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 again, 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 sugge
sted 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.
My aunt and uncle tried to be there for me after I left to go to university, despite their obvious reservations. But the cat-and-mouse game I was playing with Elle, moving house and changing phone numbers, made it hard for them. They would turn up only to find that I had moved, leaving no forwarding address. Eventually we just lost touch. I tried to rekindle it once, not long before Antonio arrived in my life. But it wasn’t the same. I belonged even less as an adult than I had as a child.
‘I have to catch you unawares now,’ Elle picks up. ‘In the early hours of the morning, from an unknown number. I’m not sure what I did to make you hate me so much, other than being wanted by our parents.’
My cheeks flush from embarrassment. ‘They are not our parents,’ I say. ‘They are yours, and yours alone. How many times do I have to say it?’
‘I can see through your lies, Irini, but fine. Whatever you say.’ She tosses her uneaten toast triangle on to her plate. She is straight back to chipper, actually rubbing her hands together like a good plan is coming to fruition.
‘So, as I was saying. My mother came back late yesterday. We’ll have a look at her soon. Then we will buy you some clothes.’ She runs her eyes over my baggy black jumper, then shakes her head as if whatever thought came to mind was intolerable. ‘Don’t worry, my father has plenty of money. I will buy them for you.’ She pauses as if going through a mental checklist of Irini-related tasks, counting them on her fingers. Operation Get Irini Ready for the Funeral. ‘Then we will go to the gym. You’ve got so fat since the last time I saw you. You need to work out. The last thing we need is for you to embarrass us.’
She stands up, walks towards me and with a look of utter disappointment on her face slides the plate away from me as I swallow the last mouthful of eggs. ‘I’ll be back to collect you soon.’
She slips from the room, leaving me alone. I have no way out. I am unravelling. Being unravelled. Rather than give me answers, this place could destroy me. I finger the small roll of skin that curls over my waistband and wonder if you could call that fat. Maybe, but only if you were trying to be cruel.
I stand up and walk towards the bay window to look out across the lawn. The box hedging that lines the grass and the row of trees at the far end of the grounds have been neatly trimmed in preparation for the funeral guests. My eyes drift to a little white cross and I just know that that is where they buried the dog. The one that Elle killed.
It happened after the failed reunion when I was nine years old. I overheard Aunt Jemima on the phone not long after, describing how Elle had stomped their dog to death, blood all up her leg, all the way to the knee. Our parents had found her in the garden trying to dissect it with a butter knife. They held a ceremony the next day where they buried it, laid some flowers, erected the cross. I heard Aunt Jemima suggest that saying goodbye this way might help teach Elle about compassion.
I see my father again, making his way across the lawn. He is holding a tumbler of brown liquor, perhaps a brandy, sipping frantically. He sees me watching and looks at me for a second, then glances away again, shaking his head before it drops to his chest. Despite the fact that now he can barely bring himself to look at me, yesterday he wanted to see me. It wasn’t coincidence that he was there when I walked through the door, and it was his idea to sit and talk. It was Elle who stopped him. She moved me along, put a stop to any hopes he might have had. And she was here again today when he couldn’t bring himself to speak. Is it possible that he is afraid of her in the same way that I am? Do we share the same secrets, or does he hide more of his own?
Now I understand the look on my father’s face as he left the dining room. It wasn’t fear. It wasn’t disgust at what he had created. For the first time I see something in my father that I recognise. Something we share other than a love of strong liquor at inappropriate hours of the day. It’s something Elle knows nothing about, and this makes her vulnerable in a way I could never have imagined. It is shame that I see in my father. Not of me, but for himself.
8
It was the thing that snared me the first time she found me. I was so used to being the target that to suddenly be on somebody’s team, watching as her insults flew faster than her fists, was like the first breath after nearly drowning. In that moment when she burst into my life when I was a thirteen-year-old victim of just about everybody and everything, she made me feel like I was part of something. United. Safe behind her walls. It was easy to put to one side what had happened four years previously, when our parents had attempted to reunite us.
Elle tours me through five different shops looking for suitable clothes to see me through the next two days. She parades me into each, announcing our presence with elaborate hand gestures and sweeping motions around hanging rails. By shop five we agree on an outfit: brown jeans with too much shine, and a beige jumper with the word FEEL written on it. She argues that if I won’t accept the sportswear-as-everyday-wear idea, then she will flat-out refuse to buy me anything that adheres to my ‘doctorial’ tastes. She relents when it comes to the gymwear, allowing the purchase of a black workout set: leggings and a crop top, neither of which she will allow me to try on. The only thing I insist on is a pair of Reeboks. When we arrive at the gym and change – me in a private cubicle – it is obvious that the new workout gear is too tight. The small roll of soft skin that escapes over my jeans is being strangled like a hernia, bulging over the cinched-in waist.
If You Knew My Sister Page 5