The Sometime Sister Katherine Nichols (reading in the dark txt) 📖

let it go. You know, Grace, if your mother hadn’t helped Gran get rid of my daddy, he would most likely have killed us both.”

He gave Scarlett the last bite of his sandwich.

“But, hey, I didn’t come by to dredge up old memories. Mike asked me if we would help plan the memorial. Are you up for it?”

I wasn’t, but I agreed to go anyway.

When we arrived, Mom and Mike were already hard at work selecting scripture and hymns and floral arrangements. The service would be in the church my mother began attending shortly after the death of my grandmother. I assumed her newfound religion assuaged her grief over losing Gran. Now it seemed more likely she was getting a little nervous about hellfire waiting for her since she violated one of the biggies: Thou shalt not kill.

Mom assigned me and Lesroy the task of writing my sister’s obituary. Reducing Stella’s life to her death notice was more depressing than I imagined. The list of survivors was pitifully short. It was as if she left no real legacy at all. When I voiced this gloomy sentiment to him, he shook his head.

“You’re wrong, Grace. We’re all the legacy anybody would need. I mean, it’s not like we’re finished creating our stories, and Stella’s always going to be a part of them because she’s a part of us.”

We reviewed the plans for the memorial service we scheduled for the day after tomorrow. I pretended to be interested in the details, but I couldn’t get it out of my head how amused Stella would have been at our choices.

About an hour later, after debating whether to have the organist play “Amazing Grace”—I was violently opposed, but lost the argument—Lesroy and I gathered up our coats and the extra frozen casseroles, and he drove me home

Justin called to say he would come by after seven with dinner. I said there was no need for him to bring anything, that I would whip something up. Then I checked the freezer for one of the church-lady meals. Since my mother hadn’t bothered to label them, I took out what looked like chicken with cheese sauce and stuck it in the oven

Scarlett barked and twirled in circles at the sound of the doorbell. “Don’t make a fool of yourself, you little hussy.” I held her by the collar and opened the door. She slipped from my grasp and nuzzled Justin’s crotch in canine ecstasy.

He laughed and knelt on one knee. “I’m glad to see you, too. But let’s take things slow.” Scarlet ignored him and covered his face with slobbery kisses.

“Enough!” I commanded and was shocked when she stopped her affectionate assault and moved away from the door.

“Something smells great,” he announced on the way to the kitchen. He took off his coat and draped it over a chair. “What are you cooking?”

“You’ll just have to wait and see,” I answered, hoping it wasn’t tofu and soy curds prepared by Mom’s vegan friend.

Luckily, it turned out to be chicken divan. Justin raved about what a good cook I was throughout dinner. I would have kept up the ruse, but later, when we were sitting on the sofa, he questioned me about whether I used cumin or curry, and I confessed I couldn’t tell the difference.

“You mean you lied to me, Grace Burnette?” he asked, as he rubbed my neck. He pulled me closer, his breath warm on my skin. “That’s very disappointing. What should happen to girls who lie?”

“I’m not sure,” I whispered.

“Well, there are many ways you can make it up to me.” He led me to the bedroom.

In Montañita, sex with Justin was hot because it was unexpected and new. We were both in an unfamiliar place with relative strangers. Here it was different. The need was still urgent, but now we could take our time, explore each other’s bodies, tease and touch as long as we could stand it. And when we did surrender, it was with the understanding we were only beginning.

 

.     .     .     .     .

Mom called early to ask if I could double-check the arrangements. When I got there, Rita’s car was parked in the driveway.

To me, my aunt had always been ditsy and irresponsible. As a child I hadn’t understood the helplessness she must have felt living in constant fear of both pain and humiliation. Her timing as a victim of spousal abuse was terrible. Well before people officially recognized battered women as a syndrome, it was a time when it was still okay to ask what the woman had done to deserve her harsh treatment.

I could tell even Gran and Mom blamed Rita. Their attitude—both spoken and unspoken—was that it was one thing if she didn’t have the self-respect to leave her miserable husband. It was quite another if she didn’t protect her son.

Today the world was more compassionate, but I hadn’t been. I blamed her for letting my uncle belittle and bully my sweet cousin. To me, all the wailing and crying over Roy’s death showed how weak she was.

Now I understood a lot more about my aunt. She was the softer sister. Unlike Mom, she couldn’t find it in her to kick her husband to the curb even though she would be better off without him. Rita didn’t have enough strength to raise a child on her own. And when she discovered the two most important women in her life stepped up for her, she couldn’t handle it.

Mom opened the door before I rang the bell. She looked somewhat better. Her hair was clean, and her make-up was mostly in the right places. More important, she looked less vacant. She greeted me with a fierce hug and led me to the den where Rita sat drinking coffee. I eased into the recliner across from them.

“How are you doing, sweetie?” Rita set her cup down. “And don’t say ‘fine’ like you always do. I want the real scoop.”

Another flood of emotion came over me. I looked away,