The Secret Sister

the other sketchy hellholes that Birdie and I had been dumped in by harried, stressed-out social workers trying to cover their caseloads. And yet doubt still needled at my brain when, for a brief moment, I imagined Guy shopping for a live-in partner like he shopped for his shirts.
Would he tire of me when the novelty faded? Would he move on to a fresher, more current replacement?
But I reminded myself that I was a survivor – an old hand at dealing with rejection. I’d hop on this glorious ride as long as it lasted and get as much as I could out of the deal. That’s why I took those bags of brand-new clothes and donated them to a charity clothing bank for destitute women trying to get jobs. Since most were unworn, I was sure they’d be overjoyed at my generous donation.
The pastor at the Holy Springs Mission, a sandy-haired guy wearing a faded corduroy jacket over eighties-style blue jeans, opened up the twist tie on the first bag and stared at the labels in disbelief, fixing me in a gaze that made my insides shrivel.
The room stunk so badly of musty, unwashed clothes I couldn’t breathe. I thrust the bags at him, mumbled a hasty you’re welcome and he replied with a polite thank you, watching me closely when I stopped in front of a large poster that declared:
The wealth of the rich is their fortified city;
they imagine it a wall too high to scale.
Proverbs 18:11
When I glanced back at him, he raised his eyebrows, as if urging me to run to him and beg forgiveness for my shameful avarice. Fling my wretched body at his feet and allow him to bludgeon me with some guilt-inducing sermon delivered to ease my misery. But he just turned away and started pulling out all my cheap new dresses from the first garbage bag. I could swear he shook his head and made that disapproving tutt tutt sound. I wanted to swoop right back in there and slap his self-righteous face. He reminded me of Luke and Esther Penner, our first foster parents. People who felt it necessary to display their core philosophies of life on our bedroom wall.
God’s wounds cure, sin’s kisses kill.
Luke and Esther were patronizing do-gooders who professed to be guided by holy laws and preachings, yet failed to actually live according to them. Who owned a porcelain doll collection they paid more attention to than us. Who braided our hair so tightly our eyes would water and locked us away in our room. Who beat me when I took fruit punch from the fridge to lift Birdie’s fever.
Our placement with the Penners only lasted for three months. It turned out their emotions were as bland as their food.
They believed they were saving us, but they messed up Birdie and me.
I still bear the scars.

5
I’d been driven from one life to another so many times, never knowing where I was headed or who I’d end up with, but when I moved in with Guy the leaving was different.
I sat on the steps of my apartment block, two suitcases stacked next to me. It was a chilly morning, frost on the grass, trees in early bud, gritty swathes of sand the only remnant of winter. The perfect time to make a new start. I’d simply shed my old life and take on the new dream life. The thought of it pulsed through me like a drug. Sex and luxury and money had all become tied up with Guy. He’d slipped into my addiction and become the ultra dealer. The more I saw him, the more I craved him. And he wasn’t like the other losers. No agonizing wait for texts or phone calls. No sign of commitment phobia and broken promises. No hidden monster just waiting to leap out and show his true colors when we were alone.
Not yet.
When Guy’s car pulled up, the sun slid out from behind a cloud and I squinted my eyes against the light. The outline of his car seemed edged in rainbow flecks. A magic chariot driven by a mythical prince. I stood up waving like a kid, until I remembered to press my arms to my sides and curl my hands into fists. Eagerness could be a dangerous trait. I’d learned long ago that my best defense was to appear detached and aloof. That way you didn’t have so far to fall.
Guy wore a snowy, white shirt under a tan leather jacket. Mr. GQ. Crisp and well groomed from his designer jeans to his pale buff leather shoes and well-cut hair. The prince had chosen me. I could barely contain myself as he got out of the car. If only Birdie could see this, I thought to myself over and over, but I vowed he’d never know anything about my past. Or about Birdie and all the other hidden stuff.
“I would’ve carried these out for you,” he said, reaching for the cases.
“Didn’t want you to see the dump I was living in. You might’ve changed your mind if you’d seen the state of the fridge. It’s like a biology experiment.”
“I try not to stand in judgment,” he said, lifting the trunk cover.
I tapped his shoulder. “You should know I’m allergic to housework.”
“No worries. I have a cleaning service coming in once a week.”
“I’ll make an effort, I promise,” I said, trying not to remember the harsh, gray mornings at Luke and Esther Penner’s home. The hours spent, head down, knees aching, bladder full, scrubbing the bathroom floor with a sponge that left big soapy puddles that wouldn’t be soaked up. Esther standing above me, chewing her thin lips and tapping her feet on the linoleum.
“You’re so earnest,” Guy said, smiling as he held the passenger door open and feigned a mock bow. “Lighten up and have some fun.”
A sob caught in my throat. Birdie always said that to me.
I could’ve crumpled up in tears, but instead I nestled into the soft leather