The Language of Sisters Read Free Page A

I felt a mixture of sorrow, horror, and overwhelming guilt, my usual feelings when he was upset.
    â€œYes.”
    â€œWhere are you and which ones are you seeing?”
    â€œI’m in India. The southern part. And I’m seeing the woman. Her blond hair. The one I think is my mother.” His voice crackled, pain and memories blending together, an emotional tornado. “And that blue ceramic box is back with the carriage and the fancy lady with the parasol and the butterfly. The box keeps opening, and that red and purple butterfly is flying around. I’m trying to catch it, trying to talk to the butterfly, but it keeps flying toward the woods.” He took a shuddering breath. “The woods are so scary, I know there’s something in there, or someone. I think they’re from my past, not just random things.”
    â€œOkay, breathe with me ... one, two, three ...”
    He breathed with me, raspy and ragged. “I’m seeing the wooden ducks. I’m seeing them being thrown. Yelling. I’m scared of someone there. It’s a dark shadow, and I don’t know who it is. The blood is back, too, Toni. All over me. I can feel it. It’s all over her, too. She’s bleeding. I can see it in her blond hair. I’m trying to get to her, but I can’t. I wake up and I can’t breathe.”
    I lay down on my deck, holding the phone. I had been told never to tell him what I knew, what I saw, what I guessed at.
    â€œWhere is all this coming from?” he asked. “What does it mean?”
    Never tell, Antonia, never, ever tell.
    I was a secret keeper, and I could not hold the secret much longer. It had been twenty-five years and he needed to know. He deserved to know. But not tonight. “Breathe with me again, okay, here we go ...”
    * * *
    Over the next few days I received a number of calls and texts from family and friends who had had my mother’s special named “My Childrens Makes Me Worry.” They wanted to know what we Kozlovsky kids did to make my mother worry. The older people who called from the Russian community also gently chastised me, in Russian, of course. “Don’t make your mama worry, Antonia. You know better.”
    The regular dishes at my parents’ restaurant all have family names. “Elvira’s Tasty Treats,” which is a selection of desserts; “Valeria’s Dumplings,” which are beef dumplings on a bed of lettuce; and “Antonia’s Delight,” which are cheese crepes.
    But the specials ... well, those are a crap shoot.
    In the past, my mother has named specials “Alexei Not The Boss,” after she had a fight with my father.
    And “Teenagers Big Trouble,” when we were younger.
    And “I Wish Valeria Quit Her Job.”
    I had “Antonia Not A Criminal,” simply because I write about crime.
    Ellie endured “Elvira’s Bad Choice” when she got engaged to Gino. It hurt Gino’s feelings.
    As my sister Valerie says, “I’m a state prosecutor. I try to maintain respect, a professional image, then Mama puts out a special called ‘Valeria No Call Mama Enough,’ and even the criminals are asking me why I don’t call my mama more.”
    It goes on and on. Don’t make my mother mad, or you’ll hear about it on the Tonight’s Specials board of Svetlana’s Kitchen.
    * * *
    On Saturday night I heard a knock and opened the door of my tugboat. I knew who it was.
    â€œHi, Toni.”
    I smiled. “You’re up late.”
    â€œSo are you. I saw the light on. Want to come over?”
    â€œYes.”
    He put out a warm hand, and I took it. He smiled, kissed me on the cheek, hugged me close.
    I locked my door, though I didn’t need to, and we walked down the dock. He opened the door to his houseboat.
    â€œWant dinner? I bought crab legs for us.”
    â€œNo, thank you.”
    â€œWine? I bought that white wine you like