When We Were Sisters. Emilie Richards

six buses and seventy-two staff, if you include my cook and Andy. Remember Andy? The personal trainer who quit halfway through because the schedule was too grueling? And let’s not forget the musicians, dancers, backup singers, the stagehands and construction engineers.”

      “So? You gave a lot of people jobs and made a lot of fans deliriously happy.”

      “I made myself sick. I made myself crazy. And I can’t know for sure that if I don’t stop pushing so hard it won’t happen again. I’ve been warned.”

      “I think about a different life, too. It’s almost impossible to imagine one when every second isn’t a competition or a negotiation or a pep talk.”

      “I’ve had my share of your pep talks.”

      “Here’s another in that long line. You already know the documentary can both help or hurt your career. You’ll seem more human—that’s the good part. On the other hand, you’ll seem more human and—”

      “That’s also the bad part,” I finished for him.

      “I know this is incredibly personal for you, that you want to share the realities of foster care with the world. That you want to change lives...”

      I nodded, waiting, because I heard a “but” coming.

      He hesitated, then he smiled. Donny doesn’t smile a lot, but the room warms when he does. This one was gentle, the way one good friend smiles at another when bad news is on the way.

      “Whose life do you want to change, Cecilia?”

      “Mine, of course, and the people who watch the film.”

      “How about Robin’s?”

      I pondered that. “Everything we do changes us, doesn’t it?” I asked at last.

      “Nice save. So let me rephrase. Have you invited her to be part of this for herself or for you.”

      “Are you questioning Robin’s credentials?”

      “I could. She’s a talented photographer, but she’s never done anything quite like this.”

      “Max Filstein says she can do anything she wants. She’s that good. I asked him specifically if she could handle this project, and he said of course.”

      “Don’t forget I was at the party where you and Max had that conversation. What he said was that she would be perfect for the project if she can achieve the distance she needs.”

      “Robin knows me better than anyone. She took off the rose-colored glasses a long time ago.”

      “Last week I sensed tension between her and Kristoff.”

      “I like the way you use his full name. So old-world.”

      “You’re changing the subject.”

      Changing the subject is something I’m particularly good at. This, too, I attribute to foster care. Deflecting unpleasant realities is a foster child specialty.

      “There is tension,” I said. “She’s starting to realize what a shabby deal she’s getting. He earns the money. She does everything else. She can’t count on Kristoff for help or even for making good on his promises. He was supposed to come home the night of the accident and take care of their kids. He didn’t. He was supposed to go to the neighbor’s funeral to represent their family. He didn’t get there in time. When I first met her, all those years ago, Robin was so traumatized she couldn’t speak. These days she just has trouble speaking up.”

      “Are you trying to pave the path to divorce?”

      Apparently Donny had given up on the soft approach. “You’ve really picked up big-time on this little drama, haven’t you?”

      “You and I have worked together for five years. I know what makes you tick. And I hear ticking.”

      “If you really knew what made me tick you would have said goodbye a long time ago.”

      “I may not know every detail, but I do know you. Nobody’s as hard on you as you are on yourself.”

      I finished the last of my muffin. I wanted another, but they’re vegan, not low cal, so I sadly dusted my hands over the plate. “I don’t like Kris all that well. He sucks the joy out of every room. But I don’t want Robin to be unhappy, either. I just want her to have the time to figure out her life. And I want her to remember she’s more than a wife and mother.”

      “You’ve decided that’s not enough? Because those are fighting words for a lot of women.”

      “No! I’m a big fan of mothers, never having had one who did anything more domestic than open a vial of crack. Robin’s done the domestic thing and loved it. I don’t begrudge her that. But she’s also immensely talented, and she deserves more from life than to continue being Kris’s house elf.”

      “For what it’s worth I don’t think Kris sucks the joy out of a room, and I don’t think he sees her that way. He’s not one of those guys who launches himself into every conversation or regales everyone with stories about how important he is. He’s thoughtful and serious, but I think he was shaken by the accident. He couldn’t take his eyes off Robin at the table the other night. And I think he’s the kind of guy who closes in on himself when he’s in turmoil. For that matter, she does the same thing.”

      “When did you become a psychologist?”

      “When I came on board as your manager.” He winked. “It’s a job requirement. A necessity for survival.”

      Unwillingly I smiled. “What else do we need to talk about?”

      “I’ve got a list, but let’s take a walk on the beach first. You game?”

      I tried to remember if Donny and I had ever taken a walk together just for fun. Fun was intriguing and a good delaying tactic. “I have sand pails for shells if you find anything to collect. This is the best shelling beach in North America.”

      “I might. I have a niece who loves pretty shells.”

      “You have a niece?” I wondered why he had never mentioned her before.

      “I’ll tell you all about Jenny, unless you think it will destroy my mystique.”

      I got to my feet. “You have no mystique, and it’s a deal. Besides if we take a walk, I can have another muffin.”

      “Let’s walk far enough for two.”

      That was almost too much pleasure to imagine. “You’ve got a deal.”

8

      Kris

      When I was a teenager and wanted to sneak out of the house on a school night to be with my friends, I tiptoed shoeless to our creaky front door. Then I waited for some blast of neighborhood noise, a car passing with its stereo blaring, sirens or a truck rumbling along the main street a block away. The moment I had cover I opened the door just enough to squeeze through and stepped out to the porch, where I pulled on my shoes before I headed down the street.

      I was seventeen the first and last time I was caught. I returned from a night out to find my father in the living room reading a month-old issue of Lidové Noviny, “the People’s Newspaper,” sent by a friend from the country that was still called Czechoslovakia, although not for much longer.

      My parents came to the United States during the Prague Spring, when the Soviets marched into Czechoslovakia and stamped out budding reforms. My father, Gustav—Gus—was a leader in the artists’ community, and his paintings were political in nature, which meant he was in danger. He, my mother, Ida, and sister, Lucie, escaped and eventually made their way to Cleveland, Ohio, where I was born.

      On this night he looked up from that nostalgic taste of the country he had been forced to leave and pulled his glasses to the tip of his