Separate Sisters Read online

  “Remind you what?”

  “To be humble.”

  I wasn’t sure what he meant by that, but I didn’t ask.

  We talked a little more about what I should paint for his office. He didn’t want anything with him in it. Nature scenes, maybe. “Why don’t you come into school and work in the art room?” he suggested. “That way I could see how it’s going. Mrs. Antonio would love to have you.”

  “Um,” I said.

  “No regular schedule,” he said. “No regular classes. Just ask one of the secretaries for a visitor’s pass. And, Donni”—he was on his way out the door, but he turned—“when you feel up to it, and not a minute before, come to my office and just visit.”

  “I see what you’re doing,” I said. “You’re trying to ease me back in.”

  “Well, yes. Yes, I am. But I also want some good art for my office. Is that okay?”

  “I’ll, um, I’ll see,” I said, but I knew I was going to do it. I couldn’t resist. My mind was already making pictures of what to put on his boring, blank tan walls.

  “Is Trisha still real mad at me?” I asked Mom while I was dishing up the take-out Chinese she had brought for lunch.

  “I don’t know. Why don’t you call her and see?”

  “I did, last night. She hung up on me.”

  “Then I guess she’s still mad.”

  “I, uh, what I’m really asking—”

  “Yes?”

  “Never mind.” What I was trying to ask was for Mom to get Trisha to forgive me. But I knew that was up to me.

  I’d been thinking and thinking about how to make it up to Trisha. Even though I was kind of worrying about myself, what with all the doctors and everything, and I had home schooling and Mr. Billet to think about, I was still thinking about Trisha almost all the time. I kept trying to think what picture I could paint her and give to her that would make her happy. A picture of her and me together? A picture of me offering her a heart on the palm of my hand? A picture of a big, sorry, teary attack heart giving her a hug? Nothing seemed right. The more I thought about it, the more I kept thinking what Mr. Billet had said, that I used art as a crutch. I sort of didn’t and I sort of did. Painting a picture for Trisha would be better than nothing, but it would be kind of like hiding behind my art, kind of a coward’s way of apologizing. Art was my thing. It wasn’t Trisha’s thing.

  As Mom and I dug into the Szechuan chicken with mushrooms, though, suddenly I knew what I had to do for Trisha.

  My fortune cookie said: “Happiness is a butterfly, not a snail.”

  Right after lunch, right after Mom left, I left, too, and skedaddled down the alley, so she wouldn’t see me. I walked as fast as I could to one of the downtown shops, DOS Haus, a computer store. I walked in and looked around until I found a computer that looked like Trisha’s. Behind the counter a young round-shouldered guy with a big Adam’s apple was watching me with a hint of a sneer, like aren’t we the cynic, like he knew I was skipping school, but he didn’t care—except I wasn’t skipping school, I was excused, but I didn’t care what he thought. I asked him, “Can I try out this one?”

  “Sure.” He came lounging around the counter and turned it on for me. It was pretty much like Trisha’s. I started writing. It took awhile because I am not real good at writing, I have to make myself do it, and I hunt the keys when I type. I wrote:

  Dear Trisha,

  Hi, this is Emmy! You wrote to me a lot and now it’s my turn to write to you. Thank you for being a good friend to me and making me come alive and giving me a pretty name. Even though your sister, the hissy-fit expert, erased our files, which she had no right to do, I am still Emmy. I am still your friend and your faithful computer, and I always will be.

  I am your friend, so may I tell you something? I am a computer. I know everything, so I know all about Donni, and she is very, very sorry for what she did. You were right about her, she’s been upset about the divorce, not to use that as an excuse for her being a selfish jerk, but it might be the reason she had kind of lost sight of the fact that you, Trisha, are a human being. She’d been thinking of you as Trisha the Perfect, so when she read me and found out that you are lonely and have problems the same way she does, well, she zapped straight into ballistic brat mode, like, she’s the only one who’s allowed? But she knew she was wrong, and right away she felt terrible. She hasn’t been able to sleep. She’s worried about you and she wants to talk with you.

  Trisha, you might think it’s funny to get a letter from your computer, but I want you to understand that people do care about you. I care about you, but I’m a computer and I can’t give you a hug. Donni can. Ask Donni to give you a hug. She cares about you. Donni loves you very much. And so do I.

  Love,

  Emmy

  My eyes were watery. I looked around and didn’t see a printer hooked up to the computer. The round-shouldered guy had his elbows on the counter, watching me with his Elvis sneer.

  I asked him, “Can I e-mail this?”

  “Like we have the demo computers hooked up to e-mail?” he said real sarcastic.

  Oh. I said, “Well, uh, then, can I print it out?”

  “This isn’t your public media center, kid.” He heaved himself up off the counter, came around it, and started toward me, to turn the computer off I guess.

  “Please,” I said.

  “Whatcha writing, a letter to your boyfriend?”

  My head started to pound, etc. To heck with all that. I was getting tired of being siiiick—it got in the way of everything. I wanted to keep functioning and talk this guy into printing my letter.

  “It’s for my sister,” I said. My chest hurt, but I took deep breaths to fight the no-air feeling back.

  “Sure,” he said. “And I’m supposed to print it for you? You going to buy the computer?” He was reaching for the mouse to boot down, but I guess he was curious, he glanced at the screen, and something caught his eye and he started reading. I let him go ahead and read because I didn’t know what else to do.

  He stood there reading for a couple of minutes. Then he said, “You’re Donni, right?”

  I nodded.

  “Oh, for God’s sake,” he said, and he turned away and walked off.

  Now I didn’t know what was going on.

  “What kind of printer you want?” he called back real sarcastic.

  All of a sudden I felt a lot better. “Just … a regular printer.…” I wanted the letter to look like it had come off Trisha’s computer. Well, as much as possible.

  And it did. It looked just like Emmy had printed it out. The computer shop guy brought a printer over and balanced it on top of another computer and plugged it into my computer and checked to make sure there was paper in it and said, “Okay, hit it,” like we were pals now. I printed it out and it was perfect.

  “Thanks,” I said, grabbing the pages from him.

  He said, “You know, there’s a way of retrieving files from the hard drive even after they’ve been erased.”

  “There is?”

  “Yeah. If anybody’s interested, I can explain it to them.”

  I thanked him some more and folded the letter carefully and put it deep in the pocket of my bibs, over my heart. And I ran out of there. On my way to see Trisha.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  It was after two. By the time I walked six miles out into the country, Trisha would be home from school.

  From the DOS Haus I cut down through a development and then I followed a bike trail across fields to a dirt road and then I followed that. I didn’t want to walk along the main road because of the yahoos who liked to yell stuff out of truck windows at girls who were walking alone. Even in the middle of town they yelled stuff. So I was walking across country as much as I could. And I was walking as fast as I could.

  The whole time I was walking, I was thinking about what might be the best way to give the letter to Trisha. Somehow I didn’t think she was going to let me in and take the letter and say thank you and open it u
p and read it and say oh how nice. She’d rip it up before she ever read it if I didn’t have a strategy.

  One thing I could do would be to put it in the mailbox. That way Mom would see it and make Trisha read it. I was feeling a lot better about Mom, but I knew better than to think she was perfect. Face it, Mom was nosy. And bossy. Which could be good. I had two good parents. Dad was good for letting a person alone and Mom was good for butting in. Dad was just about perfect for when things were going okay, and Mom was excellent for when there were problems I couldn’t fix by myself. All I had to do was learn which was best when.

  I could trust Mom to do her stuff. I could put Trisha’s letter in the mailbox—

  Oops. Trisha would get to the mail first. She always checked the box when she got off the bus.

  By the time the dirt road joined up with the main road I still didn’t have a plan. I walked along the shoulder of the asphalt, and now every time a car passed me I tensed up, and I couldn’t think about anything except walking as fast as I could and what I would do if yahoos noticed me. Maybe stand real still and disguise myself as a fireplug for hound dogs to pee on? I didn’t think so. If they wouldn’t leave me alone—

  A car pulled up beside me. My heart just about stopped.

  “Young man?”

  It was just a gray-haired lady, embarrassed the minute she saw my face. “Uh, Miss, is this Middle Road?”

  Yes, she was on the right road. She offered me a ride, but I said no thanks. A minute later, trudging along, I was wondering why I’d done that.

  Another car.

  Panic time.

  Oh, damn, oh double, triple damn, it was Officer Hillman.

  He parked his cruiser with the flashers going and got out. “Well, Donni.”

  I felt cold, hot, sweaty, dizzy, my heart going like a rabbit and all the rest of it but so what. I wasn’t going to puke. I had to talk, I had to explain to him. “I’m allowed,” I said, which wasn’t very clear. I tried to amplify. “I’m not skipping school. Ask Mr. Billet.”

  “You still shouldn’t be out here by yourself,” he said. He went back to his car and got on his radio, and I didn’t know what was going on. I saw him talking to somebody and nodding for what seemed to be a long time.

  Finally he hung it up, got out, and said over the roof of his cruiser to me, “Mr. Billet says to tell you to get a bike.”

  I nodded. Actually, that was a very good idea. A horse would be even better.

  “Where are you going?” Officer Hillman asked.

  “My—” He wouldn’t know who Trisha was. “My mother’s place.”

  “Get in. I’ll drive you. You want to sit in front?”

  It was better than sitting in back, I guess. He tried to be nice, telling me what some of the switches on the dashboard were for, but I was glad when we got to the house.

  He didn’t just drop me off. He parked the cruiser in the driveway and walked to the front door with me, to be sure I’d be safe I guess.

  One thing about my old house, when you walk up to the door you can see inside, and because it’s way out in the country, Mom doesn’t keep the drapes drawn except at night. People just glance in to see if anybody’s home.

  There on the sofa was Trisha.

  Fine, a person’s allowed to sit on the sofa. But not Trisha. Trisha was always doing something, she never just sat. But there she was, doing nothing, not even watching TV, curled up on the sofa in a lump, just staring. Everything about her, the way her hands were hanging and her knees were pressed against her chest and her head was drooping, everything said ouch.

  Officer Hillman asked, “Who’s that?”

  “My sister.”

  “She doesn’t look happy”

  I didn’t say anything. He rang the doorbell, but Trisha didn’t even move at first. It was like she didn’t have energy to drag her head up. Officer Hillman was reaching for the doorbell again when she slowly lifted her head and looked. Then her eyes widened when she saw a cop standing outside her window and she uncurled and got herself to the door.

  “You’re not feeling well, Miss?” Officer Hillman asked her as I stepped inside.

  “I’m all right.” She was her polite Trisha-self for him.

  “You sure?”

  “I’m fine. Thank you.”

  “You let me know if there’s anything wrong, okay?” He looked at me. “Donni, no more hiking along the road by yourself, right?” He nodded at both of us and went away. Trisha closed the door behind him.

  I started to reach for the letter in my pocket. I said, “Trisha—”

  “You scumhead.” She hissed it between her teeth, keeping it low so Officer Hillman wouldn’t hear, but from the look on her face she wouldn’t have let me into the house if he hadn’t happened to be there. “Get out. Go walk in traffic. I hope you get run over. I hope you trip and fall into a pit. Get away from me. Go away and stay away.” She was getting louder, Officer Hillman had pulled out of the driveway, and she yanked the door open. “Go on, get out of here!”

  Of course I didn’t move. So she pushed me. So I tried to shove her hands away. Then she screeched and started whacking at me, whappity, whappity, whappity, with her open hands. She wasn’t hurting me, but nobody gets to hit me. I grabbed her wrists hard to make her stop. She struggled, but she couldn’t get away from me. She screamed, “I hate you!”

  Fine. Great. I hated her, too. Here I was trying to apologize to her and she was hitting me. She made me so mad—

  Somebody had to be strong … Donni acts as if she’s divorced me … I miss her … I just want to give up …

  Trisha pulled loose from me and tried to hit me again. But I put my arms around her and hugged her.

  She struggled, she screamed. But the scream turned into a sob. I hugged her and she started crying hard, and I was saying, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” and patting her back and cuddling her and she bawled and bawled on my shoulder.

  After a while her arms went around me and then I wanted to cry.

  I didn’t because somebody had to be mature, and it was my turn, and about time, huh? When Trisha’s crying eased up I said, “C’mon,” and I steered her to the sofa and sat her down and handed her the Kleenex, and I went and got a cold wet washcloth from the bathroom and brought it to her. She leaned forward like she felt sick and pressed it to her face, and I sat beside her and waited.

  She muttered, “I hate this.”

  I said, “Trish, I’m really sorry. I’m a twit, I didn’t understand.”

  “Shut up with the sorries.”

  Good, at least she’d heard me. I shut up.

  She crumpled the washcloth in one hand and sat back, laid her head back and closed her eyes. I took the washcloth from her and went and spread it on top of the laundry hamper to dry. When I came back she was still sitting with her eyes closed. I stood in front of her and said, “Listen, Trisha, the guy at the computer store says there’s a way to get files back after—”

  She opened her eyes and looked at me so red and hard that I shut up. She said, “I don’t care about that. I don’t want to keep on talking to a stupid computer, damn it. I want a real friend. I want somebody—”

  Her voice choked up and she didn’t say what kind of somebody, just closed her eyes again. I sat beside her feeling awful.

  She said, real shaky, “Everybody likes you better than me.”

  Oh, come on. Give me a break. “Trish, that’s not true. They like you better.”

  “They do not. Nobody likes me.”

  What the hell was she talking about? “Trisha, you walk on water! You’re the smartest kid in school, you’re going to get a scholarship and go to Harvard or something, and you’re a nice caring person, and you’re pretty, and you’re dependable and responsible and—”

  She opened her eyes and glared at me and burst out, “I’ve got to be that way! If I do one little thing wrong Mom practically disowns me. But you can do just about anything and she’s all misty-eyed ab
out how we’ve got to help you. You throw a fit and she’s so full of Donni, Donni, Donni I could be dying and she wouldn’t notice!”

  I gawked at her, trying to figure out what to do or say. Then I got up and stood in front of her and said, “Hit me.”

  “Donni—”

  “C’mon, hit me.” I patted my belly and stuck it out to give her a target. “Make a fist and hit me hard.”

  “Donni, would you stop being a dork?”

  “Hit me.”

  “I can’t, damn it!”

  “Well, at least you said damn.”

  She almost smiled.

  “Break something, then. Do something bad right now.” I looked around and grabbed one of the throw pillows off the sofa. “Pillow fight!”

  “Donni—”

  “C’mon, Trisha!” I swung at her lightly.

  She looked ticked off, grabbed another pillow and swung back.

  I swung just enough to keep her going and on her third swing she clobbered me pretty good, and after that she started to get into it. Pretty soon I didn’t have to hold back; it was an even fight. Actually, I hate to admit this, she got me on the run. We fought all over the living room, knocking against furniture and strewing magazines and school papers and wrestling on the floor and banging into the walls. It was great. We split two pillows open and didn’t even notice until Trisha saw white fluff snowing all over everything and said, “Uh-oh.”

  We never decided who won. We just stopped.

  “Jeez.” Trisha stood up and looked around in a kind of awe. The living room was totally trashed, and we’d never get it cleaned up before Mom came home, and even if we did, we’d have to explain about the pillows.

  “Oooooh, Trish, you’re in trouble,” I teased.

  “Why me? Why does everything always have to be my fault?”

  “You’re the biiig sister. You’re machewer and sponsibibble.”

  “Give me a break!”

  “If Mom disowns you,” I told her, “come live with Dad and me.”

  Trisha looked half scared, but then she started to laugh, and it was a good laugh, like she’d really had fun.

  We gathered up some of the mess, and then I thought of something. “I have to go to the bathroom.” I said, and I did. But while I was upstairs I laid the letter from Emmy on Trisha’s pillow, where she would find it when she went to bed.