The Good Sister by Jamie Kain Read Free Book Online

to her house for the sort of obligatory visit that means my mom needs some money.
    In the time since she and my father split up ten years ago, my father has prospered as a sell-out advertising executive. He cut off his hair, shaved off his beard, bought a bunch of suits and ties, and started driving a BMW. He also stopped going by his hippie name, Ravi, and started going by his birth name, John, to newcomers in his life.
    Meanwhile, my mother has clung stubbornly to her latter-day ideals, probably because it’s easier that way. She can call herself a musician, artist, dancer, massage therapist, or yoga instructor—whatever she feels like being that week—and my grandmother will give her money to support her.
    It’s a pretty sweet deal, with the only catch that Lena has to show up and ingratiate herself to her mother, whom she hates. This is why I’ve come along, because Grandma de Graas doesn’t get as mean when I’m around. A self-proclaimed invalid, she feels a bond with me and my infirm body—or at least she did when I was alive.
    And here’s another weird thing—that Grandma de Graas has outlived me. Here in this wherever place, all I have to do is think of Grandma and I can see her in my mind’s eye clear as if I were in the room with her, frail and wispy, tooling around her bedroom, getting assistance from her long-suffering nurse in and out of the wheelchair, and I realize that life makes no sense. There is no sense of balance or fairness, no universal force that makes good things happen to good people and bad things happen to bad.
    If any assholes ever get their comeuppance, it’s purely by accident. I know that for sure now.
    Case in point: racist, arrogant, selfish, narcissistic, abusive Grandma de Graas, still alive and perversely happy as she has ever been. She doesn’t donate money to charity (unless you count my mother—and you can‘t since their money exchanges are more about her exerting control over Lena than anything else) or do kind things for her neighbors or even have a fondness for animals. Far as I know, she mostly spreads unhappiness to whatever she touches. She lives a charmed life if I’ve ever seen one.
    When we first moved to Marin County from the commune, we stayed here, at her house, for several weeks while we looked for a place of our own. I remember distinctly the smell of the house back then, a scent of ocean air mixed with expensive wood and the orange oil a silent, brown-skinned maid named Lupe used when she cleaned the furniture.
    For most of our stay, Asha, Rachel, and I played outside in the gardens, careful to heed our mother’s warning not to disturb Grandmother by being noisy in the house. Our grandfather had already been long dead by then, having suffered a massive heart attack at the age of forty, so Grandmother de Graas was unaccustomed to noise or even people in the house. So said Lena.
    Outside, we concocted elaborate games and scenarios, pretending we were a group of princesses lost in a garden, or that we’d been shipwrecked and were exploring the grounds of an abandoned but haunted castle. Forced to play together in unfamiliar circumstances, we three sisters were capable of being the best of playmates.
    Not until the end of our stay, when a rainstorm forced us indoors, did we finally got a taste of our grandmother’s true nature. Asha, who was maybe four years old, accidentally bumped a table in the foyer and sent a fancy white vase crashing to the ground. Standing a few feet away, I remember watching as the shards of porcelain scattered, pelting my feet.
    From the next room, Grandmother came to survey the damage, her dry lips pressed into a thin line. “You stupid, stupid girl,” she said to Asha, who was on the verge of tears. “Get out of this house right now.”
    Our grandmother pointed to the front door, and Asha glared at her, astonished. It was pouring rain outside, cold, gray, not