When We Were Sisters - Emilie Richards MIRA

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aren’t I?”

      She was expecting something, and I realized it wasn’t an apology for missing the funeral. At least not yet. I moved forward to hug her, too. She felt like a bird in my arms, her robin namesake, fragile and ready to take flight.

      “I’m just worried about you, that’s all,” I said, stroking her hair. “And who did Cecilia pay to get you out ahead of time?”

      “I don’t even care. I’ll do the rest of the tests as an outpatient this week, but there’s no reason to worry. Everything looks fine.”

      “We’re having pizza for dinner again,” Nik said. “And we even get to pick what kind.”

      I was still holding Robin, but I could almost hear my son rolling his eyes.

      “Actually we aren’t,” she said. “Donny’s been set loose to find and retrieve dinner. And he’ll pick up food to take to the Weinbergs’ while he’s at it.” She pushed away. “Were you planning to go next door tonight or tomorrow?”

      Only then did I finally note the anger simmering behind her smile.

      “I got held up in traffic, Robin. I tried to get to the funeral in time.”

      “You got held up in a meeting first.”

      “You were checking on me?”

      “Oddly enough I needed reassurance that one of us would be there for the Weinbergs.”

      “One of us was. Even though she shouldn’t have been.”

      “One of us felt strongly enough to make it happen.” She closed her eyes a moment, as if to wipe out the anger. “Come say hello to Cecilia. She’s flying out tonight, so she’ll only be here for dinner.”

      The kids had already galloped off to find her. They love my sister, Lucie, but Cecilia’s their favorite aunt and Pet’s godmother to boot. And why not? She never arrives without posters signed by the pop group of the month, CDs not yet released to the public, swag from her Grammy gift bag. One year she gave Nik glasses with a frame of blinking lights that she swore Elton John had worn on tour.

      “I’m sorry,” I said, now that we were alone. “I’m dancing as fast as I can, but I should have walked out of my meeting sooner.”

      “You’re going to have to learn how to, Kris. Because you’re going to be needed at home for the next few months.”

      “I do my best.”

      “Well, you’ll have to do even better. Because it’s possible I won’t be around for a while to take up your slack.”

      Before I could ask what she meant, she disappeared, too.

      Robin

      I’m not sorry I can’t remember details of the crash that killed Talya, but I would be devastated if I couldn’t remember the day I met Cecilia.

      I was nine, and Cecilia was thirteen. My grandmother had just died, and while therapists tell you that children mourn the loss of even the worst caretakers, I can tell you it’s not always true. Yes, I was frightened my new life might be even harder. I was so frightened, in fact, that once again I lost the power of speech. But I wasn’t sorry that Olive Swanson was gone from my life. I can’t remember my mother, who vanished before I was two, but I’ll never forget my grandmother.

      Years after Olive’s death, when my case manager decided I needed to know about my past, I learned why my mother hadn’t wanted me. Details are sketchy, but it seems likely I was the child of date rape, not that the term was often used in 1978, when I was born. But from information a social worker gleaned as my grandmother lay dying, at fifteen my mother, Alice, sneaked out of the house to meet a boy, who reportedly refused to take no for an answer.

      My mother was almost five months pregnant before my grandmother figured out why she was gaining weight. By then it was too late for an abortion, but Olive wouldn’t have allowed one anyway. Clearly Alice needed to suffer the full consequences of her disobedience, and Olive demanded she continue to attend school until I was born, even though the other kids probably made that hell.

      Afterward, when Alice wanted to place me for adoption, Olive took custody instead, most likely so I would be a constant and visible reminder of her daughter’s sin.

      I don’t think Olive believed my mother would have the courage to leave home, but immediately after graduation Alice disappeared for good. Olive transferred her disdain from her daughter to me.

      The foster home where I was taken the day Cecilia and I met wasn’t the first I’d lived in. Olive was ill for almost two years before she died, and at the first sign of cancer she had surgery. Since there was no family to take care of me, I was placed in care until my grandmother was able to resume custody. Each subsequent time she was hospitalized I became a foster child again until she was well enough to claim me once more.

      Prior to Olive’s illness, I slowly became mute. Normal speech, which my medical records claim I developed as quickly and normally as any child, almost disappeared. To combat this, my grandmother did her best to scare words out of me. I was sent to doctors and speech therapists, but any progress I made disappeared at home.

      Of course the explanation is simple. Nothing I had to say was welcome or correct. Why speak when I would be instantly challenged or shamed? Selective mutism was a simpler solution.

      To make matters worse I was painfully shy and terrified of new situations, even though I badly wanted to escape my daily life. I was frightened that everyone would treat me the way Olive did, so I rarely made eye contact and preferred escaping to places where nobody could judge me, often inside my head.

      Olive was a great believer in diagnoses but not in therapy. She simply wanted an excuse for the way I behaved. One psychiatrist labeled me autistic, but once I began first grade I excelled at written work and scrupulously followed the most complicated directions, disproving that diagnosis, which was then traded in for the more generic “depression.” This one, with its finger pointed straight at my grandmother, surely pleased her less.

      Rather than being traumatized during Olive’s hospitalization, I began to interact with other foster children and to slowly speak again. Not often or fluently, but well enough to get by. Each time my grandmother underwent more treatment, my speech temporarily improved. Each time I went home again I regressed.

      My grandmother died when I was nine. I had been placed in emergency care two weeks earlier when she was rushed to the hospital. Just before she passed away I was taken there to say goodbye. I brought flowers the sympathetic foster mother and I had picked from her garden. Olive took one look at them and me, then turned toward the wall to block out the sight of such a common gift and useless child. My foster mother explained that my grandmother was too sick to know what she was doing. But I knew better.

      None of the homes I had stayed in previously were available after Olive’s death. The county looked for mature, experienced parents committed to helping me and thought a therapeutic foster home with one other child would be helpful.

      The right parents were Dick and Lillian Davis, and the other child was Cecilia Ceglinski, nearly thirteen. Within moments of our meeting Cecilia demanded that the speechless me call her CeCe. By then she had already decided that someday she would be famous enough to jettison her last name.

      On the day I was taken to the two-bedroom concrete tract house in an older neighborhood of Tampa, Florida, social workers were still attempting to find my mother, whose rights hadn’t been formally terminated. I knew from conversations I overheard that my chances for adoption were slim to none. I was too shy, too withdrawn, and while authorities no longer believed I was autistic, that diagnosis remained as a question in my records and was guaranteed to give even the most enthusiastic adoptive parents pause.

      I was all of nine, but the people in control believed it was enough at that moment that I was safe and well fed. After their own

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