Chapter 12 - When My Sister Learned the Truth
Julia moved out of our parents' house two days later.
She arrived with two suitcases, a duffel bag, and the little music box I'd bought her when I was eleven.
"Can I stay here for a while?" she asked.
I looked at the bags.
For one terrifying second, I saw myself at five.
Three black garbage bags.
Wet yellow sneakers.
A stuffed rabbit.
Then I stepped aside.
"Of course."
She hesitated.
"You're sure?"
"Julia, you're my sister."
That was all it took.
She began crying before she'd crossed the threshold.
I helped her carry everything upstairs.
She chose the smaller guest bedroom overlooking Grandpa's rose garden.
Not the master bedroom.
She stood in the doorway for a moment and gave me an embarrassed smile.
"About what I said the other day..."
"I remember."
"I was horrible."
"You were."
She laughed weakly.
"I'm sorry."
I reached for her suitcase.
"Grandpa would've liked this room for you."
"Why?"
"Because the morning sun comes through that window, and he always said waking up with sunlight improved a person's disposition."
Julia smiled.
"Sounds like he thought I needed help."
"Probably. He thought everyone needed help before coffee."
Living together was awkward at first.
We had never shared a bathroom.
Never argued over television channels.
Never stayed up whispering secrets beneath blankets.
We had to learn ordinary things most sisters discovered in childhood.
Julia hated mushrooms.
I loved them.
She listened to loud pop music while getting ready.
I preferred silence until after breakfast.
She left mugs everywhere.
I labeled food containers.
But we discovered something surprising.
We laughed at the same ridiculous jokes.
We both cried during animal-rescue videos.
And we both inherited Grandpa's stubbornness, although Julia insisted she'd never inherited anything from a man she hadn't met.
One night, we sat on the kitchen floor eating pizza from the box.
She looked around.
"I still can't believe Mom wanted to take this place from you."
I shrugged.
"It's valuable."
"That's not what I mean."
She pointed toward the refrigerator.
Grandpa's old photograph was still held there by its faded red magnet.
"Everything in this house is you and him."
I swallowed.
"Yeah."
She studied me.
"Were you happy here?"
It was the first time anyone in my biological family had asked that question.
I thought about Thanksgiving dinners.
Summer evenings in the garage.
Homework spread across the kitchen table.
Grandpa cheering too loudly at my graduation.
The Sunday phone calls.
The nights I cried because I thought my mother had forgotten me.
"Not always," I answered. "But I was loved."
Julia looked down.
"That must've been nice."
Something in her voice made me reach for her.
"It should've been nice for both of us."
She leaned against my shoulder.
"I think I'd like to learn what that feels like."
The next morning, Julia received an email from our mother.
The subject line was:
Your Sister Is Using You.
Attached was a long message claiming I'd deliberately turned Grandpa against his family and manipulated an elderly man into signing over valuable assets.
My mother also insisted that Julia's trust had been created with money that rightfully belonged to her.
At the end, she wrote:
If you don't come home immediately, don't expect us to support you when Leah throws you out, too.
Julia read the message silently.
Then she forwarded it to Miriam.
I watched her type a response.
Leah hasn't asked me for anything. You have asked me to lie for you. Please stop contacting me about her property.
She pressed Send.
Then put the phone down.
Her hands were shaking.
"Are you okay?" I asked.
"No."
She looked at me.
"But I think I'll get there."
That afternoon, we visited Grandpa's grave.
It was the first time Julia had been there.
She carried twenty-four white roses.
One for every returned birthday card.
We stood before the polished stone marker.
ARTHUR E. WHITMORE.
BELOVED HUSBAND, FATHER, GRANDFATHER, AND FRIEND.
Julia knelt.
"Hi, Grandpa."
Her voice broke immediately.
"I'm Julia."
I stepped away to give her privacy.
For nearly fifteen minutes, she spoke to a man who could no longer answer.
She told him about school.
About her first job.
About the dog she'd wanted when she was little.
About the music box.
Then she placed the roses beside his grave.
"I'm sorry I didn't know you."
I heard her whisper one final sentence.
"And thank you for knowing me anyway."
When we returned to the car, she was quiet.
Halfway home, she suddenly reached into her handbag.
"Leah, I forgot."
She handed me a small envelope.
"Mom gave me this before I left. She said it proves Grandpa promised her the house."
Inside was an old handwritten note.
It was dated 2001.
And across the top, in Grandpa's unmistakable handwriting, were the words:
Rebecca, I will never use one granddaughter as payment for the other.
I stared at the letter.
Because for the first time, I realized the separation had involved something more complicated than my parents simply deciding they didn't want me.
May you like
My mother had tried to make a bargain.
And Grandpa had refused.
