Three Sisters

Submitted to Anderbo on Jun, 8, 2010: Rejected!!
Submitted to So New / Necessary Fiction on Jun 10, 2010: Rejected!!
Submitted to Walnut Literary Review on Jun 15, 2010:

Three Sisters
By Robert Aquino Dollesin


Before he disappeared, Poppa taught us the magic of make believe. Close your eyes, travel the universe, transform yourself into whomever, or whatever your mind could conjure. Do impossible things you might never have imagined. This was the magic of make believe.

Sitting on the hard earth next to me, her legs curled under her, my baby sister, Annie, cannot stop shaking. Even with my arms wrapped tightly around her shoulders, she continues to tremble.

“Make believe,” I whisper. “Do like Poppa taught you. Make believe you’re somewhere else. Somewhere far, far away.”

It used to be simple for Annie to make believe. The sugar cane fields that glowed under the stars around us could easily become a swaying sea. The water buffaloes, silhouetted beneath moonlight, could grow long twisting horns and shoot streams of blue flame from their pulsing nostrils.

“Make believe, Annie,” I say again, pulling her closer against me. “Make believe.”

The last time Poppa came home from the fields his arms and ankles were caked with mud. The three of us, Tess and Annie and I, greeted him on the rear stoop.

He sat on the top step, grinned widely and swiped his sweaty forehead with an old rag. “This mud,” he said, thumbing a line through the dried dirt that cloaked his thigh, “is not from working all day in the rice paddies. It’s from hunting dragons in the swamp.”

Poppa laughed and little Annie, laughing too, armed herself with a broom. She hopped down the steps and thrust the broom handle outward, toward the same shrubs she and I crouch behind right now. “Don’t worry, Poppa,” she said. “I’ll kill the swamp dragons when they come for you.”

That night the dragons came for Poppa. And all the make believe in the world could not dispel them.

Now, as the sluggish, late-night breeze rattles the banana leaves, I recall Poppa, and wish I could have been more like him.

No matter how much Poppa wanted me to learn the magic of make believe, I couldn‘t.

One evening in the woods he asked me to close my eyes and describe everything I heard.

I leaned against the trunk of a towering mango tree, squeezed my eyelids shut, and listened carefully to the surrounding sounds. “I hear crickets,” I said. “Some leaves blowing and also the creek flowing.”

When I opened my eyes Poppa was frowning. He turned to my older sister. “And you, Tess? What do you hear?”

“Fairies, Poppa,” Tess said. “I hear beautiful fairies beating their wings together as they dance on top of dried leaves.”

Like Poppa. Like Annie. Tess was blessed with the gift of imagination.

In the months following Poppa‘s disappearance, particularly during the monsoon season when Momma no longer came home at night, Tess often sat at the edge of Annie’s bed and comforted her. She reminded Annie that Poppa would never have wanted her to be afraid. Of course it wasn’t a wind-driven rain striking the closed wooden shutters. Of course it was a flock of angels beating their wings.

I had always been too much like Momma.

According to Momma, the reason the dragons took Poppa away was because he pretended his problems didn’t exist. Too fond of mahjong and cockfighting and card playing, he wagered money he didn’t have. In her usual somber tone, Momma explained to us that in the real world you can’t ignore your troubles forever. You can’t hide from your obligations. Distance yourself from them too long and eventually they find you, fall over you like long stretching shadows.

I look past the shrubs to the house across the yard, where Momma’s bedroom window stands open, propped into place by a branch. More than ever before, I wish I possessed the gift of make believe the way my sisters Annie and Tess do.

Here, next to the creek, where Annie and I wait, I try to make believe the noises seeping from Momma’s open window are not what they are. I attempt to convince myself that the steady creaking does not come from the rusted springs of Momma‘s bed, rising and dipping under their weight. The groans, I attempt to fool myself into believing, are the chirps of spindly-toed geckos, sucking the bedroom walls and ceiling; tiny, iridescent lizards, their organs pulsing beneath their skin as they stalk motionless, waiting to ambush a careless, close-buzzing mosquito

But of course, because I am so much like Momma, it is impossible for me to hear anything other than the truth in the sounds coming from the house.

I raise my face to the night sky and remember how one night Poppa, strolling alongside the creek with us girls, paused to point out the dippers. The bright glowing ladles, the pulsing handles. “Highways to the heavens,” he said of the stars.

In my arms, Annie continues to tremble, continues to rock back and forth. When the noises that escape Momma's bedroom window grow louder, she raises her palms to her ears.

I whisper, not sure if she can hear me. “Make believe the sounds are something else, Annie.”

The bedroom quiets. I twist around and peer between the leafy branches. Jittery shadows move behind the white bed sheet that hangs across Momma’s window. Perhaps the man inside is readying himself to go.

“Shouldn’t be long,” I say to Annie. But only seconds later the noises resume, more aggressively than before. I close my eyes and try to imagine myself soaring through the atmosphere of some distant world, but the bedsprings and her painful moans do not go away.

The swamp dragons had come and snatched Poppa away in the middle of the night.

Earlier that afternoon we danced, us three sisters. We danced to the silly songs Poppa sang. Meaningless, made-up verses where frogs and cockroaches and little girls shared a single world. The day felt special. A day that seems to have taken place so long ago; long before Momma was forced to do the things she did to keep food on the table.

We shared a lazy sunset together. Momma cooked outdoors over a crackling fire, scattering the smoke with her wicker fan. She surprised us all that day by laughing out loud at the antics of her foolish husband and three silly daughters.

For Momma, it was a rare moment of tolerance. Poppa must have sensed that, too, because he took hold Momma’s wrists and playfully pulled her away from her cooking. He raised one of her arms high above their heads and twirled her round and round. Laughing, Momma swatted at Poppa in embarrassment.

That special evening happened during a time when being outdoors meant more than just a place to hide until the men Momma brought home left.

I try to picture fairies. Gnomes. Giants. The images do not materialize inside my head. I am no good at make believe.

When I open my eyes I notice no flicker from Momma’s bedroom window. The candle has gone out. I tell myself to be thankful for this, because the darkness makes all that has happened in that bedroom seem less real.

Over and over I murmur, "Soon the man will leave and she’ll call us indoors. Soon the man will leave and she’ll call us indoors. Soon the man will leave and she’ll call us indoors."

Despite repeating this wish, I begin to worry. Fear prickles my arms, bristles the back of my neck. She wouldn‘t leave us, too, would she?

In this country an uneducated widow with three daughters cannot find decent work for a decent wage.

Not long after Poppa disappeared, Momma began spending nights away from home, not returning until dawn, and then not wanting to be bothered. On the sofa she’d slip off to sleep, her disheveled hair falling over her makeup-smeared face, the two gold bracelets Poppa had given her dangling from her left wrist.

One morning she came home happy and hopeful. She sat us down and told us that life was finally going to be better for us. There was a man, an American, who’d proposed to her, promised to take her away from this place.

Afterward, when my sisters had left the room, Momma drew me close and said softly, “You are the strongest, Lynn. Tonight I need you to stay strong. Please, before the man arrives, take your sisters outdoors and wait by the creek until I call for you.“

I shook my head, not understanding. “Why, Momma?”

She hesitated a while, seemed to try to read my face. Then Momma bit her lip and ran her fingers through my hair. “I don’t know what he’ll do if he finds out I have children. What if he leaves me, Lynn? What kind of future will we have then? Now promise me. Promise Momma you‘ll do what I ask.”

That night I followed Momma‘s instructions. When they protested, I explained to my sisters why we needed to go outdoors. Reluctantly, they agreed. More frightened than I dared show, I led them behind the shrubs, where we crouched unseen, waiting several hours for the man to leave. The following night we did the same. Momma went on this way for over two months.

One night last week we remained waiting outdoors much longer than usual. Tess, who, despite being older than me, almost always kept quiet and allowed me to make the decisions, surprised me by asking, “How long is Momma gonna be inside with that man?”

Already anxious myself, I snapped back. “Quiet! You want Momma to hear your big mouth? She won’t leave us out here all night, of course she won’t. Just stay quiet.”

I listened for the sounds escaping Momma‘s bedroom window. But that night the house sat dark and quiet. I turned to Tess and said, “Something’s wrong. I‘m going to the house to check on Momma. You just keep Annie quiet. I’ll be right back.”

Tess shook her head. “No,” she said. “I’m the eldest. I'll go.”

She turned to leave I pinched a handful of her blouse. “Tess,” I said. "I'll go. This is real. It's not one of Poppa’s fantasies that can be dreamed away."

Tess peeled my fingers from the fabric of her blouse, one at a time, and glared at me. “I won’t be long,” she said. “I promise. You just keep an eye on Annie. Keep her quiet.”

With Annie asleep in my arms, I watched my older sister creep on all fours across the dirt yard until she was beneath the window. For a moment she remained perfectly flat against the ground. Then, she stood slowly.

A violent CRACK draws me from the vivid image of that fateful night to find myself exchanging a big-eyed glance with Annie. She stares at me with fright and uncertainty plastered on her face. Moisture beneath her nostrils reveals each rapid breath. She scratches at one of her arms and allows a single word to crawl past the tightness in her throat. “Mosquito.”

And then she begins to cry.

I press her face against my chest. Still, her sobs echo so loudly I am sure they can be heard from the house.

Annie also wept the night Momma left. She’d been asleep, her head in my lap, and had wakened suddenly. She clawed at my skirt and shouted, “Where’s Tess? I want Tess?“

“Hush, Annie, hush,” I replied. “She’s checking on Momma.”

“I want Momma,” she said, louder. She struggled to her feet and turned to race to the house. “I’m going inside with Momma.”

“Stop Annie!” I yanked her off her feet to the ground in front of me. She continued to scream. I tried to shake her quiet. And before I could stop myself, I brought my palm up and slapped her across the face.

Her mouth and eyes went wide, seeming to search my face for understanding. “Oh, Annie, I didn’t mean it.” She buried her face in my lap and left it there.

“Hush, Annie, hush,” I say now. Our bodies share an irregular rhythm, an awkward combination of heartbeats and shivers. Neither of us ask why the voices from the house have grown quiet. I tremble the same way Tess had trembled the night she’d crept back to the shrubs from the house.

Tess scooted between me and Annie. I asked her, “What are they doing in there?”

“They’re not doing anything,” Tess replied. She shook her head. “Nothing.”

The bleak tone of my sister’s voice told me something was wrong. “What? What, Tess, what? What are they doing?”

Annie moved from my lap to Tess’s, where she fell asleep. Tess and I sat quiet, neither murmuring a word until the sky began to pale, neither Tess nor I murmured a word to one another.

Finally, staring vacantly ahead at the gray breaking dawn, Tess spoke. “Still awake, Lynn?”

“I haven‘t slept,” I answered.

“Momma's gone,” she said. “She left us.”

I didn’t say anything.

“Did you hear me?” I turned to face her. We exchanged frightened stares. She was on the verge of tears. “Momma’s gone,” she said again. “She ran off with that man.”

I scooped up a fistful of dirt, let it slip through my fingers. “Momma would never leave us.”

“She‘s gone, Lynn.”

The words sank in. After a moment I said, “Tess?”

She didn’t respond. I went on, “You think Momma wishes she didn’t have us to worry about?”

In a tone so quavering and low I almost couldn‘t hear, Tess said, “I think she wishes she didn’t cry every night.”

I knew Momma was gone then. I knew Tess was telling the truth.

At the sound of distorted voices sweeping across the yard, Annie digs her fingernails into my arm. She stares into my face. Her dark, reflective eyes glisten in the moonlight. Sucking her bottom lip, a shiver travels over her. She is unable to make herself stop trembling. When she opens her mouth to ask me a question, I raise an index finger to my lips and slowly shake my head side to side.

From the opposite side of the house, the door leading to the driveway rattles open. I wish I could see, but I can’t. Not from where we wait behind the shrubs near the creek. So I listen. Heavy footsteps. Someone whistling a familiar bar of a popular tune. A car door swinging open, then slamming shut. An engine roars to life. Gravel crunches beneath rolling tires.

I cannot help but remember the night Momma left us. She, too, had disappeared in a car without saying goodbye.

That morning as the rust-tinged clouds filled the sky, I asked Tess, “What will we do if Momma doesn’t come back?”

The screen door on the back porch swings outward and golden light pounces across the yard, splashing over me and Annie. Through the branches I see her take two wobbly strides before collapsing onto the porch’s bottom step.

Annie screams. She squirms free of my grip and races across the yard. When Annie reaches the porch, Tess spreads her arms wide and our baby sister melts into them.

I get up and start across the yard, choking back my own urge to weep.

On the porch my two sisters -- one older, the other younger -- remain wrapped in one another’s arms, hands roaming over one another’s backs.

I cannot help but notice the money poking out of one of Tess’s fisted hands. Just a few crumpled bills, but enough for me to make believe that we‘ll be fine for another few days.