A Favor

“But I asked you,” Sissy scoffs. I suppress a sigh of frustration. Our verbal sparring always stagnates when she starts repeating herself.

I take a quick breath and attempt to rephrase my stance for the hundredth time. “I understand that. But I’m responsible for agreeing to your terms. And now they expect me to do these press events, book signings, TV appearances! It’s too much.” The attention would bring them with it. I need to stay out of the public eye.

Sissy rolls her eyes. “I’d be right there the whole time. If you forget something—”

“It’s not about forgetting the lies!” I explode. “It’s about the fact that they’re lies! It’s not my book. It was one thing when I thought I was helping you move on from this obsession, but clearly the book publication wasn't what you needed. I can’t help you anymore.”

Sissy’s face grows even paler than normal. “You’d leave me? With these thoughts and ideas I can’t write alone?”

“Let me admit it was you,” I beg. “I’ll use any story you want to soften the blow. But I can’t do this.”

There’s a familiar, brisk knock at the door. Lizzie enters the room unprompted and sets to work, dusting the blinds and straightening an errant pillow on my bed. I throw Sissy a warning glare and she falls silent.

“Albert dear? You’ve hardly touched your oatmeal.”

I pull my lips into a semblance of a grin. “Leave it, please. I only got distracted.” She smiles broadly and tousles my hair.

“Brainstorming for your sequel, I hope! Who would have guessed Little Albert inherited the writing gene?”

My mask slips; shame taking an anvil to my fake cheer. Luckily, Lizzie has already left the room, probably to find another room to invade and tidy.

I offer the oatmeal to Sissy. She shoots me a dirty look and ignores it. “If we had just used an alias, none of this would have happened,” I grumble, but the point’s irrelevant and we both know it. It’s too late. Sissy had reacted poorly to the suggestion when I’d first made it. She hadn’t just needed a name, she’d needed a face.

“A nobody,” she’d declared. “If my work appeared under an alias, people would instantly recognize it as mine. But if we put your face on the cover, it’ll be undervalued on assumption alone. No one would presume to think ‘your’ work is mine.”

“You should have told me your mother was a famous writer,” Sissy hisses defensively. “The book wouldn’t have gotten so much buzz otherwise.”

I have no rebuttal. To be honest, I hadn’t thought my parentage would be a problem. Sissy’s book had seemed to me confusing and a tad boring. I was sure it would be buried in a clearance rack at some dusty old bookstore and forgotten about within days.

My long, nimble fingers tap out a silent, tentative song on the edge of my desk. I itch to be in the music room, with keys under my fingertips and a melody in my ears. Everything is more palatable in that room.

“There has to be another nobody who would talk to you,” I propose slowly, allowing my hands to slide from the worn wood.

“You don’t think I’ve tried?” She cries. “You said yourself you don’t know anyone else willing to help me.”

I might have if I ever went out, but I readily admit to being rather reclusive. I seldom venture outside, especially with Lizzie picking up the food and essentials each week. There’s little reason to, and I don’t often appreciate what I find when I go out. I don’t want new people speaking to me, calling me a friend. Their voices and thoughts and inevitable favors drown out my music. Everything serves as a distraction.

Sissy twists an auburn curl around her pale finger and pulls roughly. My frustration dissipates.

“Let’s table it for now. Maybe reading the reviews will be enough. Sales have been excellent, Sissy. You weren’t selling on name recognition alone. You’ve still got it.”

She nods absently. I’m relieved to see her grip loosen fractionally.

That night I read one of mom’s first books in bed. Her earliest work has always been my favorite. The characters are less dimensional, the plot a bit contrived, her style underwhelming and unsure. I run my fingers along each line, careful not to let a single letter escape. My reminder that mom hadn’t been phenomenal in the beginning. Her passion had to be cultivated. The collective memory of my mother was tainted by her later works—everyone was quick to say how perfect she was, how unique, how influential. Her perfection offers no solace, no inspiration. It’s her imperfections I cling to as I struggle to rid myself of my own.

I wake to a persistent banging noise. I sit up groggily, mom’s book sliding off my shoulder and onto the floor. The banging sound intensifies. I lazily contemplate letting Lizzie handle it before remembering it’s Sunday. Her day off.

Sissy is already downstairs. She looks frozen, fear tightening every limb as she stares motionless at the door. I walk past her and push it open just a crack.

“Where do you get off selling my sister’s work as your own?” The stranger bellows. My chest tightens. Of course Sissy didn’t mention a brother.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I retort. His scrunched face reddens, a large hand raking through his cropped auburn hair.

“You think I can’t recognize Sissy’s writing? Where did you even get something of hers?”

“Daniel,” Sissy breathes softly. I turn back and glance at her shivering form. She looks at me wonderingly. “I didn’t think he read my books. I had no idea…”

A thought forms in my head. “How could you possibly think my work is your sister’s?” I demand in what I hope comes across as genuine indignation.

“You couldn’t write like her in a million years! No one could! Her words leap off the page. They’re like a song embedded in your heart. You can’t mistake it for anything else…” Daniel seems to surprise himself with his emotional admission, trailing off in embarrassment.

Sissy takes a small step towards me. I look back to see a radiant smile shining through tears. I know the look well. “Say hello to mom for me,” I murmur. She nods, her eyes still locked on the sliver of Daniel visible through the narrow opening. I don’t bother to watch Sissy vanish, but I can feel that she’s gone. I give Daniel a tired grin and push the door open fully.

“Care for a cup of coffee? I think we should talk.”

After the longest of long mornings, I settle into the bench and rest my fingers on the keys. But my usual fervor is markedly absent. Sissy had all the talent in the world, and none of the adulation had touched her. The only meaning Sissy’s work held for her was in the recognition of someone she loved. If I became a near-perfect pianist, who would I have to play for? To share my passion? I shut the piano lid with a bang and scrub my face with weary hands.

In the evening, I step outside and breathe in the summer air. Lizzie loves to tease that my lungs would rejoice if they ever felt air that hadn’t been recycled through a musty old manor. I afford myself a small smile and continue to breathe deeply, greedily, as I walk to the nearest grocery store. I’m determined to celebrate Sissy’s departure with a bottle of cheap wine.

It takes several skimming of the aisles to find what I’m looking for. I can’t remember the last time I was in a store. The harsh artificial light casts an odd glow on the products and their seekers. A toddler screams in delight and chases a sibling around their father’s cart. Unfamiliar sounds bombard me from every direction. Loud conversations, the clipped beep of a machine as a cashier swiftly scans each item, the creak of doors filled with frozen pizza and sweets being opened and left to slam shut. I tense, expecting another sound to join the fray. One of them. I never get much respite in between.

“Could you help me please?” My heart sinks. I turn slowly and am pleasantly surprised to see a living young woman reaching for a box on the uppermost shelf. I grab the one her red-painted fingertips only brush and hand it to her with a relieved smile.

“Thank you!” She exclaims, taking it from my hands and tossing it into her shopping cart. “I’m Olivia, by the way.” She extends a small hand. I shake it once before letting go. It felt warm.

“Albert,” I say belatedly. Her grin widens. “So Albert, what do you do apart from saving short people from the evils of the top shelf? I’m new to the area. Haven’t met many people yet.”

“I’m a musician.” Or trying to be. Olivia digs into her purse with one hand, vainly attempting to push thick strands of shiny black hair out of her vision with the other. A purple pen and small receipt soon emerge from the bag. She scribbles something onto the backside of the receipt and hands it to me.

“Well, I’d love to hear you play sometime. See you around!” Olivia rounds the corner and disappears from view. I look down at the receipt in shock. A phone number. Her phone number. It’s excruciatingly rare that a living, breathing person reaches out to talk to me. I pocket the receipt with care, cautious not to smudge the scrawled digits.

I hardly realize that the once overwhelming sounds of the store have melded into a pleasant hum. The harsh yellow light seems softer, more welcoming. I pay for the wine and walk home with a song in my heart. I can’t wait to sit down and pour this new feeling into notes.