“They never told me about the things they did. And on the drive to the church, we were quiet on account of how late it was and because of the slippery roads.”
The detective looked away, and I had the sense that he was unsatisfied with that answer. His gaze moved from the drab curtains to the flickering TV. “Okay, then,” Rummel said, turning back to me. “Tell me why your parents took you along but left your sister at home.”
“At home?”
“Yes.”
I was quiet, listening to that sound in my ear. I pressed my fingers to the bandage, squeezed my eyes shut.
“Are you all right? I can call the nurse. She’s right outside in the hall.”
“It’s okay.” I opened my eyes, looked at my feet by the end of the bed. “Didn’t Rose tell you why she was at home?”
“Sylvie, she’s at the station right now being asked the same questions. After we discovered you and your parents at Saint Bartholomew’s, an officer was dispatched to your house where we found your sister. Now it’s crucial that we piece your separate accounts together in order to help. So tell me, why did your parents leave Rose behind?”
“They didn’t say,” I told him..
“Was it unusual for the three of you to go somewhere without her?”
Two pairs of cords flew over the top of the dressing room just then, followed by flannel shirts. “Hurry up and try the stuff on,” Rose said. “I have to pee like a pony.”
If there is such a thing as putting away a memory until later, that is what I did. I gathered the clothes from the floor, unable to keep from muttering the word, “Racehorse.”
“Huh?” my sister said from the other side of the door.
“ ‘I have to pee like a racehorse.’ That’s the saying. There’s no pony involved.”
A silence came over my sister that told me she was doing some big thinking. All that brainpower led to her saying, “Are you telling me ponies don’t pee too?”
I had slipped on brown cords and a flannel, half listening as I studied myself in the mirror. Funny that we were discussing horses, because I looked like a stable girl. “Ponies pee,” I said, tugging off the cords. “But that’s not the—”
“Ha! Got you, nerd brain. Now let’s move it, because I really do have to go.”
“There must be a bathroom around here, Rose.”
“Public toilets give me the skeeves. I’ll go at home if I don’t wet myself first.”
My mood had shifted by then, same as it did whenever I thought about Rummel’s questions. And even though I wanted to get dressed and walk out of the store, I needed new clothes so I kept trying them on. Each outfit looked worse than the next, until finally I dressed in the capris and tank I wore to the mall and stepped out of the booth.
“Where are you going?” my sister asked.
“To pick out my own stuff.”
“You can’t.”
“Why not?”
Rose didn’t offer up an answer right away so I turned in the direction of the Junior Miss department, figuring the dress on that mannequin deserved a second look.
“Because I need to watch our budget, that’s why,” she blurted.
I knew we didn’t have much money, not even when our parents were alive. People didn’t pay well for the services they provided. They wrote letters begging for help and only occasionally enclosed a check to cover gas or airline tickets. Or they showed up on our doorstep with a glazed look in their eyes, offering promises to undo the debt later if only my parents could make all that had gone wrong in their lives right again—there, too, money rarely materialized. Instead, we relied on income from my parents’ lectures to support us. Once Sam Heekin’s book was published, however, that income dried up. Still, I’d seen my sister blow plenty on things we couldn’t afford, namely her truck, purchased with insurance money and the sale of our parents’ Datsun after the police released it from impound. When I turned around and reminded her of that, she broke into an all-out fit, her voice pitching higher and higher until she yelled, “Whether you like it or not, Sylvie, I’m your legal guardian now!”
With that, she walked out of the store.
Whenever that phrase passed her lips it caused some part of me to fold in on itself. I remembered, of course, the lawyers, my parents’ nonexistent will, the endless paperwork and court appointments, Norman’s visits and now Cora’s. I remembered, too, the afternoon Uncle Howie had been located somewhere near his apartment in Tampa, days after that night at the church. The way he came around, announcing his intention to take care of us, and the way that ended when Rose and the attorneys raised the issues of his DUIs, a drug arrest, and his lack of any consistent history of involvement in our lives. And yet, the knowledge of how our situation came to be did nothing to keep that feeling away. I stared down at the flat red carpet in JCPenney’s while customers who had been watching our feud slowly returned to their shopping.