The Sister-in-Law by Pamela Crane (great books for teens txt) 📗

The moment Ben lit his flame for me, he became my light. I basked in that light until he died, snuffing it out, and only gloom remained. That’s where I lived now. Utter gloom. Lane told me to reach out to my friends. What friends? I hadn’t heard from any of them since the memorial a month ago. Death tended to scare people off, lest a genuine connection brush up against them and infect them with, God forbid, emotions. No one wanted to hold a grown woman while she cried. I was the plague everyone ran from.

Perhaps I was a little too picky. Classist, as Lane once put it. I only made friends with those in my income bracket, because I’d done the whole needy friend thing and ended up scammed out of hundreds of dollars before poof! they disappeared when the freebies stopped coming. And my ideal friend needed to also be afflicted with kids, because only another mother could tolerate the whines and irritations that came with them. But I didn’t want a friend who had kids involved in a myriad of sports. I refused to spend endless hours at baseball games or on the sidelines of basketball courts or soccer fields, my tender skin frying in the sun. I had yet to find this perfect specimen of friend, and thus I remained alone.

Maybe it was better this way for someone as untrusting as I was.

Grief was the only emotion I trusted now. Grief easily drowned out fickle joy. A bite of sweet happiness couldn’t compete with the vinegar aftertaste of sorrow. There was something eloquent about sorrow, how it slowly pulled you under without you ever realizing you were sinking.

And yet I was so tired of sorrow. It had been my natural state for so long that the tears had dried up. So I picked it up, shook it hard, and watched it turn into anger. Thank you, Candace, for helping me get there.

Every day I hated her a little more. She was manipulative and lazy, the worst kind of woman. She was the type of woman who lured men in with her beauty, then trapped them into a life of servitude. Once she got bored with the adoration, she would crush Lane under her hippie gladiator sandals and walk away, her maxi dress flapping in the wind and bangle bracelets jangling.

Trusting men like my brother were the easiest targets. Always eager to please, surprising her with flowers, takeout, rose-petal trails to a candlelit bedroom. What happened when she was no longer surprised? I knew the answer to that. Poor Lane didn’t.

Over the past few days I’d watched as Lane waited on Candace hand and foot – God forbid the baby inside her be jostled about if she dared sit up – and when he was at work I was expected to do the same. Pregnant or not, I wasn’t her slave and I had no problem telling her as such.

The kids were upstairs doing homework, which meant they were more likely playing video games on their tablets, and I had just finished tidying up the kitchen after Candace’s late afternoon quesadilla lunch. I could always tell when, and what, she cooked because she left evidence of it everywhere. The sour cream and cheese were left on the island, and the dirty pan sat on the stove. How hard was it to put the ingredients back in the fridge? It was like taking care of a toddler!

Leaning against the doorjamb, I scrolled through rental applicants on my phone while snacking on carrots dipped in hummus. I was searching for the perfect tenant, which my real-estate expert mother would say didn’t exist. Candace, as usual, was laid up on the sofa watching television. I looked forward to the day when her perfect, lithe body outgrew her size 0 skinny jeans and never returned. Sitting around all the time would only help escalate that end.

‘Would you mind making me a cup of tea?’ Candace called from the living room. ‘Mint oolong, with sugar and cream, please.’

I could only see half of her from where I stood, the lower half that was leaving a butt indent in the couch with all of the sitting.

No, no, no! Get your own damn tea! Can’t you see I’m busy?

Of course I couldn’t scream what I was thinking. I was too proper for that. Women who wore Estée Lauder makeup and shopped at Pottery Barn didn’t retort. We replied.

‘I’d be happy to,’ I said instead. I couldn’t refuse the princess her afternoon tea. I closed my eyes, cursing her under my breath. ‘But just so you know, even though you’re pregnant, you should still do things for yourself. It’s healthy for the baby if you keep moving.’

I forced a grin and hoped the hint was clear enough.

‘I swim my daily laps, but the doctor told me to take it easy other than that, Harper. That’s all I’m trying to do.’

I hated the way she said my name, Harper, the P harsh and the R over-pronounced. Like Harp-errr. ‘I understand, but I’ve been pregnant too, Candace, and taking it easy doesn’t mean doing nothing. You could still work until the baby arrives. Contribute to the income, or at least to the housework.’

By now, I’d been living here a week, and I knew this argument would go in circles until I caved, so I grabbed the kettle and filled it up with water. I made a show of opening and closing the cabinets loudly as I grabbed a mug and tea packet. When the tea water whistled a couple minutes later, I poured her a mug full and brought the steeping tea out on a tray, along with a bronze creamer and sugar bowl set that had been my grandmother’s. A single knockout rose from the garden climbed the wall of a tubular vase I added at the last minute.

Any other guest would have marveled at the