Long Bright River(85)

For years, the front of it has looked something like a collage. Yellowing, curling papers are taped to it everywhere: notes from our teachers, the one good report card that Kacey ever got, school photos. A card Thomas made for Gee last Christmas.

—I’ve always cared for you, Gee says. Cared for you, cared for Kacey. You’re my family.

—But you didn’t love us, I say.

—Of course I did, Gee says. She nearly shouts it. Then settles down. But talk is cheap, she says. I cared for you with what I did. Spent my life on you. Every paycheck. Spent it on you.

I wait.

—I was soft, I say, and you made me hard.

Gee nods. That’s good, she says. The world is a hard place. I knew that was something I had to teach you, too.

—You did, I say.

She looks away. That’s good, she says again. That’s what I wanted.



* * *



—

I have nothing more to say.

—Gee, I say, changing my tone, adding into it a sweetness that she very occasionally responded to when we were children. Please. Do you have any idea where Kacey might have gone?

—You’ll leave her, Gee says. Her face has hardened into something impenetrable. You leave her alone if you know what’s good for you.

—I’ll do what I want, I say.

I have never in my life spoken to Gee in this way.

Gee pauses for a long time, as if she’s been slapped.

Then she looks at me, hard.

—She’s expecting, she says at last.

The word is so old-fashioned that I try for a moment to make it mean something else. Anything else. Expecting what, I want to say.

—That’s why we fought, says Gee. Now you know. Might as well hear it from me.

Gee is watching me, measuring my reaction. I keep my face still.

Then she looks past me, over my shoulder, and I follow her gaze. Behind me, Thomas has quietly entered the room. He is standing still, looking worried.

—There’s your baby, says Gee.





THEN





Let me say this. I have tried, to the best of my ability, to live my life in an honorable way.

The idea of living honorably has guided my behavior both professionally and personally. For the most part, I am proud to say that I have stayed true to my sense of what is right and just.

Nevertheless, like all people, I have made one or two decisions in the past that, today, I admit I might reconsider.



* * *



—

The story of the first of these begins around the time that Kacey relapsed while living with me in Port Richmond.

Swiftly, I asked her to leave.

The idea of her staying with me was always contingent upon her sobriety. When she arrived on my doorstep, I told her that there would be no second chances. And I knew, always, that in order for her to believe me on this point, I would have to know, in my heart, that I’d do it.

So when I came home to find her using, and when I found all of the evidence of her use in a drawer of her dresser, she said nothing to me, and I said nothing to her. She only packed up her things, in silence, while I wept in the basement of my home, hoping that she wouldn’t hear me.

I had so loved having her there.

She left without a word.





The first time I ever saw my sister working, I didn’t know for certain that that was her intent.

It happened one morning soon after she moved out. I was on a shift, and a priority call came in that drew me out of district, northeast, toward Frankford. Truman was with me on that day, and he was driving. I was in the passenger’s seat.

Driving high up on Kensington Ave, I caught a passing glimpse of a woman who was standing on the sidewalk in shorts and a T-shirt, her purse slung over her shoulder. A moment later, I thought: That was Kacey. But it had happened so quickly that it felt like a mirage. Was it really Kacey? I couldn’t be sure. I whirled in my seat to look back at her, but she was already out of sight.

—You okay? said Truman, and I told him I was.

—I just thought I saw someone I knew, I said.

Truman had never, at that time, met my sister.



* * *



—

On the way back from the call, I asked Truman to let me drive, and I intentionally steered our vehicle past the same intersection.

Yes: it was Kacey. She was bent at the knees. High. She was leaning down now, into the window of a car, the driver of which pulled away when he noticed our cruiser, attempting to look nonchalant, nearly taking Kacey’s arm with him in the process. She straightened abruptly, stumbled a few steps backward, annoyed. She hoisted her purse up on her shoulder. Crossed her arms around her middle, dejected.

I was driving so slowly that Truman again asked if I was all right.

This time, I didn’t reply.

I didn’t plan to, but when the car was directly in front of my sister, I slowed to a halt right there in the middle of the road. Nobody beeped. Nobody would beep at a police vehicle.

—Mickey? said Truman. What are you doing, Mickey?

A long line of cars was forming behind us. Several cars back, someone sounded their horn at last, unable to see what the holdup was.

And this, finally, is what drew Kacey’s gaze upward. She saw me. She straightened her posture.