Free All for a Sister by Allison Pittman

attention that whatever respect you may have for me will be exhaled forever away before you reach the end of this writing, if indeed I have the courage to write all of the truth as I have been instructed. There are some secrets that are best taken to our graves. For example, did you know that your father had a dwarfed sixth toe on his left foot? Of course you didn’t, as his vanity and propriety never allowed him to be barefoot in any kind of company—not even that of his loving family. I myself only got a glimpse of the thing on sporadic occasions and learned early in our marriage never to comment on it, lest I raise his ire and prompt him to comment on my own flaws. It may seem a silly thing now, but I believe his quest for education and influence came from the constant reminder of his imperfection. The night your brother announced that he was going to sign up to fight in the War, I told your father it was too bad that polydactyly (for such the condition is named) was not an inheritable trait, as it might have made Calvin unsuitable for service.
    “How do you know that term?” he asked, as if I had no right to speak it. “Whom have you shared this with?”
    I told him nobody, that I’d merely come across it in a medical book when I first took the children to our city library.
    Nothing, though, would assuage his anger, and as I recall, he didn’t speak to me for nearly a week.
    But listen to me, waxing on about something of so little consequence. Stalling, I suppose. Or distracting myself, as I have always done since Mary died. I barely left the baby’s room for weeks, only for the funeral, and of that I have very little recollection. I slept on the floor; I didn’t eat. Your father has since said he feared he would lose us both.
    The first clear memory I have after putting my Mary to bed is the sight of your father’s face, close to mine, waking me from a midafternoon stupor to tell me her death had been ruled a homicide, and the girl was locked up in jail. I don’t know what I’d been waiting for—some obscene fear that she might return with that envious hunger I’d seen and take the rest of my family away, perhaps.
    I got up, took a bath, dressed in something fresh and clean. I went down to the kitchen and ate anything I could find. For weeks neighbors had been bringing meals—roasted chicken and hams and cakes and breads. I’d refused plates of food and bowls of soups, and now every uneaten morsel gnawed at me. I remembered what it felt like to have my belly full with my child, and I thought maybe I would be able to fill myself up again and bring her back. I pulled platters from the icebox and rummaged through the pantry, tearing at food with my bare hands, barely swallowing one bite before stuffing my mouth with another.
    Mrs. Gibbons found me and offered to heat something proper, but I sent her away. To the market, I’d said, to get something fresh. Fruit, perhaps, or some sweet berries to mix with cream to take away some of the staleness of the leftover cakes.
    I ate everything, tasted nothing. Not even the sound of the front door’s bell deterred me. After all, I’d been hearing it forweeks. Well-wishers and officials and I don’t know who all had dropped by, and I’d ignored them. It rang and I ate, caring no more about what or who might be on the other side than I did about the stains of congealed grease on the cuffs of my clean dress. Whoever it was would go away, and certainly had, I reasoned, when the ringing finally stopped. But then a small voice came to me as I shaved a slice of cheese.
    “Mother?”
    It was, of course, Calvin, looking properly dapper in his school clothes, wearing the black velvet band around his sleeve as his testimony of mourning for his sister. He seemed such a big boy, but no more a part of me than any other child. I hadn’t touched him since the night I kissed his head, having dismissed him from that awful party. Vaguely I remembered hearing his voice on the other