Heller - Sis Boom Bah

Sis Boom Bah is a work of fiction and, therefore, its characters and the situations in which they find themselves are entirely my creations. Its setting, on the other hand, is in and around Stuart, Florida, where I lived, and many of the places mentioned in the novel are those that I frequented and enjoyed.

Several locals were extremely generous with their time as I was writing the book, offering their ideas and expertise. Thanks to: Patricia Austin; Ginger Smith Baldwin; Steve Bernardi; Eden Cross; Marc Answer Man Cross; David Delmas, R. PH.; Kathy Erickson, R.N.C.; Paul Hartnett; Beverly Bevis Jones; Ruth Ross; Cindy Rybovich; James Sospko, Esq.; Mary Anne Tonnacliff, R.N.C.; and John Ziegler.

Thanks, too, to the following law enforcement professionals: Lt. Sarah Marich, Criminal Investigations Division, Martin County Sheriffs Office; Lt. Glen Lockwood, Warrants & Extraditions Division, Martin County Sheriffs Department; and Wilbur C. Kirchner, Chief of Police, Sewalls Point. (Forgive me for taking liberties with the facts for the sake of the story!)

Enormous thanks to Allison Seifer Poole, who handled every research question with efficiency and humor. More thanks to Jeri Butler, whose piece about me in the Palm Beach Post inspired Allison to contact me.

Others who were tremendously helpful: Henry Spector, M.D., who advised me on medical matters; and Laurence Caso, the smartest (and nicest) man ever to work in daytime television.

Special thanks to Ellen Levine, who is everything a writer could hope for in a literary agent; my enthusiastic editor, Jennifer Enderlin; and Ruth Harris, the undisputed Title Queen.

Oh, and thanks to all the sisters who shared their tales of woe with me. (You know who you are.)

Last but hardly least, thanks to Michael Forester, my husband, who critiques my books before the professionals do and is my partner in every sense of the word.

If my sister were my husband, Id divorce her.

You dont have a husband, Deborah, my mother reminded me. Forty-three years old and still no husband. I could feel her disappointment coursing through the telephone wires.

I was talking about my relationship with Sharon, Mom, I said. About the fact that when youre incompatible with your spouse, you can divorce him, yet when youre incompatible with your sister, youre stuck with her for life. It doesnt seem fair somehow.

What doesnt, dear?

My mother wasnt senile, just in denial when it came to her two daughters and their lifelong bickering. She spoke of her girls as if Sharon and I were the chummiest of chums, as if she didnt realize that my sister and I had nothing in common except the accident of our births. She ignored our snits, our spats, our she-did-its; made light of the potshots we regularly took at each other; pretended there werent months, even years, during which we were estranged.

Never mind, I said. About divorcing Sharon, I mean. Divorcing her would be a non-event at this point. Everybodys already done it.

Well, not everybody. The truth was, three men had divorced my sister. Husband number one was a TWA pilot who fell in love with a flight attendant during a long layover in Paris and never came home. Husband number two was a polygamist who was married to four other women in four other states and is presently serving a long prison sentence. Husband number three, a dashing fellow, decided that he no longer wanted to be a fellow, announcing on his forty-fifth birthday that he intended to undergo a sexual reallignment. Now I ask you: Is it any wonder that Norman, Sharons eighteen-year-old son by the polygamist, chose military school over Syracuse, becoming one of the only Jewish cadets ever to attend the Citadel?

Not that my track record was so hot. Sharon may have been a compulsive marrier whod waltz down the aisle with just about any man who asked her, but I too had involved myself with an embarrassing cast of characters. Like the bond trader who spent the last six months of our relationship bonding with my best friend on her waterbed. Like the computer programmer who bought me a diamond ring from Cartier that was really a cubic zirconium knockoff hed hondled from a street vendor. Like the traveling salesman who shouted out the names of other women whenever we had sex and expected me to believe it was because he had Tourettes syndrome. As I said, my judgment wasnt exactly unerring when it came to men, but at least I didnt marry the bozos.

About the party, said my mother, pulling me back into the conversation, you will fly down for it, wont you, dear? It isnt every day that I turn seventy-five.

The purpose of her long-distance phone call that Sunday afternoon in January had been to inform me that Sharon, the dreaded sibling, was hosting a birthday luncheon for her the following month and that I was expected to drop everything and be there. Never mind that I lived a thousand miles away in Manhattan. Never mind that I had an extremely demanding job as a writer for the venerable From This Day Forward, the longest-running daytime drama on television. Never mind that I was about to enter into a thrilling affair with one of the shows hunkiest actors and that the last thing I wanted to do at such a crucial stage in the romance was leave town. (Yes, Id been unlucky in love in the past, but hope springs eternal.) Apparently, Sharon had decidedwithout consulting me, of coursethat the party was to be held in Florida, where she and my mother resided.

Please, Deborah. I would love it if both my girls were there, my mother persisted.

But your girls havent spoken to each other in two years, ever since we had that squabble over Lester.

Who?

Lester. Sharons third husband. The one who looked better in her lingerie than she did.

Oh, that one.

Yes. After she and Lester broke up, I merely suggestedbecause I caredthat she shouldnt rush into marriage, that it was important to get to know the man first. And what was her response? Youre just jealous, Deborah, because you couldnt get a man to marry you if you paid him. Then I said something equally childish, and she slammed down the phone. In a way, its been a relief not to have spoken to her in two years, sort of like having an illness and being in remission.

Nonsense. You and Sharon are sisters, and sisters should communicate with each other. At their mothers birthday party, for instance.

If I show up at the party well communicate all right, but itll be the same old nastiness. Ill say, Hello, Sharon, youre looking well. Then shell say, So are you, Deborah, although I thought shoulder pads went out with Joan Crawford. Then Ill be forced to retaliate with, Yes, but fortunately for you, Sharon, padded bras have made a comeback. Itll be ugly, Mom. Im telling you.

And Im telling you that youd be pleasantly surprised if you came. I think Sharon would appreciate it if you were there.

Oh, Mom. I sighed, wishing she would get it. Sharon would appreciate it if I were in Mogadishu.

Deborah.

What Im trying to say is that she likes me far away, and the feelings mutual.

It was sad, really. Sharon was two years older than I was, my contemporary. We should have been pals, buddies, confidantes. But for some reason she resented me, had always resented me, and I honestly didnt know what I had done to inspire her ill will. Yes, she was the firstborn, and yes, firstborns often resent the little squirts with whom theyre made to share their toys, their friends, their parents. Like many older siblings, Sharon was told she couldnt go to the movies or the hamburger place or the school picnic unless she dragged her baby sister along, only to have me act up and ruin her fun. But I had loved her so when we were kids, loved tagging along on her adventures. I had idolized her, revered her, tried to imitate the way she talked, walked, dressed. I was grateful to her for looking out for me and sorry for the burden I must have been, and Id said so on numerous occasions. Why didnt any of that count? Why did she have to drag her bitterness toward me into adulthood? Why did she have to give me a dig, a zinger, a putdown every time we saw each other? And worse, why did I have to react the way I did, allowing her to push my buttons, as they say? Why did I have to fire a zinger right back at her and then retreat, withdraw, wither under the weight of her simmering rage? Wasnt it time to let it all go?