The Watcher Girl(10)
I haven’t seen Rose in years. Haven’t spoken to her since last Christmas, and that was only because she called me from a new number and I answered thinking it was someone else.
“I can’t believe it’s really you.” Her cashmere voice is muffled against my hair, and she bounces on the toes of her ballet flats, towering over me an additional handful of inches. Still long and lanky, still a one-off Designer Imposter Daphne.
If we were a normal family, this might be a joyous moment. A cause for celebration. But we’re McMullens, and we wouldn’t know normal if it smacked us over the head with a prison sentence.
She peels herself off me. Baby-blue eyes lit from within. Flaxen hair shining in the afternoon sun. A knot tangles in my middle when I fixate on how much she looks like our mother, from her tender smile to the pointed tip of her nose. From the lithe shoulders that hoist spaghetti-strapped sundresses to the creamy complexion that’s never known a blemish. From the lilt in her voice when she speaks to the long-legged strides that have carried her everywhere she’s ever wanted to go in her twenty-seven years.
I have it on good authority that she and our mother have stayed in touch all these years. In fact, Rose’s never explicitly stated this, but I’m certain she’ll never leave the confines of New Jersey because she doesn’t want to “abandon” our mother the way our father did after the trial.
The way I did.
“Dad didn’t tell me you were coming,” I say, taking a step back when I spot her boyfriend, Evan, making his way up the drive.
He stops at her side, towering over her by at least a foot, and hooks his Ivy League rowing-team arms over her narrow shoulders.
“Grace McMullen, what’s up?” He greets me with my full name, and his awkwardness makes me wince, but only on the inside. The number of times we’ve met during the tenure of their relationship, I can count on one hand. But it’s cool if he wants to pretend we have a thing, I guess.
“Hi . . .” I keep my attention on my sister, distracted by how much more she looks like our mom than the last time I saw her. Maybe it’s this lighting. Or the angle. Or maybe my mind’s playing tricks. I squeeze my eyes tight and reopen them. Nothing changes.
I’m silently grateful for the fact that I’ll never have to look in the mirror and see my adopted mother’s face staring back. For Rose, it’s a blessing. For me, it’d serve as nothing more than a reminder that I’ve always been on the outskirts of this family.
“Dad texted and said you just showed up yesterday,” Rose says. “Everything okay?”
I don’t appreciate that they’ve been discussing me, but I don’t let myself frown. “Why wouldn’t it be?”
As a McMullen, I can deny with the best of them. We were practically raised on a steady diet of organic produce and denial.
Her mouth tugs at one side. “You haven’t been home in years, and then you just show up one day? Without warning? That’s not like you. Just want to make sure you’re all right . . .”
“Something wrong with being homesick?” I deflect.
The truth doesn’t matter. And it’s none of her concern. Rose was hardly out of high school when I dated Sutton. I doubt she remembers him.
My sister’s wide-eyed gaze amplifies. The corners of her lashes are fanned out with a double coat of volumizing mascara, the way our mother used to do hers. “You know you can tell me anything.”
She peers toward the front door, as if to ensure we’re not being watched.
“I won’t say anything to Dad,” she adds, her voice sweet and low.
Even if I were compelled to confide in Rose, I sure as hell wouldn’t do it with Evan standing here like a statue. He may be gazing off into space, but his ears are at full attention, pointed toward us.
“What are you guys doing here anyway?” I change the subject and slide my hands into my back pockets, my best attempt at being casual.
“I wanted to see you.” Rose shrugs, and for a second, I picture a seven-year-old version of her standing before me. Wispy blonde hair. Sugar-spun voice. My personal shadow.
The last time we were together was at our grandma’s funeral in Boca Raton over two years ago. Sebastian made an appearance, too, though he’d looked so grown I hardly recognized him as he made his grand entrance through the main doors of the century-old First Presbyterian church, looking like he’d stepped off a Times Square billboard. And he brought not one but two distractingly attractive females—for moral support, I guess.
He is his father’s son.
“It’s so good to see you.” She places a hand on my forearm, emphasizing each and every word. If I closed my eyes, Rose would sound exactly like our mother: proper, enunciated, regal, warm.
I wonder if she remembers the time I sheared off her hair. Or all the times I framed her for my wrongdoings or tasked her with my evil bidding, like teasing our little brother mercilessly.
She was seven years old when Mom was sent away and Nana Greta came to live with us and assist our father, who’d found himself a single parent virtually overnight.
Nana Greta was as cruel as she was obsessed with her only son. She’d pull my hair on purpose when she brushed it and count my calories when she thought I’d been snacking too much. Night by night, my bedtime came earlier and earlier. And if I couldn’t sleep, she’d force me to read boring children’s books she personally chose from the local library, spurring a lifelong aversion to leisure reading that I’ve yet to overcome.