JOSIE
Rika and I walk toward the cars with a mutual sense of relief. The feeling is not appropriate for the cemetery, but I don’t feel bad for the man we just buried.
Rika looks back over her shoulder. “Those three, huh? Thick as thieves.”
“That they are,” I say.
“You need help?” Rika surveys my foot as we walk.
“What, you are going to give me a piggyback ride or something?”
“Don’t push it, Boots. I was offering to carry your purse.”
She makes me smile, and this is a good time to talk about our father. Something we still haven’t done.
“So, I had an interesting conversation with Grams the other night,” I tell Rika as I’m limping toward Grandma’s car. Grams insisted on driving. I told her it’s my left foot that’s hurt, not the right one, to which she replied that she might be old, but she has both feet functioning properly.
“What’s up?” Rika asks.
“About the DNA tests they ran.”
“What about them?”
I haven’t been so nervous in a while. In a good way, that is. Grams said that both Rika and Mrs. Snickett knew about the DNA match. But Rika never said anything to me.
“That we are…” I need to say the word, but it’s scary and at the same time exciting, making my chest burn. “You know. That guy, Derek…”
Rika looks at me. “Yeah? Spit it out, Boots. What is it?”
“Well, that he is our father. Both yours and mine.”
My heart does a cartwheel, and stupid tears burn my eyes, even though I’m not sad. Not at all. In fact, it’s the exact opposite.
“Yeah, crazy.” Rika nods with a sneaky smile.
“So…” I don’t know if she’s glad or annoyed. I can’t tell. Maybe she’s avoiding this topic.
“So?”
“That means…”
“That means what, Boots? Come on. What’s up?”
“That means we are half sisters.”
I say the words, and right away bite my lip. I’m so overwhelmed that my heart seems to be kicking through my ribs.
“No shit, Sherlock.” Rika chuckles. I feel her arm around my shoulder as she finally puts me out of my misery. “Jeez, Boots, it took you forever to muster the courage. Yeah, we are sisters.”
Sisters, she says. Not half sisters, but sisters. Somehow, that makes me want to sing at the top of my lungs, even though I’m hardly able to hold back tears.
“But you knew it?” I ask, meeting her eyes. “Why didn’t you say something right away?”
She sees I’m about to turn into a puddle, and her expression softens. “You weren’t really curious about your dad.”
“I was, too.”
“No, you weren’t, Boots.”
“Whatever. But you knew I moved back into town two months ago.”
“Yeah, so I watched you.”
“And?”
“And what?”
“You are a stalker.” I laugh and sniffle.
“Yep. That’s me. Crazy genes and all.”
“You didn’t seem very friendly at first.”
“I was trying to be careful. I mean, your dad was a scammer and a womanizer. Who knew what you were like?”
I gape at her. “He’s your dad too!”
“Exactly. But I have my shit together. So I was trying to figure out if maybe you had a wild side I didn’t want to deal with.”
“Wow.” I look away. Is she serious? “Okay. So you’d just, what, walk away if I did?”
“I mean, if you were into stabbing people—”
“Oh my god, Rika! Seriously?” I look around, making sure no one else is nearby, and lower my voice. “We are talking about this? Here?”
She grins. “Boots, you are so easy to rile up. Chill!”
“I can’t believe you said that.”
“I’m joking. Relax.”
“Yeah, well, at least I wouldn’t ever walk away from my sister. No matter what.”
“See?” Rika squeezes me tighter against her as we walk. Me, limping, her like my crutch. “That’s why I admire you, Boots. You are a better person than me. Now I don’t have to hold back on stealing cars or transporting dead bodies, because my sister will always take me back. Right?”
I shake my head, but I can’t wipe a grin off my face.
In a minute, our grandmothers catch up with us. Grams and I drive home in silence. Her mind is somewhere else, I can tell. Mine is still trying to embrace the new reality, the new story about my family’s past, everything that has to be rewritten based on what Mallory Blain said.
When we get home, Grams starts hustling with the food preparation.
“It’s too early,” I say.
“Yes, but I’m doing a peach cobbler. Then a chicken roast. Side dishes. Donna and I will be doing the Sacred Burn shortly. You are not invited to that one.”
For a moment, our eyes lock across the kitchen. We don’t say a word, just smile at each other.
We don't do parties. We don’t do hugs. We don’t do “cool.” But we do forgiveness. We do second chances. We do “stick together.” And we do “real.” Because it doesn't get more real than your family being shattered by a tragedy and having to stitch it back together.
In an hour, Mrs. Snickett arrives, with a bag that I’m sure has a bottle of Captain Morgan and a pack of smokes, among other things.
Grams puts the cobbler in the oven while Mrs. Snickett starts a fire in the firepit in the backyard. Grams is humming a song under her breath, and, despite the fact that we just came back from a funeral, she’s the happiest I’ve seen her in a while.
Grams and Mrs. Snickett are doing the Sacred Burn, an old-school tradition of burning old things.
The things that outlived their purpose but are too precious to throw out and too personal to donate.
There will be some old pieces of clothes, probably Grandpa’s.
Maybe Mom’s diaries. I hope my childhood drawings burn, too.
They suck so bad that I want to bleed out of my eyes when Grams shows them to me.
But she holds on to them like they are priceless pieces of art.
When I come out back, Mrs. Snickett shoos me away. “Go on now, go hang out with Rika until dinner. Nothing for you to see here. Just two old ladies dwelling on the past.”
I get it. These two have a lot to catch up on.
So do I. I have a sister, and she’s the coolest person in the world.
I walk out onto the front porch and stand still for a moment, listening to the crackling of fire in the backyard, inhaling the faint scent of smoke. The birds chirp in the trees. Finally, the days are growing warmer and sunnier.
I hear Mrs. Snickett’s rasp at the back. "Remember Pete Cornwell? When he got wasted and told Mikey, ‘I wanna fight you.’”
Grams chuckles. “And Mikey said, ‘Go outside and practice falling down.’”
“And Cornwell got up and tripped and went face down right at Mikey’s feet.”
The two start laughing so hard that, for a minute, all I hear is panting and cackling and I can't help grinning—I don’t remember the last time I heard Grandma’s laughter.
I take out my phone and text.
Me: Your nana and my grams kicked me out of the house until dinner.
Rika: Lol. Wanna come over?
Me: Sure.
Rika: Trevor might join in.
Me: With a new conspiracy theory?
Rika: Probably. And a cold case.
My chest shakes with laughter. My finger hovers over the keys.
Me: I wrote several new songs btw.
I did. In the last week, I wrote five, and that’s the most I’ve done in months. I have so many stories to tell, so much to unpack, so many people out there to share it with that I can’t stop humming, twisting thoughts into words, reaching for my guitar.
Rika: Can I hear them? Pretty pretty pretty please?
Me: I’ll bring my guitar. It might not be anything special though.
Rika: Hey-hey-hey! Let me fix your crown, sis. You are a star! Even though tonight you’ll be singing to only one fan.
I don’t have a crown. Not yet. But I have someone who believes in me enough to make me think I’m worthy of one.
When I get in my car and pull out of the driveway, I feel like I have wings.
I finally got the answers about my family’s past. They are not pretty, but they make me who I am.
My parents never wanted me, but I have the best grandmother one could ask for, and I’m driving to see my sister.
A sister! I have more family, and I’m grateful.
I’m done glorifying trauma. My past has taught me to be strong, and I refuse to take it as a sickness.
It’s the first time in years we are having a big dinner at our house. I might even eat Grams’s pancakes for breakfast tomorrow.
I’ve been thinking of fixing Mr. Bunny. Life is just like Mr. Bunny, who might look pathetic, but he’s a trouper, and he’s carried me through rough times.
Yes, Mr. Bunny is definitely getting a tune-up. He won’t get a new eye, but he’ll get a pirate patch. Because he’s not broken. He has battle wounds. Those are signs of courage. And as far as I know, those have always been something to be proud of.