Like a Sister
Kellye Garrett
To my sisters, Doni and Nikki. I love you even when I hate you and I know the feeling is mutual.
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One
I found out my sister was back in New York from Instagram. I found out she’d died from the New York Daily News.
Her post was just as attention seeking as their headline. Hers came at midnight. Look back at it. #birthday #25 #grownfolksbusiness #home #nyc—all over a behind-the-back shot of her in nothing more than a black slip dress and no bra.
The article came less than twelve hours later. FORMER REALITY STAR DESIREE PIERCE FOUND DEAD IN LINGERIE IN BRONX WITH COCAINE AND NO SHOES.
I’d come straight here—to where they found her—as soon as I’d seen it.
Why? I don’t know. Maybe to confirm it was real. Maybe to hope it was not. Maybe to get one last glimpse of her even though I knew her body was long gone. Whatever the reason, I’d arrived at this particular playground in the Bronx on autopilot. The place my sister had come just hours before. It looked how I felt—all reds and blues and worn down. It would never be accused of being the happiest place on Earth.
FORMER REALITY STAR DESIREE PIERCE FOUND DEAD IN LINGERIE IN BRONX WITH COCAINE AND NO SHOES.
I hated it. For what it said. For what it represented. For what it really meant.
My left wrist itched. I rubbed it, desperate for the feeling—my feelings—to go away.
“You okay?”
The voice was male, melodic, and a stark reminder I only felt alone. I was not, surrounded by police and gawkers and at least one TV reporter—all standing on opposite sides of the crime tape like it was an eighth-grade dance.
Was I okay? Not in the slightest. I hadn’t seen my little sister in two years. Now I never would. I wanted to ignore the question, just like I ignored the trickle of sweat rolling down my cheek. It felt better than tears.
“I’m fine,” I finally said automatically, not even giving the man a glance.
FORMER REALITY STAR DESIREE PIERCE FOUND DEAD IN LINGERIE IN BRONX WITH COCAINE AND NO SHOES.
Desiree would have hated the headline too, the use of the word “former” as much as the use of the word “dead.” And the mention of what she wore, but not who, would’ve annoyed her more than calling out the cocaine, though last time we’d actually spoken she claimed she’d stopped using. I hadn’t believed her. This was probably the first time I wasn’t happy to be proven right.
“You sure you’re okay?” The same voice again. I finally looked up from my phone to see who was talking. He was Black. Tall. Smiling like he knew the effect his face had on women. Not me. At least not today, or for the last couple of years if I was being honest.
I nodded. Unfortunately, he took it as a sign to continue. “You know her?”
Only well enough to have predicted this scenario. Both in nightmares (“You’re gonna overdose one day”) and in daydreams (“You’re gonna overdose one day—I’ll be there when you wake up to say I told you so”). I’d played it out dozens of times, in dozens of ways, for years before I’d cut her off. And yet, despite telling her this was going to happen, I still wasn’t the least bit prepared. Did I know her?
“Not as well as I should have.”
“She was famous,” he said. “Well, kinda. Mel Pierce’s prized daughter. You know him? Notorious music exec. I’m sure you heard the story about the window.”
I sure had.
I nodded again but didn’t say anything, hoping he’d get the hint. Prized daughter. He looked just as out of place in this neighborhood as Desiree must’ve been, wearing a black-on-black suit in 90-degree weather while standing next to a jungle gym. “They found her about five a.m. Cops think it’s an—”
“Overdose. I know.” Cutting him off, I gestured to my phone. “I read the Daily News.”
Five times, in fact. Once at the bodega. I’d stopped by on my way to class for a Snapple and instead got a Google Alert. Three more times on the trip over. Twice on the 1. Once more after my bike and I got off at 168th to finish the trip. The final time right before he’d interrupted me.
“You kinda look like her, you know,” he said, then abruptly closed his mouth as if realizing his faux pas, comparing a stranger to someone who’d just died. “Maybe it’s the freckles.”
It wasn’t the first time I’d heard it, but I never saw it myself. We were technically half sisters, after all. If anything, I was the barefaced Before to her perfectly made-over After. I didn’t respond, just let him stare at me as a woman with box braids pushed past us, anxious to gawk and report back to her friends like an NBC 4 reporter. The crowd was surprising. A dead Black woman wasn’t normally anything to crow about. Not here. Not anywhere, really. Except Desiree Pierce wasn’t just any Black woman. She was Mel Pierce’s prized daughter. Just like the man had said.
The man who now stuck out his hand. “Stuart Jones.”
He’d said his name like I should recognize it. When I didn’t respond, he spoke again. “I’m the crime reporter. For the News.”
He gestured to my phone. And just like that, I wanted to talk to him. “Aww,” I said. Then, raising both brows, “You write headlines as well as articles?”