The Winter She Didn't Choose

The car smelled like leather and someone else's perfume. I kept my hands in my lap and watched the ocean roll past the window, gray and endless, nothing like the flat brown fields I'd left behind nine hours ago. "You'll love the house," the woman beside me said. Her name was Margaret, and she was supposedly my mother. She'd said maybe twenty words to me since the airport. "We've had the east wing redone. For you." "Okay," I said. She smiled like I'd thanked her. I hadn't. The car turned through iron gates and up a drive lined with trees that had been trimmed into perfect shapes. The house at the end of it looked like something from a movie about old money and bad decisions. Stone, columns, windows that went on forever. I counted four chimneys before I stopped counting. A girl stood on the front steps. She was small and blonde and looked like she'd been designed by someone with a very specific idea of what a daughter should be. She had a blanket wrapped around her shoulders even though it was sixty degrees out. "Vivienne," Margaret said. "This is your sister. Wren." Wren's eyes filled with tears immediately. I'd been in the car for nine hours. I hadn't even put my bag down. "I'm so glad you're here," Wren said, her voice soft and shaky. "I've always wanted a sister." She hugged me. I stood there with my arms at my sides. When she pulled back, she was still crying. "I'm sorry," she said. "I just get emotional. I've been sick lately, and everyone's been so worried. You must think I'm ridiculous." Margaret put her arm around Wren's shoulders. "Sweetheart, don't cry. You'll make yourself worse." "I'm sorry," Wren said again. "I know Vivienne's probably tired. I just... I hope we can be close. I know it must be hard, coming here. But I've been the only girl in this family for so long. I've always wanted someone to share things with." I looked at her. Then I looked at Margaret, who was watching me like she expected me to say something. "I'm going to bring my bags in," I said. The house was bigger inside than it had looked from the outside. Margaret led me up a staircase that curved like a ribbon and down a hallway that smelled like fresh flowers. A clock ticked somewhere I could not see. The carpet swallowed my steps. A maid I had not been introduced to flattened herself against the wall to let us pass and did not meet my eyes. "This is your room," she said, opening a door. "There's a bathroom through there, and a closet. We had some things brought in for you." The bedspread was too white. The flowers on the nightstand had been cut that morning. I set my bag on the floor instead of the chair, because the chair looked like it had never held anything cheap. The room was the size of my old apartment. The bed had a canopy. There were flowers on the nightstand. Everything was pale blue and white. "It's nice," I said. "The chef will have dinner at seven. Dress is casual." Margaret paused at the door. "Vivienne... I know this is an adjustment. But you're home now. We want you to feel that." I set my bag on the floor. "Where's my father?" "Richard is at the office. He'll be home tomorrow." She hesitated. "And Wren's father, Charles, will be here as well. He lives with us. I should have mentioned that." "Wren's father?" "Wren's mother was Richard's first wife. She passed when Wren was small. Charles stayed on after the remarriage. He's part of the family." I nodded like that made sense. It didn't. But nothing about this place made sense. The dining room had a table long enough for twenty. We were five. Me, Margaret, Wren, and two men who turned out to be Richard and Charles. Richard looked at me across the table like he was appraising a piece of property. Charles didn't look at me at all. "So," Richard said, cutting his steak into precise pieces. "You worked in a restaurant." "I waited tables," I said. "And I cooked some." "Did you finish school?" I set my fork down. "I graduated." "Northern lake college," he said. "I read the file." "Then why'd you ask?" Margaret's hand tightened on her wine glass. Wren made a small sound, like a laugh she'd swallowed. Richard didn't react. "We'll need to get you enrolled somewhere. Maybe a semester at Ellsworth. It's a good school. You'll need to catch up socially." "I'm not interested in school." "You're eighteen. You'll do what's expected." I pushed my plate back. "And what's that?" The table went quiet. Wren looked at me with wide eyes. "You'll learn," Richard said. Dinner ended ten minutes later. I went up to my room and locked the door, even though I didn't know if these doors even had locks. They did. I lay on the bed in my clothes and stared at the ceiling. Eighteen years. Eighteen years I lived in a house with a mother who worked two jobs and a father I never knew. Eighteen years of hand-me-downs and grocery outlet coupons. And then a letter arrived, and suddenly I was the daughter of Richard Ellsworth, whose family had owned half the coast for a hundred years. And there was Wren, the daughter who'd been there all along. The one who cried when I arrived. The one everyone had spent eighteen years loving. I closed my eyes and told myself I didn't care. The next morning, I woke to a knock on my door. Wren stood in the hallway, a tray in her hands. "I brought you coffee," she said. "I didn't know how you take it." "Black." She smiled and held out the tray. I took the mug. "I thought maybe we could talk," she said. "Get to know each other. I know this is awkward." "Sure." She sat on the edge of my bed like she'd done it a hundred times. Maybe she had. Maybe this room was hers before it was mine. "I want us to be sisters," she said. "Real sisters. I know I'm not... I know you're the real one. Biologically. But I've been here my whole life. This is my family too." I drank my coffee. "No one said it wasn't." "I just mean it's complicated. For both of us." She looked at me with those soft eyes. "I get sick sometimes. When I'm stressed. That's why everyone worries. It's not that they love me more. They just... they're used to taking care of me." "Okay." "I don't want you to think I'm trying to take your place." I set the mug down. "You've had eighteen years. I just got here. If anything, I'm taking yours." She laughed. It sounded real. "We're both making this weird." At dinner that night, Wren had an idea. "Let's play a game," she said. "It's going around online. The sentence is 'I've never told you, but this is what I love most about you.' Everyone has to say it about everyone else." Richard looked up from his phone. "What's the point?" "It's sweet. It's a way to share good feelings." She turned to me. "Vivienne, you start." I looked around the table. Four faces, all waiting. "I don't have one," I said. "Come on," Wren said. "It's easy. I'll go first." She turned to Margaret. "I've never told you, but this is what I love most about you. You always put me before yourself. Even when you're tired, you make sure I'm okay." Margaret's eyes went soft. "Oh, sweetheart." "My turn," Margaret said. "I've never told you, but this is what I love most about you, Wren. Your gentleness. You've always been the sweetest child." Wren beamed. She looked at Richard. "I've never told you," Richard said, not looking up from his phone, "but this is what I love most about you, Wren. Your resilience." Charles went next. "You never complain. Even when you're hurting." Wren's eyes glistened. "I love all of you so much." Then she turned to me. "Your turn." I looked at the four of them. They were all smiling. Like this was normal. Like this was a family. "I don't have anything," I said. "You must," Wren said. "Just think." I looked at Margaret. "You sound really nice on the phone." The smile froze on her face. I looked at Richard. "You send checks on time." Wren's face went pale. I looked at Charles. "I don't know you at all. So there's nothing to hate yet." I stood up. "Thanks for dinner. I'm going to bed." That night, I heard Wren crying through the wall. Margaret's voice, low and soothing. Richard's voice, sharp with something I couldn't understand. I turned my face to the pillow and wished I was back up north, in my mother's house, with the leaky faucet and the furnace that rattled. But I couldn't go back. That was the thing. I'd signed the papers. I'd taken the money. I was stuck here now. The next morning, Richard summoned me to his study. "Your behavior last night was unacceptable," he said. "Wren was trying to make you feel welcome." "She was trying to make me feel like shit." He didn't blink. "You'll apologize." "No." "You'll apologize, or I'll reconsider the trust." I laughed. "The trust. You mean the thing you dangled in front of me like a steak in front of a dog? Go ahead. Take it back. I survived eighteen years without it." "You survived. Is that what you'd call it?" He leaned back in his chair. "You've got nothing, Vivienne. No education. No connections. No money. You think you can go back up north and what? Wait tables for the rest of your life?" I said nothing. "You're an Ellsworth. That name means something. But it only means something if you act like it." He folded his hands. "Apologize to Wren. Go to Ellsworth College. Smile at the dinner table. That's the deal." "And if I don't?" "Then you're free to leave. But you won't get a dime." I looked at him. He looked like a man who'd never lost a negotiation in his life. "Fine," I said. "I'll think about it." I didn't apologize. But I stayed. I don't know why. Maybe because I didn't have anywhere else to go. Maybe because I wanted to see what would happen if I didn't. Wren didn't bring up the game again. She was careful around me. Sweet. Apologetic for things that weren't her fault. "You're so brave," she said to me one afternoon. We were sitting on the patio, and she was wrapped in a blanket even though it was seventy degrees. "I could never do what you did. Coming here. Living with strangers." "Strangers," I repeated. "Well. You know what I mean." She smiled. "I'm glad you're here. Even if it's hard. I've always wanted a sister." I looked at her. She looked back at me. She was so small. So soft. So innocent. And then I started paying attention. At dinner, Wren ate nothing but pushed her food around her plate. The dining room had too many candles. Someone had folded the napkins into shapes I did not know the names of. Margaret watched her with worried eyes. "You're not eating, sweetheart." "I'm just tired." Wren's voice was thin. "I don't want to bother anyone." "You're not a bother." Margaret reached across the table to touch her hand. "You're never a bother." Wren looked at me. Just for a second. A flicker of something. She did it again the next week. And the week after. Every time I was around, Wren got sick. Every time, Margaret fussed. Every time, Richard looked at Wren with concern and then at me with something like annoyance. I started keeping count. At the end of my second week, I found a journal in the library. It was old, leather-bound, the pages yellowed. The name on the inside cover was Margaret's, written in a girl's handwriting. I shouldn't have read it. But I did. Most of it was boring. Lists of parties. Complaints about her sorority sisters. And then, on a page dated thirty years ago: "R. says he'll propose when I lose ten pounds. Fine. I'll show him." And then, twenty-five years ago: "We're having a baby. R. wants a boy. I want whatever God gives us." And then, twenty-four years ago: "She's here. Wren. She's perfect. R. barely looks at her. He wanted a son." I flipped forward. Twenty years ago: "R.'s leaving. He found someone else. A secretary. He says he'll be discreet. He says I should be grateful." And then, three years later: "The woman died. Childbirth. There's a child. R. says he'll bring her home. I said no. I said we'd lose everything. He said it was already lost." I closed the journal. I sat in the library for a long time. Richard had known about me for fifteen years. He'd known where I was. He'd known my mother died when I was three. And he'd left me up north with my grandmother until she died, and then foster care, and then my adoptive mother, who worked two jobs and never had enough. He'd known. And he'd done nothing. Until now. Why now? I went to Richard's study that night. He was working, all the papers spread out on his desk. "Tell me about my mother," I said. He didn't look up. "What do you want to know?" "Where she was from. What she was like." "She was a secretary. She was fine." "Fine." "These things happen." He set down his pen. "I made arrangements. You were taken care of." "I was in foster care for six years." "You were alive." He looked at me then. "What do you want, Vivienne? An apology? Absolution? You won't get it. Life isn't fair. You're here now. That's more than most people get." "Why now?" He was quiet for a moment. "Because Wren's sick. She needs a match. You're her sister. Biologically. The doctors think you might be able to help." The room went very quiet. I could hear the ocean through the open window. "She needs an organ," I said. "She needs bone marrow. And possibly a kidney. Eventually. The disease is progressive." "And you brought me here to be a donor." "I brought you here to be part of the family." He said it evenly. "This is what families do." I stood up. My hands were shaking. "You never wanted me. You never wanted to know me. And now you want my blood." "She's dying, Vivienne. Slowly. But she's dying. And you're the only one who can help." "So this is the deal. I give Wren my marrow, and I get to be an Ellsworth." "You get to have a family. A future. All of it." I looked at him. The man who'd let me rot in foster care. The man who'd known about me for fifteen years and done nothing. The man who'd brought me here with an agenda. "I'll think about it," I said. And then I walked out.