CHAPTER FOUR
The chauffeur takes us around the back side of my sister’s huge apartment building and drives into a parking garage with a big metal gate that closes automatically behind us. After carefully negotiating twists and turns that put us several levels belowground, he drops us off at a door that has a digital code-reader box on the wall next to it. He takes my suitcase from the trunk and sets it down beside me.
“Thank you.” I feel like we should tip him or something, but my sister doesn’t make a move toward her purse.
He leaves with a nod, getting into the limo and driving out of the garage.
I feel like such a rube. Of course you don’t tip a personal driver. Duh. I haven’t been out in the world much, but I have seen the movie Pretty Woman, and there was never any tipping of Darryl the limo driver.
My sister digs into her bag and comes out with a small black key fob. When she touches it to the code-reader box that has a red light on it, the indicator turns green and the door clicks open.
“This place is like a prison,” I say, wondering if the key to her apartment will be as big as a jail keeper’s.
“That’s right. We keep all the bad guys out, though.” She pulls the door open and leads us into a small antechamber in front of some elevator doors. It smells like damp concrete and paint in here. My suitcase bangs over the threshold, and the noise of it echoes out behind me into the garage.
“Is all this security really necessary?” I know there are some strange people in New York City, but it seems like my sister is being a little overly paranoid.
She presses the call button for the elevator. “You probably won’t have the opportunity to see Ty or any of the rest of the band on this trip, but when you come back another time, you’ll see why it’s necessary. If you see them in public, anyway.”
I’m getting the distinct impression that my sister hasn’t been giving us the whole story about her life here. “That sounds pretty scary, actually.”
The elevator arrives, and she holds the door open so I can get through with my bag.
“Not really. You get used to it.”
I’m not sure I could ever do that. My sister is tougher than I am, though, so it’s not surprising to me that she’s adapting so easily. She single-handedly managed the beehives at our farm from the age of twelve, something I could never do, even at twenty-five. Being stung by a bee once as a kid was all I needed to know about honey harvesting—it’s definitely not my thing. But Amber doesn’t let what she considers minor setbacks to keep her from meeting her goals. Once she decides to do something, it’s done. Take me visiting her in Manhattan, for example. Like most people, I’m powerless when standing in the face of her determination.
One of our neighbors, Smitty, has taken over her hives—thank goodness, because I wasn’t crazy or stupid enough to do it myself. I understand my sister wanted to leave and that bees are critically important to our life on Earth . . . and I’m supporting her as much as I can . . . but those bees? No way. Thank goodness for Smitty. I just wish I hadn’t slept with him that one time. It makes it awkward to see him around the farm when he’s there checking on things. I keep an eye out for him, and so far I have always managed to be busy in the house whenever he comes by.
The elevator doors shut, ready to take us up to the top floor—the penthouse. My sister has to slide a plastic card into the control panel to make the buttons work. I shake my head at this additional security measure. A person might be able to break into the garage and that electronically controlled door, but they’d be stuck here in this elevator without the proper access credentials. This is such a completely different world from the one I’m used to. We don’t even lock our doors at Glenhollow Farms.
“Once we get you settled into your room, we can go out and grab some lunch,” she says.
“At the hot dog place?” I try to sound enthusiastic.
She throws her arm over my shoulders and squeezes me up against her. “Exactly.”
After a very long and slightly nerve-racking trip up and up and up, the elevator finally opens into the foyer of my sister’s apartment. The opulence hits me like a slap in the face—marble, silk, peacock feathers, gold, sparkling things, artwork that reminds me of a Jackson Pollock rip-off . . . It looks like an interior decorating warehouse exploded in here.
“Wow.” The word pops out of my mouth before I can filter it. I hope she doesn’t take offense.
“Pretty swanky, huh?” She puts her hand around my waist and pulls me into the foyer because my legs have forgotten how to work. “Home, sweet home. It came already professionally decorated. Come on . . . follow me. I’ll show you where your room is.”
Professionally decorated by a blind person, maybe. That would explain all the crushed velvet and silk, anyway.
I walk behind her down a long hallway, passing door after door. Some of them are open to various living spaces: one of them is a cinema, another is an office, and two more are bedrooms. None of them have that wow factor I saw in the foyer, thank goodness. I was starting to think an alien had taken over my sister’s brain and caused her to forget that gold lamé is something that should be avoided.
“This is your room.” She stops in the entrance and waits for me to go in first.
I step into the space. Considering what I saw in the foyer, it’s not overly decorated. In fact, I may go so far as to say it’s pretty in its simplicity. And it’s large too—almost the same size as our living room back home.
“Wowie, wow, wow. This is really cute.” I leave my bag by the door and walk in slowly. The carpet is thick and soft, a shade that reminds me of the pale peachy-pink flowers that grow on vines up the side of our house. The dark wood bed has four smooth posts that are really tall but not high enough to reach the vaulted ceilings outlined in several stacked layers of crown molding. Pink silk drapes hang on the wall opposite the door, matching the rose-and-green coverlet folded at the foot of the mattress.
“Look out the windows. Check out your view.” Amber is beaming as she ushers me forward.
I walk over and push one of the drapes aside; it’s heavier than I was expecting, with a thick white liner weighing it down and ensuring that sunlight can’t penetrate. What I see beyond the window takes my breath away. “Is that the Empire State Building?” I never imagined it would be this imposing in person, and I’m still miles away from it, I think; it’s hard to tell from up here.
“Yep.” Amber sounds proud, as if she put it there herself.
“This is really incredible.” Now I’m getting an inkling of why she might want to live here; it is pretty impressive. If I never had to leave the apartment, I might actually be able to stay here too. Not forever, but for ten days? Sure. No problem. Some of the heaviness lifts from my heart. Maybe New York won’t be quite as terrible as I feared.
“Why don’t you take fifteen seconds to unpack your bag and then come with me into the kitchen?”
I turn to look at her smarty-pants face. She’s smirking at me.
“Ha, ha, you’re hilarious.” Fifteen seconds. My sister thinks she’s so funny. Now I feel like a hick, having brought only two outfits.
She won’t leave until I prove her right, so I put my bag on the king-size bed and unzip it. I pull out the small stack of clothing from inside as my sister opens the top drawer of the dresser for me. I put everything inside it and close it with my hip.
“See?” She looks at her watch. “Oh, even less. Ten seconds. I totally called it.”
I roll my eyes and go back to my bag. “I have toiletries too, you know.” I deliberately slow my movements. I’ll be damned if it’s only going to take me fifteen seconds to unpack my sad, sorry little suitcase.
She walks over to another door and opens it. “This is your bathroom. You don’t have to share it with anybody.”
I collect my toothbrush, mini toothpaste, and hairbrush, and walk over to join her, peering inside. What I see is more opulence packed into a space larger than anyone could need.
“Holy mackerel. This bathroom is the biggest one I’ve ever seen in my entire life.” The walls and surfaces are all marble and glass. Thick nubby cotton mats lie on the floor in front of the shower, bathtub, and sink. I can see everything beyond where I’m standing thanks to the angled mirrors; farther back, there’s a desk and chair for putting on makeup—something I won’t be using because I don’t wear any—and large walk-in closets to the left and right.
“And it’s all yours.” She leans in very close and stares at me. “And you don’t have to share it.”
I have to chuckle. The number of times we’ve fought over access to our one, tiny bathroom at the farm is not lost on me. “Okay, I have to admit, it’s awesome.” I place my toiletries on the counter. They look so tiny all by themselves on the massive marble slab.
She claps with happiness. “See? I told you you’d love it.” She grabs me by the hand and pulls me out of the room. “Come on. I want to show you the kitchen.”
I follow her down the long hallway and pass through a family room big enough for twenty people, before I find myself inside a kitchen that could easily cater a large dinner party. The appliances are huge, and all of them stainless steel or black. The counters are gray-and-black granite, and the windows have views as spectacular as those from my bedroom.
“Do you actually cook in here?” I’d be afraid of leaving a stain on something. The countertops are cold against my fingertips—so different from the wood ones at the farm that have always felt warm to me, even in winter.
“To be honest, not often. We order in a lot.” She walks over and opens the fridge. “Look. We’re stocked up for weeks.”
Every single shelf in her refrigerator and freezer is jammed full of clear glass containers with colorful plastic lids on them, and they’re all labeled. I read a few of them aloud: “Butternut squash lasagna. Red curried lentils with baba ghanoush and pita on the side.” I look at her, flabbergasted. “Did you make this stuff?” I don’t know my sister at all anymore.
She grins. “Are you kidding me? You know I don’t cook.”
The relief that flows through me is almost dizzying. I thought my entire world had just turned inside out.
She shuts the doors to the refrigerator and freezer. “It’s a service. They have a menu for the week, we order what we want, and then they bring all the fresh groceries in here and cook it, box it up, put it in the fridge, and leave.”
“Wow. You have your own personal chef.” I can’t even imagine what that must be like. I’ve cooked so many lunches and dinners for our family at the farm, I’ve lost count. I started when I was eleven, which means I’ve been doing it for more than half my life now, and I know exactly how much work and prep time went into making those meals in her fridge. They must have cost her and Ty a fortune. But I guess since they’re making the big bucks now, they can afford it.
A very unkind voice creeps into my head and speaks my inner, most hateful thought: Sellout.
I immediately tamp it down. My sister is not a sellout. She’s working hard and earning her money. The band offered her a ten-million-dollar fortune and she turned it down, just like Rose and I did.
Amber continues her explanation, clueless to my inner battle. “No, not a personal chef, really; close, but not quite. This way, we have some of the benefits of a personal chef, but they don’t live here with us and invade our privacy.”
“I’m starting to get the impression that your privacy is pretty important to you.” This is so strange to me, considering we were both raised on a hippie commune where anyone and everyone was welcome to live, no questions asked. All a person ever did to be a part of our extended family was be kind and work on the farm somehow—harvesting, planting, building, cleaning . . . Our mothers were always very generous and accommodating.
Amber pulls two glasses from a nearby cupboard before grabbing a bottle of wine from the refrigerator. It’s a little early in the day for drinking, but today is not a normal day. I will happily drink whatever she’s offering . . . anything that will make this easier for me.
“It is very important,” she says, nodding. “I never realized how important, though, until I kept having it taken away from me.” She pulls the cork out of the bottle with a pop. “There’s one thing I’ve learned after being around the band for these last few months: you always pay a price for fame, and the first thing to go is your private life.”
The word fame makes me think of how proud Barbara is of her daughter. “You know your mom is saving all the clippings that mention your name or have your face on them. There’re already two huge scrapbooks in our living room next to the new television.” The television was a gift from Amber, so we could stay current with the band. I never watch it. We had a TV before, but not the pretty flat-screen or the satellite plan we have now.
“I know. Believe me, she’s told me all about it.” Amber rolls her eyes.
“They’re really proud of you. I am too.”
She smiles distractedly, making sure she doesn’t spill the wine as she pours. “I’m proud of me too. I feel like I’m doing a really good job. Things are going great for the band and Ty.”
I take a full wineglass from the counter and hold it up for a toast. “Here’s to you and all of your amazing success that you totally deserve.”
“Thank you, sweetie.” She touches her stemware to mine and takes a sip. “So what are you going to do with the rest of your life?” She asks this with a twinkle in her eye, oblivious to how it will affect me.
Her question throws me for a complete loop. I wasn’t expecting it. I should have an answer ready for her, something that just slips right off my tongue, but I don’t. After seeing all the evidence of her success around me, I have to ask myself the same question she just did: What do I want to do with my life? I know she didn’t mean anything cruel by it, but it hurts that I don’t have an answer. Do I have a plan? I thought I did, but now that I think about it for two seconds, I realize my goal all along has been to just keep doing what I’ve always done. Does that count as a plan? I fear in Amber’s world that it doesn’t. And now I don’t even know if it counts as one in my world. Dammit. Just two hours into my visit, and I’m already questioning my life’s purpose. What. The. Hell.
She uses her glass to point around the room. “All this could be yours, you know.”
I’m confused. “Why? What are you talking about?”
“Well, you could come and work for the band, or you just take the ten million bucks they offered you.”
My jaw drops open in shock. “Did you take the money?” Is that how she affords this place with all of its prison-like security?
She frowns. “No, of course I didn’t.”
“Then why would I take the money?” I’m getting angry. It’s like she’s suggesting something about me that’s not very nice.
“I’m just saying . . .” She puts her hand on my arm. “I know you don’t like to get out much, and the farm doesn’t have a lot of . . . opportunities. So if you need some money or want to get some things for yourself, it would be really easy to do that.”
I back away, breaking contact. “But you know what that money means.”
She looks at me and shakes her head, almost as if she pities me. “It’s not like that. I’ve gotten to know them a lot better since I’ve been working with them.”
I feel completely betrayed. Maybe it’s a bit overly dramatic, but we’ve been put through the wringer these past few months back at Glenhollow, and apparently she either doesn’t get it or she doesn’t care. “We’ve talked about this so many times, Amber. Why are you acting like everything has suddenly changed?”
She sighs and puts her wineglass down, picking at her perfectly manicured fingernails. Her gaze drops. “You know, when we agreed not to take the money, it was because we thought it was some sort of payoff . . . like a super-lame apology for ignoring us for twenty-five years.”
I work really hard to not growl at her. “Which is exactly what it is.”
She looks up at me. “But I’ve told you what they and their attorney, Lister, told me. You remember, right? They didn’t know about us until just recently. They found out through Darrell. He’s the one who’s trying to cause them all kinds of trouble—the guy who used to be the bass player back in the beginning.”
The more she talks, the angrier I become. I know she’s trying to explain herself, and I’m trying to listen, too, but all I’m seeing is red and all I’m hearing is blah, blah, blah.
I work to keep my temper controlled. “I realize that Darrell is the one who outed you as a daughter of one of the band members to the press, and he’s the reason why you had to move into this place and get all the security to protect your privacy, but that doesn’t change the fact that those men tried to give us that money because they felt guilty.”
Her lips press together for a few seconds before she responds. “I don’t see it that way anymore.”
Be fair. Listen. This is your sister. My conscience is trying so hard to keep me on track, I have to at least try to obey it. I inhale deeply and exhale completely before I continue. “Okay, so . . . tell me how you see it.” I take a generous sip of wine, almost finishing the glass, trying to stall her inevitable argument. Maybe it’ll help to have her explain to me how suddenly thirty million dollars from absent fathers isn’t guilt money. I’m not going to run from this, as much as I might want to. I shouldn’t have to fear my sister just because she’s sharing what she considers to be the truth with me.
“Let’s go sit down.” She points to a smaller room off the kitchen. “It’ll be more comfortable.”
I consider arguing but decide against it. Refusing to sit down would be childish, and we’re beyond that—at least when we’re having serious conversations. I follow her into the room and sit down next to her on the couch with a few cushions between us. She turns sideways and rests her wineglass on her leg.
“Our fathers, whichever band members they are, did not find out about us being alive until the band manager, Ted, finally confessed to what he’d done, just a few months ago, which he did after Darrell threatened to blackmail the band with the information. The money is an apology . . . not for being bad people, but for all the missed opportunities, for the child support they would have paid if they’d known we existed. They aren’t bad men, Em. They’re really nice. They feel as robbed of the relationship as we do. They also respect and love our moms, so they’re not interested in casting blame or causing arguments over it; they just want a chance to be the fathers they are or could have been.”
I take a moment to let that digest. My short conclusion is that I don’t really believe it, and I don’t think Amber does either. “So, if it’s all hunky-dory now, how come you’re still not taking the money?” I stare her down, daring her to answer.
She shrugs. “I’m . . . not comfortable doing that at this point in time. I prefer to just work for them for now.”
Relief flows through me. She hasn’t totally been brainwashed, at least. “Yes. Exactly. I’m still not comfortable with it either, regardless of what you call it.” I pause, taking a few breaths to calm my emotions. My sister is not the enemy here. “You told us before that Ted was behind everything . . . that he gave our mothers the money to pay for the farm. I’m still not quite sure why he did what he did—kept our mothers’ pregnancies from the band and forced our mothers out. He pretty much admitted he completely messed with their lives. What did he expect to gain by that, by hurting all those people? How is he even keeping his job now that they know what he did—if they’re supposedly all mad about it?”
Amber traces the rim of her glass with her finger. “At the time, Ted thought he was doing his job . . . keeping the band on top and focused on building their fan base . . . meeting contractual demands by their record label, which he truly believed they’d no longer be able to do if they were focused on babies and wives. The band members themselves said enough times that families were not welcome on tour and that they weren’t interested in having families at that point in their careers. That’s how he’s justifying his actions now.”
“And you forgot those facts, I guess, when you forgave them?” Seems pretty convenient to me; for them, anyway, but not so much for us or our moms.
“No, I didn’t forget anything,” Amber says, clearly annoyed with me. “I realize they carry some of the blame here, but it’s minimal. The fact is, they were never told about us.”
I hate that Amber has become their advocate. Doesn’t she hurt inside over this like I do? It sure doesn’t seem like it. “But they never tried to contact our moms either,” I point out. “If they had, things would have turned out a lot differently.” We would have had fathers, and that’s no small thing, especially to three little girls who dreamed and talked of these mysterious beings often over the years. Amber is forgetting that part of our shared past, I guess.
“Maybe. But is it fair for us to crucify them for something they should have or might have done?”
I shrug, not exactly comfortable with saying my answer out loud, which is Yes, I do think it’s fair to blame them. Amber will become angrier about it than she already is if I continue to call her out on this, but I do think it’s fair to call a spade a spade. They rejected our moms in word and deed. Three precious and pregnant young women—our mothers—were willing to give these men their hearts and souls, and yet, they were rejected . . . and then a henchman sent them packing. What kind of men allow that to happen? Amber has just confirmed that’s what went down, so it’s no longer just conjecture. No. Sorry. The kind of men who would do something like that are not welcome in my life.
“What about Ted?” I ask, not yet willing to totally let this slide. “Seems like they’d be pretty angry at him.” Or they’re not, because he did exactly what they wanted him to do. Ha! They have Amber so bamboozled . . .
She pauses, shrugging as she stares into her glass. “Who knows? He may have lost his job now that they know the extent of his treachery; the jury is still out on that.” She sighs. “The fact is, now that I know his job a little more, his dedication to the music, I can kind of see in a tiny way why he might have thought he was doing the right thing.”
I feel like I’m having a heart attack . . . She understands how he could do it? What?
“But that’s not important. The important thing is, once Darrell started making waves, they got the whole story from Ted and Lister, and Ted came clean. Call it a crisis of conscience, maybe . . . I don’t know. But as soon as they found out that these women they still remembered fondly had left under false pretenses and pregnant, they immediately hired a private investigator through their attorney to find them. To find us.”
It all sounds too neat to me. Too convenient. There are too many holes in the story. Normally, Amber is so sharp, but she obviously has blinders on in this situation. “I’m not sure I can believe the band knew nothing about our mothers or us all this time. Why didn’t they ever try to find our moms before? How could these men not have known our mothers were pregnant? Didn’t anyone stay in touch? Didn’t they hear rumors, at least? Two men totally involved with the band—the manager and their bassist—knew, but the rest of them didn’t? That’s a pretty big secret for people to keep for all that time, don’t you think?”
“I don’t have all the answers. Not yet, anyway. Nobody’s been talking about this stuff very much because they’ve been so busy getting Ty up to speed and preparing for their trip to Japan. And you know our mothers . . . The only thing they’re thinking about right now is being groupies again. Explaining and rehashing their pasts is probably the last thing on their minds. Heck, knowing them, they’ll never bring it up. You know how they are about letting bygones be bygones. They’ve always been about forgiveness and not judging.”
“Yeah. I guess now we know why,” I say bitterly.
“You don’t begrudge them this second chance, do you?” Amber asks, a hint of censure in her voice.
I smile sadly, shaking my head at the image of our moms finding out they were going with the band to Japan. I wasn’t there to see their reunion, but I can picture it perfectly in my mind. Sally probably lost consciousness. “No, I don’t. Not really. They are so crazy. They’re going on fifty but acting like they’re twenty.”
“I know.” Amber pauses, searching my face. “Are you mad at them?”
“No.” I sigh, long and loud. To be mad at my mothers for being in love, for making stupid decisions when they were just kids . . . now that would be unfair. “Why would I be? They’re happy.”
She shrugs. “I don’t know. I’m just not getting the impression that you’re happy about any of this.” She uses her wineglass to indicate the room, and maybe her life along with it.
I pull in a deep breath and let it out slowly, hoping I can calm my nerves and my emotions enough to be fair. “I will admit . . . I am very confused and unsettled right now.”
My sister scoots closer to me on the couch. “What can I do to help? You know I don’t like to see you sad.”
I shake my head. “There’s nothing you can do. I just need time to adjust. I guess maybe I’m one of those people who has a difficult time dealing with change.”
“Rose told me you were painting again a while ago, but then I didn’t hear anything more about it, and I haven’t seen any of your new work. How’s that going?”
“It’s not.” And I don’t want to talk about it, so I hope she takes the hint when I stare at the wall and don’t say anything else. My sisters are usually pretty good about being sensitive to my creative issues. The moment I realized our lives were going to be drastically altered by Amber’s decision to go to the city, my creative vibe vanished. But I don’t want her to feel bad about that; it’s not her fault that my emotions are so tightly strung sometimes.
“What else is bothering you?”
I look at her, wondering how she could be so clueless. She used to be tuned in to my emotions and unspoken thoughts. “I guess what’s bothering me is that this is all so easy for you.”
She frowns. “What’s so easy for me?”
“All this!” I throw my arm up, losing my tenuous hold on my temper. “This place! This life! You’re in love with this guy Ty, but you hardly know him, you two have this ultra-secure, high-rise prison apartment, and you’re living like the Prince and Princess of Wales.” I want to stop, but I can’t. “And you’re working for these men, who for twenty-five years and with unlimited funds never bothered to check up on the women they supposedly loved? And you’re, like, best friends with them now? How does that happen?!”
Silence descends between us, and the only things I can hear are the hum of the refrigerator in the next room, the pounding of my pulse in my ears, and my heavy breathing. I cannot believe I just said all of that out loud. My chest is burning.
“Wow. That was a mouthful.” Amber sits deeper into the couch cushions, no longer smiling at me.
I wilt and my voice comes out as a whine. “Why did you ask me if you didn’t want to hear the answer?” Now I’m mad at both of us. I should have kept my mouth shut. I’m never one to make waves, and this is why; I hate it when I don’t get along with my sisters. I always regret speaking my mind; it causes conflict and hurt feelings . . . two things I hate being responsible for.
“I did want to hear the answer. I just wasn’t expecting that particular answer. Don’t get mad. I’m not angry with you, I’m just processing.”
My response is to pout, to keep from bursting into tears. “Process it with a nicer look on your face, would you, please?”
She gives me a half smile. “You are such a brat sometimes.”
I feel like crying, but mostly it’s just emotional exhaustion fueling that desire. I had no intention of coming here to confront my sister over things that don’t really matter in the long run. Whatever I say about these men is not going to change the trajectory of either of our lives. Amber is too stubborn to move off the track she’s taking, and I’m too smart to fall for the baloney being served around here. Regardless, it won’t change the fact that she and I love each other and will always be close sisters . . . and that relationship is far more important than any other. “I’m not a brat. I’m just telling you what I think and what I feel. I’ll shut up about it now.”
She nods. “That’s fair. You don’t have to shut up about anything. I do think it would help you to talk to the band, though. It really helped me. They’ve tried so many times to contact you, to set up a meeting, but you never take their calls. They’d come to see you, you know, if you didn’t want to come here.”
I shake my head. “I’m not interested and neither is Rose. We’ve told you several times, Amber. You need to let it go. We sent you here to handle everything, and you did. You told them exactly what we wanted them to hear: we’re not interested in their money, and we’re not interested in DNA tests or father-daughter relationships. Nothing has changed.” I plead for forgiveness with my eyes, not wanting her to feel bad about the things I’ve said. “I know you’re working for the money they pay you, so that’s not the same as taking ten million dollars from them for nothing other than sharing genes.”
She nods. “I get it. But you know, I like this place. I like this life. I think it really suits me. I don’t think it makes me a bad person.”
“It does suit you.” I reach out and touch her arm. “Perfectly. I’m not saying otherwise. And I’m not saying it’s a bad thing that it suits you either. I’m actually kind of jealous that you found something that makes you so happy.” I can’t believe I just said that. Is it true?
Unfortunately, I think it is. I think I am jealous of my sister. Not that I want her life, because this lifestyle is totally not me and I wouldn’t want it to be, but I’m envious that she’s found her thing . . . the thing that makes her jump out of bed in the morning with purpose in her heart and a smile on her face. I’m not exactly sure I have that. I do love the farm and all the animals . . . but I’m not sure I ever leap out of bed. It’s more like I lie on my back and stare at the ceiling for a while before I can manage to drop my feet to the floor. I always thought that this meant I was content. Is it possible it means that I’m not? That I’m lost? Amber’s very clear and definite declarations about her happiness with her new life have me questioning everything.
I knew it was a mistake to come here.
“Oh, sweetie, you don’t have to be jealous of me. You have so many wonderful things going on in your life.” She puts her hand on mine, giving me puppy-dog eyes.
I wave her off, pulling my arm away. “I know. I don’t know why I said that. I have a beautiful, perfect life, and I am not sad about it at all.”
She stares at me long enough to make me uncomfortable. I finish off my wine and stand up, going into the kitchen to pour another glass. If we’re going to continue this conversation, I’m definitely going to need more alcohol. What did you say, Mr. Clock on the Wall? It’s not quite noon yet? Oh, well . . . screw it.
“What would you like to do while you’re here?” she asks. “Now that the band is gone, my schedule is pretty much clear for a few days. We can go to some museums, see the Empire State Building, Times Square, a Broadway show . . . We’ll do anything you want.”
I fill my glass and take another sip of the wine, imagining myself fighting crowds of strangers to visit things I could easily read about in books or see on the Internet. “Just hanging out here could be fun.” I look around and nod, pretending like this place is the best place on earth to be, which it is when compared to that stinky, loud, impersonal, and pollution-filled city beneath us.
She twists around to stare at me. “In here? Are you kidding me? You can’t come to Manhattan and just sit in my apartment the whole time.”
I shrug. “Why not? It’s awesome.”
She slowly shakes her head, frowning at me. “If you stay here, I’m buying you some painting stuff. We’re getting some canvases and some brushes and paints, and you’re going to create something, dammit.”
I laugh. “Is that so?”
“Yes. You need to earn your keep if you’re not going to be any fun.” She points at a blank wall. “I’ve got a spot for your next masterpiece right there.”
I know she’s only joking about being so demanding and she doesn’t mean to be rude, so I won’t take offense. Besides, it could help my situation to have something to do, to take my mind off all this . . . stuff. And if it buys me more time in the apartment rather than out there in that loud city, good. “Fine. I’ll paint something.” It’ll get her off my back. My studio is the one place I can find complete and utter tranquility, and I might be able to recreate that ambiance here in one of these rooms she doesn’t use. When I paint, everyone leaves me alone. Maybe I could make it work here.
The problem is, I’ve never been able to use my gift as an escape or a cop-out. I can only create when I’m feeling inspired. And as my sisters have both noticed, I haven’t been feeling that way lately. I wish I knew why, because I miss it. My muse has taken a vacation to parts unknown, and I don’t know when I’m going to see her again. Maybe I could just splash paint all over the canvas for two weeks and call it done. Amber doesn’t seem to mind the fake Jackson Pollock look. The very idea makes my artist’s soul sick, though.
I started to work on something when my sister first left for New York, but when I found out that she was staying, it killed my motivation. Rationally, I know that what she has going on in her life shouldn’t have anything to do with mine; we’re adult women, and none of us made any kind of plan to stay together forever. We’re close, but we’re not the Siamese triplets our mothers accuse us of being. Not really. But her news still managed to make me sad enough that painting was no longer fun.
“Okay, then, we have a mission,” Amber says. “We’re going to find an art supply place.”
“You know . . . ,” I say, fiddling with the label on the wine bottle, “you could probably order all of that stuff online and have it delivered, just like you do with your food.”
“Forget it,” she says, cutting me off with a sharp tone. “We’re not doing that. You are going to get out of this apartment at least once in the ten days you’re here, and that’s final.”
I drink some more of my wine. “Fine.” I know hiding out up here in this tower is weird, but that doesn’t stop me from wanting to do it. If I get out once, though, I can say I’m not a total recluse.
“And I’m buying you some clothes, too, and don’t try to argue with me about it. I saw what you pulled out of that suitcase. You were planning on wearing the same outfit over and over again, weren’t you?”
“So?” Amber has never had a problem with that before, especially when she was the person in charge of doing everyone’s laundry.
“You can’t do that here,” she says, sounding a little outraged.
It makes me laugh. “Why not?”
“Because! You’re not on a hippie commune, you’re living in Manhattan now . . . for the next ten days, anyway. And I say you’re going to have fun and buy new clothes here, whether you like it or not.”
I can’t stop smiling. “Damn, you are twice as bossy as you ever were back at the farm.”
“Believe it, sister.” She finishes off her wine and holds her glass above her head. “Come over here and fill me up.”
I grab the bottle and go back into the sitting room, refreshing her glass and then mine, taking the spot on the couch right next to her as I place the bottle on the coffee table.
I face her, an apology in my eyes. “I love you a lot . . . you know that, right?” I’m sorry I’m so lame, so afraid of change, so uncomfortable in your new world. I’m sorry that I fear losing you, my sister who I love so much, because we no longer have anything in common.
She leans her head against mine and touches our glasses together. “I love you too, little sister. Even if you are slightly agoraphobic, afraid of strangers, and a terrible dresser.”
I don’t say anything; I just sip my wine. I hate that her description of who I am is accurate, and I wonder if it’s possible that New York could work its magic on me like it worked its magic on my sister . . . or if I even want it to.