Read Online Pieces of My Sister's Life by Elizabeth Arnold - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Elizabeth Arnold
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wanted. I hugged myself and scanned the raised script.
In the kitchen the teapot started to whistle, and I jammed the book back onto the shelf. LoraLee shuffled into the room with a steaming mug that smelled of raspberry. She watched as I drank, nodding slowly as I sipped at the tea, bitter on the back of my tongue. My mind swam with the heat of the steam and with the tangle of learned ingredients chanting through my head.
“LoraLee,” I said, “do you know magic?” It sounded stupid when I said it, so I ducked my head and faked a laugh. “That’s not what I mean.”
LoraLee smiled. “In town they says I’s a witch.”
I widened my eyes. “No they don’t.”
“S’okay, honey, I knows what they’s sayin’, people likes to talk. But there ain’t no such thing as magic.”
“I know that.”
LoraLee shook her head. “But there is maybe such a thing as shapin’. You can shape how you wants your life to be, and say spells to make it happen. That’s what I do. That’s what they calls witchcraf ’. And sometime God listen, sometime He got better things to do.”
I made my voice nonchalant. “What do you mean spells? What kind of spells?”
“Jus’ spells what change the things aroun’ you. Some peoples knows spells for power, for money. Some knows spells that makes sick people well. What I thinks is that it ain’t so much the spells do the shapin’. What I thinks is that it’s the wantin’ make things happen.”
I nodded but I felt a sudden sinking disappointment. I saw LoraLee sitting in her two-room shack decorated with things people threw away. I saw how her dress was torn at the hem and the cushion on her rocker dangled with loose threads. And I knew that if spells could work, LoraLee wouldn’t choose to live this way.
Still, the rest of that afternoon I thought about it. I remembered the days I’d gone to her with a sick stomach or sick head. She’d stroked my forehead with peppermint water, fed me ginger tea. She’d pressed her fingers to my temples and told me stories about Africa and Atlanta until I fell asleep. LoraLee knew how to heal the sick and maybe that meant she knew more. Maybe it meant she knew how to make Justin love me, but just didn’t want to say.
I cried all that night, silent, closed-mouthed tears. My insides felt close to bursting, like an overdone potato. Eve lay in the bed beside me, but she didn’t seem to hear my clogged breaths. Or if she did, she chose to pretend that she didn’t, perhaps allowing me my dignity. Close as we were, we both knew that there were times when closeness was beside the point.
As I lay in the dark, I imagined Leslie in her veil, dumb as a dead clam but still victorious. I imagined Justin holding her ringed hand and whispering his stories. I pictured him sharing the world where I’d fallen in love, everything that had once been sacred between us, and I cried.
Late the next morning, I woke after a fitful sleep to the sound of footsteps on the stairs. There was a knock on the bedroom door and Justin’s voice, “Kerry?”
I bit my lips between my teeth and stumbled out into the hall. His eyes searched mine, and then his jaw stiffened and he lifted a thermos. “Eve said you were sick. Mom sent me over with soup. Jesus Murphy, you look like you’ve had your face stomped by a soccer shoe.”
I felt my eyes sting and ran into the bathroom, slammed the door behind me.
Justin knocked on the door. “Kerry? You okay?”
I looked into the mirror. My nose was red, eyes swollen and dark, like a horrid caricature of myself.
“Kerry? What is it? You gonna be okay?”
I buried my face in my hands. “I look like crap!” Behind the wall of my hands I saw Leslie, her sparkling blue eyes which had probably never cried, her perfect little fingernails painted silvery seashell pink. No wonder he loved her.
“You’re crying because of how you look?” He sounded lost. “Okay, either you’re totally overreacting to my
In the kitchen the teapot started to whistle, and I jammed the book back onto the shelf. LoraLee shuffled into the room with a steaming mug that smelled of raspberry. She watched as I drank, nodding slowly as I sipped at the tea, bitter on the back of my tongue. My mind swam with the heat of the steam and with the tangle of learned ingredients chanting through my head.
“LoraLee,” I said, “do you know magic?” It sounded stupid when I said it, so I ducked my head and faked a laugh. “That’s not what I mean.”
LoraLee smiled. “In town they says I’s a witch.”
I widened my eyes. “No they don’t.”
“S’okay, honey, I knows what they’s sayin’, people likes to talk. But there ain’t no such thing as magic.”
“I know that.”
LoraLee shook her head. “But there is maybe such a thing as shapin’. You can shape how you wants your life to be, and say spells to make it happen. That’s what I do. That’s what they calls witchcraf ’. And sometime God listen, sometime He got better things to do.”
I made my voice nonchalant. “What do you mean spells? What kind of spells?”
“Jus’ spells what change the things aroun’ you. Some peoples knows spells for power, for money. Some knows spells that makes sick people well. What I thinks is that it ain’t so much the spells do the shapin’. What I thinks is that it’s the wantin’ make things happen.”
I nodded but I felt a sudden sinking disappointment. I saw LoraLee sitting in her two-room shack decorated with things people threw away. I saw how her dress was torn at the hem and the cushion on her rocker dangled with loose threads. And I knew that if spells could work, LoraLee wouldn’t choose to live this way.
Still, the rest of that afternoon I thought about it. I remembered the days I’d gone to her with a sick stomach or sick head. She’d stroked my forehead with peppermint water, fed me ginger tea. She’d pressed her fingers to my temples and told me stories about Africa and Atlanta until I fell asleep. LoraLee knew how to heal the sick and maybe that meant she knew more. Maybe it meant she knew how to make Justin love me, but just didn’t want to say.
I cried all that night, silent, closed-mouthed tears. My insides felt close to bursting, like an overdone potato. Eve lay in the bed beside me, but she didn’t seem to hear my clogged breaths. Or if she did, she chose to pretend that she didn’t, perhaps allowing me my dignity. Close as we were, we both knew that there were times when closeness was beside the point.
As I lay in the dark, I imagined Leslie in her veil, dumb as a dead clam but still victorious. I imagined Justin holding her ringed hand and whispering his stories. I pictured him sharing the world where I’d fallen in love, everything that had once been sacred between us, and I cried.
Late the next morning, I woke after a fitful sleep to the sound of footsteps on the stairs. There was a knock on the bedroom door and Justin’s voice, “Kerry?”
I bit my lips between my teeth and stumbled out into the hall. His eyes searched mine, and then his jaw stiffened and he lifted a thermos. “Eve said you were sick. Mom sent me over with soup. Jesus Murphy, you look like you’ve had your face stomped by a soccer shoe.”
I felt my eyes sting and ran into the bathroom, slammed the door behind me.
Justin knocked on the door. “Kerry? You okay?”
I looked into the mirror. My nose was red, eyes swollen and dark, like a horrid caricature of myself.
“Kerry? What is it? You gonna be okay?”
I buried my face in my hands. “I look like crap!” Behind the wall of my hands I saw Leslie, her sparkling blue eyes which had probably never cried, her perfect little fingernails painted silvery seashell pink. No wonder he loved her.
“You’re crying because of how you look?” He sounded lost. “Okay, either you’re totally overreacting to my
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