Other Shepards Read Online Free PDF Page A

selection.
    “Annie’s a professional artist.”
    “You girls seem very excited.”
    “She says we can help. She says she’ll be the supervisor.”
    “Ah.” He winks at me, a wink that seems filled with conspiracy, and I am struck by the idea that perhaps Annie is not an artist after all. Maybe Dad has hired another psychiatrist to try to help Geneva.
    My sister has been in and out of therapy ever since she could crawl. Holidays are often recalled as they coincided with Geneva’s phobias and compulsions. ‘Was that the Thanksgiving that Geneva had to floss her teeth ten times a day because she got fixated on tartar?’ ‘Remember, it was the same summer that Geneva had to line up everybody’s shoes in a row before she could go to sleep.’ The occasional bouts with counseling never seem to do anything to change her, but the parents like to get updates on her psyche from time to time.
    Annie the undercover therapist. The plan makes sense, especially in light of the parents’ subdued and slightly mortified approach to Geneva’s problems.
    “She knows a lot about art. She’s going to transform the kitchen,” I gasp, trying not to lose too much air, while my fingers keep count— fourteen, fifteen, sixteen —and I wink back at Dad.
    “We almost never use the kitchen,” Mom says in an explaining, slightly ashamed way to Carla. “I think it’s a hint that the girls are trying to get more home cooking out of me.” Suddenly it occurs to me that Mom might not want the kitchen mural.
    “It’ll be beautiful,” I promise, but Mom’s answering smile does not erase the concern from her eyes.
    “We’re going to help Annie every afternoon.” Geneva lifts her eyes from her slice of birthday cake as she speaks. Her sudden connection to the table is jarring. Even the usually dignified Carla looks startled as Geneva starts talking about paint primers and chalk outlines.
    After she is finished no one says a word; it is that shocking. Then Brett clears his throat and begins telling the parents about his job.
    The odorless tulips block my view. I stretch my neck and stare giraffelike over the leaves, trying to slide Brett’s face back in time, into its firm, seventeen-year-old shape. Thirty, thirty-one, thirty-two …
    “I see you, Peeper.” Brett grins at me, interrupting himself a moment from talking about how he expects to be made full associate at the bank by next year. He has movie-star teeth, white as new sneakers. His other, real teeth all got smashed out long ago, the night Kevin’s jeep flipped. Brett’s entire jaw had to be rewired. You can clearly see the scar from where his bottom teeth ripped through the skin of his chin just below his lip. The brambly pink etching of scar tissue helps his chipmunk face look tough, even mysterious, like a Man with a Past.
    In photographs of teenage Brett, he is a tender ugly duckling, flanked by my two grinning, handsome-and-know-it brothers. It always seems strange to me that not only was Brett the one person to survive that night, but between his false teeth and his dashing pirate’s scar he actually emerged from the accident somewhat improved. A poisonous thought, Mom would say. Not that I’d ever mention it out loud.
    Baby Freddie, please cry! My breath is beginning to run out. Forty-six, forty-seven, forty-eight. Distract yourself.
    “It’s hard to believe the years have passed so quickly,” Mom is commenting. “And now you, Brett, with your family, and about to be named full associate. Time marches on, doesn’t it, Quentin?”
    My father’s eyes are dark, dry raisins, half-buried in the gentle pleats of his skin. My mother’s eyes are glassy with a liquid that never spills. They stare across the dining room table, holding each other in private memories.
    Freddie must be sleeping soundly. Fifty-nine, sixty, sixty-one … forget it. Breath burps from my lungs with a phof! and Dad looks over at me.
    “You and your sister are excused from the table,” he