The Sullivan Sisters - Kathryn Ormsbee Page 0,1

house had gone up last year, and Dad’s medical bills were bigger than ever, thanks to “accrued interest”—two words Claire couldn’t make sense of but knew to be bad. They hung over the house, souring into a fetid smell. As though they were … a curse.

Curses. They were the dark stuff of fairy tales. But a castle? That was a fairy tale at its finest.

* * *

When the sisters returned to the den, surveying their handiwork, Claire said, businesslike, “It needs a name.”

And the name had been Murphy’s idea.

“Cayenne Castle!” she shouted with confidence.

When her sisters agreed to it, Murphy spun a circle and sang an impromptu song: “Cayenne Castle, where dreams come true! If you eat our spice, it’ll make you poo.”

“Weirdo,” Eileen said, mussing Murphy’s mess of red curls.

Murphy grinned wide. She liked when her sisters paid attention, even if it was to call her “weirdo.” Mom was usually better about noticing Murphy, though lately she’d nodded distractedly at Murphy’s original songs, saying, “That’s nice, sweetie,” as though she’d heard but hadn’t listened.

Murphy sure hoped once Christmas was over, and their presents paid for, that Mom would go back to listening.

The sisters piled into their christened castle, diving into blankets and body pillows. Claire and Eileen shared salacious secrets from fifth and sixth grade, and Murphy watched them admiringly, chin on knees, eating a pudding cup dessert.

“Hey,” she said, chocolate gloop coating her mouth. “Let’s make Cayenne Castle every year. No matter what, we put up our castle on December twenty-first.”

Claire and Eileen shared a smirk—an older sister thing. When they nodded at Murphy, she knew they were on her side.

“Deal,” Eileen said, winking.

“Deal,” Claire chimed in.

“Deal,” Murphy concluded, with a pudding-stained grin.

So, the walls of Cayenne Castle were raised for the first time by a planner, a visionary, and a performer. It was an auspicious beginning, but as is the case with many agreements made in youth, the pact would break.

If, seven years later, you were to ask the Sullivan sisters why it broke …

Well, you would get three different answers.

DECEMBER TWENTY-FIRST

ONE Eileen

The letter arrived the morning of December twenty-first.

Eileen wasn’t expecting mail addressed to her. No packages, because she hadn’t ordered art supplies for two years. No Christmas cards, because who the hell sent those anymore? Extended family members, maybe—grandparents and great-aunts—but Eileen didn’t have those. She definitely wasn’t expecting a press-and-seal business envelope with a law office for a return address and a red-ink note on the flap that read, OPEN IMMEDIATELY.

Eileen was affronted. She didn’t take orders, especially not from goddamn attorneys and their red-ink pens. She had a bad history with letters, and she didn’t want to know what this one had to say—whether she opened it immediately or in ten years. So she threw the envelope out, dropping it in the trash can beneath her desk. Then she left the house for her Safeway shift.

Soon, she’d forgotten about the letter.

She forgot about a lot of things when she worked, and especially when she drank.

That was the point of both full-time occupations.

* * *

That night, back at home, Eileen was filled throat-high with Jack Daniel’s. She’d ended up horizontal on the floor of her converted-garage bedroom, and that’s how she found herself facing the trash can beneath her desk.

Music was playing on her boom box, fuzzy through the ancient speakers. “Christmas Wrapping” by the Waitresses had been on repeat for half an hour. It was a terrible song. It was the best song. Eileen hummed along.

Her mouth tasted like regurgitated milk. It was gloomy outside—typical Oregon. Mom had left that afternoon for the Bahamas. But none of this bothered Eileen. She was numb to every bad thing. She wiggled her ankles to the beat of the music and, through blurry eyes, read the address of the trashed envelope.

Ms. Eileen Sullivan.

The “Ms.” really got to her. Ms. Eileen Sullivan. If those fancy attorneys could see her now.

Eileen pawed at the rim of the trash can, tipping it over and grabbing the envelope.

It was already opened, and Eileen didn’t remember doing that. Then again, she did a lot of unmemorable stuff when she was drinking.

She laughed at the envelope—at the “Ms.”—while tugging the letter out of its torn top.

Pretty soon, the laughing stopped.

TWO Claire

At the same time Eileen was reading the letter, Claire was being rejected from her dream college.

She stared at her phone and the ugly words written on the admissions portal homepage.

Maybe my thumb slipped, she thought, or I entered someone else’s password.

She’d