Snapshots (18 page)

I'm sure my mouth fell open at this revelation, and I couldn't bring myself to speak. I suppose I'd better explain something important: our parents had reared us to believe that all human life is precious from the start. I hasten to assure you that we respect other people's beliefs, and none of us has ever told others what to do, but for ourselves, in our family, abortion was not supposed to be an option, and I was beyond shocked.

“You probably think I'm awful,” Martine said in a rush.

“Of course I don't,” I said, though I was struggling to understand. How could Martine have done it? She was married. Rick wanted children. They could afford them. My mind couldn't make the leap across the chasm of wrong becoming right.

“Don't, Trista. There's condemnation in your eyes, and well, maybe I deserve it. One thing for sure, I'm so ashamed, I can hardly live with myself. I deserve that, too.” I glimpsed a darkness in Martine's soul at that moment, a deadness. It frightened me, but in an instant it was gone and Martine was smoothing her hair behind her ears, adopting a matter-of-fact tone.

“I found out I was going to have a baby a few days before Rick was to leave to give evidence at a trial in Colorado, and we had a big argument about something else before he left. I wouldn't have felt comfortable talking to him about being pregnant while we were still barely speaking, so I decided to wait until he got home to bring up the subject. But while he was gone, I was so angry with him for some of the things he'd said that I asked my friend Jane to take me to the clinic downtown, and by the time Rick came home, it was all over. The baby was—gone.”

“You mean you never told him you were pregnant?” I didn't care to hear any more of this terrible secret, but I couldn't very well get up and walk away. Martine needed to talk about it, and for her sake, I listened.

She shook her head, her face contorted with anguish. “Never,” she said, her voice no more than a whisper. “He'd hate me if he found out.” Martine reached her hand toward me, and it was trembling. “Don't tell him, please,” she said, her voice hoarse. “I regret it now, but at the time I wanted to get back at him and that was the easiest way.”

Now I was the unwilling repository of secrets from both Rick and Martine, secrets that I'd be better off not knowing. This put me in a difficult position, and at the moment, my main objective was to insert space between all of us.

“I won't mention it,” I said crisply as we heard a key in the front door. I had given Rick an extra one in case he came back while we were out.

Martine stood and, after one agonized glance back at me, headed down the hall to my small study–cum–guest room that she shared with Rick. As I gathered up what was left of the fruit and cheese, Rick strolled in, ebullient about encountering Shaz, one of our high-school friends, in the corridor of the hotel where the seminar was being held.

“He's hospitality manager at the hotel, and I invited him to have dinner with us. Tris, I hope you don't mind.”

“Of course not,” I said smoothly, and during the discussion of deciding whether to cook in or go out for dinner, Martine returned, face washed and hair tidy. Rick was so hyped about seeing Shaz again that he didn't notice her puffy eyes or my grim seriousness.

That evening, Shaz brought his wife, whom we'd never met, and after dinner at a neighborhood restaurant, we all adjourned to a nearby lounge for drinks. A guy named Tim, who said he watched my newscast every night, sauntered over from the bar and invited me to dance. Though he didn't appeal to me, I provided my phone number when he asked for it, and we started dating soon afterward. Tim, and the resulting romance, kept me from thinking too much about the irony and sadness of Martine and Rick's situation.

Tim and I broke up about six months later. Until now, I haven't revealed Martine's confidence to anyone. But sometimes when I encounter a beautiful child, clearly loved and adored by its parents, I think wistfully of the baby who might have been.

The baby I would have welcomed if I'd been married to my sister's husband.

If you live far away from the people you love, the bad things that could happen to them always hover in the back of your mind. When Rick called and told me Martine had been in an accident, all sorts of possible mishaps crossed my mind: falling from a ladder while screwing in a lightbulb, diving too deeply into a swimming pool, singeing eyebrows when lighting a gas oven. I was not prepared for what really happened. Martine kidnapped? By a paroled convict? It was beyond imagining, especially after what happened to Dad. Two such incidents in one family seemed so unfair.

“I'll be there as soon as I can,” I told Rick. After we hung up I talked to Mom, who wanted to book a reservation to Miami immediately, but I told her it wasn't necessary. After a few minutes, Aunt Cynthia took over the phone and confirmed that Mom was hardly in condition to travel. Her disintegrating spinal disks cause her great pain, and she seldom goes out.

Although I'd steeled myself, I was shocked at Martine's appearance when I arrived at the hospital. Her face was so swollen from bruises and scrapes that I couldn't tell she was my twin. And Rick—as expected, he was stalwart and strong, but he desperately needed rest. After I sent him home, I stood watch over Martine, conferring in hushed tones with the nurses who changed her IV, updating my mother on my sister's condition the next day.

Things were easy between Rick and me while I stayed at their house. He seemed distracted, certainly, but what husband wouldn't be upset, considering what had happened? He gave me the impression that he would have liked me to stay a bit longer, but my cues came from Martine. She didn't urge me to stay on while she recuperated, even though I let her know that I had vacation days due me. She seemed fully intent on regaining her physical health and eager to start rehab, so I made my reservation for a return flight to Columbia and notified my boss at WCIC that I'd be back soon.

On Saturday morning, I woke up and was anticipating a jog with Rick, when my cell phone rang.

“I have to talk to you,” Martine said quickly before I even had a chance to ask how she was feeling.

“Is something wrong?”

“No, not from the accident, but can you get over here right away?”

“Well, of course,” I said, wondering what was up.

“Hurry,” she said. “And don't bring Rick with you.”

This was certainly an odd request, but it crossed my mind that Martine might want to spare his feelings. She had not yet related the details of her abduction to me, and I certainly hadn't asked.

I showered and dressed as rapidly as I could. The door to the master bedroom was still closed when I left the house, and I assumed Rick was asleep.

When I arrived at the hospital, my sister was propped up in bed, sipping juice through a straw. In the harsh glare of the overhead fluorescents, and with all the bruises and scrapes on her face, she could have been a refugee from some brutal war, and goodness knows I've seen enough of them in news clips. But she smiled and gestured for me to sit down beside her, which I did, squeezing her hand in silent reassurance.

And then, in a cadence as measured as the beep of the heart monitor beside her bed, my sister informed me with grim determination that she was going to file for divorce from Rick.

2004

“T
hat dog needs a name,” Trista said as Rick opened the door to let her out a few mornings after she appeared on the back porch.

“A home first, a name second,” he retorted, watching the animal as she guzzled water from the pie plate. He had to admit that she wasn't so bad now that Trista had cleaned her up and brushed her. Her coat gleamed, and the white spot on her chest resembled a starched bib. He suspected that she might be part terrier, part boxer, part something else.

Trista angled a sly look in his direction. “She's certainly comfortable sleeping on your bed. You like her, Rick. Admit it.”

Rick snorted. “I'll do no such thing.”

“Why don't you want to name her?” she asked.

Trista was a persevering woman, and he had to give her credit for that, but he felt compelled to set her straight. “I don't want to be responsible for anything anymore. There's no permanence in life, so why commit to anything, even a dog? Why even name the animal?” He delivered this statement with considerable grumpiness, but Trista shrugged it off, changing the subject without warning.

“When are you going running with me, McCulloch?” she said. “We should get you moving a bit more before I go home.”

“You've already made me put up a mailbox and trim the shrubbery. And I shaved yesterday.” He passed a hand across his smooth chin, still unaccustomed to being beardless.

She studied him critically. “You look better clean-shaven,” she said. “And I'm pleased that you got a haircut. But putting up a mailbox doesn't exactly qualify as exercise.”

“I don't have any running shoes.”

“We'll get some. I'll remind you.”

“You're bossy,” he said playfully.

“It's called leadership, McCulloch.”

While he was still mulling this over, Trista jingled her car keys. “Luella said she's bringing a cake and chicken for our picnic tomorrow, but we're obliged to buy some fresh shrimp and ingredients for slaw. What do you say we go to Jeter's this morning?”

“Do I have a choice?”

She pretended to think this over. “We could go to Bi-Lo, instead,” she said.

“Takes more gas.”

“Takes more time,” she replied.

“That's why I'm for Jeter's. Besides, I've a hankering for Gummi Bears.”

They lowered the top of Trista's Miata, so that her hair whipped around her head in a golden halo as she drove. Rick liked the sensation of the wind in his face, the sun beating on his shoulders as Trista turned the car toward Center Street.

“Anyway,” Trista said, continuing their previous conversation without missing a beat, “I'm glad we're not going to Bi-Lo. I'm still mad at them for getting rid of the cows.”

Rick laughed, remembering. The supermarket used to feature huge statues of cows perched at the edge of the roof overlooking the parking lot. “Every time the three of us would pass by on the way to or from the island, one of us would let out a loud Moo-o-o-o,” he recalled.

“And your mom threatened that if we didn't stop all that horrible racket
‘right this minute, you hear,'
she'd send all of us to the slaughterhouse along with those darn cows.”

“Which caused Martine to tell Mom that her idea was udderly disgusting,” Rick said. He paused thoughtfully. “I wonder why Bi-Lo dispensed with those cows, anyway. One summer they just disappeared, and at first I thought they'd gone to the Mo-o-o-n.” He kept a straight face, but Trista laughed.

“Why did we all spend Thanksgiving at the cottage that year?” she asked.

“I don't know—it was something our parents decided to do. Remember how we were so thrilled when the Bi-Lo cows showed up in the Christmas parade?”

Trista swerved to avoid a turtle plodding across the middle of the road, and it pulled its head and feet inside its shell as they passed. “Those cow statues didn't do justice to the Future Farmers of America float or even to the one sponsored by Wholsum Dairy,” she said.

Rick chuckled. “They sure didn't. That's because the Bi-Lo cows were really steers, which I had enough discrimination to figure out by the time they turned up in the parade.”

“You had to explain the difference to me, and why steers couldn't produce milk.”

“I thought you already knew.”

“I noticed that they didn't have the proper equipment, but I hadn't added the two things together,” she said.

“Dumb.”

“Yeah, and that's no bull.”

Rick groaned at her pun and they both laughed, feeling silly. It felt good not to be so serious. To like what they were doing at that very moment, which was sharing fond memories of their past.

On the way back from the market, as they passed the sack of Gummi Bears back and forth, Trista suggested crabbing that afternoon, to which Rick readily agreed. But when they arrived at the cottage, clouds were gathering in the western sky. By the time they'd stashed the groceries, wind gusts had begun to howl fiercely around the corners of the house. The clouds seemed infused with a peculiar mossy shade of green, muting the sun and flattening a dulled landscape, and soon the rain came sweeping across the marsh.

As he and Trista hurried around closing windows, the dog whined at the door to be let in.

“She can stay out there,” Rick said when Trista suggested otherwise.

“Rick—”

“A little rain won't hurt her,” he said curtly, refusing to change his mind even when Trista clamped her lips and went outside to murmur to their unwelcome guest.

The hail began a few minutes after they ate lunch, marble-size stones making a huge racket as they ricocheted off the roof and bounced on the deck. Thinking to distract Trista from the dog, Rick pointedly embarked on a fruitless search for the weather-warning radio that his father had bought one year. When at last he quit trying to find it, he noticed Trista digging around in the old trunk where they'd always kept a supply of jigsaw puzzles and games. Reaching far down underneath the other things, she pulled out an old red photo album.

“Look, Rick, it's one of your mother's books of snapshots. Oh, this will be fun.” She had to raise her voice to be heard over the noise of the hail.

Rick moved in closer. He recognized the album. “Remember that summer when Mom's pet project was organizing all the photos that she'd been relegating to shoe boxes for years?” he asked.

“There are more albums,” Trista said. “Way at the bottom of the trunk. And a shoe box full of pictures, too.”

Rick pulled them all out while Trista settled down on one of the chintz-covered couches and began to leaf casually through the pages. “Here we are at Jeter's Market, wearing our ILT T-shirts, sitting on the steps and eating ice-cream cones,” she said.

He leaned over her shoulder. “Mr. Jeter stopped carrying mint chocolate chip either the next year or the one after that. No amount of begging could convince him to stock it again.”

“Yeah, he said Rocky Road sold better. But not to us.” She grinned at him.

He grinned back, glad that she seemed to be forgetting about the dog. “Hey, how about a fire in the fireplace?” he suggested. “That might chase some of the chill out of the air.” They kept a stash of dry firewood on the back porch.

“Good idea,” Trista replied, still flipping through the pages.

As Rick stepped outside to get the wood, the rain became torrential, beating against the windows in concert with the pummeling wind. Lightning, great jagged streaks of it, lit the dark sky; thunder rumbled and roared both near and far.

The dog had retreated to the far corner of the porch, where an overgrown morning-glory vine provided maximum shelter. She gazed up at Rick, good-naturedly flapping her tail and scattering hailstones into the shrubbery in the process.

His arms full of firewood, Rick ignored the dog, but he couldn't do the same with Trista, who stood watching him from the kitchen. “Poor baby,” she said to the dog. “I'd let you in if I could.”

Rick ducked inside as a flash of lightning illuminated Trista's disapproving face. An instantaneous roar of thunder followed, shaking the very floor and walls. “That dog could hide under the porch stairs until it's over,” he said.

“There are snakes there,” Trista pointed out. Years ago they'd witnessed a rat snake undulating out from under the stairs.

Rick was halfway across the kitchen before he figured out that the dog had slipped inside. Whether her admittance was intentional on Trista's part, he couldn't fathom, and he certainly didn't approve when the dog shook her wet coat, landing droplets all over the floor, chairs and table.

“I'd better get a towel,” Trista said, though Rick wasn't sure if she meant the towel for him or the dog. He wasn't all that dry himself.

As it happened, it was for the dog. Trista crouched on the floor, toweling the mangy animal vigorously and telling it reassuring things that Rick didn't want to hear. Worse, the dog now sported a smug self-satisfied expression. Annoyed with both of them, Rick stomped into the living room and built the fire.

While he was encouraging it to burn, Trista marched in carrying the dog and made a fuss about setting it down beside the couch. Then she began to delve through the photos in the shoe box, and after a few minutes, the dog curled up meekly at Trista's feet. Rick, who was by now hunkered down on the hearth, figured he might as well go on ignoring this blatant disregard for his wishes since Trista was clearly determined not to let the dog go back outside. He tried to be angry with her, but the two of them together made such a cute picture that he really couldn't. And the dog didn't look so mangy now that she was dry.

Trista was oblivious to his annoyance, or perhaps she was only pretending to be. “We can glue some of these loose pictures in the albums,” she suggested brightly, studying one of him and her on a borrowed tandem bike. “It would give us something to do until the rain lets up. Come on, we'll spread everything out on the kitchen table.” She got up and headed toward the kitchen, the dog trailing after her and Rick bringing up the rear.

When the album and pictures were arrayed on the tabletop, Trista stood back, hands on her hips, and regarded the dog with more than a little fondness. “If we can't give you a real name, I'm going to call you Dog.” As if in answer to Trista's comment, the dog flopped onto her stomach and pressed her snout against Trista's foot, glaring up at Rick reproachfully.

“How about if you sort these out?” Trista said when Rick sat down beside her.

He began picking through the photos. Some of them he'd never seen; others were familiar. “Mom always told us that someday we'd be glad to have this record of our family life,” he said. “She wanted us to show our kids and grandkids how we grew up here at Sweetwater Cottage because someday they'll be spending summers and vacations here just like we do.”

Trista flipped over a page. “Oh my, here's one of the day when we caught the baby alligator.” She held up a photo of the three of them displaying their prize catch on the back steps. The gator must have been all of ten inches long; they'd encountered it on a sandy bank in the marsh where it was basking in the sun. Martine had dropped a butterfly net over it and hauled it in, much to the dismay of Lilah Rose and Queen.

“We insisted that your mother take our picture with our trophy,” Trista recalled.

“We also released it soon afterward.”

“I didn't like the gator anymore after it snapped at me and hissed at Martine,” Trista said, but she was smiling as she added the picture to the stack to include in the album.

“Here, this one goes in there,” he said, tossing it over to Trista. “Martine and your mom, lolling in the sun on the beach.”

“That's Mom and me,” corrected Trista. “I had the blue bathing suit, Martine the red.”

Rick picked it up again. “I was sure that was Martine,” he said musingly.

Trista bent closer. “Notice how my smile quirks a bit to the left in this picture? Martine's quirks to the right.”

These were traits that had been more noticeable when the twins were children. “Okay, if you say so,” he said. He stared across the table at Trista. If he squinted a bit, if he blurred the lines of her face, he would almost think she was Martine.

“Rick?” she said, puzzled. “Is something wrong?”

“Sometimes I look at you and see Martine.” Trista's expression changed when he said it, but even so, he didn't want to be less than honest with her about anything, ever.

“I can't change my features,” she said, sounding hurt. “Short of cosmetic surgery, that is.”

“Don't even think about it.” He regarded her evenly, thinking how beautiful she was, how different in mind and spirit from her twin. Now she didn't resemble Martine at all. How could he have ever thought so? Anyone who was lucky enough to gaze deep into her eyes would see Trista's soul shining from deep within along with her own unique brand of intelligence and wit.