THE OTHER SISTER

by

Sarah Zettel

READER SAMPLE

      “Snowy White, and Rosy Red.  Will you beat your lover dead?”

— “Snow-White and Rose-Red” from Kinder und Hausmärchen Vol. 2, Jacob and Wilhelm Grimm, 1812 —

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GERALDINE, PRESENT DAY

MICHIGAN, HEADING NORTH

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1.

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      Twenty years ago, I killed my mother.  

      I tried to kill myself immediately afterwards.  Probably that was from remorse, but I have to admit, I’ve never been sure. My suicide attempt, though, didn’t actually work out.  You can tell, because here I am, driving through the green hills of northwest Michigan, headed back home.

      It’s pretty tough to hang around the family domicile after you’ve killed your mom.  So, when I got out of the hospital and flushed the official anti-anxiety meds down the toilet, I caught up with a friend-of-a-friend.  He was driving down to Buffalo, and asked if I could go along.

      That, though, was a long time ago. The worst of our secrets and skeletons have stayed locked in their respective closets, and here I am, on that same road, headed back to Whitestone Harbor and the Rose House, and everything that waits inside. 

      I’ve been back before; for a family weddings, a few births and a couple of big anniversaries.  This time, it’s my nephew Robbie’s graduation weekend.  I promised my sister, Marie, that I would not miss it. 

      Marie has never been above playing the Robbie card to get what she needs from me.  Marie knows I love him without reservation or hesitation, and that’s not a feeling I have about many people.  So, if she wants something, she’ll say, “Robbie was asking about you.”  Or “Robbie’s hoping you’ll be here.”  Or she’ll bring out the big guns, like she did this time.  When she called to tell me to keep an eye out for the invitation card and the ticket. “You have to promise, Geraldine.  Robbie’s counting on you.”

      A tight smile forms and pulls at my old scar.  Robbie.  Prince Charming of the Monroe family’s fairy tale.

      I’m one of the world’s experts on the stories of The Brothers Grimm and their influence on pop culture.  Therefore, I’m qualified to lecture you about the structure of the basic fairy tale arc.  Including the fact that in most stories, somebody comes back during the big transitions; weddings, for example, or christenings, or executions.  Sometimes it’s that should-be-dead princess returning to claim her castle.  Sometimes, it’s the witch or the bad fairy appearing to drop the curse. 

      I wonder which one I am?  My smile broadens.  It’s an old, sharp, nasty smile, and the pull deepens.  Guess we’ll find out when I get there. 

      Assuming, that is, I don’t lose my nerve. 

      It’s a tiring drive.  Whitestone Harbor, Michigan is three days away from Alowana, New York and Lillywell College where I lecture.  You go down through the Allegheny Mountains and across to Buffalo.  Over the Peace Bridge.  All the way across the flat expanse of Ontario where you struggle to stay awake and thank God for music streaming, because listening to the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation on the radio will put you to sleep faster than that third glass of wine at the faculty dinner.  Over the Ambassador Bridge and through grim, battered Detroit.  Then it’s point the wheels north, until the world turns green and the hills roll out in front and bunch up behind. 

      No matter how many times I do this drive, I need all three days to decide if I’m going through with it.  Sometimes the shakes come, and memory blots out the road in front of me.  Sometimes, I can’t stop myself from seeing Mom standing in the ruined driveway — her arms thrown wide, so she’s crucified in the headlights.  Then, I have to turn around.  I have to call Marie and make some lame excuse about a department emergency, or the flu, or the car breaking down.

      When this happens, Marie always acts like she believes me.  “Are you okay, Geraldine?” she asks.  “Do you need help?  Do you have enough money?”

      “I’m fine,” I tell her, every time. 

      “Okay then, call if you need anything, all right?  Don’t just text.  I need to hear you’re okay.”

      “I promise, Marie,” I say, and we hang up and I do call, but it’s always to tell her that I went back home and I’m fine, whether it’s the truth or not.

      Obviously, I haven’t been caught, or tried, or punished, for my murder.  If I was ever even seriously suspected, those suspicions were quickly tidied away.  In Whitestone, the Monroe family name is good for that sort of thing.  I got asked a few questions in the hospital, and that was that.  It was decided that my mother, Stacey Jean Burnovich Monroe, killed herself.  Everybody in Whitestone breathed a great sigh of relief.  Especially my father’s family. 

      Perhaps I should say, especially my father.

      The two-lane ribbon of black top unspools up and down the achingly familiar hills. Every so often there’s a gravel drive with a little white shack or flat-bed trailer and a hand-painted sign;

STRAWBERRIES

ASPARAGUS

LAST CHANCE

      Last chance. The words hover in front of my eyes like a heat mirage.   Last chance.  I don’t have to do this.  I could turn around.  I could break down.  Let my phone run out of juice so I have to wait for someone to stop to help me.

      I could run away for good this time.  I’ve already got my whole life packed up with me.  My rusting, yellow Subaru is crammed with suitcases of clothes and dishes, and boxes upon boxes of files and academic journals.  The parts of my ancient desktop computer ride shotgun on the passenger seat.  My sleeping bag and backpack are crammed behind the driver’s seat.  All the bridges to the world I thought I’d created for myself outside Whitestone Harbor and Rose House are well and truly burnt. 

      That should mean I can go anywhere.  Marie and I can just keep on pretending we don’t know what we know, just like we’ve been doing all our lives.

      But then there’s Robbie.  And there’s Dad.  If I turn around this time, what will I do about Dad? 

      Shit.

      I keep driving.  I am going back to Rose House.  I’m appearing at this time of family celebration to bring a blessing, or a curse.  Because twenty years ago, I killed my mother.  I didn’t mean it.  I meant to save her, but I failed.  I failed, and I am unforgiven for that sin.

      But that’s not the worst part of the mess that is Geraldine Monroe.

      The worst part, is after twenty years, I finally know what I have to do next.