The Sister-in-Law Page 9

  And just like that, I had no idea what my mother was capable of.

  Chapter 10

  Harper

  Gray days reminded me of Ben, the rain dousing me in loneliness and the clouds trapping my cries. It poured the day I met him. And it poured the day I fake buried him at his memorial service. It was as if the rain mocked me.

  Droplets rolled down the kitchen window in tiny streams. The thunkthunkthunk of the knife hitting the cutting board was the only sound in the house, aside from the pattering of rainfall on the roof and windows. I chopped the head off the last carrot, then sliced it into long, thin strips. The kids called them carrot fries, and it was the only way they’d eat them. I collected the handful of carrot sticks – I mean fries – and dropped them into a bowl. I didn’t quite feel like inviting the kids down for their snack yet. I appreciated quiet, calm moments like this … maybe a little too much lately. All I wanted was to be alone. And yet the loneliness was torture. That couldn’t be healthy.

  Being alone took me back to life before Ben.

  Before I met him, my life was darkness. I had almost given up on love when Benjamin Paris trekked into my store with his muddy boots and grass-stained jeans. Naïve me, a part-time employee at a plant nursery, fell for enigmatic him, a master’s-bound college kid working for a landscaping business that summer. It was crush at first lopsided grin. Beneath the caked-on dirt, days-old scruff, and sunburn lines on his neck, he had a magnetism that drew me instantly. Maybe it was my hormones blaring You haven’t had a boyfriend in years, so take what you can get! or maybe it was the sizzling connection we had, but I knew within five minutes of talking to him as I rang him up that he was The One.

  Ben asked me out across the cashier counter while a downpour tapped the metal roof like restless fingers. Afraid of being used by this man who was out of my league, I told him we could only be friends, but I agreed to dinner. That same night, we ran across the parking lot toward Piedmont Restaurant, covering our heads with our jackets while droplets pelted us. We drank too much wine and ate rich, seared tuna and shared chocolate mousse and kissed across the table for the very first time. So much for just friends. I still vividly remembered the bittersweet taste of dark cocoa on his tongue, and it was the first of many more tastes we’d share. I pushed him away after that kiss, and I offered him a deal. He’d need to work for my heart before I was willing to hand it over. The silly boy agreed, unaware that he would woo me for three years before I finally said yes. The whole time I knew what I was doing, and I was doing it well. I was securing my spot in his heart.

  ‘You were worth the wait,’ he had told me. And I believed him back then. I wasn’t so sure I believed that anymore. Lately I felt worth nothing.

  The moment Ben lit his flame for me, he became my light. I basked in that light until he died, snuffing it out, and only gloom remained. That’s where I lived now. Utter gloom. Lane told me to reach out to my friends. What friends? I hadn’t heard from any of them since the memorial a month ago. Death tended to scare people off, lest a genuine connection brush up against them and infect them with, God forbid, emotions. No one wanted to hold a grown woman while she cried. I was the plague everyone ran from.

  Perhaps I was a little too picky. Classist, as Lane once put it. I only made friends with those in my income bracket, because I’d done the whole needy friend thing and ended up scammed out of hundreds of dollars before poof! they disappeared when the freebies stopped coming. And my ideal friend needed to also be afflicted with kids, because only another mother could tolerate the whines and irritations that came with them. But I didn’t want a friend who had kids involved in a myriad of sports. I refused to spend endless hours at baseball games or on the sidelines of basketball courts or soccer fields, my tender skin frying in the sun. I had yet to find this perfect specimen of friend, and thus I remained alone.

  Maybe it was better this way for someone as untrusting as I was.

  Grief was the only emotion I trusted now. Grief easily drowned out fickle joy. A bite of sweet happiness couldn’t compete with the vinegar aftertaste of sorrow. There was something eloquent about sorrow, how it slowly pulled you under without you ever realizing you were sinking.

  And yet I was so tired of sorrow. It had been my natural state for so long that the tears had dried up. So I picked it up, shook it hard, and watched it turn into anger. Thank you, Candace, for helping me get there.

  Every day I hated her a little more. She was manipulative and lazy, the worst kind of woman. She was the type of woman who lured men in with her beauty, then trapped them into a life of servitude. Once she got bored with the adoration, she would crush Lane under her hippie gladiator sandals and walk away, her maxi dress flapping in the wind and bangle bracelets jangling.

  Trusting men like my brother were the easiest targets. Always eager to please, surprising her with flowers, takeout, rose-petal trails to a candlelit bedroom. What happened when she was no longer surprised? I knew the answer to that. Poor Lane didn’t.

  Over the past few days I’d watched as Lane waited on Candace hand and foot – God forbid the baby inside her be jostled about if she dared sit up – and when he was at work I was expected to do the same. Pregnant or not, I wasn’t her slave and I had no problem telling her as such.

  The kids were upstairs doing homework, which meant they were more likely playing video games on their tablets, and I had just finished tidying up the kitchen after Candace’s late afternoon quesadilla lunch. I could always tell when, and what, she cooked because she left evidence of it everywhere. The sour cream and cheese were left on the island, and the dirty pan sat on the stove. How hard was it to put the ingredients back in the fridge? It was like taking care of a toddler!

  Leaning against the doorjamb, I scrolled through rental applicants on my phone while snacking on carrots dipped in hummus. I was searching for the perfect tenant, which my real-estate expert mother would say didn’t exist. Candace, as usual, was laid up on the sofa watching television. I looked forward to the day when her perfect, lithe body outgrew her size 0 skinny jeans and never returned. Sitting around all the time would only help escalate that end.

  ‘Would you mind making me a cup of tea?’ Candace called from the living room. ‘Mint oolong, with sugar and cream, please.’

  I could only see half of her from where I stood, the lower half that was leaving a butt indent in the couch with all of the sitting.

  No, no, no! Get your own damn tea! Can’t you see I’m busy?

  Of course I couldn’t scream what I was thinking. I was too proper for that. Women who wore Estée Lauder makeup and shopped at Pottery Barn didn’t retort. We replied.

  ‘I’d be happy to,’ I said instead. I couldn’t refuse the princess her afternoon tea. I closed my eyes, cursing her under my breath. ‘But just so you know, even though you’re pregnant, you should still do things for yourself. It’s healthy for the baby if you keep moving.’

  I forced a grin and hoped the hint was clear enough.

  ‘I swim my daily laps, but the doctor told me to take it easy other than that, Harper. That’s all I’m trying to do.’

  I hated the way she said my name, Harper, the P harsh and the R over-pronounced. Like Harp-errr. ‘I understand, but I’ve been pregnant too, Candace, and taking it easy doesn’t mean doing nothing. You could still work until the baby arrives. Contribute to the income, or at least to the housework.’

  By now, I’d been living here a week, and I knew this argument would go in circles until I caved, so I grabbed the kettle and filled it up with water. I made a show of opening and closing the cabinets loudly as I grabbed a mug and tea packet. When the tea water whistled a couple minutes later, I poured her a mug full and brought the steeping tea out on a tray, along with a bronze creamer and sugar bowl set that had been my grandmother’s. A single knockout rose from the garden climbed the wall of a tubular vase I added at the last minute.

  Any other guest would have marveled at the display. Not Candace, who instead moc
ked it.

  ‘A little formal, don’t you think?’

  ‘I appreciate decorum. What’s wrong with that?’ Without etiquette, we might as well toss out our forks and knives and use our fingers instead!

  ‘Nothing.’

  But I heard something else behind the word.

  ‘No, please tell me what’s so bad about being proper?’

  ‘It’s great if you want to come across as uppity and snobbish. Is that how you want to be viewed?’

  ‘It’s better than being seen as lazy and useless.’

  Oops. I hadn’t meant for that to slip out. Or maybe I had. Sometimes the brain-mouth connection backfired and I said things I didn’t mean … or did mean but shouldn’t say. This was one of those times, particularly because I was at her mercy, living under her roof. Correction: Lane’s roof.

  ‘Are you calling me lazy and useless?’

  I didn’t answer. I now knew better than to speak. That seemed to make her even angrier.

  ‘I’m creating life right now – your brother’s baby! The wiggling arms and legs, that’s me. The racing heartbeat, me again. The tiny nose and sleepy eyes, all me. It’s exhausting donating all of my energy and nutrients to the baby, and I deserve a little credit for what my body is going through.’

  ‘I’m well aware,’ I said. ‘But through all of my pregnancies, I still cooked and cleaned and did my part.’

  ‘Maybe you wouldn’t have lost a child if you cared more about your baby’s life than your homemaking.’

  I stiffened, uncertain of what I had just heard. Then her accusation caught up to me. How did she even know about the baby I had lost? The silence was thick with her shame. Even Candace knew she had gone too far. Swiping my hand under the tray, I lifted it off the coffee table and flung it to the floor, spilling tea, cream, sugar, and ceramic splinters across the wood. Candace jumped up from the sofa, arms outstretched as if to hug me, but too afraid to come near me.

  Stay away, Candace, lest I strike that fake remorse from your face.

  ‘I’m so sorry! I don’t know why I said that. Lane told me that in confidence and I never should have said anything. That was wrong of me on so many levels—’

  I raised my palm, stopping her with a curt, ‘Enough! You know nothing about me. Get your own tea.’

  Tears I didn’t want her to see collected in the corners of my eyes. I refused to be her target practice. As I stormed out of the room, Elise chased Jackson past me, screaming something about her diary. My brain buzzed too loudly to hear her accusations as she tugged on my arm, forcing my attention on her, while Jackson hid behind my legs.

  ‘Mommy, help!’ Jackson screeched.

  ‘Give it back!’ Elise shouted, reaching for him around my human shield.

  ‘What’s the problem now?’ I yelled over them. ‘You were both supposed to be doing homework, not screwing around.’ Not that the kids ever listened to me. My voice was my only tool, and it had grown dull.

  ‘I was doing homework,’ Elise whined, ‘until Jackson took my diary. Tell him to give it back.’

  I glared at Jackson. ‘Is this true?’

  ‘She’s writing terrible things. Things about Daddy. Things we’re not supposed to talk about.’ The way Jackson said it, his tone an ethereal bass, worried me. What had she written? What had Jackson read? How much did they know?

  There was an unspoken trust between parent and child when it came to a diary. A parent simply didn’t look. Period. No matter how sneaky, or dark, or secretive your child was behaving, the diary was off-limits. A breach of this simple rule created a chasm that you could never cross. But if crossing that line saved your child in the end, did the ends justify the means? Could trust ever be restored?

  ‘Hand over the diary.’ I held out my open palm, and Jackson dropped the book into my grasp.

  The edges of the pages were crinkled and well worn, filled with all the thoughts and crushes and disappointments and secrets that passed through my daughter’s mind, then out through her pen.

  ‘Mom, you can’t read that! It’s personal,’ Elise whimpered.

  ‘I’m not going to read it.’ I wasn’t sure about that yet. Screw trust when my child’s life was at stake. ‘I just want you two to stop fighting for five minutes. Is that too much to ask?’

  Handing the carrots to Elise, I pointed them to the breakfast nook, telling them to sit while I sliced an apple and spooned peanut butter into a dish.

  ‘Here, have a snack to tide you over until dinner.’ I set the plate between them.

  The shift in the air behind me caused me to look up and find Candace tiptoeing toward the garbage can carrying the broken remains of her cracked mug. She paused and looked at me, as if holding back words that were insisting on pushing through her lips. If she was trying to avoid another fight, she was doing a crappy job of it.

  ‘What?’ I spat. ‘If you’ve got something to say, just say it.’

  ‘You’ll get angry,’ she said.

  ‘That’s never stopped you from speaking your mind before.’

  ‘I just … you want the kids not to fight, but then here we are constantly bickering. It doesn’t set a good example for them.’

  ‘How enlightened of you to notice.’

  ‘I think we’ll all be a lot happier if you and I learn how to get along and respect each other. Don’t you agree?’

  I didn’t owe her respect, or an explanation of my parenting methods, but that urge to defend myself continued to surface. ‘You think we can just all play nice and suddenly everyone’s happy? I lost my husband and am living with my brother and a sister-in-law who hates me. There is no such thing as happiness when you’re going through what I’m going through.’

  Add the guilt of what I had done to the list of miseries, and I would never truly be happy again, and I think Ben knew that. My misery was strong enough to kill him. If life had taught me anything over the past year, it was that happiness was fleeting. Momentary. Sadness held on much longer. Happiness was the calm amid the storm. It broke through the clouds on overcast days, but it was never enough to sunbathe in.

  ‘First of all, I don’t hate you.’ I could detect sincerity in her voice. ‘And while I don’t know what it’s like to carry that much grief, you have to think about how it affects your kids. They’re always fighting, always complaining. Don’t you see what you’re doing to them?’

  What I’m doing to them?

  ‘I appreciate your concern, but you’ll see when you have your own kids that parenting is not always black and white. We don’t always do the right thing or know the right answer. Sometimes we have to parent in the gray.’

  While my words remained calm, my thoughts grew turbulent. She was essentially blaming me for screwing up my kids. She probably blamed me for Ben’s death, and for losing the baby. Hadn’t I blamed myself enough already? I couldn’t continue to be nice anymore. Images of hurting Candace flashed through my mind like tiny lightning bolts zapping my brain. Thoughts of poisoning her to spare her unborn baby the misery of having her for a mother …

  I shook the awful, terrifying thought away as I fingered the pile of apple seeds collecting on the counter. One hundred and forty apple seeds would provide enough cyanide to kill a woman of Candace’s size. I had looked it up; I didn’t know why.

  I scooped the seeds into a bowl, grabbed Elise’s diary, and headed upstairs.

  Chapter 11

  Candace

  You once told me that you felt broken beyond repair.

  Let me mend you. Let me make you whole again.

  I was a mirror that had been dropped one too many times. Life didn’t shatter me, but it left a splinter so big that it made me feel worthless. A cracked mirror is just broken glass. Sharp to the touch, and it’ll make you bleed. And when you looked at me, all you would see was an ugly, distorted reflection of yourself.

  That was who I was. All the worst parts of every woman: needy, jealous, insecure. I was either too much or never enough. And then I met Lane, and s
uddenly the worst parts fell off of me. Maybe they didn’t so much as fall off as become invisible, because Lane didn’t seem to see them. Sometimes I still saw them, though.

  As I stepped out of the shower, I swiped across the foggy bathroom mirror and hated the woman who looked back at me with arctic blue eyes that had witnessed too much darkness. Wrapping a towel around my chest and tucking the corner in to hold it up, I ran a comb through my hair, the black even blacker and the blue highlights barely noticeable. Some days I didn’t even recognize myself, and those were the days I was happiest.

  Today I was that dropped mirror again, and I despised myself because others despised me first.

  My parents were the first to drop me. Crack! The day they died left a fracture I would never recover from. The worst part was that I had survived, forced to live with the memory. My mother cowering over me in the corner of our trailer, begging for my life. She didn’t care what happened to her, as long as her baby girl got the future she never had. It didn’t matter that I didn’t have a future if she wasn’t in it.

  I felt it before I heard it, the shift of weight as her body relaxed on top of mine, smothering me, then a sticky wetness drip-drip-dripping onto my only good pair of jeans. Justice brand, all the rage. Mom had been so excited when she found them at Goodwill with the tags still on! Only after I felt her dead weight did I hear the crack of the gun.

  The memory didn’t end there. That would have been too kind. After I screamed and in a panic pushed my mother’s lifeless body off of me, I looked up at my father’s face – bloated with sweat and red with fury, veins blue and pulsing with cocaine – as he turned the gun on himself. Opened his thick jaw. Aimed the barrel between tobacco-stained teeth. Then … crack! Both parents gone, life as I knew it skewed beyond recognition. Just. Like. That.

  Boyfriends who stole my innocence continued to break me. Crack! Friends who used me then abandoned me splintered me further. Crack! Then, one day, I found an adhesive: Love. It glued all my pieces back together into something whole. Someone new, with purpose. Love could do that, you know. It recycled the heart.