My Sister Read online

  Despite my hesitation I edge forwards, glancing down, revealing myself as the last light of day streaks through the window. I realise that although his face isn’t familiar, he looks like the portraits on the wall in the hallway. I can see from here that he has the same slate-grey eyes as those painted faces, and his chestnut hair resembles mine. Nothing like the straw-yellow colour of Elle’s. His long, angular nose, sharp and square as a meat cleaver, casts a shadow across his cheek.

  ‘Rini, are you there?’ comes the voice on the end of the telephone line. I watch a while longer until the two men disappear into the house. ‘Rini, can you hear me?’

  I step back into the room, curl up like a foetus on the bed as I hear Antonio speak. There was no joy in my reunion with my father. I thought at first he was pleased to see me, but after hearing his telephone conversation I realise that I am not the thing he aches for. Not the thing for which he cries at night. For the first time ever I wonder if what I hoped to find here even exists. But at least now he cannot pretend that I don’t exist. Now perhaps I have been elevated from distant memory to painful reminder of a badly made decision. Perhaps he can feel me in his stomach, like the throb of an ulcer. I would take that over nothing.

  ‘Rini, are you there?’ There is desperation in Antonio’s voice.

  ‘Yes,’ I whisper, my voice shaky. ‘I am still here. I was . . .’ I am not sure what to say. I’m not sure what exactly I was. I take a big breath before I whisper in hushed tones, ‘It’s him.’

  ‘Who? Your father?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say, as I fiddle with the flex of the telephone. I look around the room, searching for something to tell me I belong here. I find nothing. Antonio is here on the phone with me, and yet still I feel alone. I feel the tears streaking across my cheeks. ‘I have to go in case they pick up the phone. I’ll call you back later.’

  I hang up while Antonio is still talking. I stand and grab my bag and rush to the door. I even open it, as if I’m really going to leave. I could march downstairs and get Frank to whisk me away, if only I could just push myself through the doorway. But I can’t, because where would I go? Back to Antonio? Home? If I did that, what about the reason I came here in the first place? I have to know why this place stopped being my home, and why my parents spent so many years keeping their distance. I drop my bag on the bed and take another Valium.

  Chemically pacified, I dare myself down the stairs and into the kitchen. I can’t stand this feeling of hiding, as if I should be ashamed that I am here. I came here for a purpose, and I have to fulfil it. So I edge towards the hallway, following the voices with every scrap of confidence I have left, sure that if I can just talk to him this could be easier. I’m close enough to hear the mumble of voices, but not close enough to make out their words. And as I follow the dark corridor, I see them, the two men, one of whom is my father. I hide in the recess of a doorway and watch him for a while.

  ‘Just once, there.’ My father is leaning over a desk with only a dim beam of light from an old brass lamp to help guide him. He is writing something, under instruction.

  ‘And this one too?’ he asks.

  ‘Yes, I’ll keep a copy,’ says the other man. ‘Better that way in case she creates a stink about it.’

  My father nods in agreement but whispers, ‘Keep your voice down. She is upstairs. I don’t want her to overhear.’ He straightens the papers and turns. I hear him say, ‘No thank you. That will be all.’

  I attempt to edge closer, but just as I begin to creep forward, an elderly woman dressed in a white pinafore slips out of the office carrying a tray. At first she doesn’t see me. But when she looks up and catches sight of me trying to hide behind the grandfather clock, she dashes back, closes the office door. Shut out. My confidence slumps, limp as a wilted flower. I retreat into the kitchen and close the door behind me. Is there anything left for me here?

  I root through the cupboards until I find an old bottle of sherry behind a bag of solidified flour. When I hear footsteps approaching from the hallway I hurry to the bedroom, curl up under the dusty sheets, my left leg hanging off the bed, sore from the stairs and all the running. I feel cold, so pull another jumper out of my bag, slip it over my shoulders. I become still and inanimate, something forgettable like the paintings and ornaments that have been left in this room to fade. This room and I are stuck in the past. A closed book, a sealed chest. It is only me who is still searching for people who don’t seem to exist.

  Just before I fall asleep, I hear the sound of a vehicle. I sit up and glance out of the window. I see four men, strong, dressed in black suits. I immediately know who they are, and what they are here for. I watch as they open the back end of the car, slide out a black coffin. They carry it low at their sides, and disappear through the front door of the house.

  7

  I awake the next morning with a head heavier than lead, and full of regret. All those years I erroneously thought returning home might provide a sense of belonging. It was the nonsense of a child. There is no calm from being here, and no hush has descended to quieten my pain. I’m still Irini.

  My stomach is gurgling, rabid for food. I haven’t eaten anything in hours. I reach for my phone on the bedside table before remembering the thing is broken. I look at the house phone and consider using it to call Antonio. But I decide against it, even though I think I remember telling him that I’d call him back.

  Light is streaming through the window, and I catch sight of the little patch of lemon on the wall from where I removed the butterfly painting. I sit up, swing my feet out of bed. It is a beautiful day, the clouds have dispersed and the sun is shining. In the distance I can see mountains; somewhere closer still a village with a church. There are several impressive houses scattered in the nearest hills, and the view is quite beautiful. I reach for my bag and pick up the bottle of Valium, but put it back down again without taking anything.

  Today is a new day, I tell myself.

  I find a small photo frame in my bag, stowed in an inside pocket. Antonio bought it a couple of years ago. He put a picture of us in it, and it usually sits on his bedside table. He must have slipped it in when I wasn’t looking. I consider leaving it there, but in this place of unknowns, the presence of Antonio’s face can’t hurt. At least seeing us together in this memory of Italy is a reminder that I was capable of building a life for myself, no matter how flimsy it might have been. We were even happy when this picture was taken. I take the frame out and set it on the side.

  I cross the landing quickly and splash my face with scalding water. At some point the bathroom was painted a soft shade of baby blue. It’s tired now, the paint peeling in giant eczema-like patches. I rinse my mouth, run water through my hair, then grip the sides of the sink because my legs feel weak. I run my palm across the mirror, and as my reflection appears it reminds me of just how little I resemble my father.

  I reach over and turn off the tap. As soon as the water stops running, the floorboards creak on the other side of the door. I look down and see a shadow moving, visible through the space where the door doesn’t quite meet the floor. Perhaps it’s the old woman from last night. Perhaps it’s Elle. I reach out and drag the locking mechanism into place just as I hear the handle being tested from the outside. I jump back as the door rattles.

  ‘Are you in there, Irini?’ It’s Elle. She tests the handle again and pushes her weight against the door. I see the frame budge slightly, hear the subtle splintering of wood. I push back, willing her to stop. What does she want?

  ‘I’m in here,’ I say, stepping away as she releases the handle. Why does she want to get in? ‘I just finished showering.’

  I jump back as she tests the door once more. When it doesn’t budge, she says, ‘Come for breakfast. Hurry up,’ with more than a little irritation.

  I watch the shadow of her feet from my position on the edge of the toilet. When I am sure she has left, I wait in silence for another five minutes before leaving the bathroom. It feels just like being thirteen ag
ain, hiding in the school toilets in the hope that Robert Kneel would tire of waiting for me. Only this time it’s Elle I’m hiding from, who back then was my hero. But a lot has changed since then. A lot has happened since that day she saved me.

  I step into the hallway and cross to my bedroom, one eye on the stairs in case she is waiting for me. I take one last look at the picture of me and Antonio, sitting in front of the Fontana di Trevi on my surprise trip to Rome that he paid for with my money. At first it seemed logical to give him access to my bank account, when I knew he didn’t earn much and I was desperate for him to stay. But during our time together I have purchased myself many beautiful Italian pashminas on his behalf that I never wear. And then there were trips abroad. Meals out. I didn’t mind at first. But he started to buy himself gifts too. I was forced to open up a secret account into which I could siphon off enough money to pay the bills. I realised that my money was one of the things he loved about me, and when the funds grew smaller, so did his affections.

  But I push that irritation aside, because I’m sure the frame is in a different spot from where I put it. I look at the bag on the floor, certain that I left it on the end of the bed. Is the Valium I took yesterday making me delirious? Or has Elle been in here, going through my stuff?

  No memory hits me this time as I walk into the kitchen. Instead I am met by a small woman working at the sink, wrinkled and well into retirement. She is wearing a grey slip dress, a white apron over the top. Staff, the same woman who was here last night. She either ignores me or doesn’t hear me as I approach. But as I cross the room, she catches the movement in the corner of her eye. She turns and smiles, one half of her face rising, the other frozen in time.

  ‘Good morning,’ I say. Her face is kind, simple, without frills or decoration. The kind of face you would like for a grandmother. There is no make-up on her skin, no effort to her bobbed hair, with the exception of two grips that hold it in place behind her ears. At some point she has suffered a stroke. Her left arm doesn’t look as strong as the right, swinging without purpose at the side of her leg. I have a natural affinity for the afflicted, so I walk forward without any effort to cover up my limp, which after last night’s comatose sleep in a bed too small is worse than usual.

  ‘Good morning,’ she replies, with only the slightest hint of a slur, something a good speech therapist has probably tried to help her overcome. ‘Are you hungry, Irini?’ She comes towards me, takes my hand in hers. She looks me up and down, paying special attention, I note, to my offset hip. ‘What an unexpected treat to see you, in the most unfortunate of circumstances. You must be finding it all terribly confusing.’ She doesn’t wait for me to answer, and in fact looks somewhat embarrassed. Probably about shutting me out last night. ‘If you are looking for Miss Eleanor, head straight and take the third door to the right.’ She motions in the direction of the hallway, before glancing away as if she has suddenly gone shy. ‘They take breakfast in there.’

  I nod, and the old woman offers another lopsided smile. With my eyes to the floor I pass the galleried hallway and the stairs, heading straight along the corridor. I pass a selection of rooms, none of which I glance into for fear of what I might find, unsure if it is the living or the dead which scare me the most. As I arrive outside the third door on the right, it opens.

  My father stops the second he sees me, halfway in, halfway out. I back away to the wall behind me. He glances left and right for an exit, his cheeks bright pink from where he has forgotten to breathe. Knowing that feeling of suffocation a little too well, I oblige his need and step aside so that he doesn’t have to look at me. I wait for him to storm away, perhaps make a minor adjustment to his tie to avoid looking uncomfortable. But he doesn’t take the opportunity I have presented. Instead, his eyes scan me up and down, snatching embarrassed glances on each pass. He sees a knee, then his eyes dart away to the floor. Fingers, then back to the floor. A scarred hip if he uses his imagination, or perhaps memories that we don’t share. My heart is racing, my stomach bottoming out. I slide along the flocked wallpaper, my palms brushing against it like a cat’s fur coat. He looks up again, sees my chest, then my chin, followed by the quickest flash to my face. He opens his mouth to speak, but before any words come out, the old woman from the kitchen shambles forward with a trolley straight out of 1970, gold legs topped with a white plastic tray, and pushes it between us.

  Her presence breaks the tension, or connection, or whatever it was that was holding us both here. He scurries away, one hand held to his bowed head. The old woman is ushering me into the dining room, using the trolley to round me up like a farmer would a lost lamb. I glance over my shoulder and look at my father as he staggers along the corridor, willing him to turn around. But he disappears around an unknown corner, and with no other distractions I let myself be pushed into the room.

  I find Elle sitting at a large oval table, watching the scene unfold. I clutch at the edge of my jumper, my palms damp at the sight of her, and take a seat. The room overlooks a vast grass lawn, so perfectly shaped and even in colour that it looks man-made. For a moment I think I can smell the grass, feel the wet mud on my knees as I drag myself along with my strong arms. Another memory? The sound of the door closing behind me breaks my concentration. When I look up, Elle is staring at me, her brow furrowed and eyes fixed. I can feel her gnarly fingers in my brain, trying to root around in my thoughts.

  ‘Your presence upsets him,’ she says, without a hint of acknowledgement that his could also upset me. I have no idea if she is trying to excuse him, make me feel better, or just simply tell the truth. It could be any one of those possibilities. There is a fourth: that she actually wants to hurt me. But I cannot bring myself to entertain it because I can’t bear the thought that we have arrived at a place where she enjoys my pain.

  ‘My presence here upsets me somewhat too,’ I reply bravely. ‘That’s why I suggested staying in a hotel.’

  The old woman sets a plate of toast and scrambled eggs in front of me, followed by a glass of watery juice. I shuffle in the wooden seat, trying to mould it comfortable. The eggs look cold, but the old woman’s smile as she looks down at me makes me want to please her. I take a big mouthful, make an effort to show my appreciation. ‘Very nice,’ I mumble, and she smiles again, resting her hand on my shoulder.

  ‘Not likely,’ Elle comments as she bothers the tabletop with the tip of her knife. ‘Since she nearly died, she hasn’t had the same steady hand. Always overdoes the salt.’ The glint of the blade transports me back to that day when I was eighteen, when I knew I had no choice but to cut Elle from my life. I can hear her words as if it was yesterday. I’ll fucking stick you with this, I promise you. I’ll fucking slaughter you if you go near him again. Without warning I reach up and touch my throat, and the sliver of a malignant smile creeps on to her face. I know she is thinking about it too, and what she did. I just know it. I can feel it, as if we are one and share the same thoughts.

  She grinds the knife into the wood, her eyes never once leaving the cook’s face. Shocked and desperate to move the situation on, I smile as I swallow the mouthful of salty eggs and touch the woman’s arm to distract her from Elle. But I see that Elle’s comments have hurt her. ‘What?’ Elle continues, unabashed. ‘You think you’re the same as before? He should have got rid of you, the same as the doctors should have let you go. Don’t know what any of them thought they were trying to save.’ She looks to me as I chase down the eggs with a gulp of juice. ‘Of course I guess you’d disagree,’ she says. ‘You’re one of those doctors after all. Think you can save the world and are too good for the rest of us.’

  ‘They’re very nice,’ I repeat quietly as the old woman slinks away, pushing her trolley back to the kitchen. When she closes the door, I say, ‘That was rude,’ hoping it’s loud enough to be heard on the other side.

  ‘You used to like that about me,’ Elle says, taking a triangle of toast and layering it with butter and then jam. ‘You told me so. You used to like the ability
I had to upset people. The undeniable way I could hurt our parents.’

  ‘They are not my parents,’ I say unconvincingly. I shovel in another defiant forkful of salty eggs.

  ‘Yes they are. I remember the day you came sliding out of the dead woman in the very next room.’ I cough and drop my fork, spilling lumps of egg on the crisp white table linen. A snide little giggle slithers out of her, as inappropriate as it would be if we were at a funeral. I hear my childhood wish reverberate in my head: Make her want me, make her want me. ‘So,’ she continues, neatly placing her knife and fork on her plate. ‘We have a few things to discuss. She has arrived. Late yesterday, while you were upstairs with the sherry and the Valium. She is in the main sitting room, and you will have a look at her later. The funeral will be held in two days’ time.’ I put my napkin back down on the table, setting it alongside an unused cereal spoon. ‘You are going to need some clothes, because you haven’t brought anything acceptable with you. And there’s no need to look so surprised and offended. So what? I’ve been in your bag. Big deal. We are sisters, you know.’

  ‘Why?’ I ask, without expecting an answer.

  ‘I came up to talk to you. I don’t get to do that much, do I now, especially not since you stopped answering my calls.’ She enunciates the words so that there is no doubt about whose fault it is that we have lost touch. She wants to claim the upper hand, play the wounded victim. ‘It’s been six years since I knew how to reach you. Only now would Aunt Jemima give me the number, and that was only to avoid having to talk to you herself.’ She snatches up another slice of toast from a rack on the table, dabs a knife at the butter and pushes it around the triangle. The mention of Aunt Jemima is enough to shut me up. I knew it was her who must have given out my number. I should be angry about it. I was a couple of nights ago. But here in this place, summoning that anger is not so easy.