The Starfish Sisters by Barbara O’Neal EPUB & PDF – eBook Details Online
- Status: Available for Free Download
- Authors: Barbara O’Neal
- Language: English
- Genre: Sisters Fiction
- Format: PDF / EPUB
- Size: 2 MB
- Price: Free
Phoebe
Suze arrives home in the middle of the night, when there is less chance of
anyone noticing her arrival. I know she’s coming because she texted me
yesterday, one of the first communications we’ve had since I left her in the
hospital after she was brutally attacked last spring. She’s been my best friend
since we were twelve, but a lot has happened over those years. Most recently,
we had a massive fight at my grandmother’s funeral last year, and both of us
said things that should never have been spoken aloud. I wasn’t sure I’d ever
talk to her again.
And yet—
Six months ago, a radical group called the Leviathan Nationalist
Brotherhood attacked her outside her home and nearly beat her to death. How
could I abandon her to lie in a hospital with only hangers-on and people she
pays? Since Dmitri died, she’s been a hermit. I took the first flight to LA and
sat by her side until she finally woke up. She squeezed my hand and thanked
me and then told me it was okay if I went home.
So I did, swallowing the rejection I probably deserved.
And now she’s home. Things are . . . complicated between us. I miss
her. I resent her. She infuriates me. She needs me.
This morning, I’m up early to get some painting time in before life
overtakes me. As I stand at my kitchen counter, waiting for the kettle to boil,
I rest one foot over the other and nibble a slice of freshly baked cranberry
bread. It’s tender and dense, redolent with orange, one of the best batches
I’ve made for a while. Maybe I’ll take some up to Suze later.
The urge exasperates me. No matter what happens between us, I can’t
seem to shake this compulsion to take care of her. As my grandmother did
before me.
To be fair, my grandmother also took care of me and everyone else.
Shut-ins. Recovering addicts. The elderly in her church. Young mothers. She
had a gift for it. Not the self-sacrificing, old-school kind of caretaking, but a
matter-of-fact recognition that we all need love and tending. She didn’t chop
bits of herself off and give them up to others, as I’ve been known to do.
I peer out the window. From here, I can see the big house on top of the
bluff. Lights are on, both in the foyer and the kitchen, which has wraparound
windows that face south and west to display the best ocean views for thirtyseven miles, views of sea stacks and rocks and wild surf, the small coves
hidden everywhere.
Our house. A song of the same name floats through my mind, delicate
as mist. The house I discovered when we were kids, the house Suze bought
out from under me, the house that has become her refuge, and how can I
resent that?
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