“Hey, Alice, did Di tell you the news?” He rests a hand on my shoulder for a moment in a friendly greeting and I grit my teeth against the urge to cover it with mine.
“Yes, and I’m honored, thanks.”
He moves toward Diana to place a lingering kiss on her lips and I look away.
“We couldn’t think of anyone else who’d love our girls as much as we do,” he says, pulling a chair alongside Diana and sitting. “You’re the best.”
I manage a tight smile. “I have to go. I’ll try to pop in tomorrow.”
“Okay,” Diana says, oblivious to my turmoil, while Cam studies me with the faintest frown lines creasing his brow. Di doesn’t ask me to stay. Instead, she’s done what she always does: command my presence, tell me her news, and expects me to slink away so she can continue living her perfect life.
“Thanks for dropping by.” Diana smiles and I mentally will Cam to walk me out so I can have him to myself for a few scant moments.
But he merely nods and smiles too, leaving me striding away from them as fast as I can.
This is too much. Diana expects me to be grateful she’s deemed to let me have her children if something were to happen to both of them. Like it’s my duty. Like I don’t have any say in the matter. It’s presumptuous and so like my self-absorbed sister I shouldn’t be surprised.
Yet I can’t help but think… what if it was just Diana who was removed from this scenario?
Twelve
Brooke
I’ve been back a week, which means the wedding is only twenty-one days away, yet I’m still no closer to feeling a part of it, which is strange considering that’s why Freya asked me to come home a few weeks before the ceremony. Freya spends all day at work and most evenings volunteering, Riker avoids me, Aunt Alice hasn’t recognized me once; only Hope and Lizzie seem glad I’m around.
Tonight I have the place to myself. Lizzie has taken Hope to ballet, Riker’s on an overnight delivery for one of his sculptures and Freya is volunteering with a local women’s association. So I sit beside Alice’s bed, reading to her from a dog-eared copy of Pride and Prejudice, as she’d once done to me.
One of my favorite memories growing up was being tucked into bed at night and having her read to me. Freya hadn’t been much of a reader; it always made me wonder why she fought so hard to stake her place in the reading nook beside Lizzie and me. But Alice had nurtured my inner bookworm and I’d been hooked from a young age. Jane Austen had been my favorite because it had been hers. My aunt would come alive reading those romantic tales filled with sibling rivalry and brooding, handsome men. Now, as I turn the page and cast a glance her way, I hope she’s deriving as much pleasure from this simple activity as I once did.
“Stop,” she whispers, her voice reedy. “No more about sisters.”
I’ve visited her every day, usually for at least thirty minutes in the morning, but she’s never lucid and she always mumbles about sisters. She never hid the fact that when our mom died she gladly became our guardian but because I was so young, only just over a year old, Alice has always been my mom. When my life imploded she took care of everything. I love her and I hate seeing her like this.
“This is my favorite book, it used to be yours too.” I slide a bookmark between the worn pages and lean forward to smile in reassurance. “I reckon we could both recite the thing by heart.”
Her eyes fix on me, suddenly bright. “You were always a good girl. Not like my sister.”
She stabs a finger at the door. Her eyes narrow and her breathing becomes rapid. “I’m going to burn in hell for what I did.”
Mystified by her outburst, and hoping my reading to her hasn’t confused her more, I lay a comforting hand over hers where it rests on the duvet. “Auntie, you’re confused—”
“I’m not!” she yells, yanking her hand away from mine. “I have ruined so many lives. I’m a bad, bad person and she is too. Damn Diana to hell.”
Drained, she slumps further into the pillows and turns her head away from me. I don’t know what to say. I’ve agitated her somehow and wish I knew what to do in a situation like this. Freya had warned me not to stress Aunt Alice by talking about the past and Lizzie had said she chatted as normal to her mom every day, so that’s what I’ve been doing too. So what brought on this outburst? What did my mother do that has my aunt riled all these years later, even with her advancing dementia? I want to ask but it’s no use, she’s already snoring softly. Besides, everything she said could be the rambling of a confused woman, as Freya and Lizzie warned me about.
Laying the book on the bedside table, I move around the room, tidying up. Alice’s laptop is open at the end of her bed, the screen black. I remember her tapping at the keyboard most nights and I always wondered what she’d have to diarize. Our aunt had led a staid life but I guess we all need an outlet and keeping a diary had been hers. Lizzie said Aunt Alice had kept it up and is still obsessed with scouring the Internet, even if she doesn’t understand half the things she sees. I close it before I’m tempted to pry. What if Aunt Alice kept a record of what my mother is supposed to have done? Would my knowing bring Aunt Alice some comfort if I could reassure her it’s not half as bad as what she thinks?
It’s wrong, justifying my urge to delve. I want to do it out of sheer curiosity because I know next to nothing about my mother. Growing up, Alice rarely mentioned Diana. Freya never seemed to care but a small part of me always wanted to know more about my parents. I have nothing of them bar a photo after Freya was born, with me in my dad’s arms, Freya in Mom’s, the two of them staring at each other with so much love it’s like Freya and I were excluded. I still have the photo. It’s one of few I carried around with me all these years, moving from town to town, job to job.
My glance drifts back to the laptop. What secrets does it contain?
Aunt Alice makes a loud sound, halfway between a snort and a groan, shifting restlessly in her sleep, and I pick up the laptop and place it on the movable table next to the bed. I back away, not wanting to disturb her.
I’ll ask Lizzie if she knows anything. Discovering more about the parents I never knew will give me something to do while I wait, hoping to be reabsorbed into this family.
Thirteen
Freya
When I get home, Brooke is curled up in the corner of the sofa, cradling a mug of steaming peppermint tea. Over the years, the smell of anything remotely resembling mint reminded me of her. She’s staring into space. It’s her thinking pose. She used to do it all the time as a teen. Though what did she have to think about? How to turn that A into an A+ in algebra? How to sweet-talk Eli into gifting her yet another piece of cutesy jewelry? How to wear her crown as prom queen?
What Brooke went through with losing Eli eradicated her charmed life. I’d hoped her hardship would bring us closer but she’d run away eight weeks after his death and never returned; until now. It makes me wonder why she’s come home. Did she really want to attend my wedding so badly she set aside her resentment for this place and her bad memories? Or is there a deeper reason for her return?
In those eight weeks before she left home years ago, she’d already mentally checked out. She ignored me, wrapped up in her grief, drifting through the house like a ghost. I’d been helpless, unsure what to say or do, and a small part of me had been angry too. I hadn’t died. I was right in front of her and she didn’t care. It had almost been a relief when she’d left, until I started missing her fiercely.
I still harbor abandonment issues, which may be why I’m determined to nurse Aunt Alice at home. I want to keep her close so she won’t leave me too.
“Hey, you’re looking awfully pensive.” I enter the lounge room, unwinding my scarf before shrugging off my jacket and sitting next to her. “What’s up?”
“Nothing, really, just thinking about the past.” She sips at her tea, a tiny frown appearing between her brows. “Do you know much about our parents?”
“Not really. Aunt Alice never spoke about them.”
>
“Do you ever wonder why?”
“I figure it’s too painful for her, losing her only sister when we were practically babies.”
“Yeah, I guess.” Brooke’s frown deepens. “She never talked about Dad either.”
The last thing I feel like doing after a long session helping the local women’s association knit baby booties is rehashing the past. But I can see something is bugging Brooke and if this gives us an opportunity to grow closer, I’m all for it. “What’s brought this on?”
She shrugs, her expression contemplative. “I guess being back here has made me feel nostalgic. I mean, I expected coming home after all this time would dredge stuff up, but the way Aunt Alice rambles about sisters and secrets makes me think there was something going on with our mom we never knew about.”
The last thing I want to do is examine the past. I’m more than happy to shed it and move forward into a brighter future, but it’s true that neither of us know much about our mother and father.
“What would change if we knew more about our parents?” I lay my hands out like I have nothing to hide. “Trying to force memories out of Aunt Alice can be detrimental to her health. She’ll become agitated at a time when I’m trying to keep things as peaceful as possible for her.”
Brooke appears suitably chastised. “You’re doing an incredible job caring for her. I’m really proud of you.”
Brooke’s admiration means a lot because I struggle every single day, watching my once vibrant aunt deteriorate before my eyes. She’d been amazing in the early years when I knew nothing about raising a child. She’d helped me with Hope from day one, as loving and attentive to me as she was to my daughter. The trials of motherhood made me love her all the more when I realized she’d taken on Brooke and me when she had her own daughter, at an age only five years older than when I had Hope.
“She’s really been there for me all these years. It’s the least I can do.” I press a hand to my heart. “But it hurts to watch her fade away and there’s not one damn thing I can do about it.”
Brooke tilts her head, studying me. “It must be tough, dealing with dementia all day every day at your job, then coming home to do the same for Aunt Alice.”
“Aunt Alice is a sweetie because she’s never aggressive.” I grimace. “Dementia affects different people in different ways and I’ve had some patients flip out.”
Brooke blinks rapidly, like she’s on the verge of tears. “You are something else, Sis.”
She clasps my hand and we sit in silence, tears shimmering in our eyes. It’s the best moment we’ve had since she came home.
“I’m glad you’re here,” I say, and mean it. I hadn’t known what to expect when I invited Brooke to the wedding but I’m glad I did. I’ve missed this. For all our bickering as kids, and for all my mood swings as a teen, we are inherently the same. Family. Connected.
“Me too.”
She releases my hand to dash it across her eyes. “Sorry for getting all maudlin on you, but seeing Aunt Alice the way she is, when I remember how vibrant she used to be, is tough.”
“I get it. She’s the only mom we ever knew.”
Our bonding has lulled me into a false sense of security when Brooke says, “I spent some time reading to her today and she started rambling worse than usual.”
I try not to show my fear. Nothing Alice says these days makes sense so I shouldn’t be afraid of her spilling secrets. But I am. Terrified, in fact. I’ve built a carefully constructed life. Nothing and nobody will tear it down.
“You get used to the ramblings after a while.” I feign a nonchalance I don’t feel.
She turns a speculative stare onto me. “You’ve got a lot on your plate. Have you thought about putting her into a facility, like the one you work at?”
I shake my head. “Absolutely not. Aunt Alice did everything for us growing up, the least I can do is look after her when she needs me the most.” My vehemence startles her a little and I tone it down. “It’s up to Lizzie, really, and if she’s happy for me to be her mom’s nurse, who am I to argue with that?”
Brooke nods, but she hasn’t lost the inquisitive stare, like she knows I’m not telling her everything.
“You’ve changed, Freya,” she says, with a teasing smile. “For the better. You’re more patient these days, more caring.”
I chuckle. “Thanks, I think.”
“I guess we’ve all changed,” she murmurs, lifting the cup to her mouth and taking another sip, her expression far away, back to ruminating.
“I’m tired.” I stand and interlink my hands, stretching overhead. “I’m going to check in on Aunt Alice then go to bed.”
“Goodnight,” Brooke murmurs, still deep in thought, so I leave her to it.
As long as my inquisitive sister doesn’t over-think things, we’ll be fine.
Fourteen
Alice
THEN
A week later, I bake a cake for Brooke’s first birthday. It’s a chocolate and vanilla marble covered in pink frosting and tiny marzipan farm animals. I’m not a baker generally but I take extra care with this one because my niece deserves all the good things in life, even if her mother doesn’t.
Brooke is adorable, with blonde curls that cling to her scalp, big blue eyes so like her father’s, and a perpetual grin. She always reaches her arms out when she sees me and I love picking her up, having her snuggle into me. She’s the only good thing about visiting Diana and Cam; at four weeks, Freya is too young to know me.
The party is small, the friends that Cam and I used to hang out with, including Dave who’s surprisingly still with Mandy, and Diana’s best friend, Amy. Diana and Amy used to spend countless hours poring over magazines of boy bands or painting each other’s nails or rollerblading in front of the football play field. I’d been jealous of their closeness and wondered if Amy suggested stuff for them to do that would exclude me. Now, Amy’s hovering next to Diana, cooing over Freya, a good-looking quarterback-type with broad shoulders, lean waist, and a chiseled jaw, holding her hand.
I take care placing the cake on the main table, before lifting its plastic cover. It looks spectacular among the store-bought mini cupcakes and even though Brooke won’t remember it, I will. I did this for my niece, the only person who ever seems happy to see me in this household.
Diana catches sight of me and lifts her hand in a half-hearted wave. I know she’s had a relapse over the last few days and is struggling again with postnatal depression but Cam says she’s doing fine with the meds and the counseling.
I make my way toward her. Pasting a smile on my face, I bend to kiss her and Freya.
“How are my girls today?”
“We’re good,” Diana says. “The cake looks amazing. Thanks for that.”
“You’re welcome.”
We’re always like this these days, stilted, barely able to make polite small talk.
“Where’s the birthday girl? I have her gift in the car.”
“Brooke’s napping, but should be awake soon.” Diana gestures at Amy. “You know Amy?”
“Yeah. How are you?”
“Good,” Amy says, before actually turning her back on me to murmur something to her boyfriend. Her rudeness is astounding but nothing new. When Diana’s around, I’m invisible to most people.
“I’ll get something to drink. Do you want anything?” I ask Diana, who shakes her head.
“Cam’s manning the bar. Tell him to make you something strong and fruity.”
The last thing I need is to imbibe alcohol of any kind that can loosen my tongue. But I make a beeline for the makeshift bar, a row of coolers filled with ice and drinks. Cam’s nowhere in sight and I’m relieved. It doesn’t last long. As I select a lemon soda and straighten I feel a light touch on my arm and turn around to find Amy beside me.
“Hey.” I twist the lid off my soda bottle. “Sorry, did you want a drink?”
“I’m good,” she says, her gaze darting over my shoulder. “But I wanted to talk to yo
u about Di.”
“Oh?”
Why on earth would this woman, who’s ignored me for the last umpteen years, want to talk to me about anything, let alone my sister?
“I’m worried about her,” Amy says, sounding genuinely concerned. “I know she’s getting help for her postnatal depression but I think there’s more than the baby blues at play here.”
“Like what?”
Amy casts another furtive glance around before leaning forward, close enough our shoulders touch. “I think having Brooke and Freya so close together hasn’t made up for giving up the other one and she’s struggling.”
I’m lost. What the hell is she babbling about?
Giving up the other one…
“We’re probably the only ones who know,” she continues, oblivious to my confusion. “I don’t think she’s even told Cam. But I wanted to flag it with you because you see her more often than I do and I’m really worried she’s pining for her firstborn.”
I manage to say, “Thanks for letting me know, I’ll keep an eye on her,” before Amy drifts away.
Only then do I allow myself to collapse onto the nearest hay bale near the bar, a bunch of them laid around the backyard as part of the farm theme.
I’m reeling, shock making my hand shake as I raise the soda bottle to my lips. After several gulps, the sugar hit hasn’t eased my trembling.
Diana hadn’t gone to college.
She’d gone away to have a baby.
Cam’s baby, if the timeline fit.
She left two months after the party, the night she stole him from me, and came home just over seven months later.
And Mom must’ve orchestrated the entire thing.
Why hadn’t either of them trusted me with the truth? Even on her deathbed, Mom had kept the secret. If she’d confided in me, maybe I could’ve done something to help. I could’ve encouraged Di to come home and I could’ve supported her through the birth and beyond.
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