My Sister's Keeper

Chapter 13

13

AFTER DIRECTING A SUCCESSFUL run of Tennessee Williams' A Streetcar Named Desire my first year back, and Neil Simon's California Suite the second, I was asked by the Board of Directors of the Thalian Association to direct Stephen Patterson's brilliant new play, Laying Down the Law, making its world premiere that fall in Wilmington. It was the break I needed. It would open a great many doors for me and might even change the way my father saw me.

Unlike most directors, I insisted on longer rehearsal periods and, since the theatre's rehearsal halls were not available yet, used my own studio. I pushed all the equipment in the 40x60 camera room back against the walls, arranged a couple pieces of furniture in the center of the room, and aimed a few lights down from overhead to simulate a "stage."

As Sam and his team pawed through my house, I headed off to our first rehearsal. From the moment the first actor arrived, I was in my element—stroking egos, exploring characters, experimenting with blocking. There were even moments when it took my mind completely off the investigation, and—considering the events going on in my life—I thought it went quite well. Just before 10 p.m., we wrapped for the night.

Finding the police cars still at my house, I went to my parents' house, let myself in, and looked into Martha's room. The head of her bed was raised and her fingers typed madly into her laptop. Riveted on her project, she looked like the sister I'd known growing up. She lifted her hands, then typed a bit more before laying her head back and looking my way. "Hi."

"I brought you something." Keeping the book I'd bought for her hidden, I moved into the room and sat on the edge of the bed, then handed it to her.

"Oh, wow! You didn't have to do that."

"I know, but I thought you'd like it."

"It's a book of birds. Thank you." She flipped through the pages.

Leaning over, I kissed the side of her forehead and whispered, "Let's go for a walk."

"What? Now?"

"Why not now?"

"It's after eleven and—I don't know—it's dark outside."

"This street looks better in the dark. Besides, when's the last time you were out at night?"

She changed the subject. "Uh-oh. Something must be wrong. What is it? That woman you had over the other night? Is that it?"

I placed my hands on her bed and jiggled it roughly. "Why does it have to mean something's wrong every time I come to see you?"

"At this time of the night?" Her sweet laughter lifted a load off me. "There must be something wrong."

I stepped around her bed, rolled the computer stand aside, and moved her wheelchair up next to her. "You're right. I need to talk. Are you coming?"

Minutes later, with her coat secured tightly around her, a blanket tucked around her legs, and a knit cap pulled over her head, we headed out the door. Though summer was just around the corner, the nights were still cool. I rolled her down the ramp and onto the sidewalk where I abruptly dashed off speeding down the block.

"Oh, my God!" she shrieked. "Stop!"

"Hush," I laughed. "You're going to have the whole neighborhood thinking somebody's getting murdered out here."

Martha's scream reverberated back from all directions and lent an eerie mood to the night. I turned left at the corner and charged past eighteenth-century front porches heading toward the river, but it didn't take long to wear me out. By the time I reached the end of the next block, I had slowed to a fast walk with the moon trailing along behind the pecan and oak trees that lined the street.