Emilie Richards - When We Were Sisters

I’m not sure why the neighborhood children always found our house so appealing. But as Nik and Pet grew, we were usually the center of activity. We had no basement rec room, as all of them did, with built-in bars and home theaters. But the sunroom was open to our kitchen, and snacks and drinks were always in easy reach, along with games, both board and video, and pillows and blankets to make tunnels. And outside? Outside we’d splurged on climbing equipment and a wooden playhouse that could be a fort or a palace.

I miss the comings and goings, the slamming of doors, the chatter, but today I was glad for the silence.

I poured myself a glass of ice water, took two ibuprofen and went to join Cecilia outside. My head was pounding, but the nurse had warned me I might have headaches for the next few weeks. She had also warned me not to miss the appointments she would schedule for me, but she had agreed to let me leave the hospital. I don’t know what Cecilia said to her, but I won’t be shocked if my sister makes a surprise appearance at their next benefit.

“It’s so pretty out here.” Cecilia was staring at our glimpse of the distant Catoctin Mountain ridge. “And your garden is spectacular, as always.”

As a young teenager I had helped our sunken-cheeked foster mother grow vegetables on a Florida ranch. Those memories include insects, snakes, hot sun beating on the back of my neck and bare arms, so I never expected to like gardening. But when I arrived at this house, I knew immediately that Kris and I would create garden rooms, defined by shrubs and perennial borders. I’ve made this garden happen, and yes, now it surrounds the house and often stops traffic.

I lowered myself to the glider beside her. “I’m always a little relieved when winter heads this way. Then the only real gardening chore is leafing through seed catalogs.” I pointed to her glass. “Aren’t you hungry?”

“You don’t have to take care of me.”

“Good, I’m not sure what’s in the fridge. I’ve only been gone two days, but Kris and the kids might have filled it with doughnuts and lunch meat.” Although, of course, that would mean that my husband had gathered himself to visit the grocery store, and I’m not sure he even remembers how to find it.

“Do you know where the kids went after school?” Cecilia asked.

“Kris was hoping to find a neighbor who would watch them when they got home today. I gave him a couple of names.”

“They’ll be glad to see you’re out of the hospital.”

I hoped it was true, but it seemed like a long time since my children had been glad to see me. “They’re growing up, CeCe. Mom is no longer the center of their lives. They’re breaking away big-time.”

“That’s natural.”

“I’m not sure.” I sipped my water and considered. Cecilia knows I talk in spurts and it’s never easy.

“The thing is,” I said, putting the glass on the table in front of us, “it seems to be more about anger than breaking away. I have to be good guy and bad guy, helper and tormentor. I’m the one who tells them how great an A is and the one who has to let them know it’s not all right when they don’t do homework or study. It’s always something, and I’m always right here taking care of it. Nobody else is around to deliver bad news.”

It was as close to an indictment of Kris as I’d ever made in Cecilia’s presence. I was immediately sorry. She didn’t need more ammunition against him.

“Maybe they aren’t angry at you.”

“Angry at the world?” I shrugged.

“Angry at their father for not being around while they’re growing up.”

I started to protest but didn’t get far. Because I know that Nik, in particular, needs more time with Kris. He’s twelve, tall and gangly and, according to his pediatrician, already into puberty. We started the “birds and the bees” discussion years ago in this garden, where the birds and the bees are actual residents, but the last thing my son wants now is to talk about sexual feelings or his changing body with his mother. And when can he talk to his father? Not on the fly during the rare times when Kris drops him at school on his way into work. Not late at night when Kris stumbles home so exhausted he can hardly remember his own name.

“It’s a problem,” I said. “Kris is a hot commodity. We don’t see a lot of him.”

She wisely didn’t follow up on that, at least not exactly. “Remember the night of the accident, when we chatted and I told you I needed to talk to you about something?”

I thought back and was glad I could remember. “You told me not to put you off.”

“Do you remember when I was in Australia on tour?”

“You got the flu and laryngitis and had to cancel the last week or so of concerts, right? Every time I called, Donny said you were fine but resting your voice.”

“I had a...” She angled her body toward me so she could see my face. “I had what they used to call a nervous breakdown. Now whatever they call it comes down to long paragraphs of psychobabble. But in essence, I had about a month when I couldn’t function. I was in a hospital for two of those weeks.”

“CeCe...” I covered her hand with mine. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“What would you have done? Flown to Australia? Worried? Besides, I had to deal with my problems on my own. I needed time to cry and think. I did a lot of both.”

I didn’t know what to say. Cecilia is the strongest person I know, but even strong people can snap under the right pressure.

“A lot of it was exhaustion,” she said. “I chopped the old candle into a thousand pieces and burned every one of them at both ends. There was a doctor there I liked, a woman, Dr. Joan. She said that anybody who works as hard as I do is always avoiding something.”

“What were you avoiding?”

“You know better than anybody. Where I come from. Who I was. Who I am now. What I never had. The whole nine yards.”

“Most people would find even one of those topics intimidating.”

She laughed a little. “Devoted to making everything as momentous as possible. That’s me.”

Even without makeup, even wearing a man’s loose dress shirt, Cecilia is beautiful. She hasn’t always been. She grew slowly into her quirky, oversize features, but by the time she turned eighteen her carroty hair had darkened to a spectacular auburn and her figure had ripened into something astonishing. She’s lovely up close, but onstage? Onstage she’s a goddess.

“How are you now?” I asked, because to look at her, no one would know she’d ever experienced turmoil, much less recently.

“Determined.”

“You’re always determined. You’ve been determined since the day we met. You always have a plan.”

“This is a little different. Before I was determined to remake myself, to pretend I was somebody else. Now I’m determined to let the world know who I really am.”

I was puzzled. Mystique is a part of celebrity, and Cecilia already shares so much with her audiences. She’s loved for her energy and her ability to make her fans feel as if they know her. But, of course, they don’t know her at all.

She stood and went to the railing, turning to face me. “Almost two years ago a film producer named Mick Bollard contacted me. Do you know the name?”

“The same Mick Bollard who makes the award-winning documentaries?”

“I figured you would know.”

Once upon a time I was a professional photojournalist. But even if the path of my life veered away from the profession I once loved so well, I do keep up with my colleagues.

“I may not have seen everything, but I’ve seen most of his work,” I said.

“He told me he was doing a documentary on the foster care system, and he was looking for someone to narrate, someone famous to feature. He wanted a celebrity who had been a foster child, somebody to convey what the experience is like from a child’s point of view. He thought that would be a draw for the audience, but also a testament to how foster children can triumph.”