The Weird Sisters by Eleanor Brown Read Free Book Online Page B

it, Bean felt the same clutching feeling she’d had when she looked at our mother in the kitchen. “Are you scared?”
    “Of course,” our mother said. Her voice was sure, but her face looked troubled and distant. Our mother took the last pillowcase from the basket and hung it, her fingers sure and practiced. The sheets and towels hung around them, a cool, damp fort in the blooming heat of the day. A slight breeze shifted through, and Bean watched the shadows of the fabric move across our mother’s face. “I’m not done yet,” she said, as though she were a long way away, and then paused, shook it off. “But I’ve got wonderful doctors, and I’ve got your father, and you girls, of course. We will make it through.”
    “Whatever I can do to help,” Bean said. “That’s why I’m here.”
    Our mother lifted the empty basket onto her hip and speared Bean with a sharp look. “I appreciate it, Beany, but I don’t believe for a second that you are home just to help me.”
    Bean froze. “What do you mean?”
    “How many pictures of New York did you cut out of magazines and paste up all over your room? How many times did you watch Breakfast at Tiffany’s —completely missing the point of the story, I might add? How many books about that city did you beg Mrs. Landrige to order for the library?”
    “Thousands, on all counts,” Bean said. She recalled, just barely, the way the city had seemed like the perfect escape, the way it had glittered like a mirage in the distance. But the promise had faded until it seemed like only a memory’s memory, a copy duplicated so many times it had gone pale and blurry. All she could remember now was the harsh reality of the dirty streets and the crowded subways and the ridiculous rent.
    “It’s not like I just met you, sweetie. Whatever made you give up that dream must have been awfully bad.” Bean made a move to speak, but our mother held up her hand. “No, you don’t have to tell me. I’m not sure, honestly, that I want to know. I’m happy you’re here, and you’re welcome to stay as long as you like.”
    “Thanks,” Bean said, and her throat was thick with tears that our mother was, thankfully, gracious enough to turn away in time to avoid seeing. The door to the house slammed behind our mother, and Bean turned to look at the back fence, where the honeysuckle grew in thick ropes around the pickets. So many of our favorite summer memories were here in this house: chasing the Morse code of fireflies in the yard at night, eating watermelon on the wide painted concrete of the front steps, the metallic taste of water from the hose, and the delicious spread of freedom in the hours arrayed across the sunlight. Even the smell of the laundry drying on the line could take us back. But that afternoon, none of those beautiful memories could reach Bean. Our mother was dying. Bean was a criminal. Rose was a bitch. Despite any promises, life was not going to get better anytime soon.

THREE

    I ’m walking into town,” Rose announced to Bean, who was sitting in the living room, reading. The day had not yet launched into the still, stifling air that would bring real heat. Bean was leaning against the window, knees into her chest, toes curled under in the strangely feline way she had had ever since she was a little girl. She looked up from the novel she was staring at. She couldn’t remember a word of it, though she had turned fifty pages since breakfast. “Do you want to come?”
    Rose watched as Bean’s attention moved slowly from the book, or wherever her mind had been, back to the room. Our mother pottered around in the garden outside, a broad straw hat over the searf covering her tender scalp, anchored with a wide, elastic band. With great, solid yanks, she pulled weeds from the earth and tossed them carelessly over her shoulder, where they landed in a pile on the brick walkway, as though they had been ordered to do precisely so. “Do you think one of us should offer to