Sisterhood

Mary picked up the TV remote and snapped off the History Channel special she had been watching and got up from brown suede sofa. The house was silent. She raked her fingers through her thin reddish-orange, flat, short hair and pushed the bridge of her thick, black plastic-framed glasses up her large nose. She left the living room and walked down the hallway that led to the rear of the house and the sun that trickled through the sky roof reflected off her picked-at blue-sparkled fingernails.

           She reached the end of the hallway and saw Anne’s bedroom door cracked open. Even though she was alone, she tipped her masculine face over her left shoulder and peered down the hallway. She turned back to Anne’s door which donned a sign that read “Keep Out.” She could see sunlight forcing through the cracked door and in the silence she swore she could hear her heart beat increase in intensity. As Mary stood there on the woven pale blue runner that ran the length of the hallway, she remembered the pearls that her mother had left to Anne in her will. Anne and Mary’s mother had late stage leukemia and had passed only three months ago. Mary’s heart twisted when she thought of the strand of light pink and turquoise Keshi pearls that her grandmother had given to her mother on her wedding night. Mary had been devastated when Anne had inherited the necklace and, as she stood there trembling and her heart hammering, she could feel the rage her sister’s shadow had cast on her all her life brighten insider her like a flame.

Mary flung the door to Anne’s room open and stomped across the threshold, banging her hip on the jamb. She marched determinedly to the massive black marble-topped vanity that occupied the entire wall adjacent to Anne’s canopy style bed, grasped the silver nob of one of the many drawers that flanked the knee hole of the vanity and began tearing through the contents. She yanked out tubes of cream, eye liners, mascara applicators, brushes, powder containers, and an assortment of eyeshadow compacts and threw them haphazardly on the floor. The bottles and tubes and containers burst open onto the white shag throw rug that lie in front of the vanity creating a smorgasbord of spilled foundation and crushed eyeshadows in shades of purple, blue, pink, and orange. A cold cream container violently cracked against the post of Anne’s bed and splattered white cream in tiny dots across the rectangular mirror which hung above the vanity.

Mary rifled and sifted an emptied each and every drawer of Anne’s cherished vanity until she was covered in powder and cream. In her rage she hadn’t noticed that she had begun crying until she caught her reflection in the mirror. She stared at her clumsy features and brown eyes hidden behind her librarian frames and flopped down heavily onto the hot-pink plush ottoman that served as a chair. She sighed and placed her gawky, bony elbows onto the black marble-top and cupped her wide chin in her long hands. Suddenly she remembered the middle drawer that was thin and which was not adorned with a nob. She snapped upright and fumbled for the slight depression in the black lacquered wood. Her skeletal fingers found it and as she pushed the release button, the drawer rolled out effortlessly and soundlessly. There, like a velvet talisman, was the mauve colored, four by four inch jeweler’s box that Mary knew contained the strand of pearls. With shaking hands, Mary carefully lifted the box out of the drawer and onto the marble counter. The hinges were sturdy and Mary could feel the pressure slowly give as she lifted the lid. Shining in the rays of sunshine that beat through the thrown back sheer curtains of Anne’s window were the pearls. They were smooth and shiny but unusual in their unique depressions and crater-shaped surface.

“Mare! We’re home!” The sound of a door slamming came from the front of the house and Mary could hear her father’s voice reverberate down the hall into Anne’s room. Like evaporating mist, Mary’s rage instantly receded and her stomach flip-flopped as she took in her surroundings. It was an absolute disaster. Mary’s breathing quickened and she dropped from the ottoman to her knees and began furiously throwing bottles, and tubes, and containers, and applicators back into the drawers. But it was no use and as she rose to her feet she could hear two sets of footsteps approaching from the hall. She had just enough time to grope for the mauve box on the counter; snap it shut, and hastily hide it behind her back before Anne and her father reached the doorway.

When Anne’s perfectly-shaped bright green eyes fell upon the catastrophic scene, she grabbed the base of her long dark red hair and let out a tremendous shriek. Her natural poise and grace left her and she stumbled through the room to her vanity.

“Daddy! My rug! My rug! Look what she did! Oh my God! It’s all ruined!” She bellowed the last word and charged at Mary.

Plumper but shapely and twice Mary’s size, Anne towered over Mary by more than four inches and when she lunged at her, Mary placed both her hands in front of her to fend her off. Anne gasped when she saw the box of pearls clutched in Mary’s hands and she swiped at it with her manicured nails. Her normally pristine makeup job was smeared and her designer flowered cameo was riding up her tan stomach.

Mary dropped to all fours and scrambled like a feline out of Anne’s room. She struggled to her knees and then to her feet and clumsily turned left down the corridor that led to her room. Anne was on her heels and Mary could feel her hot, cinnamon scented breath on her neck and her shrill yell rang in her ears. She could faintly hear her father shouting at Anne to stop before she reached the threshold to her room and whirling around, slammed the door, and snapped the brass latch into place.

Anne’s fists beat on the white flimsy door but the latch held on Mary’s side. Her heart was beating as fast as a small animal’s as she lay sprawled on her wooden floor gasping and listening to the clamor outside her bedroom door. In her haste and desperation to bar Anne, she had accidentally flung the jeweler’s box. It had struck the leg of her writing desk and had popped open. The necklace strand had broken and the pearls lay strewn about the Pergo floor in disarray. In the hallway, Anne’s shouts had turned into deep moaning sobs and she had ceased banging on the door. Mary could hear her father’s hushed voice gently consoling Anne. Mary began to weep and the pearls that lay on the floor around her blurred in her vision. She sobbed and hitched and watched the sun set outside her window.