11
Matt and I spend another hour mulling over the trivialities of my adult life: where I work, how it feels to anaesthetise a patient, how it feels to watch one die. Then Greg calls. Elle is with him, and they have finished. She insists on picking me up from The Dirty Dog. After an awkward goodbye kiss on the cheek from Matt, I get in her car. Elle is full of it, excited and anxious to resume Sisters’ Day. But the idea that what happened all those years ago was beyond my parents’ control remains at the forefront of my mind, like a fly bothering at a light bulb. Could they have been as influenced by Elle as I was? I have never let my parents off the hook before, and the idea that it wasn’t their fault is tempting. But Elle’s chatter soon takes over, and she starts filling me in on the whole story of her and Greg with more detail than I care to mention.
‘Anyway, enough about him,’ she says eventually. ‘He is boring. BOR-RING. You know all he talks about is the slide in crude oil prices.’ She puts on a mock accent, impersonates some hoity-toity slimeball. ‘Let me tell you about the latest active deals and the summer internship I’m about to take in New York. And then I’ll fuck you while I talk about mergers and acquisitions and my fiancée and yada yada yada.’ She snaps her fingers to emphasise the fact that he never shuts up. I settle into my seat, thankful, sort of, that Sisters’ Day has resumed. But the mention of Greg’s possible fiancée reminds me of the poor girl Elle attacked at the gym. If there is a fiancée, I wonder if she knows about Elle. ‘All the damn time. I should tie him up and ice-pick him to death like in that movie. What was it called?’ She bursts into hysterics, motions furious ice-picking action, snorting as she laughs.
‘Fatal Attraction,’ I say, as we continue along the straight road. Large grey houses rise up all around us. People. Other lives. A place where I could blend in. I let out the breath I’ve been holding.
‘Yes, that was it. Basic Instinct. That lizard man Greg is always talking about was in it. You know the one.’
She approaches a roundabout and doesn’t slow down. I push my foot on to an imaginary brake and cling to the door handle in order to stay upright as she takes the exit. A familiar feeling surges over me, the same as I had when I was balancing on that bridge, right before somebody dragged me from it. Don’t show her you’re scared. Horns wail behind us, and I wonder where the test-perfect driving of yesterday disappeared to.
‘It was Michael Douglas in both of those movies,’ I say, barely able to keep up.
She snaps her fingers again. ‘Yes. Gordon Gekko. That’s who he wants to be.’ She swerves out wide to miss a pedestrian and then slams on her brakes. She is fuming, her cheeks flushed pink, her breath whinnying as she turns back to take a look. I turn too, find an old lady who probably didn’t see or hear the car at the speed Elle is going. ‘Fucking blind bitch,’ Elle says, before opening the window and chanting, ‘Oi, are you fucking blind or something?’ There is such hate for the old woman, her teeth set and lips stretched tight as she turns back to hold the wheel. As she pulls away, she shouts, ‘Fucking bitch,’ before turning to me and saying, ‘Anyway, I’d rather fuck Charlie Sheen. He could strap me down with those red braces.’ She titters to herself as she glances in the internal mirror, smoothing her eyebrows into shape. ‘Let’s go home so that I can introduce you to her.’
I watch in the side mirror as the old woman crosses the road, a passer-by there to steady her after her run-in with Elle. They are both staring at the car, disbelieving. ‘Elle, before that, I have to ask you something. I’ve tried time and time before, and now there’s no point in hiding it any more. Not now that she’s dead.’ I swallow hard, try to feel brave. ‘So just tell me. Why did our parents give me away?’
Her speed slows a little and she checks the tension of her seat belt. Licks her lips. ‘What?’
‘Why just me? What happened?’
‘It was a long time ago. How do you expect me to remember?’ She shakes her head, laughs in a way that makes her appear uneasy rather than amused.
‘Well, you were there. You would have been old enough to understand what was being said. And now there’s no reason to protect anybody any more. If something major happened that—’
She doesn’t let me finish. ‘Like what?’
‘Well, I don’t know, just something.’
‘What major thing?’ She reaches out, grabs my wrist. ‘What did Aunt Jemima say? I’ll tell you now she was lying.’ I snatch a glimpse at the speedometer and watch as our speed plummets. ‘She’s a fucking bitch, I’m telling you.’
‘She just said our mother was depressed, that was all. But now she’s dead, there’s no reason for secrecy.’ Elle’s grip tightens. ‘I just need to … Wait, stop. Elle, let go of me. You’re hurting me.’ I try to snatch back my wrist, anxious that she has got hold of me. I hear the sound of horns and see the flash of lights behind us. The first car overtakes as we stop in the middle of the road. ‘Elle, let go.’ Without a word she releases her grip, completes a mirror check, flicks her finger at one of the overtaking cars whose driver felt it appropriate to make his displeasure known. Thank God he doesn’t stop. She glides back into the stream of traffic, and I breathe a sigh of relief.
‘I said I wasn’t there. I was away,’ she snaps. I can hear her breathing, rapid and shaky. She looks at me. ‘I wasn’t there,’ she says again, defiant as a child.
‘OK, Elle. Forget it.’ I shouldn’t have pushed it. I’m out of practice. I’ve forgotten her limits, and I’m not getting anywhere. ‘We’ll talk another time.’ I just want this conversation finished.
She is scratching at her forehead. The skin looks red, so I reach up and gently brush her hand away, only to see that she has almost picked a hole in it.
‘Leave that alone,’ I suggest, and she lets me withdraw her arm. ‘You’re making it sore.’
She turns and looks at me, and the smile that appears on her face is so genuine, so thankful, that I let my hand drop to her leg and stroke her like I might a pet. She does the same. ‘Beautiful Irini. You always cared. I knew that, you know. I never forgot.’ She lifts her fingers to her lips, chews at the skin.
Moments like this were what kept me coming back. The slightest glimpse of what I always convinced myself was the real Elle. Kindness, and connection. I wanted us to be the same. Even now I still love to see it, even though I’m no longer sure that this softer version is anything more than a guise. But I don’t fear her today like I once did. The knowledge that I share something with my father, even if that something is shame, has given me a certain power. It detaches Elle from us both, gives us the strength of insight.
‘I need to call Antonio,’ I say as a distraction to put the last minute behind us. She hands me her phone. She doesn’t question why I don’t have my own, or who Antonio is. I dial the number and the call goes through. At the last minute I realise the Bluetooth is still connected but I manage to sever the link by the time he picks up. She looks visibly disappointed, her hands grinding at the wheel in disapproval at being cut out. Her anger is palpable. The real Elle is back.
‘It’s me,’ I say as we glide along winding roads, passing sprawling countryside estates, leaving the noise of the village behind.
‘Buongiorno,’ he replies, in flat, nonchalant tones. This is not a good sign. Language is the barrier he uses when he doesn’t really want to talk to me, or when he wants to talk about me. Plus I can hear it in his voice, that spiky tone of frustration as he breathes.
‘I’m sorry I haven’t called.’ I look at my watch and see that it is approaching 6 p.m. Way too late to be acceptable.
‘I tried the house. The number you called me from last night. I think it was your father who answered.’
‘You called the house? What did he say?’
‘That you were out. Didn’t know when you would be back.’
‘That was right, we were out,’ I confirm, freaked out that Antonio has spoken to my father. That’s more than I have done. I see Elle glance in my direction. I make the mistake of
eye contact and she throws me a little wink. At least she has calmed down.
‘Doing what?’ Antonio asks.
Shopping? Going to the gym? Having lunch with a stranger? While I am no expert on the etiquette of mourning one’s dead mother, I am pretty certain that none of these are acceptable. Especially not to Antonio. But realising how weird it would sound to describe our day makes me wonder what the hell Elle is doing. Elle was raised by our parents, yet she is out shopping for sportswear, burning it up at the gym, picking up fuck-buddies. She actually seems to be having fun, and that nagging doubt about whether she might be responsible for our mother’s death creeps back in.
‘Just making preparations for the funeral.’
‘When is it?’ he asks.
‘In two days’ time, and then as soon as it is over, I am out of here.’ I add that in for Elle’s benefit, but also for his. I want him to think I am desperate to get back to him, and that he should stick around. For now at least. ‘I’ll call you from the house later.’
‘OK.’ He ends the call before I can say anything else.
‘OK then. Love you. Bye,’ I add while I listen to the disconnect tone. He couldn’t wait to hang up, but I covered it up the best I could.
‘Why didn’t you just tell him the truth?’ Elle asks when I hand back the phone.
‘The truth about what?’ I ask, as if I don’t know.
‘About what we’ve been doing. Shopping, gym. Boys. OK,’ she reasons with herself, weighing up the options with her head wobbling left and right, ‘you could have left the part about Matt out. But the shopping and exercise. What was wrong with that?’
‘Matt and I were not on a date, you do know that, right? I wasn’t doing anything wrong. I was waiting for you.’ She smiles as if we both secretly know what I just said to be a lie. At the same time I remember how he flirted with me, and how I liked it. At least I think he was flirting. I definitely know I liked it. ‘But Antonio wouldn’t understand,’ I say, folding my arms and staring out of the window as we whip around corners.
‘Why?’
‘He would think it bizarre.’ For a moment she looks like she is about to delve further into my private life, but at the last minute she backs away, attracted to activity outside the car. There has been an accident, a cyclist knocked off, an ambulance straddling both lanes of the road with all the urgency the paramedics could muster. A small crowd of people has gathered, some hanging back to watch, others fussing about trying to help. I turn away, not wanting to see.
‘Do you think we should stop?’ asks Elle, the car already stationary. She is staring at the blood pooling on the road. ‘You’re a doctor. Maybe you could do something.’ There is a hint of pride in her voice, and I’m almost tempted to try.
‘No. Keep going,’ I say. I see a paramedic running from the ambulance with a defibrillator. The other cuts the clothes away and sticks the paddles to the casualty’s chest. Clear! The body jumps and they start chest compressions. ‘Looks like he has a traumatic head injury.’ She looks to me for confirmation. ‘He won’t make it.’
‘Really?’ She smiles at me, rubs her hands together. She is again perhaps mildly impressed, and I enjoy the briefest moment of her admiration. I use her good mood as a chance to remind both Elle and myself of my purpose for being here.
‘You know, there is going to come a point when we have to have that conversation, Elle. I have to know exactly what happened.’
She looks down at her hands before snatching a shy glance back at me. Then she turns back to the scene of the accident and kills the engine of the car.
‘Maybe,’ she whispers, her breath fogging against the glass. ‘Maybe not.’
12
I see the roof of the house over the treeline as we approach. Now that I know where to expect it, I am able to pick it out from the surrounding greenery, as if it were in hiding. Elle pulls up at the side of the road not far from the driveway. Birdsong plays out overhead. She glances across the hills that rise up in the distance.
‘Elle, what is it?’ I ask as we sit in silence broken only by the distant rumble of an aeroplane.
‘So you’re sure he died?’ she asks. She must mean the cyclist; the paramedics gave up on him after five minutes of effort. We waited, watched as it all unfolded, until they zipped him into a body bag just before we left.
‘Yes, I’m sure.’
‘Shame.’ She turns, points at the view. ‘When bad things happen, you need a place to retreat in order to forget them. Like this view. You can get lost in it, pretend you’re somewhere else. Isn’t it beautiful?’ she says, resting her head on the glass. ‘I come here sometimes and just stare at it. Like it’s an escape.’ I look across the land, my eyes scanning the outcrops of rock as they push through the green mounds of earth. She’s right. It is beautiful. ‘It’s like it’s endless.’
‘Yes, Elle. It is.’
‘If only it wasn’t for that place.’ She motions to a stately looking building that at first I think is a church, big and white, a steeple poking from the roof. It seems to spread out in all directions, high on the brow of a hill, looming above everything else. It is protected by a dense perimeter of trees. ‘But it’s derelict now. That’s something, I guess.’
‘It doesn’t look derelict to me. What is that place?’ On second thoughts, it isn’t a church. It’s too big. What building of such a size would be hidden away in the hills of Scotland? As a cloud passes overhead, I catch the sunlight reflecting off the windows, picking out the irregular shapes of the broken glass. The building is so large it seems to cast a shadow over the rest of the landscape.
But Elle has stopped listening to me, and instead starts the engine. We meander down towards the house, and I see the sign, Mam Tor, rocking in a light breeze. We bump along the driveway, the black iron gates opening as Elle edges the car ever closer. The only sound I can hear is the tyres as they roll over the ground. No sound arises from inside, and there are no signs of life. The house is holding its breath, waiting for me to approach.
We slip from the cool evening air into the even cooler air of the hallway. The faces of my ancestors stare back at me, their stern beaky noses casting doubt on my right to be here. There is music playing in the background. Something I think I have heard before. A woman singing an aria, so mournful, bereft. Elle is pulling at me, dragging me towards the post-mortem introductions that are coming about twenty-nine years too late.
‘Elle,’ I say, a last-chance effort to protest. I pull back slightly, but she is bigger and stronger than me, and her grip only intensifies. Her nails dig into my wrist.
She pulls me along the corridor and we burst through the door of the sitting room, breaking every unspoken rule concerning behaviour around the dead. The room itself appears to be in mourning; the light beige tones and pastel floral drapery look dark and sombre, as if the petals are ashamed of their cheery mood. The sun refuses to cast its light here today. The sofas have been pushed aside to make space for the shiny black coffin with the fancy handles, balanced in the centre of the room on tripods decorated with ornate roses and faces of angels. But as Elle steps forward, I see something else that I was unprepared for. My father is here with the body, conducting a vigil at his dead wife’s side.
‘Eleanor, Irini.’ He stands with a degree of effort, whispers something in the direction of the coffin. ‘I didn’t hear you come in,’ he says, moving towards the stereo, where he silences the music. He is looking at me, I think, but I can’t bring myself to meet his eyes. ‘It was your mother’s favourite,’ he explains. And I realise it was the music that I heard in the car when Elle picked me up from the airport. Then he reaches towards the body, perhaps to close an open eye, the unnerving wink of the dead. Maybe he brushes a stray hair away from an overly made-up face. I don’t know what it is he does, but the way he looks down at the body before him hurts me. It is with such affection, wet eyes brimming with held-back tears.
‘Here she is.’ Elle beams, pulling me forward, ignoring our fa
ther. I glance at him, and for a second we make eye contact. It’s me that looks away first. ‘Have a look at her face,’ Elle says, urging me on. ‘See how weird they made her look. I’m telling you, I swear they gave her Botox.’ She steps behind me, blocking my exit. I feel her hands slide around my body, her grip tight as a nut, her nails digging into my arms even through the fabric of my clothes. ‘Won’t you just take a look?’ she says, moving me forward with the weight of her body, her breath tickling at my hair. She is as impatient as a child trying to show off a new toy. She glances back towards our father and tuts, as if I am just so damn difficult. Still the same, that one. Nothing but trouble. Thank God we got rid of her when we had the chance. But he doesn’t say anything. He continues to look at me, but doesn’t try to speak. Instead, he watches me, then Elle, then his eyes move back to me. Together again, two sisters, like he has travelled back in time.
I step forward and he steps back, looking away to the floor. Elle grabs my hands, her wristwatch catching my bone, cutting through skin. I flinch, but she pushes me up close, forcing my hands down on the edge of the coffin. I feel it shake beneath me. We all hold our breath for a moment in case it topples over, but I hold it steady, my fingers brushing against the soft satin lining, Elle’s hands suffocating mine.
‘Doesn’t she look weird?’ Elle whispers in my ear as she relinquishes her grip. From the corner of my eye I spot her poking at the skin on our mother’s face. I look down, telling myself, just a dead body, just a dead body, just a corpse, nothing there but death. But I can’t help wondering if there’s a wound hidden somewhere underneath her summer-blue dress. If the evidence to implicate Elle is right there in front of me.
‘Don’t do that,’ our father snaps, grabbing at Elle’s exploratory finger. She allows herself to be pulled away. He lets go with the same urgency as when he reached out and grabbed her, like he is dropping something hot. He holds his hands up apologetically, as if he momentarily forgot himself and now understands his mistake. For the second time today I see that we are not so very different, my father and I. He understands who is in control just as well as I do. Elle pulls her hand back, shakes her head in disgust.
If You Knew My Sister Page 8