The Day Rate My Sister Charged

Her Face

I have thought a great deal about what I saw in my sister’s face then, and I am still not sure I have it right.

There was anger in it, a little. And there was something else underneath, something tired and scared that I did not understand yet and would not for two more days.

“You want me to give you a shower,” she said. Not a question. Just saying it out loud to see how it sounded.

“And help me dress,” I said. “And drive me to therapy three days a week. And get the kids fed. And whatever else comes up. It’s a lot. That’s why I’m paying.”

“I have a job, Whitney.”

She did. She worked part time at the insurance agency on Main, three mornings a week. I knew her hours better than she thought I did.

“Ask Pam for six weeks off,” I said. “A hundred and fifty a day is more than the agency pays you. You’d come out ahead.”

She looked at me like I had slapped her. I had not raised my voice. I had not said one hard word. I just sat there with my arm in the sling and waited.

When we were little, our mother used to braid our hair every Saturday night before church. Mine first, because I squirmed, and then Krista’s, slow, because Krista sat still.

Mama used to say we were her two good hands. One to hold on and one to let go. I never did figure out which one was supposed to be which.

I thought about that while my sister stood across from me and did not look at me.

Then Krista reached down and picked up the stack. Her fingers were shaking. She folded it once and pushed it into the pocket of her vest, and she zipped the pocket.

“Six,” she said.

“Six,” I said.

She walked out the back door without saying goodbye to Rhett. He waved at the door anyway, the way three year olds do, sure that anyone who leaves is coming back.

Luke

When Luke got home from the pharmacy I was still sitting there. My coffee had gone cold because I could not reach the pot and had not wanted to ask.

He poured me a fresh one without saying anything and sat down across from me in the chair where Krista should have sat.

“She take it?” he asked.

“She took it.”

“And?”

“She said six.”

He nodded slowly. He turned his cup around in his big scarred hands. There is a white burn mark across the back of his right thumb from a slag pop when he was twenty. I have always loved that thumb.

“You sure about this?” he asked.

“No,” I said.

“Okay.” He reached across and put his hand over mine. “Then I’m not either. We’ll be not sure together.”

That night Paisley crawled into bed with me, careful of my arm, and told me all about the nine days. Aunt Krista made spaghetti. Maddie painted her nails purple. Rhett cried for me every night but only a little.

“Did Aunt Krista do good?” I asked her.

Paisley thought about it with her whole face, the way six year olds do. “She was tired,” she said. “She was on the phone a lot. In the garage. With the door shut.”

I set my alarm for a quarter to six. I did not need it. I was awake at four, lying there in the dark, listening to Luke breathe and wondering what kind of sister I was.

At 5:58, someone knocked on the back door.