Forbidden Sister

  “Besides, we must not believe that evil is stronger than good, Emmie. You’re my perfect daughter, my fille parfaite, n’est-ce pas?”

  “Oui, Mama,” I would say whenever she asked me that, but I didn’t believe I was as perfect as Mama or Papa thought I was. Who could be?

  Yes, I kept my room neat, made my bed, helped Mama with house chores, shopped for her, came home when my parents told me I must, never smoked or drank alcohol with my classmates, not even a beer, and refused to try any drugs or pot any classmate offered. Mama believed in letting me drink wine at dinner, even when I was barely ten, and I drank some vodka to celebrate things occasionally, but that was the way she had been brought up in France, and Papa thought it was just fine.

  “The best training ground for most things is your home,” he would tell me. My friends at school, especially the ones who knew how strict my father could be, didn’t know what to make of that. He sounded so lenient, but I knew that his leniency didn’t go any farther than our front door. Sometimes, especially when I left our house, I felt as if I were walking around with an invisible leash and collar around my neck.

  Rules rained down around me everywhere I looked, not just in my home. Our school, which was a private school, didn’t tolerate sexy clothing or any body piercing, not that I wanted to do that. Our teachers even criticized some girls for wearing too much makeup. It was far more serious for my classmates to violate rules than it was for students in a public school, because, unlike in a public school, they wouldn’t simply be suspended. They’d be thrown out, and all of their tuition money would be forfeited. What they did after school the moment they left the property was another thing, however. Buttons were undone, rings were put in noses, and cigarettes came out of hidden places. Students puffed defiantly. Suddenly, their mouths were full of profanity, words they would be afraid even to whisper in the school’s hallways. It was as if all of the pent-up nasty behavior was bursting at the seams. They were far from goody-goodies, so why shouldn’t I wonder if I was, too?

  I probably wouldn’t be attending a strict private school if it weren’t for Roxy. She had been going to a public school, had been suspended for smoking and for cheating on a test, and, worst of all, was nearly arrested and expelled for smoking a joint in the girls’ room. It was one of the better public schools in New York, too, but according to what I gleaned from Mama, Roxy never had better than barely passing grades.

  The only thing she excelled at was speaking French, thanks to Mama. But even with that skill, she got in trouble. She would say nasty things in French to her teachers under her breath or even aloud, and when some of them went to the language teacher for translations, Roxy ended up in the principal’s office, and Mama would have to come to school. She tried to keep as much of it as she could hidden from Papa, but often there was just too much to hide, and whatever he did learn was way more than enough to rile him and send him into a rage.

  Mama could get away with hiding much of it, because Papa was dedicated to his work at the investment firm. He was up early to deal with the stock market and then always working late into the afternoon with financial planning and other meetings. Mama said that her having to call him at work because of something Roxy had done was like the president having to use the famous red phone or something. I had no doubt that Mama trembled whenever she had to tell him about something very bad Roxy had done in school. She said he was so furious that he could barely speak whenever he had to leave work to attend a meeting because of something she had done.

  “It got so that your sister wouldn’t even pretend to feel remorseful about something she had done. She would just look at him with that silent defiance, just as she would when he would rattle the whole house to get her out of bed in the morning.”

  Even though Papa got up earlier than I would have to on weekday mornings, I was used to rising and having breakfast with him and Mama. She was always up to make his breakfast. I would spend the extra morning time studying for a test or reading. Whenever I did anything that was the opposite of what Roxy would have done, such as be at breakfast with him, I could see the satisfaction in Papa’s face. I used to think, and still do, that he was letting out an anxious breath, always half expecting that I would somehow turn out to be like Roxy. No matter how well I did in school, how polite I was to his and Mama’s friends, or how much I helped Mama, he couldn’t help fearing that I would wake up one day and be like my sister.

  It was as if he had two different kinds of daughters. One was Dr. Jekyll, and the other was Miss Hyde, only he wasn’t sure if Miss Hyde would also emerge in me.

  “So what’s on for today?” Papa asked. It was the same question he asked me every day at breakfast.

  Anyone who thought that he asked it out of habit would be wrong, however. He really wanted to know what I had to do and, especially, what I wanted to do. My route to and from school was to follow Madison Avenue north for five blocks and then turn west for another block. I could do it blindfolded by now. If I had any plans to diverge from the route, especially during nice weather like what we were having this particular fall, and go somewhere after school, I would have to tell him. He even wanted to know when I would take my lunch and eat it with some friends in Central Park. The school let us do that. Even many of our teachers did it, but doing something spontaneously was very difficult.

  Maybe because of how angry Papa would get about Roxy if Mama slipped and brought up her name, I tried extra hard to please him. To get him to smile at me, laugh at something I had said or done, and kiss me when he hugged me was very important to me. Although I didn’t come out and say it, earning this reaction from him was like telling him that I wasn’t and never would be like Roxy. Nothing made me feel warmer and happier than when he used Mama’s French to call me his fille parfaite. Maybe hearing him say that I was a perfect daughter in French made it even more special.

  Sometimes I would imagine that Roxy was standing there beside me in the house, scowling and sneering whenever Papa said that. I knew what sibling rivalry was, how friends of mine competed with their sisters or brothers for their parents’ affection and approval. As strange as it might sound, even though my sister was gone from our home and our lives, I still felt sibling rivalry. Perhaps I was competing with a ghost. My visions of her were as vague as that, but I still felt that I was always being measured against her. Was my French as good as hers? Was I as pretty?

  Other girls and boys my age might have older brothers or sisters to look up to and try to emulate. I had a sister, a secret sister always to be better than. It wasn’t difficult for me to outdo her in every way except misbehavior, but nothing I could do or say really stopped my parents from thinking about her. I knew that was true, regardless of what Papa pretended or how furious and red his face would become at the mere suggestion of her.

  Roxy was there; she would always be there, haunting us all. Keeping her bedroom door shut, throwing out her things, removing her pictures from the shelves and the mantel, ignoring her birthday, and forbidding the sound of her name didn’t stop her voice from echoing somewhere in the house. Whenever I saw Papa stop what he was doing or look up from what he was reading and stare blankly at a corner or at a chair, I had the feeling he was seeing Roxy. I know Mama did. It got so I recognized those moments when she would pause no matter what she was doing and just stare at something. I would say nothing. Afterward, she often went off to cry in secret.

  “If it doesn’t rain, we’re going to the park for lunch, and then after school, I’m going to Chastity Morgan’s house to study for our unit exam in social studies,” I told Papa at breakfast. His whole body was at attention, waiting for my response.

  “Just you and Chastity?” he asked, his dark brown eyebrows lifted in anticipation of my answer.

  Even though Papa was never in the Army, he kept his dark brown hair as short as a soldier’s hair and had a soldier’s posture, with his shoulders back and his back straight. He had a GI Joe shave every morning and wore spit-polished shoes. He was a
little taller than six feet and tried to keep himself physically fit. He would walk as much as he could and avoid taxicabs whenever possible, but his job was sedentary. Despite his efforts, he had slowly gained weight over the years, until his doctor warned him about his blood pressure and cholesterol. He tried to watch his diet, but Mama was French and cooked with sauces he loved. It did him no good to try to pass the blame onto her, either, because she was ready to point out how the French were thinner and healthier because they didn’t ask for seconds as he would often do.

  Except for that and the topic of my sister, my parents rarely argued. If anyone complained, it was Mama about herself. I thought it was an odd complaint.

  “I’m too devoted to that man,” she would mutter. “But I can’t help it.”

  I wondered if that was true. Could you love someone too much? What was too much? From what I saw in the lives of my classmates, especially when I visited them at their homes, their parents could use love inoculations, affection booster shots. Chastity Morgan’s parents were like that. Eating dinner in their dining room was like eating at a restaurant. Their conversation was mostly directed to their maid. I was there when Chastity’s father sent food back to be cooked longer or complained about being given food that was too cool. I half expected him to leave a tip at his plate before he left the table.

  Most of the time at these dinners, her mother would talk to Chastity and me without saying more than two words to Chastity’s father. Her father often read a paper at the dinner table, too. My father would have him face a firing squad for doing something like that.

  When Chastity came to my house for dinner, the contrast was so great it almost brought tears to her eyes. Both of my parents made her feel like part of our family. Papa directed a great deal of conversation her way. However, I wished he wouldn’t, because his conversation was mostly interrogation. Maybe Chastity wasn’t aware of it as much as I was, but he was looking to see if she would be a bad influence on me, even though we had been best friends for two years, and she was the only one at school who knew I had an older sister. I had even told her where Roxy lived and what Roxy did.

  I didn’t do that because I was proud of Roxy. I did it because I wanted company when I eventually went to spy on Roxy, and I knew this would excite Chastity. She and I had been talking about it for weeks, and I had decided that I was finally ready to do it. She understood that it required lots of planning. I just couldn’t go hanging around the hotel for hours and hours. My parents, especially my father, would want to know where I had been and what I had been doing. I needed a solid alibi, and telling my father that I was going to Chastity’s house to study would suffice.

  I was sure I could get away with it, but lying to my father wasn’t something I liked to do or did often. My reason for that wasn’t simply fear of being caught. I couldn’t help feeling that my father would see even the smallest, most insignificant untruth as a serious betrayal and, more important, evidence that I was heading toward becoming another Roxy. With such disappointment, his love for me would suffer a nearly fatal wound.

  If and when that happened, I was sure I would be able to see it in his face immediately. It would certainly be there if he found out my secret plan to spy on Roxy. Why would I want to know anything about such a sister? What did this say about me? Would he now definitely believe that I was more like her than he had hoped or expected? And how would my mother react? Would she blame me for bringing such unhappiness back into our small family? I would no longer be their fille parfaite. Why would I risk all of this just to spy on Roxy? What was the attraction, the fascination? Why didn’t I despise her for doing what she had done to both of them?

  However, no matter what they pretended, deep in my heart, I knew that even they, even my father, wanted to know more about her. No matter what you said or did, you really couldn’t wash your hands completely of your child. Blood was too strong. I was convinced that she lived in Papa’s dreams and even his nightmares. In his heart of hearts, he didn’t want to see bad things happen to her and wished that there was some way to bring her back.

  “Maybe Kelli Fisher will study with us,” I told Papa, hoping to make my alibi more credible. “She’s a good student, too. Her twin brother, Carson, might come along,” I added nonchalantly, just to make it all seem more truthful.

  He nodded but kept his eyes so fixed on me that even if I weren’t lying, I’d inevitably act as if I were. However, he was thinking about something else.

  “You like this boy?”

  “He’s all right,” I said, which was a girl’s code for “Ugh!” Papa didn’t know that, of course.

  “What’s ‘all right’ mean?”

  “No second look,” I said. “And barely a first.”

  Mama laughed, but Papa kept his military-serious expression. “I hope your mother has done a good job of explaining the minefields out there when it comes to sex, Emmie.”

  “Oh, Norton,” Mama said.

  “You know, I don’t go for this false modesty when it comes to training your children, Vivian. We just have to look to your sister, Manon, for a good example of what result that can have,” he said sharply. Like his father and his father’s father, he could swing words like a machete.

  Because Papa avoided mentioning Roxy and therefore using her as the example of what not to be, he relied heavily on the story of Mama’s sister, Manon, who got pregnant at sixteen and married a much older man, a friend of her young uncle. Mama would counter with the fact that they were still married and had a nice family.

  “Only you French can pretend not to see what’s on your right and left flanks,” Papa told her. “Yves or Leaves or whatever he calls himself is surely out there pollinating other jeunes filles. It takes only one foolish time,” Papa warned me. “You go a little bit farther and farther out on this weak branch until it snaps and drops you in one pool of muck. That’s what teenagers frolicking in sex do, swim in muck.”

  Although he didn’t add them, I could hear the words, Just ask your sister.

  “Norton, s’il vous plaît,” Mama pleaded.

  He gave me one more look of warning and returned to his breakfast.

  I had yet to bring a boy home to meet my parents, because I was terrified of how Papa would make him feel. It would surely be like a CIA interrogation. I once told Chastity that my father would probably water-board any boy I had been out with more than once, let alone twice.

  And all because of Roxy!

  Under these circumstances, who wouldn’t expect me to be more and more interested in whom and what she had turned out to be? I had every reason to hate her. Look how she was affecting my life. She was like someone who had died but wouldn’t stay buried. She could be thousands of miles away, not only blocks away, but it wouldn’t matter. Papa would always look past whatever I had done to see if Roxy had a hand in it, if her influence was in my blood. There were many nights when I raged to myself about it. I wouldn’t dare rage at Papa, but I could mutter and think my protest aloud when I was alone.

  “If you’re going to forget her, Papa, forget her. Don’t keep looking in me to find her! And don’t deny that you do!”

  I even imagined his guilty, remorseful face, but none of this fantasizing helped to make it easier.

  I would look out my bedroom window at the street below whenever I had these thoughts. I could see the corner from where I stood. I knew Roxy was just a little north of us.

  “Why didn’t you go farther away?” I whispered. “Did you stay here just to spite Papa? Or did you stay close because you were sorry and really do miss us?

  “I’m going to know the answers to all of my questions about you, Roxy. I swear. I’m going to force you to look at me. And I’m going to make you do what I have done too often because of you.

  “I’m going to make you cry.”

  2

  “We’re going to do it today,” I told Chastity as soon as I met her in the school hallway.

  As usual, she was walking with her head down, not expec
ting anyone else to say hi. When she heard me, she looked up quickly and twisted her thin lips so hard I thought either the upper or the lower would snap like a rubber band. Her facial features were too small for her round, chubby face. She had nice mocha-brown eyes, but her lazy lids were habitually narrowed, giving the impression that she was falling asleep, even while walking. She had naturally curly light brown hair, which in her case was a disadvantage, because it almost always looked like a nest made by a drunken rat.

  “Yeah, right,” she said. I couldn’t blame her for her skepticism. Three times this week alone, I had said so but backed out before the school day ended.

  “I’m really serious this time. I told my father I was going to your house to study after school. I even told him Kelli and her brother were joining us.”

  “Really?” she said, permitting more credibility to slip in. She knew how I felt about lying to my father.

  “Yes, so if he ever asks you about it, you know what to say, okay?”

  “Absolutely,” she said, her eyelids fluttering like the wings of a bird waking up. Her whole face lit up with excitement. It was as if someone had turned on Christmas-tree lights. Actually, that annoyed me.

  Sometimes I thought Chastity was more interested in my sister than I was. Never a day passed when she wouldn’t ask me about her. I knew she was more concerned about sex and boys, because she couldn’t go an hour when we were alone without bringing up some boy or talking about some sex scene she had seen in a movie. She would get upset with me if I didn’t show as much enthusiasm. It wasn’t that I didn’t have the same thoughts and feelings; it was just that I was reluctant to talk about it. She had no clue as to why I would have these inhibitions. She just thought I was very shy and needed her prodding to pry me out of my shell. In fact, whenever she got very graphic about sex, she thought she was doing me a big favor. If I made a face, she would get irritated.