The Echo of Old Books(78)

She asks it so casually, as if we haven’t just had a cataclysmic argument. I drag my diary across the half-written page and fold my hands over it. “A poem,” I lie. “One I’ve been working on for several weeks.”

“I didn’t know you were writing again.” She tries for a smile, then drops it when she realizes I’m not in the mood for smiles. “May I see it?”

“You’ve never cared about poetry before. Mine least of all. In fact, I remember you running to Father once with a notebook of mine and getting me in trouble.”

She sighs wearily. “Are we going to read through the entire catalog of my sins?”

“If you’d like.”

I push to my feet and step away from the desk, prepared to do battle again. Instead, Cee-Cee surprises me by fishing a freshly pressed handkerchief from her pocket and handing it to me. I accept it warily and blot my eyes.

She wanders to the bed and drops down heavily. “We shouldn’t fight.”

I say nothing. I’m not interested in her olive branch.

“Look, I’m sorry about the things I said earlier. I didn’t realize how serious it had gotten with the two of you, and you caught me off guard. You’ve always been the little sister, and when I see you wandering into trouble, I suppose I still feel a need to protect you.”

I can scarcely believe my ears. “When have you ever protected me?”

She drops her gaze. “I know we haven’t been close, but that doesn’t mean I don’t care about you. We’re family.”

I study her—her wide, soft eyes and turned-down mouth—and wonder who this stranger is sitting on my bed. Certainly no one I’ve ever met. She looks tired, even a bit shaken. I sit down beside her, stiff, silent.

“You think me harsh,” she says quietly. “And I suppose I am. Sometimes out of need, other times out of habit. But I’ve had so much responsibility since . . . since Mother died. And there’s always been such a difference in our ages. I’ve never quite known how to be with you, how to straddle the line between mother and sister. But you’re grown up now. A woman, not a child. We should be friends.”

Friends.

I stare at her handkerchief, freshly pressed a moment ago, now wrung into a damp knot. We’ve barely been sisters. How can we ever be friends? Friends trust one another. And I don’t trust anyone anymore.

She brings her face close to mine, offering a tremulous smile. “Can we, do you think? Put the harshness behind us?” She reaches for my hand, tracing her thumb over my knuckles. “Please?”

The moment of softness, so unexpected, so unfamiliar, brings a fresh rush of tears. I try to hold them at bay, but it’s useless. I crumple against her, sobbing.

“Poor darling,” she croons, patting my back. “It can’t be as bad as all that.”

I let myself relax against her. Like a child who’s suffered a fall, I’m shaken and clingy, desperate for something sure to hold on to. And I’m suddenly so tired.

“We’re different people, you and I.” Her voice is soft, almost maternal. “We may have different roles to play, but we’re family and always will be. Perhaps I’ve neglected you, even pushed you away, but it was because I didn’t know how to take care of you properly. You were so different from me as a child and so much . . . like Helene.”

Her voice falters, as if the mention of our mother’s name causes her pain. “She and I weren’t close the way you two were. You were always her favorite, and I suppose I was jealous. Then she got sick and there was just Father. I was so desperate for his approval. I said and did whatever he wanted me to, but I hurt you in the process. Can you forgive me?”

For as long as I can remember, I have craved my sister’s love. When my mother went away and I was left on my own in this cold, enormous house, I longed for the kind of softness she’s offering now. But after everything I’ve learned today, how can I even consider forgiving her? And yet, the pull is there, the temptation to unclench my fists and take what’s being offered. But I’m too exhausted to think about it now, too raw, too empty.

She pats my hand as if something’s been decided. “You’re confused now and hurting. You think you can’t live without this man, that he’s your night and day, your entire world. But the truth is you barely know him. All you know is what he’s told you, what he wants you to believe. But a man who would try to turn you against your family was never going to make you happy. He doesn’t understand our way of life. You deserve a man who cares about the things you care about, who can give you the kind of life you’re used to. And your children. It’s important to think about your children, about the kind of world they’ll grow up in.”

I nod, barely registering her words. I just want to be alone, to digest all that’s happened—all I’ve been told and all I haven’t. My eyes slide to the scrap of blue notepaper just visible beneath my diary—the half-written letter waiting to be finished—and I remember the look on your face when you walked in and realized I’d found your notes. The guilt and the panic, the scramble to explain yourself. You asked as I was leaving if I would still be there tomorrow. I didn’t answer because I didn’t know. I still don’t.

“Thank you,” I say, pressing Cee-Cee’s handkerchief back into her hands. “I’d like to be alone for a while. I have such a terrible headache.”