When We Were Sisters. Emilie Richards

let go of this and move on?”

      Pet, who looks enough like Robin to confirm that the hospital sent us home with the right baby, was close to sobbing. “But that’s my notebook, Daddy. Nik stole it from my desk.”

      “I didn’t steal it. You took it out of the supply cupboard and hid it, and I had to go into your desk to find it. But it’s not really yours, because you aren’t even using it. I need it.”

      “Put the damn notebook on the dashboard. Now!” I took a breath and lowered my voice. “Really? A spiral notebook is so important you’re screaming at each other? Put it on the dashboard right now, Nik.” Or else was clear.

      “Whatever.”

      My son’s voice is deepening. I hadn’t noticed this until yesterday, but he is moving from childhood to adolescence, and not gracefully if today is any example. He and Pet both realize they nearly lost their mother two nights ago, but neither has said a word about it to me. Instead their fighting has gotten worse, as if their mother’s brush with death was a hiccup.

      The coveted notebook thumped against the dashboard, and Nik, in the seat beside me—the death seat, according to Cecilia—folded his arms. I glanced at the notebook and understood the fight. Rock Star was emblazoned across the front.

      Cecilia again.

      I sighed and glanced at my son. While Pet resembles her mother, Nik has my dark blond hair and greenish eyes. I’m not sure where his features come from, but even at twelve, they work together nicely.

      “When we get home, we’ll flip a coin,” I said, adding when they began to protest, “Or I will dump the notebook in our recycling bin. Got it? You two decide.”

      Stony silence ensued until we were just a couple of miles from home. I broke it. “What kind of pizza do you want tonight?”

      “We had pizza last night.” These days Nik has turned sullen into an art form.

      “We had pizza last night because your mother is in the hospital. Remember your mother? The woman who normally cooks for you? We had pizza because she wasn’t there to cook for you yesterday, nor is she there to cook for you today. And since we live too far out of town for any other kind of delivery, we will happily eat pizza again so we can leave early enough to visit her at the hospital. Since I couldn’t get you there last night.”

      Now I was close to screeching. I let seconds pass before I spoke again. “Look, I’m sorry. It’s been a tough couple of days.”

      “Sure. All that work and kids to take care of, too. Who could stand the pressure?”

      “You’re such a turd, Nik,” Pet said from the backseat. “Leave everybody else alone, okay? Can’t you be miserable on your own?”

      “Stop it, both of you.” I tried again. “Whether either of you has said a word about it or not, I’m sure you’re both worried about your mom.”

      “She’s going to be fine. You said so,” Nik said, as if this was the most boring information in the universe.

      “She is, but the whole thing is a shock. The accident. Mrs. Weinberg.” I didn’t know what else to say. Feelings are not my strong suit.

      “Yeah, well, it’s all over and done with. Can’t we just move on?” he said in imitation of me.

      I had an inkling, just an inkling, of why parents snap and hit their children. I tried again. “I know you were there when the police called Michael—Mr. Weinberg. It must have been hard.”

      “Yeah, that’s what you said the night it happened. It was harder for Mr. Weinberg, don’t you think? And for Channa?”

      “Hard for everyone, Nik, of course, but especially them.”

      “Channa didn’t even cry,” Pet said.

      “She was in shock, stupid,” Nick snapped back.

      “Well, I was in shock and I cried anyway.”

      I let the name-calling pass this once. “In a crisis everybody reacts in different ways. There’s no good or bad way.”

      “What’s your way?” Nik said in a tone that made it clear he really didn’t care. “Staying away from funerals? Working harder?”

      “You’re about one second away from a week without television.”

      “Who cares?” Nik turned his head toward the window to watch the passing scenery.

      Nik has never been an easy kid. As a baby he had colic, and by the time he grew out of it Robin swore she would never give birth again. We skated on smooth ice through age two, which is why Pet was conceived, but three was a nightmare. That’s been Nik’s pattern, a good year or two, followed by a dark period when nothing feels right to him. He’s a sensitive kid and notices everything. And he lives for justice. Robin says he’ll be a lawyer, too.

      If he is, I hope he loves the work more than I do.

      “We’ll go to shivah tomorrow.” I had already explained that Talya’s family would stay at home for seven days to receive guests and we would be expected to be among them. “I wish I hadn’t missed the funeral, but we’ll let Mr. Weinberg and the family know how sorry we are tomorrow night.”

      “I don’t want to go,” Nik said.

      “Me, either,” I said. “But this isn’t about us—it’s about them.”

      For once he didn’t argue.

      The rest of the trip was blessedly silent. I parked in the garage that Robin and I added when we extended the house. Those days, far behind us now, were golden. Redesigning with our architect, watching the future come together one expanse of cedar at a time, imagining the years in front of us. Robin was right on-site through the noise and confusion, but she made friends with our crew and insisted she didn’t mind. Sometimes when I came home in the evening I found the men still sitting around our temporarily relocated dining table, going over plans for the next day while they drank a well-deserved beer.

      Robin seems shy at first, but she loves anybody who loves her back. That’s not hard to do.

      “We can do wings with the pizza if you’d like,” I said as we got out of the car. Concessions can work wonders at home as well as the negotiating table.

      “Maybe we should get a salad?” Pet asked.

      Nik whistled. “Wow, Mom’s little helper. And she’s not even home to know how good you are.”

      Only she was home. We opened the door, and Robin was right there, waiting for us. For a moment I didn’t know what to say.

      “They let me out for the funeral,” she said, holding out her arms. “And here I am.”

      Pet leaped forward for a hug. If I’d had any doubts my daughter cared what had happened, they were allayed immediately. She was sniffing back tears.

      “Hey, I’m okay,” Robin said. “Really. How are you?”

      Pet pulled away. “Mad at you!”

      “I’m sure. And, Nik, you’re okay?”

      “Why wouldn’t I be?”

      I stopped staring at my wife to glance at my son. His voice had cracked, just a little, and his expression wasn’t as steely as he probably hoped.

      “Indeed,” Robin said lightly. She finally looked at me. “Cecilia’s here. She baked a file in a cake and sprung me.”

      I really should have expected that, but I had been so busy absorbing everything else I hadn’t gotten around to processing details.

      Cecilia. Of course.

      I made what passed for a protest. “You were supposed to stay in the hospital until tomorrow.”

      “Yes, and isn’t it nice I’m home instead?”