Imagining Alison

I almost don’t hear the knock. I’m in the kitchen, Pandora playing loudly as I chop onions and grate ginger. The second knock is harder, faster. Clearly not part of Phil Collins’ drum solo.

“Just a minute,” I call, trying to imagine who’d be at my door. The young woman I spy through the window doesn’t clear it up for me, but she does look vaguely familiar. Her long legs shift from side to side, one bony hip and then the other thrusting out of threadbare jeans. Her eyes dart, taking in the manicured lawn, the garden pond, the high peaks of the roof looming above us.

“Can I help you?” I ask, opening the door a crack.

“Are you Cheryl Stewart?” she says. “Cheryl MARTIN Stewart?”

“Yes,” I say, still searching for a connection to this angry Amazon on my stoop.

“I’ve come to tell you that your sister is dead,” she says.

Stumbling backwards, I sit down hard on the bottom step. I know immediately which sister she is--has to be--referring to. Scrambling up, I study the girl more closely—the light brown curls, the high brow, the slight tilt to her catlike eyes. I have the sudden urge to make her smile, just to see if there’s a telltale gap between her two front teeth.

“You’re her daughter,” I say and then, throwing the door wider, ‘Come in, come in!”

Her gaze continues to flit as she follows me reluctantly to the kitchen table.

“Can I get you a drink? A glass of wine?” I briefly wonder how old she is, but decide we could both use some fortification for this conversation.

“First of all...well, I don’t even know your name. But I’m right aren’t I? You’re my niece?”

“Alison,” she says, not giving anything else away. She glances around at my small apartment, the worn carpet, the outdated wallpaper. “This isn’t your house?”

“No,” I say, thinking that she didn’t answer my question. Or maybe, recalling that my grandmother’s name was Alison, she did.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” I say. “Tell me...”

“Not your loss?” Alison demands. “But then again, why would you care? You never tried to help her, help me.”

I draw in a sharp breath, recoiling from her words. Point taken.

She’s right, of course, but also not. It’s been 30 years since the last time the family reached out to Heather, the last time she disappeared and made it clear she didn’t want to be found. The pain and shock I feel are real, but not fresh.

My tears, when they come, are for this fiery young woman watching me with my sister’s grey-green eyes...the same, and yet different. There is anger there, but not a hint of her mother’s madness.

I cringe to imagine what Alison’s childhood must’ve been like--the horror-filled bedtime stories she would’ve been told, the poverty and instability she must’ve endured. No wonder she thinks I am the rich bitch living in the house on the hill.

“Alison,” I say, resisting the urge to reach for her hand. “I didn’t know you existed until you knocked on my door.”

She looks at me appraisingly, muscles in her jaw working as she struggles to bring her breath under control. Eventually, she clears her throat and says, “Yeah, well now you know.”

Jumping up from the table, she glances down the hall. “You got a bathroom in this place?”

I show her the door and sink down on the couch, glad for a moment’s respite. Trying to stop myself from shaking, I take some deep yoga breaths.

For the first time I allow myself to think about the bombshell Alison just delivered. How did Heather die? When did it happen? Where did it happen? I have so many questions for Alison, but I don’t want to overwhelm her. She’s like a wounded animal, poised to attack or run away if threatened.

When Alison emerges from the bathroom, she seems calmer. Her curls are damp and she smells of the lemon verbena lotion that I keep under the sink. She walks around the living room, studying the artwork, pausing in front of the electronic frame that shows a rotation of family photos.

Pandora is still playing in the background and she is humming along.

“You know Genesis?” I ask, surprised that someone her age would be familiar with the band. Then I remember who I’m talking to. After all, it was her mother who introduced me to the group; Heather who dragged me, her little sister, to several of their concerts back in the day, the first concerts I ever attended.

My playlist continues and Alison and I glance at each other as the next song comes on.

Excuuuuuuuuse me

I'm not the man I used to be

Someone else crept in...again

I wanna be alone

We both blurt out “Peter Gabriel!” at the same moment. It gets a grudging snort of recognition from Alison, and a hint of the smile I’d been looking for earlier.

If Heather had liked Genesis she’d been obsessed with Gabriel, their lead singer. At one point she’d claimed that the two of them were married and even attempted to fly to London to be with him. Whatever happened on the plane caused the airline to send her back to JFK and contact our parents. It was one of the first of what the family came to call her “episodes.”

Excuse me, please

You're standing on my memories

Evidently Heather’s musical obsession had spanned decades, and the distance between Alison and myself. I have the sense of being bizarrely connected to this total and complete stranger and wonder if she feels it too.

“Listen, Alison,” I say, “I’d really like to spend some time getting to know you, letting you get to know us. You’ve come all this way, you must be curious about your aunts, cousins…” I nod at the photo frame, currently showing my daughter Jenny with her dog on the beach.

She looks at me sideways again, eyes narrowed, before giving me the tiniest of nods.

“Great!,” I say, taking this small victory. “Are you hungry? It’ll just take a minute to finish up this curry and then we can dig in.”

I touch her gently on the shoulder, feeling the sharpness of her bones as they rise up defensively, and think that food is a good place to start when dealing with wild things.