The Silent Sister(11)

“I surely do!” She smiled warmly at me and reached out to take my hand in both of hers. Her skin felt loose and satiny smooth. Her gray hair was neatly combed but it looked like she probably cut it herself, and she was overweight. Not obese, but her short-sleeved knit top stretched across her breasts and her stomach. “I’m so sorry about your daddy, Riley, dear,” she said. “He was the salt of the earth now, wasn’t he?”

I nodded. “Thank you.” I was surprised she remembered my name. Maybe my father had talked about me to them.

“We never see your brother, do we, Tom?” she asked. “Even though he’s no more than a mile down the lane.” She let go of my hand. “I took some muffins over to him after we found out about your father, but he wasn’t there, and I was afraid to leave them in case the squirrels or—”

“She has a little bit of news for us, Verniece,” Tom interrupted. “You take her in the house and I’ll clean up and come in and we can all talk about it.”

“Come in, love.” Verniece tugged gently on my forearm, and I followed her around the corner of the RV and up the steps into the dim interior of the trailer, where the air was only a few degrees cooler than outside. The window shades were lowered against the sunlight and it took a few seconds for my eyes to adjust. How did they tolerate this, living like moles in a hot airless tunnel?

“Some nice sweet tea?” Verniece asked as I sat down at the built-in table, larger than the one in Danny’s tiny trailer. This RV was at least three times the length of his.

“Nothing, thank you,” I said. “I’m fine.”

She removed a photograph from the door of the narrow refrigerator and put it in front of me on the table, turning on the overhead light. “Do you remember our son, Luke?” she asked.

“I do,” I said politely. I hadn’t known Luke well. Living out here in the RV park, he’d gone to different schools from me. He’d been an outgoing, whip-smart kid, from the little I remembered. “Where is he now?” I asked.

“Colorado. He’s studying to get his Ph.D. in something to do with computers.”

“Did you have other children?” I asked, to make conversation. “I can’t remember.”

“No, he’s our only one, and the reason I brought out his picture”—she gestured toward the photograph—“is because seeing you reminds me of him.”

I tried to think of some connection between Luke and myself and finally gave up. “Why do I remind you of him?” I asked.

She sat down on the other side of the table, smiling at me with dazzling warmth. “We could have no children of our own,” she said, “and one day, I confided in your mother about it and she told me about adopting you and put the idea in my head, and I said to Tom, why don’t we adopt a baby, too? So that’s how we ended up with Luke.” She seemed so delighted by the connection between our families, that I hesitated to set her straight. But I had to.

“I wasn’t adopted, Mrs. Kyle,” I said gently. “I think maybe you have my family mixed up with some of your other friends.”

Her eyes flew open and she sat back on the narrow bench. “Oh!” she said, color rushing to her cheeks. “I thought … You’re right. I must have you mixed up with someone else.” She suddenly stood up and opened the refrigerator door as if looking for something, but she made no move to reach inside. “Tom says I’m losing my marbles and sometimes I think he’s right.” She shut the door, picked up Luke’s picture from the table, and put it back on the front of the refrigerator, her fingers trembling. I felt sorry that I’d upset her so much, but then she smiled at me again, collecting herself. “Well, whoever it was, they were about our age when they adopted,” she said. “Fortyish. And we thought, if they can adopt a baby at their age, we can, too, and we got Luke when he was a year old. It was the best thing we ever did.”

I smiled and said, “I’m so glad you got your son. You must be really proud of him.”

“Oh, we are. And we miss him. We haven’t seen him since Christmas.”

“She telling you about Lucas?” Tom said as he stepped into the RV.

“Yes,” I said.

“He’s a perfect kid.” He moved to the sink to wash his hands. He was too big for the space, and he filled the RV with the odor of fish and sweat … and a trace of alcohol, I thought. “The only imperfect thing about him is him living on the other side of the country. We wish we had an RV we could use to go see him sometime. A mobile home that’s actually mobile.” He put his hands on his hips and looked around him at his claustrophobic little home. “This one’s been on blocks so long it’s forgotten how to get up and go.”

“That would be just wonderful.” His wife sounded wistful.

“You tell her the news?” He nodded at me, and I told Verniece about the pipe collection.

“I’m sure it’s worth a few thousand dollars, at least,” I added.

Verniece glanced at her husband with a look I couldn’t read, but then I thought I saw a spark of joy in her blue eyes.

“Well, God bless your daddy, that’s all I can say,” she said. “Would you feel bad if we sold them? I know how he loved all those things he collected, but we don’t have much use for them.”