The Never Never Sisters by L. Alison Heller Page A

or the ranting looseness. It was pure, uncalculated: a confession.
     “Did you hear from Sloane today?”
    My mom dabbed her lip with her napkin in a manner befitting a duchess. “She said she
     had plans all day.”
    “Oh? When did she say that?”
    “I called her this morning to invite her.”
    “Really? Shopping is pretty clearly not an area of interest for her.” Yesterday, Sloane
     had looked like an eleven-year-old camper—slogan T-shirt, cutoffs, stubbly bruised
     legs. Plus, it was
our
thing, my mom’s and mine.
    “It’s not really about the shopping.”
    As if I didn’t know that. “What’re they doing instead? Seeing those sculptures?”
    “They?”
    “Her fiancé.”
    “Her who?”
    “Fiancé. Yep. I met him.” Her face darkened just a touch, as though someone somewhere
     had twisted an old-fashioned tint dial on us. “You’re allowed to talk about this stuff,
     Mom. You can show surprise that she’s engaged.”
    “I’m not surprised. She has a whole life. She’s a grown woman.”
    “You’re not hurt that you didn’t know?”
    “I thought she seemed really good, didn’t you?”
    “Sure.” What I tried to convey with my raised eyebrows was this:
That wasn’t an answer, but if you’re not going to ask, I’m not going to tell
.
    “When she was talking about the exhibit yesterday, it made me remember how she’d do
     these nature paintings. She did this whole project when she was eight using fruit
     slices as stamps. And do you remember the plays?” I shook my head. “To be honest,
     they were a little lacking as entertainment: not much plot. Just elaborate dress-up
     and long monologues.”
    “About what?”
    “There was a heavy
Peter Pan
phase. We had a small dog costume, so you were usually Nana the sheepdog.”
    “I don’t remember that.”
    “You were so young. You’d kind of wander around the stage. She did the whole production,
     soup to nuts.” She leaned forward and sipped through her straw. Daintily, but this
     was always her Achilles’ heel—it was nearly impossible to channel period fine dining
     while using a plastic straw. “She’s a creative soul, your sister.”
    “To me, she seemed kind of weird. I mean, I know she’s your prodigal daughter and
     all, but . . .” I laughed, and she didn’t join in.
    “I’m sure it was hard for her. To be out of touch for so long and then just come back
     in. We don’t even know what she’s been through.”
    I nodded. “Of course.”
    “I know”—our eyes met—“that this is an upset. Be welcoming, though, tomorrow at breakfast?
     I think it will go a long way. She really wants to spend time with you.”
    “Okay.”
    “You’re my good egg, you know?” She cupped my jaw with her hand, and I leaned into
     it. “My easy breezy.”
    “Mom, remember when you gave me those boxes? When you moved?”
    “Sure.”
    “How carefully did you pack them?”
    “I don’t think I did. I think Betty handled your bedroom and the hall closet, all
     that stuff.”
    “Yeah, because I went through them yesterday morning when I was clearing out the closets
     for the renovation.” I felt clunky, but I was desperate to edge us closer to talking
     about what she’d written. “I found my journal from Dr. Pressman.”
    My mom sipped again. “He was pretty good, actually. You never knew what to write,
     though. You were always asking me.”
    “Well, apparently you didn’t give me a good answer. I skimmed through, and if you
     didn’t know what they were for, you’d think the big issue in my life was whether or
     not I’d get a part in
A Chorus Line
.”
    “I don’t remember that.” She frowned. “I don’t remember you trying out for
A Chorus Line
in sixth grade. Isn’t there a lot of talk about tits and ass in that?”
    “We sang it as ‘pride and class.’”
    “I guess that works.”
    “Ridiculously. Pressman had you guys do it too, right?”
    She arched one eyebrow. “Do you really believe that Dad wrote