When We Were Sisters. Emilie Richards

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      “I may not know every detail, but I do know you. Nobody’s as hard on you as you are on yourself.”

      I finished the last of my muffin. I wanted another, but they’re vegan, not low cal, so I sadly dusted my hands over the plate. “I don’t like Kris all that well. He sucks the joy out of every room. But I don’t want Robin to be unhappy, either. I just want her to have the time to figure out her life. And I want her to remember she’s more than a wife and mother.”

      “You’ve decided that’s not enough? Because those are fighting words for a lot of women.”

      “No! I’m a big fan of mothers, never having had one who did anything more domestic than open a vial of crack. Robin’s done the domestic thing and loved it. I don’t begrudge her that. But she’s also immensely talented, and she deserves more from life than to continue being Kris’s house elf.”

      “For what it’s worth I don’t think Kris sucks the joy out of a room, and I don’t think he sees her that way. He’s not one of those guys who launches himself into every conversation or regales everyone with stories about how important he is. He’s thoughtful and serious, but I think he was shaken by the accident. He couldn’t take his eyes off Robin at the table the other night. And I think he’s the kind of guy who closes in on himself when he’s in turmoil. For that matter, she does the same thing.”

      “When did you become a psychologist?”

      “When I came on board as your manager.” He winked. “It’s a job requirement. A necessity for survival.”

      Unwillingly I smiled. “What else do we need to talk about?”

      “I’ve got a list, but let’s take a walk on the beach first. You game?”

      I tried to remember if Donny and I had ever taken a walk together just for fun. Fun was intriguing and a good delaying tactic. “I have sand pails for shells if you find anything to collect. This is the best shelling beach in North America.”

      “I might. I have a niece who loves pretty shells.”

      “You have a niece?” I wondered why he had never mentioned her before.

      “I’ll tell you all about Jenny, unless you think it will destroy my mystique.”

      I got to my feet. “You have no mystique, and it’s a deal. Besides if we take a walk, I can have another muffin.”

      “Let’s walk far enough for two.”

      That was almost too much pleasure to imagine. “You’ve got a deal.”

8

      Kris

      When I was a teenager and wanted to sneak out of the house on a school night to be with my friends, I tiptoed shoeless to our creaky front door. Then I waited for some blast of neighborhood noise, a car passing with its stereo blaring, sirens or a truck rumbling along the main street a block away. The moment I had cover I opened the door just enough to squeeze through and stepped out to the porch, where I pulled on my shoes before I headed down the street.

      I was seventeen the first and last time I was caught. I returned from a night out to find my father in the living room reading a month-old issue of Lidové Noviny, “the People’s Newspaper,” sent by a friend from the country that was still called Czechoslovakia, although not for much longer.

      My parents came to the United States during the Prague Spring, when the Soviets marched into Czechoslovakia and stamped out budding reforms. My father, Gustav—Gus—was a leader in the artists’ community, and his paintings were political in nature, which meant he was in danger. He, my mother, Ida, and sister, Lucie, escaped and eventually made their way to Cleveland, Ohio, where I was born.

      On this night he looked up from that nostalgic taste of the country he had been forced to leave and pulled his glasses to the tip of his nose to see me more clearly. “You won’t do this again, Kristoff, correct?”

      I remember considering. Sneaking out was one thing, but lying to my parents another.

      “I would not like to buy a padlock for our door,” he said, while the moral implications were still racing through my mind. “In case of fire, that could be troublesome.”

      I made my case. “I work hard at school, Táta. I’m on the forensics team and the editor of the yearbook. I’ll probably get a college scholarship that pays all my expenses.” To my credit I didn’t add the obvious, that a scholarship was the only way I would get a higher education.

      “All this is true,” my father said in his lightly accented English. Unlike my mother he had studied the language before fleeing the country of his birth. Her English came after intensive study here, and Maminka still speaks Czech at home and anywhere else it’s understood.

      “I need to have a little fun,” I whined.

      “In a car coming home with other boys who have had too much to drink?”

      “I walked home.”

      He nodded. I remember thinking I was gazing into a mirror or a time machine, because someday I would look much the same. Except for straighter hair and darker eyes I strongly resemble Gustav Lenhart.

      “Fun is good,” he said. “We need fun. I am too serious. I know this. I take life too serious. I take myself too serious. I am afraid sometimes I have passed this on to my children.”

      “Let tonight be proof you haven’t.”

      He laughed. He continued as he preceded me up the stairs. My father has a deep rumbling laugh, and despite taking the world seriously, he still laughs frequently.

      He wasn’t laughing a few minutes ago when I hung up from our transatlantic telephone call.

      This afternoon as I prepared to leave our suite of offices I didn’t have my shoes in my hand, but I might as well have. I was making a concerted effort not to alert anybody I was leaving before six. Robin had scheduled two housekeeper applicants to interview before dinner. She’d asked me to try to get home to meet them so I could tell her my preference. She’s already done all the footwork, checked references, conducted initial interviews.

      Frankly I couldn’t care less whom she chooses. I don’t want any stranger in my house. At the same time I want her to see I’m involved in decisions about our family. Robin has exaggerated my lack of involvement, built it up until it’s now an insurmountable wall between us. Not that she doesn’t have anything to go on. I work long hours, and the nature of my job means I’m at the mercy of our senior partners and clients. Nobody gets ahead at a law firm by saying no, so I can’t always be counted on to arrive home when she wants me to.

      The flip side is that in the long run, all this work will be worth it. I made partner at thirty-three, and my star is rising due to hard work and good decisions, but being a partner doesn’t mean my job’s secure. Until I move up to the next level, I’m really just a glorified associate, only I’m paid more. The minute the firm believes I’m letting them down, my rising star becomes a meteor crashing to earth.

      I had almost made it down the plushly carpeted hallway to the door leading outside to the elevator when Larry Buffman saw me.

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