The Weird Sisters - Eleanor Brown [12]
When she walked into the kitchen, Bean was standing by the sink, one hand resting on the silver faucet, drinking water greedily from a jelly glass. She drained it with an exaggerated smack and leaned over to refill it, leaning on the counter. Rose saw, with some relief at the crack in Bean’s bedraggled perfection, a wet spot spreading on the fabric of her red suit where she had leaned against the counter. “What are you doing here?” Rose asked. “Mom and Dad didn’t say you were coming.”
Bean, halfway through another glass of water, raised her eyebrows over the rim. “I didn’t tell them I was coming.” And then, more to change the subject than to give any additional information, she said, “Oh, and I heard about you. Congratulations.”
“Thanks,” Rose said, her finger flicking to her ring. Not that we didn’t tell you all this months ago, Beany. Don’t rush on our account. It’s not like Mom might be dying or anything.
“Ah, the ring,” Bean said, seeing the movement of Rose’s hand. “I gave my love a ring and made him swear never to part with it. Let’s see.”
Rose took an awkward step forward, holding her hand out stiffly. Bean grasped our older sister’s thick fingers with her own manicured talons and peered at the ring. A gleaming sapphire set in antique worked white gold. Rose had treasured the romanticism and uniqueness of the ring when she and Jonathan had selected it. In front of Bean, however, she was sure it looked cheap.
“Pretty,” Bean pronounced. “Different. It’s better that way. Diamonds are so boring.” As she released Rose’s hand, Rose caught a flash of Bean’s pinky finger, the fake nail snapped off in a jagged edge. Rose’s hand hovered uncertainly in the air for a moment before she pulled it back to rest on her thigh.
“Thanks,” Rose said. “I like it.”
“How’s Mom doing?”
“Fine. You know, as fine as you’d expect. She’s nearly finished with the chemo course. This is one of her off weeks—we’ll take her back next week for her next treatments. She’s tired, and she doesn’t eat much, but it’s not as bad as it could have been.” There was more she could have said—that our mother had been so exhausted after her first treatment that she had slept for nearly three days; that a little while later the chemotherapy had torn out her hair, and Rose had found her crying on the bathroom floor, nearly bald, clumps of wet hair wrapped around her limbs like seaweed; that even after the worst had passed, it seemed the fight would never end, but Bean would understand the way things were soon enough. “We’re making it through.”
“Huh,” Bean said. She could have asked follow-up questions about our mother’s health, but she was more interested in the way Rose made it sound as if she were a vital part of the whole enterprise, when our parents had survived so long as a nation of two.
Rose squared her shoulders slightly. “We’re okay here. You didn’t have to come home.”
Bean sneered a little bit, reaching up and tucking her hair back into shape halfheartedly. “Yeah, I should have guessed you wouldn’t be glad to see me.”
“That’s not it,” Rose said, and the defensiveness in her voice surprised her. “I was just thinking the other day that I wished we were all here.”
“Well, now you’ve got your wish,” Bean said, spreading her hands out, palms up, in a what-more-do-you-want-from-me gesture. “Cordy’s not here, is she?”
“No,” Rose said. “I’m not even sure where she is. Dad sent a letter to the last address Mom had in her book, but you know how Cordy is.”
“Good. I can’t deal with her right now anyway.”
“So how long are you staying?” Rose ventured delicately.
Bean shrugged. “For a while. Dunno. I quit my job.”
Well, that was news. Bean had worked in the human resources department—well, Bean was the