In My Sister's Shoes

by Sinéad Moriarty

‘What?’ I said, blushing at being caught out ogling.

  ‘It was good to see you,’ he said, and winked.

  I turned round to hide the grin that was threatening to swallow my face and to balance my shaking legs against the trolley.

  ‘Auntie Kate,’ said a little voice.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Do you really hate me?’

  ‘Oh, Bobby, of course not,’ I said, kissing his sticky cheek. ‘I’m so sorry, I deserve a slap for saying something so mean. Here, slap my hand.’

  Jack joined in, and while they were slapping me black and blue, all I could do was smile.

  When we got back to the house, I could hear Fiona retching in the bathroom. I sat the boys down to do their afternoon sums and ran up to her. She was lying on the bathroom floor, looking green.

  ‘Are you OK?’

  ‘It came over me all of a sudden. I was fine until about ten minutes ago.’

  ‘Have you taken your anti-nausea tablets?’

  ‘Every time I tryto swallow one it makes me gag.’

  ‘Here, let me help you. Maybe if you tilt your head this way,’ I said, gently leaning her back against me. She managed to swallow one without throwing up. I helped her back into bed, where she curled up in the foetal position.

  ‘You’re all sticky,’ she said, noticing my hair and clothes.

  ‘Ribena accident.’

  She smiled. ‘Welcome to my world. And you used to wonder why I didn’t make more of an effort to dress well.’

  I nodded. ‘I apologize. I had no idea of the mess kids cause. I’m constantly covered with mush or spilt drinks.’

  ‘I’ll be down in a minute to help with dinner.’

  ‘Fiona, just put your feet up and leave dinner to me. Is there anything you think you could face eating?’

  ‘Not now, maybe later.’

  ‘I bought enough food for an army, so there’s plenty of choice.’

  ‘You seem very chirpy.’

  I blushed.

  ‘What? Tell me – distract me with whatever it is.’

  ‘I bumped into Sam at the supermarket,’ I said, omitting to tell her that it was directly after I’d told her five-year-old child that I hated him.

  ‘No! What happened?’

  ‘He asked if he could call me.’

  ‘Wow! That’s great.’

  ‘Relax, it’s not a date. We’re going to meet up for a drink as mates.’

  ‘For a casual drink with a friend, you’ve got some glow,’ said Fiona, grinning.

  ‘You shush and go to sleep,’ I said, coming over all matron-like to hide my embarrassment.

  *

  Later that afternoon, Dad and Derek called over to see how Fiona was feeling. Dad strolled in, followed by Derek, who was carrying a large bunch of grapes.

  ‘Fiona hates grapes,’ I said.

  ‘No, you hate grapes,’ said Derek.

  ‘No, you dope, I like them, Fiona hates them.’

  ‘Bollox.’

  Dad rolled his eyes, ‘Have you met my son Albert – Albert Einstein?’

  ‘Have you met Billy Connolly?’ drawled Derek.

  ‘Albert Einstein was born in Germany,’ Bobby piped up.

  ‘You’re right. He was,’ said Mark, arriving back early for once.

  ‘Ah, here’s Florence Nightingale himself,’ muttered Dad.

  ‘And in Einstein’s early days in Berlin, he postulated that the correct interpretation of the special theory of relativity must also furnish a theory of gravitation, and in 1916, he published his paper on the general theory of relativity,’ continued Mark.

  ‘And you think you pulled the short straw with me as a father,’ Dad whispered to Derek.

  ‘I’d rather boil my head in hot wax than have to listen to that everyday,’ muttered Derek.

  ‘I couldn’t have put it better myself,’ said Dad.

  ‘How is she?’ Mark asked me.

  ‘I’m fine, thanks,’ said Fiona, coming in with Jack hanging off her arm. She looked much better after her nap.

  ‘Get away out of that,’ said Dad to Jack. ‘Don’t be hanging on to your mother. Go over to your father and let him tell you some mind-numbing – sorry, I meant mind-blowing facts about Albert Einstein.’

  I busied myself with the kettle so I wouldn’t laugh.

  ‘It’s great you still have hair,’ said Derek, to Fiona. ‘I thought you might be bald after today. Roxanne’s cousin had chemo and all her hair fell out – like, I mean, all of it. She had nothing anywhere.’

  ‘I think Fiona understands what you’re saying, Derek. You don’t have to spell it out,’ I said.

  ‘It probably will fall out over the next few sessions, so I should really get it cut short,’ said Fiona, running her hands through her lovely hair.

  ‘Short hair is really in now. All the chicks on MTV have short hair,’ lied Derek.

  ‘You’ve got great cheekbones so it’ll suit you,’ I added.

  ‘Sure she’d be gorgeous bald an’ all,’ said Dad.

  ‘Hey, I forgot to tell you. Roxanne fixed my tattoo and she didn’t charge me,’ said Derek.

  ‘Sure aren’t you paying her with sex on demand?’ said Dad.

  ‘Dad, the twins,’ said Fiona, frowning.

  ‘Sorry, boys,’ said Dad, with a grin.

  ‘So, like, do you want to see it or what?’ asked Derek.

  Fiona and I nodded.

  ‘Now, lads,’ said Dad, to the twins, ‘your uncle Derek is going to demonstrate what a Latin scholar his lovely girl-friend is. Watch carefully.’

  Derek turned round and pulled down his trousers. Roxanne had created ‘Carpe Derek’ out of ‘Carpe Deim’. You could see the I and the M underneath the R and the E.

  ‘Well, son, you’ve really outdone yourself this time,’ said Dad. ‘I’m speechless.’

  ‘Cool, huh?’ said Derek. ‘So, like, it now says, “Seize the Derek.” Awesome!’

  16

  Sam didn’t call the next day or the day after or even the day after that. I kept getting the twins to call my mobile from the landline to see if it was working – it was. Eventually I met up with Tara for a moan.

  ‘It’s not like it was a date or anything, but he said he’d call so why hasn’t he?’

  ‘It’s only been five days. I’m sure he will,’ she said, trying to reassure me in her best-friend way.

  ‘But why would he wait? It’s not as if he needs to play it cool. We’re just meeting up as friends.’

  ‘So you keep saying,’ she said, smiling. ‘Look, maybe he’s tied up with work. Maybe he had to go away on an assignment to cover some big sports event.’

  ‘I bet you he said he’d ring because I looked so awful and stressed out that he felt sorry for me and was trying to be nice.’

  ‘I’m sure you looked fine.’

  ‘Tara – I had no makeup on, I hadn’t washed my hair in four days and my jeans are so tight on me now that I look like a heifer – not to mention that I was covered with Ribena and shouting at poor Bobby. I could see he was shocked by my appearance. I really have let myself go. How is anyone with kids supposed to look good? It’s impossible! All your clothes get ruined and I’d rather have an extra half-hour in bed than wash my hair, so it’s permanently stuck to my head.’

  ‘How do you feel about children now?’

  ‘Oh, God, I’m never having any. They’re too much work. You literally have to give up your life. It’s non-stop. No wonder Fiona always looks tired. Don’t get me wrong, it’s nice to spend time with them and get to know them and they can be really cute – but most of the time it’s hard slog. You wash, cook, clean, collect, and then do it all over again. I can’t wait to get back to my life in London.’

  ‘Yeah, but Fiona loves being a mum, doesn’t she?’

  I nodded. ‘Yes, she does, but she was always maternal. Not like you and me! God, I’m so dying for a night out on the town. Let’s get smashed. Come on, I need to blow off steam and it’ll distract me from o
bsessing about Sam not calling.’

  Tara looked down at the glass of wine she had barely touched. ‘Actually, Kate, I’ve got some news. I’m pregnant.’

  What? Tara pregnant? Oh, God, me and my big mouth. I knew it was ridiculous but I was totally shocked. Sure, she was happily married and the next natural step was a baby, but Tara was far too young to have kids. We were only thirty – almost thirty-one, to be precise. It was too early for her to give up her life – maybe when she was thirty-five, but not now. What about going out and having fun? What about being young and carefree? When did life get so serious and responsible and tied down?

  ‘Oh, wow! Was it a surprise?’

  ‘No,’ she said, a little defensively. ‘We’d been trying for a few months. We’re thrilled – we really want children.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I just can’t imagine you as a mother,’ I said, laughing.

  ‘Why not?’ she said, glaring at me.

  ‘Well, you know, you like to go out and have fun and you love your sleep and you never seemed that into kids.’

  ‘Well, it’s different when it’s your own. Besides, I’d never have thought you’d be able to look after twins and you’re managing.’

  ‘Yeah, but that’s because I hand them back every night and I know it’s only for a few months.’

  ‘Look, Kate, I’m thrilled about my pregnancy. I spent my twenties partying and sleeping all day, and I’m ready for the next stage in my life. I don’t care if I don’t get to go out all the time and I really don’t care if I have dribble on my clothes. Those things don’t bother me anymore. I’ve moved on. I’m dying to have kids.’

  Her face was flushed. She was clearly furious with me.

  ‘So you’re happy never to go clubbing again or lounge in bed on Saturday morning reading, or go away for a weekend at the drop of a hat?’

  ‘Yes, I am. Who cares about those things anymore? Come on, we’re in our thirties. It’s time to grow up and move on with our lives. It’s a bit shallow and juvenile to sacrifice marriage and kids because you want to go out and party.’

  ‘I disagree. I don’t want to get old and settled. I still want to have fun. I don’t feel thirty, I feel twenty-five,’ I said, annoyed at her implication that it was childish to want to have a good time. Since when was it a crime to enjoy yourself?

  ‘Look, Kate, I guess I’ve moved on and you haven’t. It’s probably because you’re living the single life in London and I’m in a settled situation here. You were always more restless than me, always looking for distractions and new experiences. We’re just different. But I’d like you to be happy for me.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Tara, and of course I’m happy for you. It’s great news. Just don’t ask me to babysit,’ I said, faking a smile but I was thrown by what she’d said.

  Was I going to end up like one of those sad women you see in nightclubs, squeezed into a leopard-print mini-dress with four inches of makeup on, trying to compete with girls twenty years younger? Would I be getting Botox every six months to hide the wrinkles that gave away my age? Was I going to be sad old Auntie Kate, who lived in London on her own, married to her career? And, let’s face it, the business I was in was a young person’s game.

  But, on the other hand, I didn’t want what Fiona had. I felt sorry for her: she had no life of her own. Her kids were too young to appreciate everything she did for them and her husband was never there. The twins would disappear at eighteen and she’d have sacrificed all those years for what? Raising kids who were good at sums? It wasn’t what I wanted. I couldn’t imagine myself settled with kids. I’d hate it. I liked spontaneity and sleep, shopping and travelling. I suppose I was selfish, but I wasn’t hurting anyone so why should I feel bad about it? Why did I feel like a freak all of a sudden? I twisted and turned all night, mulling it over in my head.

  The next morning I was none the wiser, just even more exhausted. Sod it, I was for the single life and I wasn’t going to feel guilty about it.

  Two weeks after her chemotherapy session, Fiona began to feel much better, which was great for her and not so great for me. She took it upon herself to teach me how to cook for children. We did a new recipe everyday. Day three was risotto. I’d always thought that risotto was something trained chefs made. It looked long and complicated – and I was right. Instead of using a stock cube, like most normal people, to make vegetable stock, Fiona insisted on boiling real vegetables in water for hours.

  ‘Why bother?’ I asked. ‘It’s just mucky water. Why not take the quick and easy option?’

  ‘That’s the whole point, Kate. The easy option is not the most nutritious one. Stock cubes contain a lot of salt and children shouldn’t be eating any at all.’

  I decided not to mention that I’d been pouring salt over the twins’ mashed potatoes. ‘Oh, come on, Fiona, a little bit of salt isn’t going to kill them and it’ll knock hours off cooking this meal,’ I said, stifling a yawn.

  ‘Taking the easy way isn’t right. You need to do things properly in life to achieve the best results. People who cut corners are only fooling themselves. If you’re going to bother cooking dinner, do it properly, or you might as well feed your kids junk food,’ she said.

  I was fed up. My best friend thought I was juvenile and my sister thought I was a lazy cow who cut corners at the expense of her children’s health. Not to mention the fact that Sam still hadn’t rung and I lurched from feeling furious to upset to pretending not to care. I knew that if I didn’t get out of the house I’d take out my grumpiness on Fiona and, with her chemo coming up, I really didn’t want to do that, so I told her I had to go and went home to Dad’s to sulk.

  His car was in the driveway, but I didn’t feel like talking to anyone so I crept upstairs to my room. I was opening my bedroom door when I heard noises coming from his bedroom. It sounded as if he was having a panic-attack. I charged through the door, ready to perform CPR.

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ he roared. ‘Whatever happened to knocking?’

  ‘Argggggh!’ I screamed, as my father’s hairy, naked backside greeted me. Underneath him lay a woman who looked about forty and they were mid-action. I couldn’t believe that I had walked in on my father shagging. Widowed sixty-two-year-olds aren’t supposed to have sex.

  ‘What are you doing home?’ he shouted, very red in the face, although whether that was from exertion or shame, I’m not sure.

  I should have walked out but I was rooted to the spot and there was something oddlyfamiliar about the woman… Oh, my God! It was Mrs Jones, my old gym teacher.

  ‘OUT!’ yelled Dad.

  I turned on my heels and fled downstairs. I could hear music from the TV room, so I went in to tell Derek about the scene I’d just witnessed.

  ‘Derek, you’re not going to believe –’ I said, stopping mid-sentence as two panting faces looked up at me from the couch. Jesus, was I the only person in this house not getting anyaction?

  I backed out of the room and went to pour myself a large glass of wine. I hadn’t had sex in months, and here were my father and brother hard at it. It was official: I was a crotchety old dried-up maiden aunt at the grand old age of thirty and three-quarters.

  Before I had the chance to wallow completely in self-pity and my lifetime membership of the Shelf, Dad arrived downstairs in his dressing-gown followed by Mrs Jones, his new – lover, friend, fuck-buddy?

  ‘Hello, Kate, nice to see you again,’ said the brazen hussy, not looking at all put out that I’d just caught her naked, shagging my father. Mind you, she’d never liked me very much. Gym was not my forte – to be fair, I didn’t have a forte. I was not blessed with bendy limbs – I couldn’t get close to the splits. To be bendy when you’re young guarantees you cool status. I couldn’t even twist my tongue into a sausage roll, not to mind do a decent cartwheel. As a result, Mrs Jones and I hadn’t been the best of pals. She openly favoured double-jointed elasticated girls and scorned us normal ladies.

  ‘Hi, Mrs Jones, I see you’re as fit as ever,’ I said
, smirking. This was my house, my father, and it was her knickers that had been down – I was damned if I was going to be the one to feel embarrassed.

  ‘Yes, thanks,’ said the old slapper, without batting an eyelid. Then she turned to Dad, kissed him – in front of me! – and headed out the door. The cheek of her.

  ‘Sheryl’s in training for the marathon,’ said Dad, as proudly as if he were running it himself.

  ‘I see – and does her training include much horizontal jogging?’

  ‘Don’t you give me any lip, young lady.’

  ‘Dad, I don’t think you’re in a position to take the moral high ground here. I just caught you with your pants down riding my gym teacher. How long has this been going on?’

  ‘About six months.’

  ‘Did you fancy her when we were in school?’

  ‘I always thought she was fit-looking.’

  ‘Jesus, did you try and chat her up at the parent-teacher meetings?’

  ‘I’d never be so unprofessional,’ he said, sounding genuinely insulted. ‘Besides, she was married.’

  ‘Where’s her husband now? Should we expect the door to be kicked in any minute?’

  ‘He died of a heart-attack a few years back.’

  ‘You’d better watch out – she seems to wear men out.’

  ‘I’m well able for her,’ said Dad, flexing non-existent muscles.

  ‘How long were you dating before you had sex?’

  ‘None of your business.’

  ‘Are you using protection?’

  ‘I’m warning you, Kate.’

  ‘OK. What age is the lovely Sheryl?’

  ‘Forty-eight.’

  ‘Do you love her?’

  ‘She’s a very nice lady.’

  ‘Do you always have sex with women you find “nice”?’

  ‘It depends what they look like.’

  ‘Jesus, Dad!’

  ‘A man can’t live on bread alone,’ he said.

  How had I missed all this? How had I not known that my father was dating? I was in London, not Timbuc-bloody-too.

  ‘Do Fiona and Derek know?’

  He shrugged. ‘Derek’s met her, but sure it all goes over his head and Fiona knows I’m seeing her.’