“I’m sorry, Mamma. I am. We would be a real family if it weren’t for me. He would have stayed. Penny said—”
“Never you mind, Hattie. Never you mind. That is not true. Look at me, darling, look at me.” I heard Hattie sniff. “That is not true. It’s a lie.”
My skin went cold all over, the hairs on my sweating arms standing up. I tiptoed towards the kitchen and peeked my head around the corner. She was something, our mum. So lovely in an eyelet dress down to her ankles.
And then Mum turned to me, the look on her face like she’d never loved me at all. Like she’d be happy to never see me again, I swear she did. Holding onto Hattie like she was precious gold. Red gold.
“Penny,” she said, calm and cool, and Hattie looked over in surprise, her eyes fearful, but locked with mine, secure in Mum’s arms. “Get out of my sight.”
* * *
Couldn’t Mum see? That Hattie always had one over on us? That she had it in her to ruin absolutely everything?
I saw in my reflection in the glass that night, that same girl, second-best. I couldn’t forget. He’d called me Hattie. He’d put his hand over my mouth. He’d called me Hattie. Now I had to save her, again. I looked at Buddy, lying in the chair.
Why did I have to do everything for her? It was her turn now. She owed me.
Buddy snored. The TV rattled on. There was the phone on the wall, the cord dangling low and twisted. I lifted it to my ear. I dialed.
“Hello?” Her voice, young and quiet, tender.
“I can’t do it,” I whispered. “Hattie, I can’t do it,” and I began to sob quietly. She was silent on the other end. In that pause, what could have gone differently if I had spoken again, if I hadn’t waited for what I knew would come?
“I’ll do it,” she said. “Come here. I’ll go there. I’ll do it for you, Penny.”
She hung up. I held the phone limply. I froze. I didn’t call her back and talk her out of it. I hadn’t said no. No, Hattie. Yes.
Seconds passed. And then I came to life. Life, not death. I leapt into action, and ran out the back door, leaving it open, not taking a backwards glace. Go, go, go.
I got out of sight.
Over the fence, through the bush, the forest, the back way, running, running, leaves under my feet, the fastest, the quietest I’d ever moved. A murder of crows erupted overhead. Did they see those two sisters, those loose threads, pulled in opposite directions, passing each other within a few blocks of one another? Switching places, trading fates. I’ll do it for you, Penny. For you, Penny. Pound, pound, pound went my feet in the dark, and my heart and my breath, and the noise of my panic was like a death knell but I was alive, I was running away. Go, go, go.
Into the house through the open back door. Locked by instinct. Panting, my lungs burning. I stood with my back against the door. I was alone. She was gone. It was done. I remembered the plan. I took the stairs, turning off lights as I went. I had brought a small bag with me. I pulled out a nightgown and changed. I climbed into her bed and I waited.
When I heard her come in, I sat up, turned on the light. She didn’t do it, I was sure, she couldn’t have. Everything was too calm and quiet. Where Buddy was concerned, I thought of screaming, agony, chaos. There were no sounds. She didn’t do it.
“It’s me,” I heard her say, her voice scratchy. “I’m home.” And then, when she stumbled into the room, wild-eyed and breathing hard, her lip trembling just a tiny bit, I knew. She toppled into bed, curled against me, touched my hair. My little sister, tiny Hattie of our childhood. I heard sirens now in the distance and felt shock course through my veins, my hands shaking as I wrapped the covers around her.
She did it. She did it for me. She lit that match that started the fire of our lives. It never went out.
* * *
“Hattie, I know. I know. Keep your voice down.”
“And so what, you know? What am I going to do about it, Penny? How can I ever be forgiven?” She was crying now, her voice hard and loud.
“Hattie—”
“No, you listen. I was okay for a while. Jameson came along and we seemed so happy, and I felt like it was the right thing. But then I couldn’t have a baby, and I dunno, I started thinking God was getting me back—”
“Come on, Hattie, of course not.”
She looked at me with disgust. “I know, Penny. No one was ever true to me.”
Iain Moore was walking towards us.
“I’m glad to see you’re all okay,” he offered, looking at Hattie and me, then Jameson. He paused. He looked over his shoulder at the remains of the barn. “I need to discuss something with you. Both of you.”
“Iain, please don’t do anything to Elliot,” Hattie pleaded, moving towards him. “He’s a good boy, and he’s had a tough go. It’s all my fault.” She ran her hands shakily though her hair. “Give him a break. For old time’s sake? Remember our friendship? You said it meant so much to you. Give El a chance.” She reached over and touched his arm, and he stiffened.
“Hattie, don’t. This is my job. There is no ‘old time’s sake’ for me.” He paused, rubbed his face and turned to me. “I’ve spoken to Elliot. I think he’s been scared straight. That was a horrifying ordeal for him. But I’d like him to volunteer with us, take a fire safety class, that kind of thing. I know he’s just a kid, but this has got to stop.” He watched me take in this news, waiting for a reaction. I was so tired. I nodded.
“I want to ask you something, Penny,” Iain said, eyes still on me.
My mind a fog. So tired.
“Yes?”
“The fire. The first one. With Buddy.”
I lifted my head.
“Don’t tell me you’re listening to that idiot who almost killed our son,” Hattie said, gesturing to where Mac had been taken away in a patrol car. Iain ignored her. He was looking at me.
“Penny,” he said, watching me closely. And then: “Why didn’t we find your earrings at the site of the fire?”
Something was ringing in my ears. I clenched my hands, and I swear I could feel those earrings digging into my palms, like when little Hattie had just given them to me.
“What do you mean? Who cares about the earrings,” Hattie snapped. She was ramrod straight, but I felt my body losing energy, becoming limp.
“Detective,” Jameson interjected, “maybe now is not the time?”
Iain ignored them both. He was looking at me.
“They were in your wedding photo. They’re pretty fancy. I recognized them,” he said, “when Elliot tried to sell them.”
Hattie was breathing heavily. I was aware of her beside me, just like all those years ago. Alert with attention, ready to step in. Here we all were again.
“We categorized all the things we found at the fire. I went back to check the records for them. They would have been there, melted and ruined, like all your other jewelry.”
He watched me. He waited. Unless was the unspoken word. Unless so many things. He was giving me an out. Unless I’d worn them that night. Unless, I could have said, Hattie had borrowed them. Unless I’d never done it. Unless we hadn’t begun. Unless they were the one thing I took with me. Those glimmering talismans, those souvenirs of sacrifice. Packing them carefully in my bag before I called Hattie, before the unthinkable.
I was done fighting. It was over.
I shook my head, regret buzzing loudly in my ears. I could see that Hattie was shaking. Something was breaking, cracks running up and down the sides of us. It was happening. The pressure had built to the point of bursting. And I was so exhausted. I heard Hattie clear her throat, ready to speak. Quiet now, Hattie.
“Hattie—”
Iain watching me. I reached out and took Hattie’s hand. She looked so scared. I swallowed. No, Hattie, Yes, Hattie. Please, Hattie.
She looked stunned. And then she murmured, quiet as a child, an almost-sob:
“Elliot.” Her eyes on him, where he sat, accepting more water, looking like a small boy.
And i
t was then that I truly saw them: mother and son. I had so often, over the years, doubted her love for him, for her boy whom she had clawed and schemed and plotted to get. I saw now how much had been at stake, how all her threats and teasing, her tiptoeing near the edge of a deep dark telling, hadn’t been to torment me but had been as close as she’d gotten to falling into some kind of relief. In that one phone call I had pushed her, punished her for a lifetime of sisterhood.
And now I needed to repay her. Those two sides of us.
I opened my mouth and knew I was taking fate back into my own hands. Relief. A switch. I had to let the air in for her, I had to let her breathe again, because I was the stronger sister. Putting out fires.
“I did it,” I said.
“No, Penny! No,” Hattie cried, appealing to Iain, “no, that’s not true!”
I took her in my arms, and there was no one there but us. She was so small. I could put you in my pocket, I used to say to her when we were kids. I could keep you there. Her shoulders heaved, her face buried into my neck. I’m sorry, Hattie. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. A million lifetimes and I cannot make this up to you, but all the same, I’d do it again, I’d let you do it. You gave me my life back and saved your own. You gave me a son who I didn’t know I wanted.
She was light as air. All the life had been taken out of her. I had saved her: she wouldn’t have to tell. I had won: she couldn’t tell.
“I love you, Hattie.”
And then he came over to us, our sweet boy. Elliot. His eyes weepy and tired looking. His face full of concern.
“What is it?” he asked.
* * *
Later. He would learn the truth later. But it was out now. Or some version of it. A release. A feeling of wickedness expelled. And yet, if you were to cut me open, the belly of the beast, wouldn’t you see a will to survive that she just doesn’t have? Look out for your sister. I had risen before, and I knew I could again. Sacrifice doesn’t have to mean death. It can mean rebirth.
Iain quietly suggested that Elliot go home with Jameson, who was speechless with shock, but awoken by the call of parental duty. We didn’t try to stop him, to explain ourselves. We watched our boy leave.
It was done. Hattie must have felt some relief. She was free, mostly, even if I knew in my dark heart that I had taken one more thing from her in exchange. She exhaled and turned her watery eyes to me, her mouth chapped and stained, her hair madly tangled about her face. That marvel, that minx, her love for me breaking over everything, and maybe, possibly, a new life crashing in.
31
The prison visitation room.
Hattie holds my hand across the table. We have chatted about all manner of insignificance. We always circle back to the same place.
“Have you heard from Elliot?”
“Not yet. He might come around. You know. We should give him some more time.”
“I write to him. Has he gotten my letters? Did Jameson say?”
“I haven’t spoken to him recently. I don’t know.” A long pause. “Actually, Jameson is moving with Elliot to Woepine. A fresh start.”
“Oh. I see.” This sinks in. Away from St. Margaret’s, away from our house. “And you?”
“I want to stay close, so I can visit you. I want to stay home.”
We are here, we two. It was always us. It will always be. Thick as thieves, even after we are robbed of everything. Hands together again, like we’re praying.
And today she says, “I feel relieved. Like it’s over.”
“It is,” I say. “And I am so proud of how you’re doing,” I say. And I mean it. She is floating back up to the surface, past the broken bottles and chipped dreams, towards a future.
“People are still talking about us,” she laughs, darkly.
“Let them. They don’t know us.”
* * *
Soon the warden calls that visitation is over, and all around us people stand and embrace.
I get up, and Hattie does, too, our chairs squealing against the linoleum. She walks around the table and holds me close. Her eyes are watery as she looks into mine, but it seems there might just be something bright in her face again. Light coming through a thicket. It suits her, this life. It’s been good for her.
“Next week?”
“Yes,” I say.
She turns and leaves, and I watch for as long as I can, thinking of her red mane bobbing away out of the building, to her car, as I move with the other inmates back to my penance.
* * *
Hattie will return to the empty house again. Elliot is in a nearby town, but might as well be a world away from St. Margaret’s. Mac Williams is in prison for child endangerment, and a slew of other things they were working up to charging him with. I imagine him there; tending to his grudges, making new enemies. Jameson, who will not return my letters, but who weathered the truth we told as it whipped about our family, knocking down lamps and turning out the lights. They just need time. Time to digest the fullness of the stories of this life. “We will come out on the other side,” I write constantly to Elliot. Our son.
I will keep making tiny shuffling steps towards him. I remember when I slept on the pullout couch and his little face surprised me in the mornings. How he took a chance on me then. At night I dream he is still small and that I can hold him in my arms. In my dreams, sometimes he turns into little Hattie, her soft hands in mine. I wake smiling. The light flickers above me. There is no one. Jameson will write back one day, I’m sure. We might have a future together, a family together, he and I and Elliot, Hattie too.
Who knows, right? Who knows what the future holds.
Hattie will always come. It’s me, she says, every time, her face close to mine, holding me before she leaves.
I’m home.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
My favorite part of a book is often the Acknowledgments page. It feeds my curiosity, and I like to know who the people are who help authors on their journeys all the way to the last page. I am grateful to so many.
I wouldn’t be a writer if I wasn’t a reader. I am such a reader that I feel slightly panicky if I do not always have a book on my person, regardless of where I am going or with whom. To all the authors who have shared their stories with me throughout my life: I owe you a great debt.
I live in a small town. This town has the most remarkable library, which I visit every few days, and where I wrote much of this book (including this Acknowledgments page). The people at the Grimsby Public Library feel like part of my extended family. Thank you to the librarians, in particular Nancy Kettles, and to the Grimsby Author Series for their ongoing support. I would also like to thank Station 1 Coffeehouse, where I spend many a morning writing. You keep me in tea and company, and I need both.
The first time I truly felt like a writer was at the Banff Centre. I am grateful for the group of writers I met there, especially Michael Crummey, who gave me the push I needed to move to the next step. It is because of him that I met Martha Magor Webb, my steadfast agent. I cannot describe how thankful I am for Martha. She, however, could probably help me find the words. She is a marvel.
Thank you to Half the World Holdings for granting this book the Half the World Global Literati Award.
To Iris Tupholme, Jennifer Lambert, and the entire team at HarperCollins in Canada: thank you. The night I heard my book had found a home with you remains one of the best of my life. Thank you for believing in Sister of Mine, and in me. Jennifer, your insightful editing has truly made this book better. Thank you also to “plot doctor” Helen Reeves.
Thank you to Matt Martz, Chelsey Emmelhainz and the team at Crooked Lane Books. Your thoughts on turning up the volume on this book have made it all the better, and I’m so happy to be working with you.
I am lucky enough to have been born into one, and then to have married into another incredible family. To my parents, Judy and Phil Petrou, and my courageous brother, Michael, and to all the Petrous, the Newberrys, and their partners and spouses, to my cous
ins, who are like extra siblings to me; thank you to the Johnstons, and, as we affectionately call ourselves, the Nonstons; to Carolyn Johnston and Ginny Sinnot, and to all my siblings-in-law for loving and feeding me, for making me laugh and tolerating my love of all games. My life is richer because of every one of you.
My darling hearts, the Hydra, and the MAS, and my other magnificent girlfriends. You are the people for whom I reach in good times and bad. You are maddeningly brilliant and fearless, and I am so lucky to know and love you: Nicole Bell, Kristen Aspevig, Donna Maloney, Karen Stewart, Laura Noble Wohlgemut, Pilar Chapman, Cathy Davison, Sally Gfeller, Susie Lobb, Amber Lyon Gash, Sandra Ingram, Tracy Hogan, Danielle Dominick, Jessica Olivier, Carola Perez, Lori Beckstead, Ramona Pringle, Ann Marie Peña, Erin O’Hara, Sheree Stevenson, Giuliana Racco. Thanks also to Chris Williams and Tania Camilleri, Brendan Michie, and Kim DeSimone; Mat Noble Wohlgemut, Ian Lobb, Joel Gfeller, Stephen Gash, Pat Ingram, Robert Cash, Greg Owen, Derek Hersey, Jason Book, Zac Schwartz, Steven Ehrlick, Richard Lachman, Michael Murphy, Becky Choma, Mike Blouin, Elan Mastai, Sabrina Palumbo, Susie Anacleto, and so many other friends, new and old.
Thanks to my current and former students and colleagues at Ryerson’s RTA School of Media: there is no job like the one I have, and it is because of all of you. Our school is my home away from home.
I am beyond grateful to Eli and Leo, who fill my days with a joy I never imagined possible. You make me want to read and write and tell the best kinds of stories. You are our wonders.
And to Jay, my dearest one: I thank you, for all the years made up of spectacular moments, for the days of laughter, comfort, and love. For making them all count, win and lose.
—LP
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Laurie Petrou is an associate professor at the RTA School of Media at Ryerson University in Toronto. Her first book, a collection of short stories titled Between (Pedlar Press, 2006), was a Globe and Mail Top 100 Book (Top 5 First Fiction). She is the inaugural winner of the 2016 Half the World Global Literati Award for her then-unpublished novel Sister of Mine.
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