Devoted Sisters
“What the hell is she doing?”
“It sounds like she’s crying”
“Thanks Kathy, like I didn’t know. What if I need to pee?” Taylor’s beautiful face screwed up like he swallowed a bitter pill.
I looked at my boyfriend, and was tempted to suggest the sink. I glanced at the bathroom door in our fancy Brentwood apartment, behind which my sobbing older sister had locked herself.
“Dinner is going to burn.” He informed me.
He marched past me toward the Christmas tree, where our gifts to each other were swaddled. Earlier, I had watched, in his meticulously fussy way, while he stuck cloves in the ham that was now in the oven baking with holiday cheer.
Our romantic Christmas Eve spoiled to perfection.
“What are you going to do with her?” As though she was some stray cat I’d picked up on the street. But I saw his point.
“I’ll take her to Dad’s.” He gave me a look, like fuck you very much.
Other ideas were lacking. She’d arrived unexpectedly stating “I’m here,” like I was obligated, by rights of sisterhood, to have a holiday parade. But that was Belinda. It’s all about me.
Dad was pissed in both ways when I called, but somewhat understanding.
“We’re going to a party, but she can go with us.” He slurred. At least his girlfriend was driving.
“I’ll see you in an hour.” Dad’s estimate of the drive to Orange County from Los Angeles on Christmas Eve.
He must be hoping for a miracle on 4th street, where he lived. To get to Tustin and back would be three hours minimum, and Belinda still needed to be extricated from the bathroom.
Taylor had barricaded himself in our bedroom, probably with a pillow over his head, calling his Mommy for comfort. There was something odd about those two, not that I was any expert on mother/child relationships. She paid his rent, bought his groceries, and, sometimes Mommy spent the night, sharing his bed, while I would be relegated to the twin bed in the other room. I’d never met his Dad, and he never talked about him. I knew this wasn’t normal behavior, but at nineteen I still navigating what was considered normal.
The sobbing coming from the bathroom subsided. I delicately tapped on the door.
“Bel, Belie, open the door. I called Dad and he wants you to come for Christmas Eve.”
“Did he say that?” Hope choking in her voice, like maybe it was true.
As long as she thought Dad loved her more than me, she would bite at the worm wiggling the end of the pole.
“Yeah, he wants to see you.” He never wanted to see her, because what was there, he didn’t like.
“Open the door Bel, or I’ll get a bobby pin.” She knew I could do it. I was expert at opening doors that were determined to remain closed. I tried the door, and it opened like a holiday gift.
She sat on the toilet lid, with one of Taylor’s fluffy new yellow towels covering her body like a blanket, wiping her snotty nose and eyes all over it. He was going to have a fit, another fit. Her face was red and puffy. Red and puffer than normal.
“Come on Bel, you don’t want to spend Christmas in the bathroom. Dad and Anne are waiting for you.” I said this tenderly, slowly. I had to be careful.
She was bigger than me. We were from different gene-pools. I was built like a kitten, but she forgot I had claws. She’d been chomping at me for our lifetimes, never forgiving me for my one sin, my birth. I was the baby that was supposed to repair my parents broken marriage, that just broke into a million pieces. Bel never absolved me for the fact that I came out looking like a Gerber baby when she was a four-year-old.
There is an old black and white family photo at Dads. One of those studio jobs, where the kids are supposed to smile and sit still. I suppose no-one noticed that Belinda has her hands around my neck.
I washed her face and brushed her hair, like she was a little girl. She snuffled, and blew her nose into Taylor’s towel. You couldn’t rush these things with her or you’d end up back where you started, with a bite on your arm.
After forty-five minutes, of hair brushing, insincere hugs, and nose wiping, we were in my old smoke spewing Honda. It was only then I told her Dad and Anne were taking her to a party. She pouted like a baby, predictably starting to cry again. This was not comporting with her vision of “Fa, la, la.”
The time that I had taken to get her calmed down was swept away. I bubbled with anger at Belinda, at Taylor, and stupid Christmas where everyone thought all the family nightmares could be forgotten in a song about good tidings.
“What do you want Bel, to have everyone cancel their plans just because you show up?” A stupid question, of course that’s what she wanted.
I’d found out that we were not the only victims of her whims that day. She’d bummed a ride from a friend to drive her down to L.A from San Francisco, then landed at my humble abode unannounced when they let her know she couldn’t stay for their family gathering.
“No one loves me. I have nowhere to go.” She mumbled.
“Maybe you should have thought of that before you just show up on people’s doorsteps.” I waited, because I knew I should just shut up. But my young brain was not spot-on. Maybe that’s why I hadn’t quite clued into Tad yet.
“I know Bel, you just want have us watch ‘White Christmas’ with you and drink hot chocolate next to fireplace. But grow up, it’s not going to happen.” I poked her in the arm.
She was open like a book, and this was not a mystery.
We had few comforts of home growing up. Comforting, our childhood was not. Mom spent our entire childhood either sleeping or in a mental institution, probably driven crazy by Dad. That was before the cancer ate her away. Dad loved two things: scotch short soda, no ice, and women. There were few pleasant memories to grasp in the muck of our formative years, and my parent’s favorite activity was throwing dinnerware at each other.
Christmas was positively the worst time of year. There was punching, hair pulling, name-calling that started at dinner each night. One of the escapes for me and my sister, was watching all those classic holiday movies. Our favorite was White Christmas with Bing Crosby and Danny Kaye.
It wasn’t the plot that drew us in, it was the music, and not just the music but one particular song;
“Sisters, Sisters, there were never such devoted sisters”
We would sing along, shout the last line, break down laughing, until one of us would spill the hot chocolate, and my sister would hit me in the face. Just imitating our parent’s daily life.
Dad always punished her, because he just couldn’t bring himself to hit me, the apple of his eye. No worries, she always made up for that. This behavior framed our relationship for years to come. I grew more sarcastic and caustic, she grew narcissistic and self-pitying.
We were both quiet. Kind of enjoying the ride.
Traffic really wasn’t that bad for Christmas Eve. I’d made a right turn onto the 405 freeway south from Wilshire Boulevard, thinking maybe this side-track would only take a few hours. Maybe Taylor and I could resume our planned activities, and eat that ham.
She gripped me around the neck with both hands. It was with such force, it couldn’t be a joke. She was pushed her thumbs into my windpipe, closing it off. Not just choking, throttling me. Pushing in, hard and I coughed. I really thought that this time she was really going to kill me. Her brown eyes bulged with hate. I took one hand off the steering wheel and clawed at her. I slowed down and weaved to the side of the road. The car behind me started to honk in anger. I pulled over into the break down lane, and dug my sharp nails into her hands, but she didn’t let go. I balled up my left fist, and one handed, hit her in the face. Realization dawned on her expression, and she let go.
I coughed and wheezed several times before I could talk. I felt like there was a rock stuck in my throat. I leaned over her, and she cringed back into her seat. I opened the passenger side door and pushed at her. She budged a few inches, glancing at the hilly descent outside.
“Get out! Get out of my fucking car now! You crazy nut case. Get out of my car.” I tried to scream, but my voice came out like a croak.
I didn’t care that we were on the onramp to the 405, traffic whizzing past, or that she was my sister. She tried to fucking kill me again. Of course, she was crying, blubbering that she was sorry, because no one loved her.
“Just shut the fuck up. I swear if you say one more word, I will throw you out on the freeway.” I gripped the steering wheel then counted to ten. I moved the rear-view mirror down to see the bright red marks on my neck.
“Tis the season to be jolly.”
It was Christmas after all. She shut up. But she cried, because that’s what she did.
Dad opened the door in drunken greeting, but he could still see it in my face, but not the bruises that had formed on my neck.
“Everything okay.” Dad gave me a hug and kiss. Bel didn’t get one. He was afraid to touch her.
“You can talk to her about it. I going back to pick up the pieces of things she broke. I’ll see you tomorrow for dinner.” I turned around and drove back to L.A in the blissful silence of the night.
Taylor was right, the dinner was burned. But that wasn’t the only thing that had gone up in flames.
Deirdre Baird has an MFA in creative writing from Antioch University, Los Angeles, and is a graduate of the UCLA Writers Program. She has been published in Potato Soup Literary Journal, Down in the Dirt/scars t.v, and Eskimo Pie Literary Journal. Her debut novel Teaching William is searching for representation. Deirdre is native of Los Angeles.
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