The Sometime Sister by Katherine Nichols (e novels for free .TXT) 📗

me as I discovered when I leaned in to apply my mascara and saw not my face, but Stella’s.

My sister and I never bore a strong physical resemblance to one another. Her brilliant blue eyes were in sharp contrast to my gray ones, and her blonde hair gave her a glamorous demeanor I would never have. But there had always been a sisterly sameness in our expressions, especially when we were immersed in sadness or lost in thought. Today the similarity was so striking it was as if I could touch the woman in the mirror and, in doing so, I might bring my sister home.

If I were being honest, though, I wasn’t sure I wanted her back. Her betrayal with Ben had undone me. For over three months I lost interest in the day-to-day operations of life. I had trouble falling asleep and could barely drag myself out of bed in the mornings. I forgot about life’s little niceties, such as maintaining personal hygiene or eating regular meals.

Everyone tip-toed around the issue. Even Mom refrained from mentioning I exuded an aura of refugee from a war-torn country. Finally, Lesroy confronted me.

“Grace, I hate to be the one to tell you, but you look like something the cat wouldn’t even drag in. Your eyes are vacant, like the lights are off and nobody’s home. And what’s worse, Cousin, is you stink.”

I don’t know if it was his version of tough love or if I had exhausted my capacity for self-pity, but from that point on, I stopped letting myself go. I returned to a regular regimen of bathing and shampooing and eating, but I never regained my sense of me. For over a year after they left, I thought about my sister or Ben or both daily. A song would play on the radio, and I would remember dancing to it with Ben. I’d pick up the phone to tell Stella something funny and realize I had deleted her number. There was no escape from my humiliation.

People promised me the pain would ease as time passed, and while it didn’t get much better, it became less intense. Instead of struggling under the crushing weight of my sorrow every day, I experienced lighter moments when I was depressed, not devastated. Lesroy suggested I see a therapist, but I refused to let go of my misery because it was all I had left of my previous life, all that remained of my relationship with Stella.

Still, I was making progress. Or so I told myself, but who was I kidding? In a few days I would drop everything to travel to a country where I didn’t even speak the language in search of a sister I would be better off without. Once again, I had gotten sucked back into my sister’s drama.

But this would be different. This time I wouldn’t return to being the adoring older sister. I would confront her and demand she grow up and accept responsibility for the pain she caused. Then I might forgive her and let go of my sibling loneliness.

I spent the next hour returning client emails and proofing a guest blog post for a fellow copywriter on how to develop a freelance business. Then I fixed lunch and ate it while watching the local news.

The weather forecast continued with dire predictions of the winter storm on the horizon. Outside, the sun cast its brittle light, making it hard to take the meteorologists seriously. But Atlantans have been fooled before and ended up being stuck overnight on freeways and in Waffle Houses. If I hurried, I could make a run to the store and avoid the hordes of people rushing the shelves for emergency supplies.

I gave Scarlett a treat and promised to be back soon, certain she had no concept of time. Since I suspected she was still waiting for Stella to come take her home, I was glad she didn’t.

.     .     .     .     .

It seemed everyone else had the same idea as I had, and my quick trip became a marathon instead of a sprint. On the way to my car, a frigid gust of damp wind pummeled me.

In the warmth of my kitchen, I put away my purchases: milk, eggs, coffee, bread, toilet paper, and wine. Then I rummaged through the pantry until I found the chocolate syrup.

“I’m thinking about a little hot chocolate for me and, for you, one of those delicious chew-bones,” I said to Scarlett. At the mention of bones, she wagged her tail in approval.

After we finished drinking and chewing, we crawled into bed. I hadn’t understood how draining having a missing sister could be.

I awoke to the phone ringing. It was Mike, most likely calling with my flight plan.

“I was just getting ready to pack,” I improvised. “It won’t take me long.”

“There’s no hurry, Grace. They found Stella.”

Chapter 8

I sat on the bed tracing the floral pattern on my comforter, hoping Mike would call back and tell me he’d misunderstood what the officials had told him. Yes, some girl’s body had been found battered and bruised on the beach. But it wasn’t Stella. Yes, it was her sailboat capsized a few miles from the coastline, but she hadn’t been thrown from it. She’d been picked up by a passing fisherman and would soon be posting news about her adventure on Facebook.

Both as a child and an adult, I’d never been a big crier. When I fell off my bike and broke my arm, I howled on the way to the hospital but never shed a tear. After discovering my fiancé was gone, I remained dry-eyed as I raged and smashed his favorite mug. I ripped his face from every picture I had. Every now and then, I woke to find my pillowcase damp, but in my waking hours I remained stoic.

I always considered my inability to release my pain in a stream of tears more of a blessing than a curse. But not today. From