My Sister's Keeper

Bill Benners

McBRYDE PUBLISHING

New Bern, North Carolina

United States of America

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, actual events, locales, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or have been used fictitiously. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

MY SISTER’S KEEPER
- Copyright © 2007 by Bill Benners. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or any portion thereof, in any form whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations in critical articles and reviews.

For information, McBryde Publishing, 108 Dogwood Lane, New Bern, NC 28562.
[email protected].
877-830-0759

www.mcbrydepublishing.com

www.billbenners.com

ISBN 10
0-9758700-3-3

ISBN 13
978-0-9758700-3-7

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Benners, Bill, 1949-

My sister's keeper / Bill Benners. -- 1st ed.

p. cm.

ISBN 978-0-9758700-3-7 (pbk.)

1. Brothers and sisters--Fiction. 2. Invalids--Fiction. 3. Family

secrets--Fiction. 4. New Bern (N.C.)--Fiction. 5. Domestic fiction. I.

Title.

PS3602.E664425M9 2007

813'.6--dc22

2007010566

First Edition: May 2007

Manufactured in the United States of America

Bill Benners

1

T
HOMAS WOLFE WAS RIGHT. You can’t go home again
.
And I wouldn’t have had it not been for my sister’s
accident
. I flew back to Wilmington, North Carolina, and sat vigil over her for weeks listening to the beeps and clicks of the machinery that kept her alive, pleading with her not to die. Martha was the one person in this world that had always been there for me, believed in me, looked up to me, and never
failed me. And I, Richard Charles Baimbridge, could not survive without her.

She kept me sane.

Even in the darkness of her hospital room, I could see beyond the bruises on her face to the whimsical little girl with auburn hair and bright eyes that had grown up alongside me. The curious perfectionist turned investigative reporter who would not let go of a thing until she’d figured it out. Like the time a girlfriend of hers showed up with a Rubik’s Cube. Martha was only eight at the time, but she’d spun and twisted that thing relentlessly—practically that entire summer—until finally she woke me early one Sunday morning holding it out in the palm of her hand. All the colored squares were in perfect alignment and there was a look in her eyes I’ve never forgotten to this day. I was twelve and had given it a serious shot several times myself to no avail. That was the first time she’d beaten me at something, but it wouldn’t be the last.

That moment established a pattern for her life. In some backward way, I became her motivation—her
inspiration
. If she saw me give up on anything, regardless of how insignificant—forgetting a phone number, finding the right nut to fit a bolt, or fixing a broken toy—she’d go after it with fanaticism and would not give up until she’d figured it out.

Being better than me challenged her and when she succeeded, it fulfilled her. I was proud of her, but not like Dad. Dad
loved
it. It seemed the more she outdid me, the more
he
liked it. And when she did beat me, he always cast that malevolent glare from the corner of his eye that cut deep and made me feel as though I’d stepped in something foul and tracked it into the house. By the time I left home at eighteen, there was a gap between my father and me that an ocean couldn’t fill.

The connection between Martha and me, however, only grew stronger. I envied that spark she had, that do-it-or-die attitude, and the way my father thought she could do no wrong. But his praise never seemed to mean much to her, and maybe that’s why she got so much of it from him. It
mattered
to me, though, and he knew it, and he manipulated it to cut out my heart. Ironically, she craved
my
praise instead of his and I gave it to her in heavy doses. It felt fantastic to be needed by somebody for something and I used it against him. Maybe that’s why he hated me so much.

God! If only I’d turned on her, belittled her, or ignored her, maybe she wouldn’t have ended up in her current state.

Though we’d talked on the phone weekly, it had been more than a year since I’d seen her. Her hair was shorter now, and she’d lost that baby fat that had lingered long past high school. Her eyelashes were long and thick—the envy of the whole family. Her cheeks were high and her lips were wide and thin like mine—typical of Dad’s side of the family.

I pulled a chair up next to her bed, took her hand, and studied her fingernails where tiny bits of pink polish lingered—reminders of a time when her life had been full of hope, ambition, and romantic dreams. Dreams that were going to die hard.

Until the accident, things had always gone incredibly well for Martha. When she decided she wanted to go to college, Mom—somehow—had scraped together the money. “An anonymous scholarship,” she’d said. Martha graduated summa cum laude, took a job with the local paper, then landed the one she truly wanted; investigative reporter for the Raleigh
News and Observer
.

I’ll never forget that day. We talked on the phone for hours. She was ecstatic! Twenty-four years old, armed with a Master’s in communication, and craving that one big story with which to prove herself.

A few weeks later, Martha received a tip that a thirteen-year-old girl had been dragged to the top floor of an abandoned warehouse in Wilmington, raped by two men while being videotaped by a third, then bound, gagged, and thrown in the Cape Fear River to drown, and knew she’d found her story. It was a story I would come to hear Martha tell
over and over
…