Pieces of My Sister's Life by Elizabeth Arnold

Author:Elizabeth Arnold
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780553903881
Publisher: Random House Publishing Group
Published: 2007-07-30T16:00:00+00:00

I waited until Justin left for the mail, then sat in the kitchen, stomach churning, one hand on the phone, the other holding my mother’s phone number. I tapped my foot four times, lifted the receiver and listened to the dial tone. I tapped my foot four more times and dropped it again. I rose and paced to the window. Such a beautiful day outside, and I was reverting back into a froot loop.

Without letting myself think, I lifted the receiver again and dialed the number. I let the phone ring once, twice. Heart stuttering, I slammed it down. What would I say? What would I call her even? Mom? Mrs. Barnard? Did she use that name anymore? Diana. Hello, Diana, this is Kerry Barnard. Oh God.

From the den I heard Eve’s hacking cough and her struggle to regain breath. She’d been getting winded more easily, had almost given up on walking. Our mother should know, Georgia had said, but if she saw Eve now what would she know? She’d see a shadow, not a daughter, not a person worth her time.

I closed my eyes until I heard Eve’s breath steady, then timed my own to match it, reassuringly rhythmic and slow as I dialed the number.

A click and a hiss, then a voice. “Hello, I can’t come to the phone right now—” I slammed down the phone and stood, staring at the receiver. That was her. That was my mother’s voice. I dialed again.

One, two, three rings, click-hiss. “Hello, I can’t come to the phone right now—” I hung up.

She had a thick Boston accent that made the hair prickle on my arms. She sounded harsh, citified, almost masculine, like a used-car salesman. Not what I’d expected. Really not at all.

I dialed again, tried to get used to the voice. “Mom,” I whispered, “Mother,” trying to ingrain it. Then the answering machine played a grating computerized song, the kind you might hear once after buying a machine and then realize you had to erase it. When the song ended, without thinking I whispered, “Hello.”

The phone slipped to clatter against the table. I grabbed at it and hung up, then sat gripping the receiver. She would listen to that message. My mother would listen to my voice and maybe even wonder if it could be me. I inhaled deeply. One last time.

One, two, three rings and then the voice. “Who the hell is this?”

Oh my God.

I slid down the wall onto my butt and focused on a thumbprint smudge against the yellow wallpaper. “I…” My voice was a hoarse croak. I cleared my throat. “Hi.” I shook my head. “Hi, this is me. This is Kerry.” I curled my toes inside my sneakers. “This is your daughter Kerry.”

I could hear her breath on the other end, every sound intensified. I heard everything, from the click of settling walls to the hiss of a radiator. I thought I heard her brain searching for words, pictured the shock on her face, the joy.

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