When We Were Sisters. Emilie Richards

      Cecilia

      I’ve never liked hospitals. Three months ago I spent two weeks incarcerated in one, and now I like them even less. Sure, I still realize the occasional necessity, but I also realize how important it is to be freed as soon as possible. On that one point alone I agree with insurance companies.

      For the majority of my childhood I escaped the notice of doctors. On the rare occasion when Maribeth—the woman who gave birth to me—focused long enough to realize I was sick, we sat in emergency rooms and waited. Once she left me alone for hours after telling me she was going to the bathroom. When it was my turn to be seen, the staff refused because Maribeth wasn’t present. Just as they were about to contact the police she showed up again with a good enough story to explain her absence.

      Growing up, I heard so many of Maribeth’s good enough stories that I don’t remember the juicier details. I only know our wait began all over again. It was nearly morning before they diagnosed pneumonia and gave her a prescription and instructions for taking care of me. The only surprising thing? I think she actually filled the prescription. That was unusual enough to be memorable.

      The smallish hospital where the paramedics took Robin two nights ago looks like hospitals in well-to-do suburbs everywhere. Tan facade of mixed materials, clever use of glass and soaring ceilings. Fresh, clean lobby to promote confidence. By the time I arrived in Leesburg, almost forty hours after the accident, visiting hours had already begun for the day. Traveling to Phoenix, then scheduling a flight to Dulles was surprisingly difficult, but I didn’t have enough time to wheedle anybody’s private jet.

      Donny accompanied me, all personal manager and bodyguard, and now he was the liar who was taking care of the business of getting me to the right floor. “My wife Jennifer and I,” he said in introduction before he asked where we could find Robin. The receptionist didn’t even glance at me.

      Donny has been my manager for close to five years, and he has a genius for handling difficult situations or spotting them before they erupt. Today I wasn’t dressed as a big star. One of Donny’s shirts streamed over my tank top and baggy jeans, and my hair was pinned underneath one of his ball caps. No makeup hid my infestation of freckles, but tinted Harry Potter spectacles shaded my eyes. If anyone had caught me on camera this would have been a “before” shot. “Your Favorite Celebrities and What They Really Look Like.”

      Luckily no one had realized I was in Arizona, and apparently no airline or airport employees had reported us, either, so nobody had followed us to the airport or sent photographers to greet us when we landed.

      When we were alone in the elevator on the way to Robin’s floor he asked how I was feeling.

      I’m not sure how a genuine nice guy makes it in this business. Donny looks like a high school history teacher—a little too preoccupied to remember to get his hair cut regularly or clean his glasses. He’s easy to look at, brown hair and eyes, even features, but he never makes an effort to be more. He has some kind of advanced belt in karate, and he’s been known to sail a twenty-four-foot sloop through Pacific Ocean squalls on his own. So he’s muscular enough to keep fans at a distance, but by no means a bodybuilder. Unless he’s in high-level negotiations or in danger of being photographed with me, his uniform is a faded concert T-shirt and discount store jeans.

      The casual facade fades when he’s concentrating on contract concessions or higher royalties. He’s focused, determined and unfailingly polite. Nobody tries to take advantage of him a second time. Despite that, everyone likes Donny. And me? I would trust him with my life, and do.

      “I feel fine,” I told him. “I’m not fragile. I’m not falling apart.”

      “Nothing I said implied you were.”

      “Thanks to you.” I glanced at him. “You kept that whole mess in Sydney under wraps. Not a single headline about my suicide attempt, or my bipolar diagnosis, or the way I shaved my head to get attention in the hospital.”

      “If that’s a wig, I think you should keep it.”

      I sent him a tight smile. Unlike Britney Spears I’ve never been bald, nor have I ever tried to commit suicide. And I’m not bipolar, although quite possibly my mother was—but how would I know since she abandoned me when I was nine?

      Still, three months ago I had spent two difficult weeks in an Australian hospital crying my eyes out, and somehow Donny had kept that a secret.

      “I’m sorry I jumped down your throat,” I said.

      “Robin’s going to be fine.”

      “As fine as somebody can be after she nearly dies and her next-door neighbor actually does.”

      “You think her husband will be here?”

      I didn’t. Today is Wednesday, and since Robin isn’t terminal, cynical me is pretty sure Kris will be at work. Talya’s funeral is probably sometime this afternoon. Her family is Jewish, and by custom the service should take place immediately. How can Kris get away from his office without weeks of preparation?

      “I’m hoping he’s somewhere getting ready to attend the funeral,” I said.

      “You’re not thinking of going, are you?”

      I understood Donny’s subtext. If I were recognized, the service would be all about me.

      “I hardly knew her. I’ll stay with Robin.”

      We got off the elevator and found the right hallway. I bypassed the nurses’ station and headed right for my sister’s room. At the door I paused to listen for voices, but the room was silent. I pushed the door wider and walked in. Donny leaned against the wall outside, arms folded over his chest.

      Robin was alone lying in the bed with her face turned toward the window. Her shoulders were hunched, and I doubted she was asleep.

      “Robin?”

      She turned, and I saw she’d been crying. “CeCe! I told you not to come.”

      “Yeah, yeah.” I crossed the room and perched on the bed beside her. “Since when have I listened to you? I’m just sorry I couldn’t get here sooner.”

      She sniffed, then she held out her arms for a hug. “How did you get here at all? Where were you?”

      I hugged her gingerly, remembering the shoulder. “Arizona. Out in the middle of God knows where on a ranch. You saved me from having to get on a horse. You’re my hero.”

      “You used to ride. You could have been a rodeo queen.”

      “It’s been a long time since I made friends with a horse.”

      Robin’s hair is a rich chocolaty brown, longish and straight, with bangs brushing her forehead. I touched a strand, swiping it off her cheek. I was thirteen when Robin and I became sisters, and I thought right away that her heart-shaped face needed bangs. She’s worn them ever since, and they highlight eyes as blue as her namesake’s eggs. Today she was pale, but normally she has the clear, rosy complexion of a milkmaid. The first word people use when they describe her is wholesome.

      “I’m kind of surprised to find you here,” I said. “Donny checked this morning, but I thought maybe they sent you home after lunch.”

      “The hospital has a special concussion program.” She made a face. “I have my own nurse navigator. She wants me to stay another night.”

      “Why?”

      “Just a precaution. I can’t seem to remember everything that happened when...” Her eyes filled.

      “Thank God.”

      “My thought, too.”

      “So you’ll get out tomorrow?”

      “Unless something else turns up.” The tears pooled, and she sniffed. “But I wanted to get out today. I want to be at Talya’s funeral.”

      “When is it?”