Sister Dear (5 page)

Inside the double doors, standing on tiptoes, she scanned the room for Maddie's blonde head. Someone had waxed the floor to a dull shine, making everything smell of lemon. But the space was also dark and stuffy, like someone had flipped off the air-conditioning hours ago. It figured, when cramming together four or five hundred kids.

Fanning her face, Caroline dodged a group of girls. With a glance at the rear of the room, she noticed Maddie's hand in the air, waving. Gotcha. Third row back, fifth seat in. Relieved, Caroline quickened her pace. Stepping over book bags and easing past knees, she made her way down the aisle, finally sinking into the seat that had been saved for her.

Caroline exhaled, leaning toward Maddie. “I really have to talk to you—”

On stage, someone tapped a microphone. The dull sound reverberated around her. Teachers nearby clapped their hands and shushed students. The principal's voice asked for quiet.

As the room settled, Maddie tilted her head closer, lifted an eyebrow. “What's up?”

As she opened her mouth to speak, Caroline's neck prickled. She turned her head. From the middle of the room, one of the history instructors glowered in their direction.

Swinging her eyes back to Maddie, Caroline pursed her lips and tilted her head ever so slightly. Sharing it now wasn't worth the attention.

Scooting down in her seat and folding her arms across her chest, Maddie shrugged, looking briefly annoyed, then smothered a yawn. Stretching her arms out in front of her, Caroline feigned an equal amount of boredom.

They'd talk later. She'd tell Maddie everything.

Forcing thoughts of her mother from her mind, Caroline attempted to concentrate on the brawny FBI agent behind the podium. His deep voice echoed as he spoke about his training, and his story seemed to resonate with a few people sitting near the stage.

When a professional wedding photographer took the microphone next, Maddie wriggled in her seat and made a gagging motion around her neck. Risking detention, she snorted.

“As if,” Maddie muttered. Their friends nearby tittered.

After smothering her own giggle, Caroline checked her watch. Almost done.

Maddie leaned in close. “So, Saturday night Will and some of the guys are having a bonfire out at his dad's place on St. Simons. It's right near Ocean Forest Golf Club, off Sea Island Drive. Want to come?”

“I'll ask.” Caroline loved St. Simons. She loved the wind in her hair, the pale gold sand beneath her feet, how there was water as far as she could see. The sunsets on Brunswick were beautiful, but from St. Simons, they were breathtaking. The sky exploded in deep blues and purples, with streaks of blood orange and red below, turning the ocean shades of silver as the sun dipped low on the horizon.

As Caroline prepared to close her eyes and try to daydream through the next fifteen minutes, imagining sandpipers dancing on the shores of the Atlantic, a clear, crisp voice interrupted.

“Have you ever felt alone?”

A murmur traveled through the auditorium. There were a few scoffs. A cough or two. And then awkward silence.

“Really alone?” the woman continued, emphasizing both words.

Caroline opened one eye suspiciously. She felt alone all the time. Whether she was around Maddie or Jake, or a hundred people, she would never fit in. Never be normal.

Behind the woman on the stage, the screen dropped from the ceiling. An instant later, the image of an elderly woman appeared on the background. It wasn't any image. The lady looked destitute. Homeless. Obviously living on the street.

Caroline's stomach contracted. She actually
liked
old people. They weren't scary or weird.

Another picture. This time a man under a bridge. He was old too. Dressed in rags.

“These are real people. And they need your help.”

This statement got murmured protest from a few students. Even Maddie rolled her eyes. But Caroline listened.

The speaker ran a place—a home—for the elderly. Not just some place. A nice one, with gardens and pets and birds. She showed photos of that too. And explained that they didn't turn anyone away. Some dude in town had donated a gazillion dollars to make sure everyone in Brunswick had a safe, nice place to live.

Caroline stared at the photos, locked in, while the woman talked. Students could work with nursing home residents a few days a week.

“. . . especially those who are wheelchair-bound,” the woman explained. “Many don't have family or friends who visit.”

The nursing home lady rattled off more details. Students wouldn't be paid, but they could earn volunteer hours. Valuable for college applications and résumés. Flexible schedule. After school. Weekends. As much time as you wanted to give.

An escape plan. And she could help people. People who were alone too.

When the presentation finished, rousing applause shook the room, most of it mock approval for the sake of making noise. Students whistled and catcalled. Paper airplanes flew across the seats, and teachers yelled for single-file lines. Thankful for the chaos, Caroline slipped out the side door and made her way through the crowd to the school office, the idea still forming in her head.

Back at her aunt's house, Emma's reaction was about as tepid as she'd expected. “The nursing home?” Her aunt wrinkled her nose like she'd sniffed burnt toast, shuffling through the mail with perfectly manicured seashell-pink nails. “Wait.” She glanced up with a raised brow, gesturing with the envelopes. “Did Maddie talk you into this?”

Emma loved Maddie. With her family's status in the community—practically the first settlers on Brunswick—her friend could do no wrong.

“Um, sure,” Caroline replied, her throat swallowing the lie like dry bread. “It's good for college. Volunteering and stuff.” She laid the paper in her aunt's waiting hand.

“In that case, you can do it together,” Emma said with a hint of a smile. She whipped the sheet around, scribbled her name at the bottom in large, looping letters, and handed it back. “What did Jake say?”

“He's fine with it,” Caroline lied. She hadn't actually decided what she'd tell him.

“Good.” Emma turned back to the bills and colorful flyers. As she ripped open the next mailer, a grin spread across her face. She stopped suddenly. “It's great what you're doing, this volunteering,” her aunt said, pausing for emphasis as she locked eyes with Caroline. “I love you so much. More than
anything
.”

“Thanks,” Caroline mumbled, though her voice stumbled over
the acknowledgment. Feeling her face grow warm, she folded the paper, creasing each end. Her aunt was always saying over-the-top, gushy things like that to Caroline, even in front of her friends.

Emma cleared her throat. “So, I have something to tell you . . . about your mom.”

Caroline's head jerked back up. She glanced over her shoulder, as if someone might be standing behind her.

“Um. Well. What I need to tell you . . .” Emma hesitated and reached out her fingertips to graze Caroline's cheek. “. . . is that your mother actually came home today.”

Her aunt's touch burned her skin. Feeling her knees lock, Caroline's throat closed tight while she waited for Emma to suggest she go and see her. A visit, to get to know each other again. Forgive and forget. The past in the past and all of that.

But Emma just drew Caroline in and hugged her close, rocking her back and forth and stroking her hair softly. After a few moments, Emma murmured, “It's going to be okay. I'm here. I always will be, sweetheart. I promise.”

Head swirling, Caroline finally pulled away. She'd heard that years before. With clumsy, shaking fingers, she stuck the now-crumpled paper in her backpack. Eyes glazing with tears, she pulled the zipper hard and tight, watching its silver teeth knit together across the khaki canvas, wishing she could tuck herself inside.

SEVEN

ALLIE

2016

Forcing her feet forward, Allie walked up the smooth driveway, her feet soundless on the pavement. The key slid in the lock. Twisted with a click. Allie turned the knob and pressed gently.

The door swung wide open to reveal hardwood floors and a cozy interior. She inhaled the faint scent of pine cleaner. Her mother had definitely been here. While she felt for a light, Allie heard the quiet rumble of wheels on gravel behind her. One car door opened, then another.

Allie swallowed hard. She couldn't make herself move. Through a couple of jagged breaths, she heard footsteps on the porch. A low murmur. A woman's voice, unmistakably her mother's. Slowly, she turned and lifted her eyes to the doorway.

Like in a dream, her parents stood waiting. Her father, with his salt-and-pepper hair more pronounced than nine months ago when they last saw her at Arrendale. Her mother, with her short, dark hair swept behind her ears. Worried eyes, lips pressed in a line. As usual, her clothes and haircut were impeccable. She wore a slim-fitting, dark red dress, sensible pumps, and tasteful jewelry.

“Hi, Mom,” Allie murmured, tears immediately springing into her eyes.

“Darling,” her mother answered, her voice breaking. She opened her arms and wrapped Allie in a tight embrace. The light scent of honeysuckle wafted from her mother's skin, transporting Allie to her childhood. With careful hands, she held Allie back at arm's length.

“You're so thin.” She blinked and glanced at Allie's father.

He had closed the door and was leaning against it, watching them with red-rimmed eyes. He took a heavy step toward Allie, but slowed to a stop, as if an invisible barrier held his body back.

“Allie.”

Her voice caught. “Dad,” she whispered.

And they stared at each other. Strangers, yet family.

Of her two parents, her prison time had been more difficult on her father. He'd aged what seemed like twenty-five years in ten. The arrest and trial had broken his heart. His face, still handsome, was lined with years of worry. He was painfully slender.

There was no way to close the distance between them. Though she'd sworn her innocence years ago, her father's doubt lingered. He didn't say as much, but Allie knew. She could see it in the way he looked at her—even now.

It killed Allie inside. The bond they'd shared was gone. The taste of it was bitter on her tongue.
I'm your daughter. Your own flesh and blood. Why can't you believe me?

Her mother slipped an arm around her elbow and pulled her close. “Let me show you around.”

Clearly thankful for the distraction, her father disappeared back into the foyer.

“There's a grocery store within walking distance,” her mother
continued. “A new Walgreens and a few restaurants close by. Of course, you're close to Gloucester and all of the downtown shops.”

“And Dad's office,” Allie added, tilting her head north. “I remember that much.”

Her mother flashed an uncomfortable smile. “There's a bed in the back, and we brought over your old dresser and nightstand. I picked up some new clothes and put them in the closet. And Emma found you a refurbished computer, in case you want to get started job searching—or whatever.” Her mother paused, winded from spouting all of the information in one breath.

“That's . . . so amazing,” Allie said, feeling her cheeks grow warm. “Thank you.”

“It's the least we could do . . .” Her mother's voice trailed off.

The small house was furnished simply and tastefully. Gauzy white panels, pressed and smelling of starch, hung from curtain rods. Her mother had selected a few paintings to grace the bare walls, along with a large silver-and-white clock.

It wouldn't be her parents' house, a grand old wooden structure, graced with a huge front porch and pillars. As a girl, she'd loved watching the ocean from her second-story window. It changed colors with the seasons, it seemed. Deep turquoise in spring, crystal blue for summer, the time for crab legs and oysters on the half shell. In the fall and winter, the surface changed by the hour from eggplant purple to cider gold.

Allie glanced around at the walls, the lone clock on the wall. The coast couldn't be seen from here, even if she climbed on the roof of the little house. But she was happy to have four walls and would sleep on the floor, if necessary. She ran a hand along a window frame, lifted the linen covering, and looked out to the street, in time to see the tail end of a police cruiser turn the corner.

In an instant, Allie's frame tensed, her face flash frozen. She listened for a buzzer, a lock closing tight.

2011

During her first five years as an inmate, Allie believed torture was being bounced from three different locations within the Georgia Department of Corrections. Each place, its own slice of hell, required months of readjustment and acclimation.

Allie hadn't counted on Arrendale.

Until 2004, the facility was men only and known as the most violent in the state system. Blood spilled daily. The body count was staggering. The news eventually trickled to the right ears.

In a campaign to quell public outcry about unsafe conditions, Arrendale transitioned into an all-women's prison the next year. But despite all efforts to sanitize its reputation, Arrendale's toxic atmosphere remained, as if a sickening disease had been pressed into the mortar or Anthrax piped in through the air vents.

From the first moments inside, Allie sensed it.

She was attacked the first week after being approached by a gang of malevolent, tattooed women. She'd ignored the overtures at first. Pretended she didn't hear them. Then the requests became more insistent. A shove. A yank on her hair. Threats.

Allie kept her head down and waited for the attack.

They jumped her at suppertime. A burly, muscled woman yanked her down to the floor and cut her face with a chip of brick, just above her eyebrow. She straddled Allie while her friends held down her arms and legs. Blood trickled into Allie's scalp. Instead of struggling, she lay still.