The Secret Sister by M. DeLuca (leveled readers txt) 📗

She shook her head and took out another cigarette. Lit it, sucked back a drag and wiped a sleeve across her frozen nose. The smoke billowed in small clouds as she talked. “Nobody leaves here. ’Specially Earl’s girls. Maybe she’s hiding somewhere. Maybe she met up with a bad guy. Maybe she did jump. Thought it was her only way out.”

My mind raced. She wouldn’t give up. Not Birdie. I shoved a piece of paper with my number into her hand. “Call me right away if you hear anything. Gossip, rumor, talk, I mean anything.”

She nodded and tapped her cheap red purse. The chain strap cut across her chest. “I got something for you. From Birdie.”

I was dizzy. From the biting wind belting against my cheeks, and the ships’ revolving lights playing like strobes across the water. I held out my hand.

A ship’s horn boomed into the evening as she pulled out an envelope. “She told me if anything ever happened to her, to open it. Or better still, if you came looking for her, to give it straight to you. And now here you are. Like she knew you’d come.”

“What is it?” I said, holding out my hand.

“I don’t want no trouble. Best you deal with it.”

I stuffed the package into my backpack. “Anybody call the cops to report her missing?”

“You know how many girls like Birdie disappear? So many it’d make your head spin.” The wet, gut-wrenching cough returned. When she looked up her face was bleached like damp paper. “And the cops. They’re worse than the crewmen. Can’t tell the good from the bad.”

Her phone rang so I left her at the dockside. Tara. A shrunken, huddled figure. Shoulders hunched, porcupine hair prickly and static from the cold. She reminded me of Birdie and how she’d be in twenty years. Beaten up and sucked dry.

My Birdie.

Gone. Disappeared. And nobody knew where. I was no further forward and I had no idea where to look next.

42

After my initial briefing, I only saw Gord once a week for Monday updates. During those one-hour sessions, I’d watch him, nails digging into my palms, until the face of the man who ruined my fifteen-year-old sister, became a blur. Indistinguishable from the objects around it. And while he rattled off a series of instructions, relayed information about future plans, then listed the week’s tasks, I’d study the crêpey skin under his eyes and hate him with a passion that would have seared the skin from his bones.

Afterwards I’d go back to my office to settle down. I’d gaze around the blue room with its simple, white furniture and sweeping view of the park and try to become someone else. A busy, focused person. Not someone with revenge eating away at her insides.

When I wasn’t thinking about Gord and how I’d make him pay with every fiber of his being for what he’d done to Birdie, I worried about what would happen to Guy.

He met me from work most evenings and took me out for supper or to the theater or a concert. We sat over drinks, holding hands across the table and talked about his homeless outreach project. His plan was to bring me in on the front lines when Gord’s project was over. I gazed at his honest, open face as he talked about our future. Together. A team. And it tore me up inside to know this would likely never happen. Not after what I was about to do. I loathed myself in those moments. Hated that I was lying to him every minute of every day.

But still I listened. Smiled. Nodded. For Birdie.

“You’re great with those kids, Anna. We could work together on something really meaningful. Something that makes a difference. Then I’d cut down my time with Dad’s company. Make a break.”

He’d already envisioned a future that didn’t include Gord. A battle raged inside me. I could tell him. Maybe he’d understand. Maybe we could both be free. But who was I kidding? Gord was his father. And he’d never desert Nancy. He couldn’t turn his back on family.

When things got really bad the nights Guy was at work, I’d miss him so much I’d slip into his closet and press my face against his clothes, searching for his scent on shirts and sweaters. Another time I did a load of laundry and tried to arrange his socks in his drawer just the way he liked, but I was left with three odd ones. I undid all the neat pairs, and threw them in a pile on the floor to sort through them again. I made a long row of socks stretching from the drawers to the bedroom door. Then I placed each one with its matching partner, but still three different odd socks remained. Panicking, I tried again and again until I sat back against the bed, beaten and utterly exhausted. I didn’t even hear Guy come in. He found me clutching a huge ball of socks to my chest and sobbing my heart out.

“What’s wrong?” he said, squatting on the floor beside me. “Anna – talk to me.”

For a moment I thought of telling him everything. I could just unload the whole messy story. Share the burden with someone who cared for me. It could be that easy. I opened my mouth to speak but my jaw was paralyzed. All my resolve simply drained away. The moment passed. I shook my head.

He sat down and put his arms around me, held me for a long moment, then loosened the silly clump of socks from my grip. “I know something’s been bothering you, Anna, and I don’t want to pressure you to tell me. I told you I’d wait until you were ready. Didn’t I?”

I looked up at him and nodded.

“And I’m not mad about the socks,” he said, smiling. “But I’ll tell you a little secret about them.”

He shifted around until I was lying against his chest, calmed by its steady rise and fall.