Rapid Falls(5)

Thank you for coming to my rescue. Again.

The gift seemed like a turning point. Anna stopped drinking for six months and went back to Alcoholics Anonymous meetings. She started running again. She came by more often, and she was sober when she showed up. Rick taught her how to make sushi one lazy Sunday afternoon with beautiful cuts of salmon and tuna from a local high-end grocery store. When the evening sunset caught her glowing face, I thought we would be able to put it all behind us. Maggie climbed up on her lap and patted her cheeks. I could see that Anna was thinking the same thing: the worst was over. She told us that she wanted to find a place closer to us and move out of her low-income housing unit. I said that I would do anything to help her move. I hated her neighborhood and wanted her close by again. The last time I had dropped off groceries for her, I had nearly stepped on a needle.

Anna hugged Maggie close and told us that she wanted to be a real aunt, finally. Maybe even start giving Rick more time for his freelance design work by babysitting Maggie. Rick and I had smiled brightly, though he caught my eye for a fraction of a second to express his hesitation. We had a long way to go before we’d trust Anna with Maggie. We had never been able to trust her with anything. Still, I felt a swell of hope that this time it was going to be different.

It wasn’t. The second time she attempted suicide, I found her. It was a Saturday afternoon in December; we’d had plans to go out for coffee and gift shopping. I had been unable to find space in my schedule so it had been nearly two months since I’d seen her. She didn’t answer when I knocked, so I opened the door. I found her sitting alone at the kitchen table in the dim apartment.

“Hi, Anna. Anna? What’s going on? Are you ready to go?”

She grinned at me goofily and my stomach sank. Something crunched under my feet as I walked through the cluttered room. When I was only a few steps away from her, my nose picked up the scent of the partially digested alcohol. My sister always drank vodka because she thought that no one could smell it on her breath. She was wrong.

She looked up at me slowly, the clumsy smile still pasted on her face. “Cara, I think I hurt myself.” She shifted her body to the left and extended her foot, like a suburbanite gamely trying yoga. I could see a dark stain on her heel.

“Okay,” I said, flicking a switch. The overhead fluorescent light made the blood appear redder and blacker, like she had smeared globs of cherry jam or tar onto the sole of her foot. In the light, I could see thick bloody footprints leading from a broken glass on the dirty linoleum floor to where she was sitting. And a vial of empty pills on the table.

“Oh, Anna.” I reached for my phone. “What have you done?”

Anna had needed stitches and a stomach pump. That time, the same beleaguered hospital psychiatrist had recommended outpatient rehab. Rick and I offered to pay for it. Rick had been reluctant at first, but I convinced him that it would help. I was wrong. Anna went to one session and then stopped. We had not been able to secure a refund.

The third time was last month. The call came just after I had settled on the couch beside Rick, Maggie safely in bed. Even though it was a holiday weekend, our plans for the night involved little more than a bottle of wine and a movie. Well, my plans involved wine. We were both tired. Work had been busy for me, and Rick was exhausted from full-time Maggie duty. People told me that having a kid changes your life, but they never mentioned how dull it becomes. Of course, if I had a choice, I would never have traded dull for Anna’s kind of interesting. I was about halfway through my first glass when the phone rang.

“Who is it?” said Rick as I glanced at the screen.

“Unknown,” I said.

“Hello. This is, uh, Bert.” An unfamiliar voice, thickened by a strong Eastern European accent.

I struggled to place the name. Probably a constituent who had managed to weave through the layers of electronic switchboards at our office. Working as an assistant to the state representative for the environment meant being available all the time, but I was still surprised to field a call on a long weekend. Most politicians went to cottages or vacation homes on their breaks, too far away to make glaring errors in policy or commit a publicly recorded blunder.

“This is Cara Stanley. What can I do for you?” I used my professional tone.

“Yes, Cara Stanley. I, uh, am calling because of Anna. Anna Piper.”

My stomach lurched. Bert. The owner of the house where my sister rented a dingy basement suite. I remembered shaking his hand a few months ago, right after Rick and I had cantilevered her musty box spring into the small space. He seemed like a nice guy, one who shouldn’t have to deal with Anna.

“Go ahead.” The wariness in my voice was obvious. I reached for my wine, took a sip, and tried to soften my tone. “Is everything okay?”

“She’s . . . not doing so well. We heard noises. I go downstairs to check. She’s been drinking.” The man seemed pained to relay this to me, as if he was betraying some kind of sacred landlord-tenant code. “She’s okay, but . . .” He trailed off. He didn’t have to say anything else. I knew what my sister was like when she was drunk. “I saw . . . pills. She has pills.”

I sighed, then took another gulp as I stood. “I’ll be right over.”

“Okay. That sounds fine.” Relief flooded through his voice. Anna was no longer his problem. She was mine: always mine. I hung up.

“Let me guess. Anna?” Rick asked.