Henry's Sisters by Cathy Lamb

house when my hair’s not done!’ She slapped me across the face, her eyes still fuzzy and unfocused. ‘What do they want with a young girl? They’re perverts, aren’t they? Perverts.’ She slapped me again.
    No, Momma, I wanted to say, but they care if I live or die, which is more than I can say for you. ‘It’s my teacher and his brother. I’m catching up on my work.’
    She ran two shaky hands through her greasy hair before bursting into tears. ‘Fine. Go. Go!’
    Mr Sands and Mr Reynolds patted my arm all day and bought me a root beer float.
    I was soon hooked on photography. I think it was because when I was with them, I started to feel clean. Not completely clean, that couldn’t happen – I had a momma who appeared to hate me, a reputation growing uglier second by second, and cataclysmic memories I couldn’t shut down – but around their gentleness and humour I felt better.
    That afternoon I took a photo of my face from an arm’s length away with the river in the background. The area Momma had smacked was red, my eyes swollen and lonely from the tears I’d shed hoping she would love me one day. I stared at that photo for days. I still have it. I started to get interested in shooting not rivers and waterfalls and flowers, but people in pain. People like me.
    Which led me to a major in Journalism in college and a minor in Photography, which led me to newspapers and documentaries, which led me to war zones.
    Which led me to so many thousands of images of utter, abject, hideous suffering in my head that eventually my mind, on top of what was already there, split open and electrocuted itself.
    And that’s when that other thing happened last year.
    I shook my head, my braids swaying off my shoulders as I cleared out the memories.
    And now I was back, headed towards a bakery I’d hated working in.
    ‘I can’t believe I’m here,’ Janie whimpered.
    Bommarito’s Bakery is a two-story brick building between the pharmacy and a bookstore on the main street of Trillium River. Momma had ‘revived’ it two years ago after she closed it a year after Janie left for college. ‘The people of Trillium River begged for my desserts, desserts made my way. The River way,’ she had told me, arching her brows.
    The bells jangled as I opened the door and we stepped inside.
    ‘Now, this isn’t gonna be fun,’ I groaned.
    ‘Not good, not good, not good,’ Janie moaned.
    There were five red booths and seven tables. They needed a scrub down. The floor was black and white checked and scratched and dirty. It needed a mopping.
    The red canopy outside was dusty and sagging, the lettering on the windows washed out, the window treatments boring beige. There were two long display cases for the cookies, cakes, sweets, and breads.
    They needed to be replaced.
    This was in direct contrast to how the bakery shined when we worked here. Momma had handed us toothbrushes, sponges, brushes, and mops and made us work ’til that place was so clean you could lick the floor.
    ‘I knew it.’ I had known it. Cecilia hadn’t wanted to tell me.
    ‘The bakery is dead. It’s like there’s ghosts wandering around,’ Janie whispered as we stood in a ray of sunlight, dust bunnies dancing around our heads.
    ‘Ghosts?’ I sputtered. ‘You’re not into ghosts.’
    ‘Yes, I am. I am researching them for my next book. I think they’re fascinating.’
    ‘They think you’re fascinating, too. In fact, they have elected you to be president of their Ghosts in Oregon Society. There’s a national convention in June. “Ghosts Beware” is the headliner followed by “Multicultural Ghost Awareness Night” and “Sensuous Ghosts: How Not to Disappear.”’
    ‘Stop it. I can hear the ghosts.’
    I froze to hear the ghosts. ‘Boo!’ I shouted.
    She jumped.
    I laughed. ‘There’s a ghost in the booth. Gasp. He’s naked! He’s gorgeous!’
    ‘Then maybe you can sleep with him, Isabelle. For one night, not two. That might constitute a