The Good Sister

by Sally Hepworth

  Fern and I stared at her as if she was an alien. We had never met a woman like Trish before. She was different from Mum – fatter and frecklier, with a round face and a gummy smile. Another difference was her obvious adoration of Billy – before he got into the car, she planted several kisses on his cheek, which he wiped off as Fern leaned over and touched her bracelet against mine. I frowned at her. What is it?

  But she kept her gaze on Billy.

  ‘Be good for your dad,’ Billy’s mum said, as he slid into the back seat, taking his place beside me.

  Billy had a round face, green eyes, and hair that was swept over his face. He grinned at me. ‘Hey.’

  ‘Hey,’ I replied.

  ‘What kind of tent are we going to get, kids?’ Daniel said, as we began driving.

  ‘I’ve taken the liberty of doing some research,’ Fern said. She had her camping book in her lap, as well as a handful of flyers from camping stores. ‘For a family of five, hands down the best option is the Montana 12. It features near-vertical sides and a very spacious three-room interior with zippered dividers and a third removable wall so you can further divide one of the end rooms into two smaller compartments. It also features a large front awning with built-in sidewalls that allows you to create a big verandah at the front of your tent. Or, if we want separate tents, I have recommendations for those too.’

  ‘Someone has done her research,’ Daniel said.

  ‘Glad someone around here does,’ Billy said. Daniel laughed good-naturedly. It was hard not to be buoyed by the sense of camaraderie in the car. It looked like Billy and Daniel were going to stick around, at least for a little while. That had to be a good thing. Still, as I heard Mum’s tinkling laugh I felt that familiar sense of dread. Something is going to ruin this, I thought. If there’s one thing I knew about Mum, it was that she had a gift for destroying everything good.

  FERN

  For the next week, Rose is around constantly. She shows up in the morning to offer me a ride to work. She appears in the evening with a homemade meal. She drops off flyers about prenatal yoga and hypnobirthing. She phones and texts on an hourly basis simply ‘to check in’. In the past, Rose always respected my desire for forewarning – always having a scheduled plan, never showing up without announcing it first. Not anymore. But, as it turns out, her visits are fortuitous because just about every time Rose shows up, she averts a crisis – confiscating soft cheese and deli meat from the fridge (which apparently was liable to give me listeria and kill the baby) or dropping in when I was at work and finding I had left my oil burner on (which was strange as I rarely used my oil burner anymore). ‘It’s a good thing I was here,’ she always says. The one time I can count on Rose to leave me alone is when I go to visit Mum. So I feel a strange sense of relief that Thursday as I stride through the automatic doors of Sun Meadows.

  I take the stairs up to Mum’s room. Teresa, Mum’s speech therapist, is there again, and Mum is in her usual chair, her tray table beside her, a chocolate iced donut sitting on it alongside a cup of water. I watch from the door for a minute.

  Teresa is holding open what looks like a children’s picture storybook.

  ‘The . . . cow . . . jumps . . . over . . . the . . . moon,’ Mum says.

  ‘Very good!’ Teresa says.

  ‘Thank . . . you.’

  ‘Very, very good,’ I say, from the door.

  Mum looks at me and beams. ‘Pop-pet.’

  ‘Great timing, as usual,’ Teresa says. ‘We’re finishing up. She’s doing a great job. Just before you arrived, she told me she was thirsty! I brought her a drink of water, and she asked for ice! By next week, she’ll be reading novels aloud!’

  ‘That seems a stretch,’ I say.

  Teresa chuckles as I sit down on a chair beside Mum. Mum has a bit of chocolate on her lip and I lean forward to wipe it off. ‘It’s . . . good . . . to see . . . you,’ Mum says.

  Teresa gives me the thumbs-up gesture. She waits for a moment, as if expecting something in response, so I mimic her gesture. She grins, and I focus my attention back on Mum.

  ‘It’s good to see you too,’ I say.

  It’s true, it is good to see her – especially today when I’m feeling all twisted up inside. When you feel like that, there really is nothing quite like seeing your mum.

  Mum has always been a good listener, even before the accident. On the odd occasion, she could even be wise. I have a memory of talking to her once after being excluded from a birthday party in Grade Three. I didn’t want to go, obviously. Parties were always loud with music and bright colours and squealing. Worst of all, there were almost always balloons (balloons ranked high in my list of terrors, given their tendency to pop at unpredictable times and elicit a loud bang). But every other girl in the class had been invited, including Rose, so I was upset.

  ‘I understand why you’re upset,’ Mum had said. ‘It’s one thing deciding not to go, but it’s quite another being told you can’t.’

  It had been indescribably gratifying to be understood like that. I yearn for the same sort of wisdom from her today.

  ‘I’m pregnant, Mum,’ I say.

  I look at her to see if she registers this. And I see, from the way her forehead wrinkles, that she does.

  ‘Remember the boy I told you about?’ I say, and she nods. ‘Well, one thing led to another and . . . I’m pregnant. Anyway, obviously I can’t look after a baby myself. So . . . I’m going to give the baby to Rose.’

  I say it fast, perhaps too fast, as it comes out a little wobbly. But I know Mum understands, because her eyes widen.

  ‘Rose can’t have a baby,’ I explain. ‘She has bad ovaries. Premature Ovarian Ageing, it’s called. And I’m pregnant. So it makes sense that I should give my baby to her. Right?’

  ‘Why can’t . . . you . . .’

  I lower my voice. ‘You know why I can’t keep it, Mum. It would be . . . dangerous.’

  Mum still doesn’t speak, but after a minute or two I notice her becoming red in the face. For a second, I think she’s choking. I hand her the cup of water, but she waves it away. She opens her mouth and chokes something out, and though I’m straining to listen, I can’t make it out. ‘What? What did you say, Mum?’

  She stares at me very intently, even though she knows I prefer less eye contact, to make sure I’m listening and says, ‘Your baby. Don’t . . . give it . . . to Rose.’

  The next afternoon I am reshelving books at the library and thinking about what Mum said.

  ‘Don’t give my baby to Rose?’ I’d repeated, looking for confirmation.

  But Mum just shook her head, which might have meant I was right . . . or wrong. She’d said a few things after that, but nothing that made much sense. It was like she regressed in front of my eyes. As such, I suspect it would be silly to give much credence to what she said.

  ‘Can I get some help over here?’

  I glance up. The man who is speaking – an elderly chap with an extraordinarily large head covered in liver spots – doesn’t bother to get up from the computer where he is stationed.

  ‘What is the problem?’ I call, from several metres away.

  ‘My granddaughter set me up with an email address,’ he bellows. ‘But I don’t know how to check if I have any mail!’

  I glance around for Gayle or Linda or Trevor . . . even Carmel. They’ve all disappeared. Traitors. The man crosses his hairy, meaty forearms in front of his chest, and glares at me. I wonder if it’s too late to make up an excuse and walk off.

  I sigh. ‘What’s your email address?’

  ‘I don’t know!’ He throws one hairy arm in the air. ‘Something “at” something dot com. Sounds ridiculous to me, quite frankly.’

  ‘Right. Well . . . we do run introductory computer courses on Tuesday evenings . . .’

  ‘I play bridge on Tuesday evenings.’

  ‘Or you can schedule a private lesson? For a time of your choosing.’

  ‘Perfect,’ he says. ‘I choose now.’
r />   He stares me down. I stare right back. This old guy doesn’t know who he’s dealing with.

  ‘Fern?’

  I turn, sagging in relief. Carmel has turned up at the eleventh hour.

  ‘Ah, Carmel. This gentleman is having some trouble with his email.’

  ‘Someone is here to see you,’ Carmel says, her eyes flicking to the entrance of the library. I glance over and see Wally standing there, carrying a large bunch of sunflowers.

  My heart skips a beat.

  ‘Are you going to help with the email or not?’ the old man barks. ‘I don’t have all day!’

  Wally lifts his hand in a wave. He is wearing a navy suit. It must be new. I’ve seen him in a charcoal-coloured suit before, which was also very nice, but not as tight in the trousers. His hair is also combed with a side part, which looks very dapper, very old-Hollywood.

  ‘Fern, you’ve overstayed your shift,’ Carmel says. ‘Why don’t you get going and I’ll help this gentleman with the computer?’

  I look at the clock. ‘I haven’t overstayed my shift. I’m closing. And there’s twenty minutes until–’

  ‘Fern,’ she says firmly. ‘You. Have. Overstayed. Your. Shift.’

  Carmel sounds most bizarre, like a kind of serial-killer robot. Her stare is also uncomfortably intense. My instinct is to ask if she’s all right, and also to correct her again as I most certainly haven’t overstayed my shift, but I have grave fears this may send her into some sort of episode. And so, I acquiesce.

  ‘Oh. Kay,’ I reply. ‘Thank. You. Carmel.’

  Wally’s van is in the parking lot and once we reach it, he opens the passenger door for me, a gallant gesture which makes me feel rather good. I climb inside and place the sunflowers beside me on the bench seat. They are wrapped in brown paper with a small water-filled plastic bag tied around the stems to keep them hydrated, which is a rather innovative design. No-one has ever given me flowers before. To be honest, I’ve always felt they were a little indulgent, and I’ve always been fearful that the smell would be cloying. I am surprised to find that, on this occasion, I couldn’t be more pleased with them and, even in the restricted space of the van, the smell is reasonably inoffensive.

  ‘Thank you for the flowers,’ I say when Wally gets into the driver’s side of the van.

  ‘You’re welcome,’ Wally says, smiling at a spot over my shoulder. ‘Sunflowers haven’t got a strong scent. In fact, the florist said they were unscented, but I detected a faint odour.’

  I conjure an image of Wally in the florist pointing at posies, sniffing each bunch and shaking his head until he declared the sunflowers the perfect bunch. It’s a happy image. It makes me smile.

  ‘Now, if you’ll allow it, I’d like to take you to dinner,’ he says.

  Instantly, my florist fantasy dissipates, replaced by another, less appealing one. Wally and me in a crowded restaurant, shouting to be heard over the music. Pungent dishes and intoxicated diners. I open my mouth to explain to Wally that I can’t possibly go out for dinner, that restaurants are among the worst places for overstimulation, but he holds up a hand, silencing me.

  ‘Hear me out! A guy that I know runs a Greek restaurant in Windsor. They are hosting a private function tonight in their upstairs room, so the main dining room is closed. He’s agreed to open it, just for us.’

  I frown. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘We will be the only ones in the restaurant. We can choose the lighting, the music, the food – everything.’

  Slowly, it starts to sink in, what Wally has done. Not just the flowers, but all of it. An entire evening – all coordinated to be perfect for me. It is an entirely unprecedented level of thoughtful.

  ‘Why are you crying?’ he asks.

  I reach up and touch my face, which is indeed wet. ‘I . . . I’m just a little overwhelmed, I think. This is so lovely. A restaurant. I didn’t think I’d ever be able to go to a restaurant.’

  In my peripheral vision, I see Wally smile softly.

  ‘What does one even wear to a restaurant?’ I ask. I gesture to my denim overalls. ‘Can I go like this?’

  ‘You could,’ he says. ‘But I brought you something that I thought you might like to wear instead . . .’ He reaches into the back seat and brings back a white plastic bag.

  ‘There’s more?’

  I reach into the bag and retrieve a long halter-neck dress with diagonal stripes. Each stripe is a unique colour – not one is doubled up. It must include every single colour and shade on earth.

  ‘I saw this in a shop and it . . . it made me think of you,’ Wally says.

  ‘It is the most beautiful dress I have ever seen.’

  I change in the back of the van. The dress fits, though the fabric is a little scratchy. It matches perfectly with the rainbows on my sneakers.

  ‘Beautiful,’ Wally says when I appear in the front seat. On a whim, I swish the skirt a little bit to show off, but I immediately feel silly and stop.

  Wally drives to the restaurant, carefully adhering to the road signs and speed limits, which I appreciate. As we drive, I take a minute to reflect on the fact that I’m going on a proper date! To a restaurant! It is like a dream, except I’ve never had dreams like this. It’s like the books I’ve read, the happy ones, where things work out.

  We pull up in front of the restaurant but before I can open the car door, Wally places a hand on my arm. ‘There’s one more thing.’ He leans over and opens the glove compartment. ‘These are noise cancelling and Bluetooth connected, so we can hear each other,’ he says, handing me a pair of giant headphones that look like earmuffs. ‘And these . . .’ He hands me a pair of swimming goggles in pink and purple and aqua and pulls out another pair of bright green goggles for himself. ‘I think are fairly self-explanatory.’ He pulls the green ones over his face. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘You look like an aviator frog,’ I say. I pull on my own goggles. ‘What about me?’

  ‘A rainbow aviator frog.’

  I smile.

  As promised, the restaurant is quiet and the lighting is low. We are greeted by a waitress with a nose ring, purple hair and a tattoo of a dragon creeping out of the chest area of her white button-down shirt . . . and yet she stares at us when we arrive.

  ‘Reservation for Wally,’ Wally says.

  I snort.

  The waitress leads us to a table set with a white tablecloth and bright blue chairs. As we sit down, the waitress hands each of us a laminated menu and fills our water glasses from a porcelain jug. The restaurant smells of garlic and meat.

  ‘Are you okay?’ Wally says.

  I nod. ‘It’s lovely.’

  Wally looks so funny in his goggles, I let out another snort.

  ‘What?’ Wally says.

  ‘Nothing.’

  The waitress brings over pita bread and tzatziki and tells us she’ll be back in a minute to take our order. I dive into the bread before it’s even hit the table. This pregnancy hunger is no joke. I feel like I could eat every carbohydrate in the place.

  ‘Did you miss lunch?’ Wally asks, as I dip my second piece of pita.

  I am grateful to have a mouthful, so I can just smile and shrug. I can’t tell him, of course, that I missed neither lunch nor afternoon tea. I can’t tell him, because then he might ask more questions and find out that I’m pregnant.

  As I swallow my next mouthful, I become aware of sounds drifting down the stairs – soft music, chairs scraping, intermittent laughter. It’s not overwhelming, but I can hear it even with my earphones on. I’m about to ask Wally if he knows what is happening up there when the waitress appears to take our order.

  Wally and I remove our headphones long enough to order a lamb souvlaki (for Wally) and baked Greek fries with meatballs (for me). We also order bread and hummus, olives and water. Music starts up above, slightly louder than before. I replace my headphones.

  ‘So . . .’ I say to Wally. ‘Was there a particular purpose to this evening or was it just . . .’ I stumb
le on the juvenile-sounding word, ‘. . . a date?’

  ‘As a matter of fact, there was a purpose. A celebration. I’ve created an ad hoc version of FollowUp.’

  Ad hoc version. I fear I ought to understand this reference. Over the past few weeks, Wally has explained the process of creating and launching an app, but each time, despite the clarity and simplicity of his explanations, I invariably found myself tuning out after a minute or two. And the constant nausea has done nothing to assist my concentration.

  ‘It means the app is ready for testing,’ Wally explains. ‘I’ve spent the last few weeks coding and I think it’s going to work! With Shout!, it took us five times as long to get to this point, but I’ve been so motivated, and a lot of that is to do with you being in my life. And, so, I wanted to do something special for you.’

  Wally smiles at me and, in that instant, it is entirely undeniably clear that I cannot break up with Wally. The fact that I thought I could feels like mere madness.

  ‘Fern,’ Wally says. ‘What is it?’

  ‘I have to tell you something,’ I say.

  ‘Damn,’ Wally says, removing his headphones. ‘I can’t hear you. I think my battery ran out.’

  I take off my own headphones and place them on the table. The music upstairs is louder now, and I can hear stomping on the ceiling above.

  ‘I said . . . I have to tell you something.’

  Wally leans forward, his face a mask of concern. ‘What is it?’

  I open my mouth. And a bomb goes off, right there in the restaurant.

  I drop to the floor. The noise is ear-splitting. I clamber under the table, covering my head with my hands. I’ve barely recovered from the first explosion before there is another. And another. Bizarrely, music continues to play. I search for Wally under the table, gripping his hands as I hear another explosion. I wrap my arms around myself and rock back and forth, waiting for it to end.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Wally says, once he’s bundled me outside. ‘I had no idea it was a wedding upstairs.’

  I am still shaking so much I can’t stand up straight. The terrifying, smashing noise reverberates in my head.