Jennifer.
You make my life complete.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
EPILOGUE
CHAPTER 1
Skye
Most people aren’t doing anything special when bad news barges in. It’s usually just a regular day.
The call comes on an ordinary Monday. The kids are at school. My husband, Cameron, is at work. I’m bringing in groceries from the SUV, hurrying because it’s going to rain. I can smell the showers moving in, that loamy-earth scent of decay and renewal, wafting from the back burner of summer’s last days.
I set the plastic bags on the granite-topped island in the kitchen and turn to go back out for the rest when the phone rings. I almost don’t pick up. But something—I’d call it a sixth sense, if I believed in such hooey—compels me to answer.
“Hello?”
“May I talk to Skye Woods?”
It’s a man’s voice I don’t recognize. Traces of a Spanish accent. I’m guessing he’s a solicitor and I get ready to tell him that we’re on the State of Florida’s Do Not Call list, that his company could receive a hefty fine.
“Who is calling, please?”
“Skye, it is Raul Martinez.”
My breath catches. Raul is Mama’s personal assistant. He’s a jack-of-all-trades, keeping her appointments for the foundation she’s set up to help the needy and making sure her life runs in order.
His voice is tight and low, and it raises gooseflesh on my arms. The spaces between his words hint at something ominous, like the angry clouds rolling in across the flat afternoon sky. I walk over to the sink and stare out the window.
It’s getting darker outside. The interior light of my vehicle glows like a beacon reminding me I left the lift gate open.
“There was an accident. Your mama, she is not doing so well.”
My hand flutters to my cheek and a strange tingling erupts inside me as if his words cut the vein of decades of bad blood built up between Mama and me. In an instant the poison rushes out of me like watershed, and I hear myself stammering. “Oh my—is she okay? Raul, is she alive?”
As I grip the edge of the sink, beads of rain on the window come into sharp focus. It makes patterns that shape-shift each time a drop breaks free. I get the strangest sensation that each time it changes, another minute of Mama’s life has slipped away…if she’s not already dead.
“It’s too early to tell,” Raul says. “She is in a coma. So you should get here pretty fast.”
I can’t believe this. Mama. In a coma? Ginny, hippie mother earth—the eternal free spirit who collected love children like genetic souvenirs. But in all fairness, Summer and I are twins. So technically, Mama only got pregnant twice. Still, no matter how you slice it, there’s nothing normal about having two different men father your children when you have no idea of one man’s identity. Last time I asked, she had it narrowed down to a list of about ten or fifteen candidates.
“After all, the sixties was the era of free love,” she always said. “At least I gave you life.”
But that’s not the issue right now. All of that and the upheaval it’s caused seem so insignificant in the face of…this.
I realize Raul just said something and is waiting for me to answer.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Can you telephone your sisters? I cannot find their numbers. The doctor said the next twenty-four hours are critical. So if you are coming, you should get here as fast as possible.”
Summer
I haven’t been back to Dahlia Springs in twenty-two years. Frankly, I haven’t had the time, money or the inclination. But when my sister, Skye, calls to inform me that our mother’s in a coma… Oh God.
What choice do I have? And it couldn’t come at a worse time.
I suppose if I were completely honest, I’d admit I don’t want to go home. Because Dahlia Springs isn’t home. Never was.
My home is here in New York. My job is here, my friends are here.
Who was it that said friends are the family you choose?
Whoever it was hit it dead on. I wouldn’t choose my family if I had the choice. But for some masochistic reason, I can’t cast them off, either. Despite the fact that my sister and I don’t see eye-to-eye on most issues. And our mother, Ginny, has had long-standing differences with Skye and me over the years.
Still, she’s my mother. That’s why I decide to purchase a plane ticket I can’t afford and travel to a place I don’t care to visit. Because the woman with whom relations have been strained at the best times and worse on other occasions is lying in a hospital bed in a coma.
“It might be a couple of days before I can get there. I may have to work a couple of days to give Gerard time to make arrangements. He’s behind schedule with the spring collection and—”
“Summer, I don’t think you understand the gravity of the situation.” Skye’s pitch veers into a sharp upper register and she’s slipped into that drawl she uses when she’s irritated, which is more often than not when we talk. “Mama may not last a couple of days.”
My stomach clenches, and I take a deep breath.
“Look, I’ll get there as fast as I can. I’d be there now if I could. But I can’t just drop everything. I have a job. I need to make arrangements for Gerard to get someone in here to fill in for me.”
I don’t have a husband to support me.
“What about Jane?” Skye asks. “Don’t you think we owe it to her to tell her about Mama?”
The irony of Skye’s words makes me laugh, but it sounds brittle. Even to my own ears. “Isn’t that the story of her life? The whole damn world owes Jane, the one who’s had everything.”
Jane is our younger sister. Half sister, to be exact. We share the same mother. Ginny married Chester Hamby, Jane’s father, after she got pregnant. Skye and I were nineteen and out of the house. So really it was a different chapter in Ginny’s life. A chapter from which we were largely absent.
Our little sister’s had all the advantages we didn’t have growing up—a father for one. And a wealthy father to boot.
Before Chester met Ginny, he made millions off an invention—something to do with farming. I was never clear on what the gadget was, but it brought in a boatload of money.
Jane’s twenty-one and to say she’s a handful is an understatement. She ran away from home the first time when she was fourteen, about six months after her father died. She stayed away about a month. Of course, Ginny welcomed her home like the prodigal daughter. I can understand that. Jane was upset over losing her dad. Ginny was glad to have one of her daughters back.
But then Jane did it again when she was sixteen. Said she was going downtown. Three days later she called Ginny from New Orleans to tell her she’d gone on the road with her boyfriend, Rad Farley, and his band, Flaming Skeleton, to be the “wardrobe mistress.”
Ha. It didn’t take a genius to conclude that “wardrobe mistress” was really just code for glorified rock-and-roll groupie.
Ginny was beside herself and called begging me to do something. When I wouldn’t go rushing down to New Orleans to whisk Jane back to Florida, my mother took all her anger out on me. I was in New York, for God’s sake. And to be honest, if Ginny was even half the mother to Jane that she was to Skye and me, I didn’t blame Jane for wanting to get the hell away from her.
Even though I want to be irritated with Skye for pressuring me to drop everything and come, a pang of guilt needles me. The truth is, it won’t be that difficult for my boss to replace me while I’m away.
For the past seventeen years, I’ve been a house model for the designer Gerard Geandeau. The oh-so-glamorous job boils down to serving as a human mannequin on whom he fits his samples. It requires spending hours a day, nearly naked on my aching feet. Not a plum modeling job by any standard. Still, there’s plenty of fresh meat clamoring for my position.
Gerard was not very compassionate about my asking for time off. He had no time to listen to my reasons.
Accident-smaccident. He had no sympathy.
It’s the studio’s busiest time of year, planning the spring collections. Work cannot come to a screeching halt because I must take personal leave for something so trivial as my mother being in a coma.
He didn’t say it that way, but he might as well have. He’s always been the temperamental creative type, prone to temper tantrums and flippant remarks, but he’s never thrown a flaming arrow at me.
His lack of understanding hurt.
As a compromise, I stay so he can finish the piece he’s fitted to me. It’s two days later before I get to Dahlia Springs.
I hope once I get back, he won’t have decided to keep my replacement on permanently, leaving me out in the cold.
Sometimes when the spotlight hits just right, all the style and beauty can’t disguise that the under-belly of the fashion world is a very ugly place.
I’m reminded daily that I am a forty-year-old woman competing with fresh-faced babies. Just the other day, I was talking to an eighteen-year-old who came into the studio for a fashion-shoot fitting. She couldn’t believe I was still modeling at my age.
“How have you managed to work so long?” It was all she could do to keep her mouth from gaping. “I’m not half as old as you and my agency’s telling me to lie about my age.”
She hasn’t even hit her stride as a woman and already she’s over the hill. Where does that put me?
“That’s why you’re doing the print work and they fit samples on me in the back room,” I told her. “Just don’t get fat and you’ll get work.”
And don’t get old.
I didn’t say that. But it’s the truth. I was young and hot once. To be working at forty, I’m the exception, not the rule. I have no idea how I’ve managed to pull it off this long. Every day I wake up fearing the other Manolo will drop.
Sometimes I detest this business. But what else would I do with myself?
Skye picks me up from Dahlia Springs Municipal Airport. It’s the first time we’ve seen each other since she and her husband, Cameron, and their gaggle of kids came up to visit. How long has it been now—five years?
Waiting to disembark the small commuter plane, I stand last in line behind the ten people who were on my connecting flight from Atlanta. Who would’ve thought such a crowd had reason to come to Dahlia Springs? Had the entire population been on a field trip?
Everyone except for Nick Russo, my ex-husband.
My stomach pitches at the thought of being within miles of him. Okay, I’ll confess, I’ve never gotten over him. I’m not morose about it, but of all the guys I’ve been with since Nick and I split up eight years ago, none has compared.
It’s like being infected with a virus (as unromantic as that sounds). For the most part, I live a satisfying life—have the occasional date or lover, and then comes the Nick outbreak and I realize I’m better off on my own.
I called him to let him know I was coming.
To warn him? Ha.
But he did sound happy to hear from me, even suggested we get together.
Oh, God, it’s been a long time.
Don’t get too carried away. People change.
Yes, they certainly do.
I’m dying for a cigarette, but I know it might be a while, since you can’t light up inside the airport, and I know Skye will have a fit if I ask her to wait while I smoke.
I take a deep breath and hitch my purse up on my shoulder, mentally preparing myself for what I’m about to walk into. Like a prisoner marching to her death, I follow the person in front of me as we walk single file down the metal steps onto the tarmac.
Humidity envelops me, and I can feel my hair expanding with each stride across the hot pavement. It’s hot in New York, but God, there’s nothing like the Deep South in the dead heat of August.
Geographically speaking, Dahlia Springs is in north Florida—just over the Georgia line, but it’s the unofficial southernmost border of the Deep South. That’s not an insult. The fine people of Dahlia Springs pride themselves on being the deepest of the Deep South.
As you travel farther into Florida, the less Southern it becomes, until around Fort Lauderdale, it’s almost as if you’ve crossed the border into a different country.
When I finally enter the tiny airport, it’s eerie how it looks exactly as it did that day I flew out all those years ago. It even smells the same—a blend of Juicy Fruit gum, jet fuel and floor wax—for a moment, it takes me back to the day I left. That day when for the first time in my life, the world held so much possibility.
Well, Toto, I’m certainly not in Oz anymore. It’s confirmed when I look over and see Skye waiting for me on the other side of a cordoned-off area that separates the gates—all two of them—from ticketing and baggage claim.
There she is: Skye Woods, my twin sister. Once upon a time we looked so much alike people couldn’t tell us apart, but that’s where the similarity ends. We’re as different inside as summer and winter. In fact, I always used to tease that Ginny misnamed Skye. She should have called her Winter. Apply that any way you choose….
Yes, we’re that different. We never had that twin-bonding thing going on; never could read each other’s minds; never shared a secret twin language or anything cute like that. Until we were about six years old, Ginny used to dress us alike—as if we were her very own living baby dolls. But right around that time is when everything changed, including my sister and me.
Skye sees me walking toward her, but she doesn’t smile. Oh, great. For a split second I worry that she has bad news, but there’s something in her icy expression that says she’s mad because I didn’t drop everything and get here sooner.
I did the best I could. She better get over it.
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
Skye
Summer goes pale. “Oh, God. I don’t know why I’m surprised. Do we need to send her money so she can get here?”
I take a deep breath. “I didn’t talk to her.”
My sister looks at me as if I have two heads. “Why not? She needs to know about Ginny.”
“I thought that if she knew we’d found her she might bolt. I wanted to talk to you so we could figure out a plan.”
By the time we get to the hospital, we’ve reached no conclusions. We can’t go get her ourselves on account of something possibly happening to Mama while we’re gone. We want to be here. We can’t send Raul or Cameron after her (not that Cameron has time to go traipsing after my wayward little sister), because there’s no way she’d come back with them. In fact, she’d probably run.
A letter or a telegram?
Perhaps. But we’ll talk about that later.
We walk to the elevator, which lifts us up to the third-floor ICU. I wave hello to the head nurse, a heavyset, fiftyish woman with graying hair and horn-rimmed glasses.
As we approach, the door to Mama’s room opens and Dr. Travis leads his gaggle of med students out. He greets us, instructs his charges on what to do while he talks to us, then pauses, looking askance at Summer.
Summer flips her long, dark hair off her shoulder in that sultry way of hers. She’s always had the ability to render men stupid—including Nick, though it didn’t take much when it came to him.
I don’t know whether it’s some sort of pheromone she emits or if it’s a gene that she got a double helping of and I got none.
“Dr. Travis, this is my sister, Summer Russo. She’s just flown into town.”
As she slips her French-manicured fingers into his outstretched hand, I notice a certain flash in the good doctor’s eyes—like a power surge that makes the electricity burn brighter for a brief moment before it falls back into normal range.
Mama’s nice-looking, young, married doctor is not impervious to my sister’s wiles and that irritates the soup out of me.
“Where are you from?” he asks.
Her silver bangles clatter as she pulls her hand from his and crosses her arms under her ample chest. Boobs too big for her skinny little body. She was flat as a board the last time I saw her. Where did she get those?
“Manhattan.”
He smiles and nods.
The good doctor hasn’t as much as spared me a second glance. Not that it matters. I mean, I am happily married. And he’s married—happily or otherwise. It’s just that before Summer arrived, I didn’t notice that he hadn’t looked at me. You know, in that appreciative way a man looks at a woman he finds…attractive.
I stand up straighter, shoulders back and suck in my stomach.
As they make small talk, his gaze darts to the bounty thrusting out of her red silk blouse. I’ll bet her cleavage is compliments of one of those water bras I’ve heard so much about. If she had implants installed, wouldn’t it throw off her mannequinlike proportions? And wouldn’t it interfere with her job? And wouldn’t it be too bad if she had an accidental collision with a hypodermic needle and sprang a leak?
I have to bite the insides of my cheeks to keep from smiling at the thought. Oh, shame on me.
Positive thoughts. Only positive thoughts.
But seriously, I really wish the doctor on whom Mama’s survival depends would remove his eyes from my sister’s boobs and focus on his patient.
“How’s she doing?” I ask.
Much to my relief, he slips back into professional-neurologist mode. “There’s been no change.”
My heart sinks. I was thinking— Oh, it’s silly. I don’t know what I was thinking—that, maybe while I was at the airport getting Summer, some sort of miracle would happen and she’d be awake when we got back? I give myself a mental shake. Being morose won’t do Mama any good. We all need to remain positive. “I’m just sure it won’t be long before she’s awake and talking our ears off.”
He nods, but the expression on his handsome face seems like he’s humoring a silly child. Irritation flares inside me.
“It’s been nearly forty-eight hours,” I say. “Can’t you give us a prognosis?”
“Comas are notoriously unpredictable. A person can be out for hours or years. There’s really no way to know when or if a person will come out of one.”
Summer goes pale. “Are you saying our mother might be like this for the rest of her life?”
Dr. Travis rubs his chin. “Unfortunately, that’s a possibility, though not a probability. You see, brain injury severity is described using a scale of one to eight, with one being a deep coma and eight being a normally functioning uninjured person,” he said. “Your mother is currently functioning at a level three, which means she’s in a light coma. She can probably even be jostled awake by loud voices.”
Summer frowns. “If she can be jostled awake, how come you can’t just wake her up?”
He shrugs. “Therein lies the mystery of comas. Only time will tell. After that, it’s anybody’s guess. Let’s go inside so you can see her.”
We walk in and Summer gasps. “Oh, Ginny.”
It’s terrible to see her lying there black and blue and vulnerable, amidst the IV tubes and beeping, wheezing equipment. I know how hard this first glimpse of her is and I put a hand on Summer’s shoulder. She doesn’t pull away.
Ginny’s eyelids flutter a bit and the sheet rustles as she moves her left foot.
I edge closer and touch her sheet-covered leg. “Mama? We’re here. Summer and I are both here.”
When she doesn’t open her eyes, we turn to Dr. Travis, who is writing on her chart.
“Coma patients open their eyes sometimes, but it doesn’t always mean they’re awake. Such as what I mentioned earlier about voices rousing them.”
“So what’s next?” Summer demands.
“Depending on the severity of her head injury, we might need to get her into an inpatient rehabilitation center.”
“A nursing home?” Oh, my Lord. The thought hitches my breath. I suppose it’s better than the alternatives: Death. Or moving in with me. Oh, how can I even think selfishly like that at a time like this? Still, the thought of Mama in one of those places knocks me for a loop. At fifty-eight, she’s too young for a nursing home. She has too much life left to live.
We hear the sheets rustle again and turn to see her blinking at us, looking annoyed, as if we’ve interrupted her afternoon nap.
“I am not going to an old folk’s home.”
CHAPTER 3
Summer
Ginny’s awake. Thank God.
“Mama?” Skye hurries to Ginny’s bedside and grabs her hand. “Oh my goodness, we were all so worried. Look, Summer even flew down.”
Skye gestures toward me, but Ginny’s gaze skips over me, as if searching for someone else.
“Where’s Jane?” she asks. “Is Jane here?”
A burning, metallic taste similar to the antiseptic smell of the hospital room creeps up the back of my throat. Suddenly, I’m eleven years old again. Small. Insignificant. A disappointment to my mother.
Skye darts a panicked glance at me, then at Dr. Travis, standing there as if he’s watching a soap opera unfold. This irks me. Dammit, shouldn’t he be doing something, especially given the cost of health care these days?
I move beside my sister. “Sorry, Ginny, Jane’s not here. You’re stuck with Skye and me.” I can’t keep the bitterness from my tone.
Skye nudges me and hisses. “Summer. Shh.”
Thank God, the doctor finally comes to life. “Welcome back. Do you know where you are?”
Ginny squints at him as if she’s trying to place him.
“I’m Dr. Travis and you’re in Dahlia Springs Memorial Hospital. You were in a car accident. Do you remember anything?”
“Jane?”
“No, Mama, it’s Skye and Summer.”
She looks confused, gazing at us as if she can’t quite place us. “I don’t want you. I want my baby. I want my Jane.”
I flinch. Her words are a punch to my gut. I’m a sucker, a fool for coming all the way down here against my better judgment. I hate myself for letting her get to me, letting her rejection matter.
God, I need a cigarette.
Skye clears her throat. I can actually see her regroup, straightening and plastering on that I’m-in-charge-and-everything’s-just-wonderful smile before she looks at Dr. Travis.
“Why don’t you give us a few minutes?” He smiles. “In fact, go relax and have a cup of coffee while I examine her. By the time you finish, we should be ready for you.”
For a moment I fear I’m slipping, that I might succumb to a dizzying spiral of emotion.
Skye touches my arm, and for some odd reason, that yanks me back from the brink. Oh, God. Not another panic attack.
“Mama, you just rest,” she says. “We’ll be back in a few minutes.”
Ginny closes her eyes.
Dr. Travis walks us to the door. Despite my sister’s all-is-well smile, I know Skye’s just as flummoxed as I am because she’s quiet. My sister is rarely quiet.
“Just give us fifteen minutes,” he says before calling in his students so they can watch and listen. It reminds me of a carnival sideshow freakapalooza.
Step right up. See the woman who ate her young and hear the amazing story of how the children lived to tell about it.
Out in the hall, the air feels lighter. Free of the essence of Jane that was crowding Ginny’s room, edging us out. But I still have an annoying ringing in my ears.
Finally, Skye breaks the silence. “Well, how about that?” Her voice is low and conspiratorial.
“Yeah, how ’bout that. We’re here, and only Jane will do. Some things never change.”
She pushes the button on the elevator and crosses her arms. Her lips are pressed into a thin line and she’s eyeing me with that disapproving-mother look.
“Actually, I was talking about our mother regaining consciousness.”
Oh, get over yourself. This act might work on her kids, but I’ll be dammed if she’s going to make me feel like a schmuck. “Look, I’m glad Ginny is awake, but don’t you get tired of the same old sorry song and dance? She wants Jane. You know where Jane is, so call her or go get her or something. Whatever it takes to make that woman happy. I certainly don’t have it in me.”
Skye sighs as if she’s so exasperated she can’t contain her disgust.
Fine. Whatever.
I turn my back on her and, with a shaky hand, pull out my cell phone and dial information. “Connect me to American Airlines, please.”
“What are you doing?” Skye says the words to my back.
“Calling to change my flight.”
She grabs my arm.
I pull out of her grasp.
The airline’s automated attendant directs me to push the number two for reservations. As I do that, Skye walks around in front of me and stands there with her hands on her ample hips. “You can’t leave. You just got here.”
Oh, yeah? Watch me. I long to say the words, but my throat is closing up.
“How can you do this without even talking to the doctor? Summer, Mama may be awake, but we don’t know for certain she’s okay.”
I turn away from her, tempted to stick my finger in my free ear, but the elevator dings and the doors open. I glance over my shoulder at the empty lift. “Go on,” I manage to choke out. “I’ll catch up with you in a minute.”
No such luck. The doors slide shut without her.
“Reservations, how may I help you?” says a male voice on the other end of the line.
I draw in a deep breath, but it doesn’t fill my lungs. “I need to change my return flight to the first available flight from Dahlia Springs Municipal to La-Guardia.”
I give him my ticket information and feel a little steadier, since I was able to get the words out.
“Please hold and I’ll check for you.” I hear him typing on the other end of the line.
Skye glares at me, her chin jutting forward. “I cannot believe you’re leaving….”
“I have a flight out of Dahlia Springs Municipal connecting in Atlanta—” Skye, with her ability to drown out the world when she wants to be heard, starts talking at the same time as the airline rep. I stick my finger in my ear and close my eyes to block her out.
“Would you repeat that?” I say. “It’s noisy here.”
“I can get you on a flight to LaGuardia by way of Atlanta at two p.m. Monday.”
My eyes fly open. “I beg your pardon? This is Thursday.” Skye lifts an eyebrow and smirks. I turn away from her. “I need to fly out sooner.” Or I’ll die. I don’t want to die in Dahlia Springs. “Why not today or tomorrow?” Tomorrow at the very latest. Please.
“The last American Airlines flight for this week left Dahlia Springs twenty-three minutes ago.”
“So you’re telling me there are no flights out of this place for four days?”
“Not on American. There’s not a big demand for flights to Dahlia Springs so we only provide service Monday through Thursday.”
Not a big demand. Surprise, surprise.
My heart pounds. I put my hand on my chest and take a deep breath to calm myself. “Oh, God. I’m stuck.”
“Excuse me?” he says.
I rack my brain for a solution. “Can’t you route me through a different city?”
More typing. My heart feels like it’s keeping time with his keyboard cadence.
Skye’s in my face again. “I really can’t believe you.” She puts her hands on her temples, like the drama queen she is. “No, wait, yes I can. It’s just like you to hightail it when things are tough.”
Oh. I’m tempted to slug her. My mouth is dry, but I manage to choke out, “Now you wait just a minute.”
The airline rep says, “Certainly, I can hold.”
“No, not you.” My voice shakes. “You keep looking for a flight.”
Typing resumes, and an orderly walks by pushing a medicine cart. He’s the first person I’ve seen outside of the ICU. I’m tempted to ask him if he has a spare Xanax in his rolling pharmacy.
Skye throws up her hands. “Go your merry way and leave it all to me. You are undoubtedly the most selfish woman I’ve ever known.”
All I can think of as I watch her walk back to the elevator and push the call button is, No one knows you like a sister. Unless your sister doesn’t know you at all.
Mine’s obviously never known me if she thinks this is easy for me.
I put my hand over the mouthpiece. “No one’s asking you to stay, Skye.”
She turns and blinks at me. “I will not leave Mama like this.”
“Yeah, well what about all those times Mama left us?”
“That was different. You know it was.”
I press my fingers to my forehead because my head feels as if it’s about to explode. “What the hell do you expect me to do? Stay here forever?”
The rep says, “I apologize, I’m working as fast as I can.”
Oh, God. “And you’re doing a great job,” I say. “I was talking to my sister.”
The elevator dings and Skye gets in. A wave of relief washes over me as the doors slide closed like a firewall between us.
“I have some alternatives for you,” he says. “There’s an eight-o’clock flight out of Orlando this evening or a seven-o’clock flight out of Tallahassee tomorrow morning.”
Those are my choices? I take a deep breath and try to conjure some charm, but it can’t cut through the mire of the panic attack that’s been building since Ginny awakened. “Nothing else? Isn’t there a smaller airport that’s closer?”
“No ma’am, these are the closest cities.”
“Considering it’ll take me four hours to drive to either Tallahassee or Orlando and only five hours to drive to Atlanta where I could hop on a direct flight, those don’t sound like very good options, do they? Besides, I’d have to rent a car—”
I clench my moist hand into a fist. My nails dig into my palm. Why am I telling him this?
“I do apologize, but that’s the best I can do.”
Well, it’s not good enough. God, a typical man.
“I can book you on the Monday flight or perhaps you’d like to try another airline?”
I take a deep breath and try to quell the panic that’s cresting inside me.
I lean against the wall. It isn’t his fault I’m stuck. He can’t manufacture a flight. I squeeze my eyes closed and let the anxiety flow, feeling I’m stuck in a tiny box with my mother and sister and Nick. I want to claw my way out. But I can’t. After spending six hundred dollars on my ticket to fly here, I’m not prepared to fork out more money on a rental car, much less buy a new ticket if another airline has a flight out of here. At almost three hundred dollars, the train isn’t an option either. I checked on it before I bought my plane ticket.
Yep, I’m stuck.
“Okay, switch me to Monday.”
Grasping for a coping mechanism one of the dozen or so shrinks I’ve seen over the past two decades equipped me with, I rationalize that it’s only four days, and I go outside for a smoke.
Four days.
And I’ll have the consolation of knocking Skye off her self-righteous pedestal. After all, I’m staying through Monday. She doesn’t need to know I can’t afford any other escape route.
Four days.
How much mental torture can Skye and Ginny inflict on me in that short amount of time?
Oh dear God, help me.
CHAPTER 4
Skye
Downstairs in the hospital cafeteria, it smells like they’re cooking up something Italian. My stomach growls, but a quick glance at my watch shows it’s a little too early for dinner.
Mmm…smells like lasagna.
Or spaghetti with meat sauce.
I so wish I could be like those people who lose their appetites when they’re stressed. But, oh no, not me. I’m an all-occasion eater: Food is a celebration when I’m happy; comfort when I’m sad; sweet revenge when I’m mad; and just plain ol’ fun when I’m bored.
I can’t understand those odd creatures who can take or leave food. Summer, for instance. It’s probably because she smokes; they say nicotine dulls the taste buds. Now that I think about it, she’s always been a finicky eater, never been all that interested in food. Just like she’s never been all that interested in anything that doesn’t directly benefit her.
Such as staying and helping me take care of Mama until she’s on her feet.
I suppose stewing over Summer right now doesn’t serve any purpose. But sometimes she makes me so mad I could just boil over. I don’t know why I thought she’d change. Except that we are in the midst of a crisis with Mama’s condition—granted she’s improving, thank God in heaven—and it would be nice if for once she could think outside herself, put her selfishness on the shelf.
As I make my way through the serving line, the cakes, pies and puddings call to me. But I remind myself this is hospital-cafeteria food. It can’t be worth spending the calories on. Although that doesn’t stop me from hesitating in front of a piece of angel food cake topped with fresh strawberries and whipped cream.
I glance over my shoulder at the door. Summer’s bound to join me any minute, after she finishes making her plans, and despite how tempting the cake looks, I’d rather go hungry than eat it in front of her. So I settle for pouring myself a cup of coffee, angry at myself for caring what she thinks.
As I’m about to hand my money to the young woman at the register, I say, “Is it too late to add something else?”
She smiles sweetly. “No, not at all.”
I grab a king-size pack of peanut M&M’s from the candy rack behind me. Yes, they should hit the spot.
Armed with coffee and candy, I make my way to a corner table to hide with my snack. There are only three people in addition to myself in the cafeteria—a man in scrubs hunched over a newspaper and an older couple. The woman looks weary, as if she hasn’t slept in days. The man with her is probably her husband. I wonder who she’s worried about. Her mother? Her child?
My heart tightens at the thought. Suddenly, I’m almost overwhelmed by how much I miss my three. No parent should ever go through the pain of losing a child.
I suppose, in a sense, Mama must feel as if she’s lost Jane. It makes me wonder which is worse: losing a child to the streets or death?
I know, because I was nineteen when Jane was born. Even though both Summer and I were out of the house, I shared Mama’s pain each time Jane ran away. I lived in constant fear that she was going to turn up dead.
I tear open the yellow candy wrapper and pop a red candy in my mouth. The sweet/salty goodness is pure comfort.
I had kids of my own the first time she left and, I don’t know, I guess something shifts in you once you give birth. A well of vulnerability opens and dredges up feelings you never knew you could have.
Maybe that’s the reason I can forgive Ginny for waking up asking for Jane. Summer doesn’t understand mother love.
I eat two more pieces of candy as I fish my phone out of my purse. My neighbor, Rose, should have the kids home by now, and I’m longing to hear their sweet angel voices.
I call but the line is busy. One of them must be online. Cameron and I have been slow to switch over to Internet that doesn’t run through the phone lines because we don’t want to give them carte blanche. With three of them between the ages of twelve and sixteen, they’d be on the phone and computer all the time. At least this way only one piece of technology can be in use at a time and they have to battle it out amongst themselves.
Since I can’t talk to them, I ring my husband’s cell phone thinking he should be out of court by now, but I get his voice mailbox.
“Hi, honey, it’s me,” I say. “I hope you and the kids are all getting along okay without me. Well, I have some great news—Mama regained consciousness today. The doctor is in with her now. I’ll call you later after I talk to him. But it looks like things are on the upswing. Of course, I’ll have to stay until I know she’s in the clear, even though Summer’s already making plans to go home, but Mama will need someone.”
I hang up and eat more candy. He always forgets to turn his phone back on after he’s been in court. I was just hoping that, since I was away and Mama was in such bad shape, he’d be more conscious of keeping the lines of communication open. But that’s all right. Really, it is. I guess I miss him more than I realized.
I flip open the phone again and dial his office. “Good afternoon, this is Skye Woods. May I speak to Cameron, please?”
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Woods. I’m sorry, but he’s not in the office. He’s been in court today. May I take a message?”
My heart sinks a little. I give myself a mental shake. It’s only been two days since I talked to him. And he’s a busy man. Working on a rather high-profile civil case and all. “Oh, no, thank you. I’ll catch up with him later this evening.”
Next, I dial his pager and punch in my cell number. When I’m done I shove a handful of M&M’s in my mouth. As luck would have it, just as I start chewing, Summer walks into the cafeteria. As fast as I can, I shove the remains of the candy into my purse, and swallow some of the pieces whole, nearly choking in the process. The rough edges scrape the back of my throat as they go down.
As she reaches my table, I wash away the evidence with a gulp of hot coffee that makes my eyes water.
“What’s the matter?” Summer asks.
“You smell like smoke.”
She rolls her eyes. “Smoking cigarettes is not a crime, despite your thinking it should be.”
What? She has no idea what I’m thinking. She never has. “Summer, I do not think it should be outlawed. That’s ridiculous.”
“Whatever.” She glances around the cafeteria. “I think we can head back up. Surely the doctor’s finished by now.”
“Don’t you want a cup of coffee?”
She shakes her head.
When we’re on our way to the elevator I ask, “So when are you leaving?”
She levels me with her gaze.
I’m so tired of bickering with her. I was merely asking and not being judgmental or inflammatory. I open my mouth to tell her so, but she says, “Monday.”
“You’re staying until Monday?”
She nods.
So do I, but I stay quiet because she looks like a storm cloud ready to burst. I’m afraid that if I ask her what changed her mind after she seemed hell-bent on getting the heck out of Dodge, she’ll turn into an angry tempest.
Instead, we walk in silence up to Mama’s room, where Dr. Travis meets us in the hall.
“I am very happy to report that given the circumstances, your mother’s doing remarkably well.”
The news makes my pulse beat a little faster.
“That’s fabulous. Isn’t it, Summer?”
“Fabulous,” she echoes.
“She’s not showing any repercussions from the head trauma that caused the coma. I want to keep her overnight for observation. Tomorrow morning, I’ll run some tests to make sure everything’s okay. If it all checks out, I’ll release her, possibly as early as tomorrow afternoon or early Saturday.”
“Thank you, Doctor. This is exactly what we were praying you’d say.”
I’m not sure he hears me, because he’s gazing over my shoulder. I glance back and realize he’s watching Summer, who is eyeing him back in that unsmiling, penetrating, Angelina Jolie–aloof way of hers.
As usual, she’s sucked all the energy out of the room. She’s not really flirting with him as much as she’s emitting vibes that seem to say, Yes, I’m hot and I know that you know I’m hot. Too bad for you.
“So,” I say, feeling I’m intruding on a private party. “I guess I’ll just pop on in and see her. Are you coming, Summer?”
She turns her aloof gaze on me and arches an eyebrow. For a few seconds, I’m afraid she’s going to fling some flippant belittling dig to prove she’s the alpha female. But she surprises me when she simply nods and says, “Thank you for the good news, Doctor.”
Ginny
Time has a way of retouching memories, blurring recollections into a soft focus so pretty you can just about frame them. Well, maybe you can only hang those portraits in the mind’s eye, because no one else would see them from quite the perspective you do.
Over the years, I’ve learned that if you look deep enough into the past, beyond the yellowing snapshots of sweet smiles and contrived poses, you’ll catch a fleeting glimpse of truth.
Truth is rarely pretty, but I’ve learned the hard way you’re better off choosing it over beauty. Even if at first it has a bitter taste.
I haven’t always chosen right. And I did a lot of dumb things when I was young.
Now that I’m older, I don’t need anyone sugar-coating the truth. And the truth is, I was a bad mother to my twin girls. It’s plain and simple as that. The image of me during those times is scarred into my mind. Some of the snapshots are dark and stained, and others are grainy and hard to look at, but I don’t want them to go away. Because periodically, I take them out and look at them and remind myself of the monster I was.
I suppose I could argue that as a single parent, I did the best I could. That it was a struggle to make ends meet when the girls were growing up. Blah, blah, blah. That doesn’t change a damn thing.
It’s just too bad I didn’t have the money I have now, which I came into the old-fashioned way—I married it. But times were different when the twins were young and my good fortune can be a sore spot with them, so we don’t talk about it much. Not that I haven’t offered to share. They’re just too proud to take it.
Strange how money changes everything. If I weren’t a strong person, it could take me on a real mind trip. But given what’s happened to me—Chester dying, the accident, the choices I’ve made—even if I wasn’t in my right mind back then, it’s enough to make a gal reevaluate her entire life.
I know what I have to do, and I’m prepared to do it. In fact, if I have my way—and I usually do—not only will I make everything right with the twins, I’ll finally bring my Jane home, too.
I just hope I don’t lose all three of them in the process.
Summer
We push open the door to Ginny’s room. She’s lying with her eyes closed, the arm that isn’t full of tubes and needles over her eyes.
Skye and I stand at the foot of her bed. Bruises mar her porcelain-doll face. She always reminded me of a blond Naomi Judd. So small and fragile looking. On the outside, that is. There’s nothing fragile about Ginny on the inside. Still, despite everything, the sight of her bruised and battered makes me feel sick.
She opens her eyes.
“Mama?” says Skye.
I don’t know what to say. So I don’t say anything.
Ginny blinks at us, then smiles. “My precious angel twins. As I live and breathe.” Her eyes well and a tear breaks free to meander down her cheek. “I was just thinking about y’all and here you are. Like magic.” She holds out her hand to us and we move toward her, Skye first. I trail behind her.
“Mama, we’re here.” Skye takes her hand and I step up to the bed and put my hand on top of my sister’s. It reminds me of that stupid game we used to play when we were kids—the one where everyone sticks in a hand, one on top of the other, and the person whose hand is on the bottom pulls it out and puts it on top and it keeps going until someone gets tired and quits.
Funny, the parallels—both Skye and me vying to be top of the heap, beating ourselves up to keep from getting stuck on the bottom. No wonder Jane divorced the lot of us.
Ginny eyes me up and down. “You’re so skinny, girl. We’ll have to fatten you up while you’re here.” She looks at Skye. “And you could stand to give a few pounds to your sister. Oh, but you’re both beautiful. Both of you. My beautiful, beautiful babies.”
My nerves are shot, and I can’t look at my sister. I don’t know how she’s going to take Ginny’s comment. I can’t deal with any more drama.
Breathe in.
Breathe out.
“Where’s Jane?” Ginny says. “Did she come, too?”
I blink, wondering if she remembers asking for her earlier. Surely not.
“No, but I know where she is. She’s in Springvale, Mama,” Skye says. “You got better so fast I didn’t have a chance to get a hold of her.”
Ginny closes her eyes, and her hand droops beneath ours. As Skye and I pull our hands away, Ginny’s face contorts.
“I know I was a bad mother to you girls.” She swipes away the tears flowing down her cheeks. “But I tried. Lord knows I tried. You have to know I did the best I could. Still, I know things weren’t like they should’ve been, and I know I have no right to ask this of you, but I’m going to anyway.”
She takes a deep breath. The exhale comes in ragged shudders. “Since y’all know where Jane is, will you take me to her? Please?”
Her eyes beseech us.
Skye and I look at each other. I can almost read my sister’s thoughts because this is one of the rare occasions when she and I seem to be on the same page. I feel it.
“Mama, I’d be happy to call Jane for you.” Skye opens her purse, pulls out a notebook and flips to a phone number. “We can tell her what’s happened, but—”
“No!” Ginny struggles to pull herself into a sitting position, but she eventually gives up and falls back into the bed. It’s strange to see her like this.
“Please. No,” she pleads. “Don’t call her. She’ll just run away. She’ll disappear somewhere I can’t find her. Please. I need my three girls all together.”
Skye glances at me, then back at Ginny. “Mama—”
“There’s things you need to know.” Her voice raises a few notches. “Things you must know.”
“Ginny, don’t do this now. It can’t be good for you. The doctor said you’ll probably get to go home tomorrow, but if you get all worked up, it might set you back.”
She turns her face toward the window, away from us.
“I don’t know how to make you understand.” Her voice is low and serious. “I could have died.”
Skye touches her shoulder. “But you didn’t. Mama, never once did we lose faith that you’d come out of this fine.”
Mama silences her simply by holding up her hand. Just like she used to when we were children.
“I am going to die—someday. What I have to tell you cannot go with me to the grave.” She swallows as if the words are stuck in her throat. “But first, I need Jane here. Because it concerns her as well as you. So please, I am begging you, my sweet babies. Please let’s go get your sister. Let’s all three bring Jane home. Please tell me you’ll do it.”
CHAPTER 5
Summer
The hospital staff move Ginny to a regular room since she’s doing so much better. Skye and I stay until Raul arrives at the hospital and then we go to our mother’s house to try and figure out what we’re going to do. Or should I say try and figure out how we’re going to get out of this road trip she’s trying to rope us into.
As we pull up to the wrought-iron gate that surrounds the huge estate, the first thing I see is Welcome to Hamby Hall written in ornate script across the top of the gate. The ironwork alone probably cost as much as a small house.
Skye punches in the code as if she goes to Ginny’s place every day. The gate swings open and she drives for what seems like miles up the brick driveway that’s lined by gnarly coastal trees and lush north Florida vegetation.
This is the first time I’ve seen Ginny’s house. I’d seen photos of it when she sent me the Better Homes and Gardens spread that ran in an issue shortly after construction was complete. She was so proud of the place—a sprawling, two-story number designed to look like a castle, complete with turrets and a front door that looks like a drawbridge. The place must be worth millions, even if it is a little out of place on a southeastern beach. My mother always has marched to her own tune.
“Mama did all right for herself, huh?” says Skye.
“Or should we say Chester Hamby did all right by Ginny?” I quip.
Skye shrugs and maneuvers the car under the port cochere.
The one and only time in Ginny’s life that she got married was to Chester Hamby. They had been married for fourteen years when Chester died of a heart attack.
If you can get beyond the fact that he was twenty years older than she was and ugly as a troll, he was kind to my mother and the tale of how she hooked up with old Chester is kind of a Cinderella story.
Skye and I left home right after high-school graduation. She went to college at Florida State University and I left for New York to model. Ginny was working at Joe’s Fountain over on Main and Dune. The way Ginny tells it is that Chester had just moved to Dahlia Springs from a town in the midwest—why he chose to move himself and his fortune to Dahlia Springs of all places is a mystery. There are many prettier beaches for a person with unlimited resources, but he moved here and soon he became one of Ginny’s regulars at the diner. Three months later she called from Vegas to announce that she was pregnant and they were married. Skye was just as surprised as I.
Ginny was only thirty-seven. She’d waited this long to get married and the lucky guy was ugly, old Chester Hamby? She had this incredible, fragile beauty that men found irresistible—still does. She could’ve had any man she wanted if she’d just gotten the hell out of Dahlia Springs. But he adored her and he never asked questions. She told me he wasn’t interested in her past. It didn’t matter who or what she’d been before they met. All that mattered was that she loved him from that moment forward.
And she did.
He freed her from the diner, gave her financial security for the first time in her life, encouraged her to get involved in charity work (she started the Galloway-Hamby Foundation and over the years has become quite a philanthropist). He left her a wealthy woman when he died.
Who am I to argue with that? Death separated Chester and Ginny. He didn’t walk out on her like Nick left me.
Nick….
I think about calling him, but it seems futile. What’s the use of dredging up the past? Maybe Ginny has the right idea finding herself a gorgeous, young thing—
“Does Raul live here?” I ask.
Skye shakes her head. “Of course not.”
I give her a knowing smile. “Oh, come on. She’s not making the houseboy work overtime?”
Skye tries unsuccessfully to suppress a smile. I can almost see her biting the insides of her cheeks, but the smile wins, and I grin, too.
“I thought so, too, at first, but there’s no trace of him in the house and she’s still got all these photos of her and Chester all over the place. Don’t you think Raul would be a little more… I don’t know…concerned if they were involved? I just don’t get that vibe from him.”
We get out of the car, and I carry my bag inside. I park my suitcase in the cavernous foyer and look around. A huge mirror in a gilded frame hangs on the wall directly across from the front door. It must be at least seven feet tall by five feet wide. To my right is an open door. I can see into a formal dining room that looks like it might have been modeled after a king’s dining hall.
“Let’s go in the family room where it’s more comfortable.”
Family room? I didn’t realize castles had family rooms. Skye ushers me into a space that’s less formal. There are floral arrangements on nearly every surface.
“Look at all these flowers,” I say.
“From Mama’s admirers—charities and local businesses. She can’t have them in ICU so they sent them here.”
The room is elaborately decorated—a large, fashionably worn leather sectional is the centerpiece. A sturdy mahogany coffee table sits in front of it; matching end tables with brass handles sit at each end. The largest television I’ve ever laid eyes on occupies the wall to my right. The east wall is all French doors out to a deck that overlooks the beach. The setup reminds me of a common area in an expensive resort. I wouldn’t be surprised if Ginny had it designed that way on purpose.
It’s a lot of house for one woman—and her boy-toy. I walk over to the French doors and look out at the sea. It’s high tide, and the water is lapping the shore in furious slaps. Despite how we struggled while Skye and I were growing up, I know I shouldn’t begrudge Ginny a good standard of living or a young boyfriend. It’s just a lot to digest all at once.
She offered to give me money once. It was after Chester died, and the estate was settled. Of course, I declined. I’m forty years old and I know better than to accept a handout from her. Anything from Ginny comes with a stipulation. As much as some extra cash would have helped, the price of getting tangled up in her web of manipulation was too high.
I scan the impeccably decorated room and something that looks out of place catches my eye. It’s a display of cards on a shelf on the wall directly across from me.
Jane’s birthday cards? Has to be.
I walk over and pick them up one by one. Happy birthday to me! inscribed in childlike script on the inside (Jane’s writing)—and turning them each over to see the date, city and state printed meticulously on the back (Ginny’s writing). It’s always struck me as incredibly cheeky, Jane sending cards on her own birthday, especially when she never remembers Ginny’s birthday. Still, our mother is always overcome to receive the cards. She calls Skye and me the moment she gets them and weeps with joy.
The first year Jane sent the card, she was still calling home every once in a while, but Ginny would get overwrought and demand Jane tell her where she was so Ginny could come get her. That’s when Jane cut ties with her—except for the annual card. I must admit I always breathe my own sigh of relief because it means Jane’s alive. Even if the postmark is the only clue to her life. But this year’s card was postmarked Chicago. Hmm…
“Interesting you found her in Springvale.” I finger the slick cardstock. “That’s where Ginny was born and raised.”
I glance at Skye, who’s made herself at home on the couch. She’s thumbing through an issue of Better Homes and Gardens that was on the coffee table.
“I know. I thought about that.”
The thought of my little sister living in a homeless shelter floors me. I suppose the safety net in my mind’s eye wouldn’t let me imagine her anywhere worse than a succession of small, cheap, rent-by-the week apartments. I’m sickened by the thought of her in a shelter with the lice and the smell of unwashed bodies. I shudder and want to beat myself up for letting her sink to this depth.
But how do you help someone who refused all your earlier attempts of help beyond free-flowing cash?
“You never told me how you found Jane. Did you hire a private investigator?”
Skye shrugs but doesn’t look up from the article she’s perusing. “You know I have lots of resources through Cameron’s firm.”
“If you had to pay anything, I want to contribute.”
Skye tosses the magazine back on the coffee table. “Don’t be silly. I didn’t have any expenses.”
The subtext is, I wouldn’t tell you if I did, but I let it go.
“So what are we going to do about this road trip Ginny wants us to take?”
Skye bites her bottom lip and picks at her cuticle. “I don’t know. With you leaving on Monday I just don’t see how we can do it. I’m certainly not going with her by myself.”
I put the card back in its place on the shelf, walk over to the sofa and sit down on the section across from her. I’m surprised how calm she is talking about it, given her dramatics when I tried to change my flight today. Then again, that was before Ginny started talking road trip.
“I’ll have to discuss it with Cameron. A neighbor’s minding the children while I’m gone. I told her it would only be a few days. I don’t want to take advantage…”
Her voice trails off, and we sit in silence. Then she shrugs again. “Raul left us a note.”
She picks up a piece of paper I hadn’t noticed on the coffee table and hands it to me.
Good evening, ladies. Please make yourselves at home. Upstairs, I had the second room on the left made ready for Summer. If you’re hungry, I ordered a lasagna and salad for your dinner. Please help yourselves to that and anything else you desire.
“Why don’t you take your stuff upstairs? Get settled in and freshen up,” she says. “I’ll get dinner on the table.”
I carry my suitcase up the marble staircase. My footsteps echo, and despite its grandeur, the big house feels empty. Maybe I’m just tired. It’s been a long, emotional day.
At the top of the stairs, I turn right down a long hallway and, as I head toward the second room on the left, I notice a grouping of large photographs hanging on the wall a few feet down.
I stash my suitcase inside the bedroom Raul readied for me. It’s large and beautiful, with a king-size bed with a gossamer canopy. The space is decorated in white and gold—white carpet, white furniture, white fabric with gold accents scattered here and there. It looks like a page out of Architectural Digest. But I am drawn to the photos grouped down the hall. The first cluster is an arrangement of Ginny and Chester kissing; Ginny and Chester raising a toast to each other; Ginny and Chester wrapping their arms around each other.
On the wall directly across from the Chester collection hang four photos—one each of Skye, Jane and me. And a fourth picture—the three of us with Ginny. It was taken in Tallahassee right after Skye’s third child, Cole, was born.
Jane was young. Probably nine or ten because Nick and I were still married when I made that trip. Of course, he didn’t come with me. He was probably away on a photo shoot or came up with some other convenient excuse to stay away.
I run my finger along the edge of the silver frame. It may be the only photo of the four of us together. We’re all smiling. If someone didn’t know better, they might think we looked…happy?
I walk down the hall, opening doors and peering in until I come to Jane’s room. It looks as if Ginny left it untouched since the last time Jane walked out. Rock-and-roll posters on the walls, hot-pink carpet that must have been a special order, a fuzzy black duvet over a queen-size bed, little piles of clutter on every surface. I’m tempted to go in and sift through the remnants of my little sister’s life to see if I can find clues that point to why she’s chosen to live the way she has. Why she’d opt for a homeless shelter over a castle, but then images of the monster Ginny can be explode in my brain. I shut the door against the room’s aura of sadness and walk away.
Still, Ginny seemed better with Jane than she was with us. Knowing what we lived with, how we lived, it was hard to watch Jane take everything Ginny gave her for granted. It was hard not to ask, “Do you know how good you have it?” After cutting ties with Ginny, Jane used to call Skye and me collect every once in a while. It was so hard talking to her and promising her we wouldn’t tell Ginny because we knew Ginny was heartbroken over how Jane turned out.
Skye could afford to sneak Jane a few bucks here and there, but I wasn’t making much money. I could barely afford to make ends meet to support myself. More important, we were afraid Jane was using the money to buy drugs. We agreed the handouts had to stop unless there was some accountability.
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