“You were four,” I said softly. “You were jealous.”
“I know,” Sophie said in a way that sounded as if someone else had already told her that—and she didn’t believe them, either. “Dad came running into her room that night, pulling at me, dragging me away from Maggie’s crib. He had me by the wrist—hard—and he marched me down to my room and shut the door and told me to stay in there for the rest of the night.” Sophie’s eyes looked through me. “A long time later, after I stopped crying, I crept out into the hallway and sat there and listened to him sing Maggie to sleep. I closed my eyes and pretended that I was in bed, with my purple comforter pulled up to my chin, and that he was really singing to me.”
She looked down at the cigarette, which she had begun to clench, and then snapped it in half. Letting the broken pieces fall to the side, she chewed the inside of her mouth and looked up at me. When she spoke again, her whole voice was different, as if she had flipped a switch inside. “Listen, I don’t want to demonize anyone by telling you all of this. Especially Mom or Dad, okay? Things happened the way they happened and that’s sort of the end of it. I don’t want you to think that I’m blaming anyone. I was always sort of a loner, even when I was real little. I just kind of preferred it that way. It wasn’t Dad’s fault. Or Mom’s.”
“Okay,” I said.
Sophie sat back again in her chair. She looked exhausted suddenly. “Anyway, I don’t even know if I answered your question. About what she looked like.” She leaned forward. “But that’s all I can do for today, okay?”
“Yeah,” I said softly. “Okay.”
chapter
25
Over the next few days, Mom and Dad called no less than twelve times. Each time they both got on the phone, doubling up, as if it might increase their persuasive powers. Each time I assured them over and over again that yes, I knew what I was doing, and that yes, I was still staying. Surprisingly, it wasn’t as difficult as I thought it would be. My throat ached when Mom cried and I closed my eyes when Dad swore, but I held fast. It was as if a wedge had already been driven between us; something built out of necessity, but there nonetheless. I wasn’t going to be the one to knock it back down. Not after all this time.
And to make sure of that, on the third day I turned my phone off completely and shoved it under my pillow.
Sophie and I worked on the outside of the house for the rest of the week. While I scraped, I thought about Maggie. Especially that black mohawk hair of hers. I wondered who in the family she resembled the most. Mom? Dad? Sophie? Me, possibly?
It was crazy that I’d never stumbled upon a picture of her over the years, something slipped in behind a loose photo in an album or hidden in between one of the cellophane pages. Mom had at least eight family photo albums—all organized by year—set up like encyclopedias in the living room. The first two were mostly of Sophie—up until she was about twelve years old. When she hit junior high, Mom said that Sophie developed a morbid aversion to having her picture taken and would dart out of the room whenever a camera appeared. She refused to pose for anything except our annual family Christmas photo, which, despite Dad’s threats, always captured her with her eyes glued to the floor. The next six photo albums were all of me—starting with preschool and going all the way up to my senior year. How was it that in all of those compilations of memories, no one had ever thought to include a picture of our sister? Why had Maggie—along with her death—been virtually erased from the world? And what was it about her that Mom and Dad didn’t want me to know?
The steady train of thoughts inside my head made the hours go by quickly, and on Friday, when Sophie came around to my side again, it was late in the afternoon. She surveyed my work, whistling in admiration. “Shit, girl. You’ve been trucking!” She smoothed her fingers against the smooth wood and nodded. “Nice work. Really nice work.”
“Thanks.” I wiped my brow with the back of my wrist, detecting a faint whiff of sweat. The underarms of my shirt were wringing wet, and my hair clung to the back of my neck.
“You stink?” Sophie grinned.
“A little.”
“That’s nothing,” she said. “Wait’ll I get you up on that roof. Then you’ll know what it feels like to sweat.”
I smiled, groaning inwardly. This was by far the most laborious physical activity I had ever done in my life. How much harder was it going to get?
Sophie swatted me on the side of the arm. “I don’t want to burn you out, though. You’ve done enough for today. Go upstairs, take a shower, and lie down for a while. Relax. I was thinking we could order some Chinese food for dinner. They’ve got a great place just a few miles away. You like Chinese food?”
“Love it.”
“Chicken and broccoli?” she asked, pointing her scraper at me.