When We Were Sisters. Emilie RichardsЧитать онлайн книгу.
had already lived with the Davises for four months before I arrived to take the place of an eleven-year-old girl who had wreaked havoc. Cecilia claims that no matter what was wrong with me—and in her estimation there was plenty—she saw right away that she could finally sleep with both eyes shut. If I was too scared to get up and use the bathroom at night, I was unlikely to murder her in her sleep.
Cecilia isn’t prone to downplay anything in her life. In the retelling a casual date becomes a marriage proposal. Polite applause becomes a standing ovation. I’m one of the parts she doesn’t have to exaggerate. She saw something in me that convinced her I needed her. No one but Maribeth, her drugged-out mother, had ever needed her for anything.
Cecilia looked at me and saw a project that might have a happy ending. That was enough.
My grandmother had named me Roberta Ingrid after two maiden aunts who had raised and molded her into the woman I feared. Cecilia was the first to call me Robin. The day we met I was wearing a red sweater. With my pale brown hair and red breast she thought I looked exactly like one.
When I turned eighteen I petitioned the court to make Robin official. By then Cecilia had been there first to remove Ceglinski.
Kris claims I’ve always allowed Cecilia to make the important decisions in my life. If he knew how hard she lobbied me not to marry him, he might feel differently.
I thought about that now as the house grew quiet and I heard Kris turning out the lights downstairs before he came to bed. Earlier Donny came back from town with enough takeout to last for several days and casseroles to carry next door tomorrow. My children devoured rotisserie chicken and sides. Kris finished a beer and picked at whatever was in reach, and the rest of us enjoyed vegan dishes from an Indian restaurant. Then, after sisterly advice on how to take care of myself for the next few days, Cecilia and Donny left to fly back to Arizona.
I’m sure my husband is delighted they’re gone. Kris is always polite to Cecilia. Cecilia is always polite to Kris. Their pseudotolerance comes down to insecurity. Neither of them is sure who will win if I’m forced to choose.
I was carefully smoothing a nightgown over my hips when Kris came into our bedroom. His wheat-colored hair was standing on end, as if he’d run his fingers through it repeatedly, and he looked exhausted, which was no surprise.
“Did you tell Nik he could stay up and read?”
I had expected something a little warmer, but I wasn’t surprised by his question. Even when Kris arrives home early enough to see his kids, he’s usually on his computer or the phone and they’re already asleep by the time he comes upstairs.
“He’s always allowed to read if it’s a real book and he’s in bed.”
“I asked him what he was reading, and he said, and I quote, ‘A book. Can’t you tell?’”
“He jumped on the one Cecilia gave him tonight. He started reading the moment he got into bed.”
“Let me guess. A rock star biography.”
“Boy band. It’s a Horatio Alger story updated for the twenty-first century. Kids from a tough neighborhood who find their way out through talent and drive.”
“Well, he needs sleep more than he needs fairy tales.”
I didn’t remind him how close the book was to Cecilia’s life story. “I’m sure you made a hit if you called it a fairy tale.”
“I’ve already had more conversations with our son today than I needed.”
I tried to sound pleasant, although it was getting harder. “Is that how it works? We get to choose a number? Because some days one is too many.”
“He’s hostile and rude. Oh, and let’s not forget sarcastic. What’s come over him? Or do you even know?”
“I have some good ideas.”
“He seems to think he can get away with it.”
My head was starting to throb again. “I hear an indictment of my parenting skills.”
He didn’t answer directly. “What are you doing to change things?”
I swallowed a reminder that the decision to have these children had been mutual. “Truthfully, nothing seems to work. He’s never made transitions well, and becoming an adolescent’s a big one.”
“We need to set rules and stick to them.”
“We, Kris?” I sat on the edge of the bed and reached for the jasmine-scented hand cream I use at night.
“We can figure them out together.”
“And I can enforce them.”
“Well, according to your little zinger earlier, you’re not going to be around. What was that about, anyway?”
“Do you really want to get into this now?”
“I have to leave early in the morning, and I won’t be home until it’s time for shivah. So now makes sense.”
He sounded angry, or rather, controlled, as if he were afraid the anger would erupt in unpleasant ways and he was working to contain it.
I capped the hand cream and lay down facing his side of the bed, propping myself up so I could see him better. I waited until he changed and got in beside me. All these years of marriage, and I still find my husband attractive. Kris has strong Slavic features that accent wide-set hazel eyes. Despite hours at a desk he usually finds time midday to go to the gym, and he watches his diet.
I would have preferred a more romantic homecoming, but the only fairy tale in our house tonight was the one Nik was reading down the hall.
“Cecilia is coproducing a documentary about foster care with a well-known filmmaker named Mick Bollard. We watched one he did on Ronald Reagan, remember?”
“No.”
In truth I had watched it, and Kris had walked in and out of the room with his BlackBerry. I wasn’t surprised he didn’t remember.
“Well, he’s amazing. For this one he wants a celebrity who actually was a foster child to be part of it. Cecilia’s...” I tried to figure out how best to explain this. “She’s come to realize she needs to tell her story. For herself as much as her audience. So they’ll be filming in places where she lived, and she’ll talk about what her life was like there. Of course it’ll all be interspersed with history and facts about child welfare. You know how that works. But she may do a lot of the narration, and her life will be the thread that’s woven all the way through.”
“Why does that have anything to do with you?”
“Cecilia wants me to be the production stills photographer. They’ll need photos for publicity, and Donny’s already spoken to publishers about a book on the making of the documentary. The right photograph can convey the point of an entire film. It’s an exciting challenge. She showed my work to Mick Bollard, and he’s enthusiastic.”
“There are a thousand photographers who could do that. A million.”
I tried not to let him see his words had hurt. “Of course. There may be that many, and, who knows, all of them may even be better than I am. Although if somebody like Mick Bollard thinks my work’s good enough, that’s a pretty good sign I have talent, wouldn’t you say?”
“You know I didn’t mean it that way.”
“How did you mean it?”
“There are other photographers who have the credentials besides you. And a lot of them would probably kill for this opportunity.”
“So why me?”
“Listen, it was rhetorical, okay? I know why you. Cecilia’s been trying to get you to work for her as long as I’ve known you. Longer, even.”
“And I have carefully not done so. Not because