Sorta Sisters

by Sarah Bank

Aracelli hums softly to herself over her plate, pushing stray blueberries around in the syrup before placing them in her mouth, one at a time. Belinda smiles watching her daughter but her forehead creases with a frown when she notices Morgan’s plate sitting untouched. “Something wrong with your pancakes?” she asks the girl.  

“I don’t like blueberries,” she says.  She hunches over her plate, her chin resting on both fists. 

Belinda tries not to show her annoyance. Even though Aracelli concluded her chemotherapy treatments and has been cancer free for over a year, Belinda can never rid her mind of the image of her daughter at her sickest. Skeletal, hairless, unable to hold any food down. After discovering Aracelli loves blueberry pancakes, she makes them for her as often as she can, just to delight in seeing her daughter eat something.

Belinda presses her lips tightly together before finally speaking to Morgan. “You ate blueberry yoghurt yesterday; how can you say you don’t like blueberries?”

“Not in pancakes,” she says, her head still resting on her fists. “My mom always made pancakes with bananas and chocolate chips.”

At the mention of chocolate, Aracelli looks up. “Ooh, chocolate! Yes, Mommy, can we have them with chocolate chips next time?” Belinda still can’t believe the miracle of the bright, healthy six-year-old that Aracelli had grown into. Even her oncologist calls her recovery remarkable.

“Of course she’d make them with chocolate chips just for you, her little princess!” Morgan pushes her chair back from the table with a screech and stomps off upstairs.

“Come back here right now, Morgan! You have not been excused,” Belinda shouts after her, but she knows it’s useless. How can Drew constantly leave her alone to deal with this girl and Aracelli on her own?  Drew, a long-haul truck driver, leaves for long stints each month. He only left for this job a day ago and knowing that she’ll have to contend with Morgan’s moodiness for the next three weeks makes Belinda want to crawl back into bed.

Instead, she tells Aracelli to go play in her room while she clears the table and washes the pancake dishes. She fills the pan with warm, soapy water, remembering the phone call Drew received two months ago. She was standing in front of the same sink, scrubbing the remains of lasagna from a pan. She knew instantly, by the way Drew said hello and then grew quiet, that something was wrong. She turned from the sink to look at him, first sitting at the table with his cell phone gripped tightly in his hand, then standing to pace back and forth along the wall they share with the house next door. “When did this happen?” he asked. Then, “But how do you know she’s mine? And why did Cheri never tell me?” Belinda tried to catch his eye, to find out who he was talking to and decipher the conversation, but he just waved her away. He was clenching his jaw tightly, running his free hand through his red hair, listening to the caller on the other end with a look in his eyes that she had only seen once before, when Aracelli was first diagnosed with a brain tumor at age three. 

When he finally finished the call, the first thing he said was, “I have a daughter.”

Belinda laughed uncomfortably. “Yeah, we both do.”

“No, no. Another one. Her name is Morgan,” he said. Belinda sometimes wonders if she might have received Morgan better if she had a different name. In elementary school, Belinda had been endlessly tormented by a large, freckled girl named Morgan. That Morgan, would rifle through her Scooby-doo lunch box and smack Belinda across her cheeks with her own hands while saying, “Why are you hitting yourself? Stop hitting yourself, dummy!”

Drew explained that before they met, he had dated a woman named Cheri for a few months. “It wasn’t serious,” he said. “When we broke up, she wasn’t even upset. Just said she wanted to move back home.” But it had been serious enough that Cheri got pregnant and had Drew’s daughter, a girl with flaming red hair like his. When Cheri was killed suddenly in a violent car accident, her mother called Drew, begging him to take Morgan. Belinda admonishes herself at the memory. Of course it was sudden. Car accidents aren’t a planned event. Cheri’s mother knew that at 78, she could not raise a ten-year-old on her own, so she called Drew.

Drew begged Belinda for forgiveness, insisting he had no idea that Cheri was pregnant. Until that moment, Belinda had not realized it was possible to tell the truth while simultaneously being full of crap. Of course he didn’t know, but maybe he should have. He said Cheri just suddenly told him she was moving, and when he heard from a friend of a friend a few years later that she had a child, he briefly considered the possibility of his parentage but then dismissed it because he and Belinda had just gotten married and were trying to have their own baby. Willful ignorance, she thinks.

Belinda remembers the moment she first held Aracelli in her arms. It had been an uncomfortable pregnancy and an arduous delivery. Belinda had miscarried before Aracelli, so with an abundance of caution and following medical advice, she spent that last six weeks of her pregnancy on bed rest, her awkward body stretched out while she sang to her swollen belly and tried to think positive thoughts to sustain her baby to full term. The minute she saw her daughter, she knew the distress was worth it.

When Belinda, Drew and Aracelli met Cheri’s mother the day they picked up Morgan, the old lady told them that Cheri “positively glowed” when she was pregnant and had a quick, smooth delivery. Belinda wondered if the old lady was saying this just for Belinda’s benefit, because why would Drew care? If they had any doubts in Cheri’s claim, they evaporated once they set eyes on Morgan. She was the spitting image of Drew, his miniature just as Aracelli was Belinda’s carbon copy. 

“This is your sister,” said Morgan’s grandmother when introducing the two girls.

“Sort of.” The words escaped Belinda’s mouth before she could stop herself and she pressed her lips together to prevent herself from saying anything more. Aracelli hung shyly off Belinda’s leg and waggled her fingers at Morgan, who made no move to acknowledge the younger girl. Drew was oblivious to the tension, telling Morgan about the room waiting for her in their duplex. But only a few days after the girl moved in, he was off on a job again, leaving Belinda to care for both children. “Bills to pay,” he said.

***

“Girls, come on down,” Belinda calls upstairs. “I need your help cleaning out Mrs. Hayworth’s home.”  She figures Morgan will be more of a hindrance then help, but even though they’re just going to the house attached next door, she doesn’t want to leave the girl alone. “Morgan, come on now.” Aracelli bounces down the stairs with Morgan sullenly following a moment later.  

Mrs. Hayworth, the long-time tenant of the attached unit, had recently moved into a nursing home and Belinda must clean it out before they can rent it again. Mrs. Hayworth had not moved by choice; her son made the decision after she had a mild stroke, and he informed Drew and Belinda that they should plan to put it up for rent again. He assured them he had cleared it out, but when Belinda opens the door with her cleaning caddy in hand, she sees this is not the case. An old couch rests against the shared wall with a wobbly coffee table in front and other detritus from the old woman’s life is strewn about. Belinda knows this will take all afternoon. “Girls, go upstairs and see how bad it is.” Just as on their own staircase next door, Aracelli skips up it with Morgan clomping behind. Does that girl always have to stomp? Belinda wonders.

Belinda starts in the kitchen, throwing useless things into a large trash bag. Why did Mrs. Hayworth keep a fork with a bent prong? she wonders.

“Mom, mom! Come look!” Aracelli’s voice rings down from above. 

“What is it, honey? Is everything okay?”

Then Morgan’s voice, which Belinda seems to hear only when the girl is complaining about something, calls down. “Come see this painting.”

Upstairs, Belinda finds the girls in the room that mirrors the small one Morgan occupies on their side. Other than some dust bunnies, the room looks empty, until Belinda notices the painting on the wall that has transfixed the two girls. “Mommy why did Mrs. Hayworth have a painting of you?” asks Aracelli.

Belinda feels a prickle at the back of her neck as she looks at the painting. In it, a woman stands behind a chair with another woman sitting in front. The seated woman has chestnut colored hair like her own but piled up in an elaborate puff that was popular in the early 1900s. Her face is angled slightly to her left, and Belinda can see a small mole on her jaw line, just like the one on her jaw that she feels her hand instinctively go to as she studies the painting. Belinda doesn’t know much about art, but she would describe it as unremarkable, if it isn’t for the eerie resemblance to her. The woman standing protectively behind the chair is much older, probably the other woman’s mother, but Belinda’s mind suddenly conjures up her sister, Cathette.

Cathette is only two years older than Belinda but has always been taller. And bolder and prettier. When Belinda admitted through a face full of snot and tears that Morgan had been taunting her on the playground, the next day Cathette went marching up to her and shoved her hard. Morgan toppled onto her backside and Cathette stood over the other girl and shouted, “don’t ever touch my sister again!” Belinda is surprised by the resurfaced memory. She hasn’t thought about that in ages; she hasn’t thought much about Cathette either, she realizes guiltily. Shortly after Aracelli was born, but before the tumor was discovered, Cathette had moved to South Korea.

“Is it you, Mommy” asks Aracelli, standing at her side. 

“It does look like you,” agrees Morgan. “Kinda creepy.”

“Maybe it does a little, but it’s not me.” Belinda ignores Morgan’s comment and shakes her head, trying to dislodge all the thoughts bubbling up. “Did you look in the other rooms yet? Are they full of junk?”

“Mommy, is Mrs. Hayworth’s ghost haunting this house?” asks Aracelli.

“No honey, she’s not dead. And there is no such thing as ghosts. Morgan, go get the broom and start sweeping.”

***

That night, after sending Morgan off to bed and reading a story to Aracelli, Belinda thinks about the strange painting. She remembers the last conversation she and Cathette had in person. “Why Korea? This is ridiculous! I need you here. You don’t even speak Korean.”

“But I’m learning,” Cathette had said. “You don’t need me here. Just take care of your beautiful baby.  I can’t be here anymore. I need to make a change.” Only a month prior, Cathette had come home from work early one afternoon to find her husband in bed with another woman. Cathette had rubbed Belinda’s back and held her after her miscarriage. She read tabloid magazines and trashy novels to her while Belinda was on bed rest. She visited Belinda almost every day, gossiping about old school friends to distract her from her discomfort and worries. When Cathette showed up on their doorstep sobbing, “Daunte cheated on me! He’s been sleeping with this other woman for months!” Belinda ushered her inside. But after listening to Cathette cry and watching her blow through nearly a whole box of tissues, Belinda told her to go home and get some rest so she could nurse Aracelli. “Home? Where is my home now? I can’t sleep in that bed, knowing he was just in it with HER!”

Belinda hadn’t considered this, so she feebly offered up their spare room, just feeling tired and wanting the whole conversation to be over. And then Cathette decided to move to Korea to teach English, to start over with something completely different. The thought is no less bizarre to Belinda now than it was several years ago. The time zone difference makes phone conversations difficult, so communication between the sisters is relegated to mostly emails. Cathette called faithfully during the early days of Aracelli’s diagnosis but took the hint when Belinda stopped answering her calls. There had been no indication of any health problems with Aracelli when Cathette left, but Belinda still feels as if her sister had abandoned her in direst need. With a start, Belinda realizes she hasn’t told Cathette about Morgan. She tries to compose an email in her head. Guess what?  Drew found out he has another daughter! It sounds awkward. Maybe I’ll email her tomorrow, she thinks as she drifts off to sleep.

***

The next day, after a breakfast of cereal to avoid any arguments over blueberries, Belinda and the girls go back to cleaning the other house. She sends them upstairs, handing Morgan the broom again, while Belinda surveys the furniture left behind, wondering if she can salvage it and list the house as partially furnished. She’s assessing the uneven coffee table legs when she hears shouting from above, then Aracelli crying. She races upstairs and confronts Morgan, “What did you do to her?”

“Nothing! We were just playing, okay? It’s not my fault she’s such a baby.”

“She’s not a baby! She’s still getting over a very serious illness, and you need to be nicer.”

Morgan pushes past her and stomps downstairs while Belinda soothes Aracelli and asks what happened.  Her tears quickly subside as she tells Belinda they were pretending to be princesses in a castle tower when Morgan said that she, Belinda, is the wicked stepmother and Aracelli is the wicked stepsister making her do chores. At first, Belinda wants to laugh, but then she stops herself when she sees the broom that Morgan had abandoned on the floor. She had told her to sweep. Geez, am I turning into a fairytale villain, she wonders. She considers going after Morgan but decides to leave her alone and finish cleaning. She doesn’t know what she could even say to the girl.

When she talks to Drew on the phone later that night, she doesn’t mention the incident. “It’s almost ready to rent out again,” she tells him. “And we’re all doing fine,” even though he didn’t ask. Belinda speaks as she walks to Morgan’s door, thinking she’ll hand her the phone to talk to her father. When she looks in Morgan’s room, it’s empty. She says bye to Drew and taps on Aracelli’s door. “Where is Morgan?” Aracelli shrugs and returns to playing with her dolls. Not in the bathroom either. 

On one of their first outings to the park after Aracelli’s recovery, Belinda lost sight of her. It was for no more than 30 seconds when she was zipping gleefully down a slide, but her heart stopped beating before resuming faster than if she had just sprinted a block. As she walks from room to room calling Morgan’s name, she feels the same sensation overtake her.

She rushes next door. “Morgan? Morgan, where are you?” She finds the girl upstairs, sitting below the mysterious painting. Her knees are drawn up to her chin, her red hair spilling over them. “What are you doing here? Are you crying?”

Morgan hugs her knees tighter but doesn’t say anything for several minutes. Belinda is about to press her when she looks up at the painting and remembers that she had meant to email her sister. Finally, between sobs, Morgan says, “I know you said ghosts aren’t real, but I thought if my mom’s ghost was real, she’d be here and I could talk to her. I miss her so much. She left me alone. And no one wants me, not even Grandma.”

Belinda watches the girl bury her face in her knees. “Honey, that’s not true.” She can hear the hesitancy in her voice. Wicked stepmother, she thinks. “We… we want you. We both do. So did your grandma. You were just a surprise, that’s all. And Aracelli was really sick for a while, so I worry about her. A lot. Maybe the worry makes me a little crazy.”

“At least she has a mom and dad to worry about her. No one worries about me.”

Belinda wonders if maybe she is a villain. It’s not that she forgot that Morgan’s mother was killed, she just hadn’t really considered how traumatic it’s been for the girl. Losing her mother, meeting a father she never knew. Moving. A sudden new family. Belinda sees how overwhelming it must be and feels guilty for not acknowledging it before.

“Yes, Aracelli has a mom and a dad… and a sister now, too. You know, you’re both going to attend the same school, once summer is over. Aracelli is starting kindergarten, and she’ll need a big sister. You’ve both had to deal with awful things, so maybe you can take care of each other.”

Morgan lifts her head to look at Belinda. “Are we really sisters?”

“Yeah… yes. Sister princesses. We just need to round up those magical mice.”

Morgan looks at her quizzically, then around the room. “Mice? There are mice here?”

“No, I just meant like in Cinderella. I thought you said I was like the wicked stepmother in Cinderella… and she has pet mice…”

Morgan stares at her and Belinda is reminded that she’s not good at telling jokes. Cathette has always been the funny one. She should email her, see how she’s doing. Hey, guess what? Aracelli has a sister now! And I didn’t even have to give birth!

“Come on; let’s go home,” Belinda says, offering Morgan her hand. As the girl stands, she looks at the painting Mrs. Hayworth left behind.

“Are you going to keep that painting and hang it up in our house?” Morgan asks.

“That thing? Oh god, no. It would give me a fright every time I look at it,” says Belinda. And finally to this, Morgan laughs.