If You Knew My Sister

by Michelle Adams

  ‘I…’ I can’t get my words out. I want to tell him everything and be forgiven, yet at the same time I cannot bring myself to admit what I have done. The only thing flowing is a tear across my cheek. ‘I…’ I say again, but my voice cracks and it’s no use trying to hide it. Another kindly looking woman initiates a movement in my direction, so I turn away, stagger towards an exit. There is a large sign hanging across it that reads, Use only in an emergency.

  ‘Don’t say anything. It’s OK. I should have gone with you. I should have been there.’ I can hear that he is angry with himself. As if he is the selfish one for not coming.

  ‘I wish you had been here,’ I sputter, a line of snot streaming from my nose. I don’t know why I feel so sorry for myself, because the things I feel most sorry about are all my doing. Sleeping with Matt, and abandoning Elle at the time when she has perhaps never needed me more.

  ‘I will be at the airport waiting for you,’ he says.

  * * *

  And he is. He carries no flowers or extravagant gifts. Just him, dressed in the leather jacket I have always protested I hate. But when I see it, there is something instantly familiar about the way it makes me feel. He reaches out and I grip him, the smell of leather and garlic filling my nose. He wraps his arms around me and holds me, whispering in my ear in a mixture of English and Italian that is impossible to understand. But I do catch one phrase: ‘I will never stop being here for you.’

  Suddenly nothing of what has gone before in our relationship matters. As if all the arguments and problems never existed. Somebody always there for me, is that what’s on offer? I can handle that, can’t I? No matter who it is. I wonder if I said something to elicit such a response. I’m not sure. I sink into the crumpled leather, let him muffle out the world. For a moment, it is just me.

  At the house, I see that standards have slipped. Beer bottles are stacked up by the sink; there’s a smear of pizza sauce on the white tiles of the kitchen. Things that wouldn’t normally be there. But it doesn’t bother me, not even the haphazard way that the cushions have been tossed about. Not even the fact that it looks like he slept on the couch last night. That’s a whole lot better than where I slept.

  ‘Welcome home,’ he whispers. ‘This is where you belong.’ He snuggles in close, but the relief of being with him, away from them, isn’t as fresh as it was at the airport. I’m starting to think more like myself now that I am in my home, and I begin to suspect that he can smell Matt on me, like some sort of primitive instinct.

  ‘Thank you,’ I say, taking the cup of tea he makes for me. ‘I’m going to have a shower. Then we need to talk.’ I set the mug on the table. ‘There are things I need to tell you.’ There is only a hint of concern on his face, which he hides well with a smile.

  I run the water hot to the point that my skin turns pink. I scrub my lank, greasy hair free of the dust from my childhood bedroom. I slough off the hairs from my arms and legs, and then proceed to the small strip between. By the time I finish, I am as hairless as an on-set porn star. As hairless as Elle. I scrub my body, avoiding only the scars on my hip, desperately trying to work out what it is that I want to tell Antonio.

  I grab a towel and wrap it around my scalded body, my scars raised and inflamed. I leave the bathroom, determined to tell him everything. I go into my bedroom and push my feet into the slippers he bought for me, but then kick them off, feeling that to wear them is a liberty I shouldn’t take. I dig further into my bag, see the butterflies flapping to get out. I take the picture, drag my fingers over the delicate strokes. I set it down on my bedside table, propped up against the wall. I see the photo of my mother so retrieve that as well, but slide it quickly into my bedside drawer. I rummage for the small toiletry bag in search of lotion that I haven’t used in days. But as I pull it out, something else comes with it: a manila envelope. It falls to the floor and lands next to my bare foot. I look down and see that on the front of the envelope there is a name written in old-style calligraphic handwriting.

  Irini Harringford.

  ‘Rini,’ I hear Antonio call up the stairs, ‘I made you another tea. Hurry, while it is warm.’

  ‘OK, I’m coming,’ I shout, sliding my arms into my towelling dressing gown, which smells like home, crossing over the ties at the front. I sit on the edge of the bed and reach down for the envelope. A few drops of water fall from my hair on to the ink, obscuring the letters. I curse under my breath, snatch at the white towel and dab at the drops. I turn the envelope over, feeling the weight, trying to guess what is inside. I slide my finger into the seam and tear it open, pull out the contents. The first word my eye catches is testament.

  I, Maurice J. Harringford, of Mam Tor House, Horton, declare that this is my last will and testament. I revoke all prior wills and codicils created prior to my wife’s passing, and I …

  I stop reading when I see Antonio leaning against the bedroom door frame. The door frame that he painted. Such details make my infidelity seem much more hurtful.

  ‘What are you reading?’ he asks as he sits next to me, fiddles a finger into my hair.

  ‘Nothing. It’s not mine,’ I say, folding the pages over. He picks up the envelope from my lap and holds it out in front of him.

  ‘It has your name on it. That makes it yours.’ He turns his body and edges towards me, and I smell his familiar perfume, spicy ginger and cardamom rich on his skin. ‘You wanted to talk, yet now you lie? Why?’ He doesn’t wait for an answer. ‘You have something here. Something for you. It looks important. Tell me. Tell me something,’ he begs. ‘Let me in so that I can help you.’

  I swallow hard, impressed by his dedication. ‘A lot happened these past few days, Antonio. None of it was good.’ He looks a little nervous, almost sad. I offer him the pages and he begins to read. It takes time, because it isn’t like any English he knows. After a while, he pushes them back into my hand.

  ‘I don’t understand. What is this?’

  ‘It’s my father’s will. His wishes and instructions after his death. It is a legal document. I found it in my bag.’

  ‘In an envelope with your name on it?’ I nod. ‘Your father’s handwriting?’

  ‘I’m not sure. I guess so.’

  ‘So, your father wanted you to have it. But he’s not dead. Why would he give it to you now?’ My face gives it all away: the little swallow, the jittery eyes, verging on tears. ‘Your father died?’ I nod, look away. He reaches for me but my body stiffens. ‘What happened?’ he asks.

  ‘He killed himself. Overdose.’

  ‘But you spent all night together, talking and working things out. That’s why you didn’t come home last night.’

  I start working on an explanation through the fog of lies. Elle’s lies, which I don’t fully know. I feel like I am the one who murdered him and am now trying to make up an alibi, lie my way out of trouble. ‘We did. It must have been afterwards. After he went to bed.’ But as soon as I say it, I know that my story contradicts something he thinks he knows.

  ‘But you…’ He pauses, before changing his mind. ‘Never mind.’ He flaps his hand dismissively.

  ‘What? Go on,’ I urge him. I lean into him because I want to know what mistake I have made, what part of my story already smells like a lie.

  ‘It’s nothing,’ he says, reaching down to the will. He pushes it towards me. ‘What does it say?’

  I follow his lead and remind myself not to be too specific about what it is that I am supposed to have done. Turns out I’m not quite ready to divulge the whole truth.

  ‘I don’t know. I haven’t read it yet.’

  ‘Well, go on. Read it.’

  I skim the five-page document as best I can, trying to rake through the legal jargon and pick out the important facts. I recount them for Antonio as I find them. ‘He survives his wife, Cassandra Harringford. He declares he is of sound mind.’ When Antonio looks confused, I add, ‘That he knew what he was doing when he wrote it.’ I turn the page, trail the words with the tip of my finge
r. ‘His funeral expenses should be covered by his remaining capital. And…’ I pause, not certain if I have read it correctly. ‘Just a minute. Let me read this part again.’ I swallow hard, gulping for breath as I take in the words. I look to Antonio, who is waiting, his teeth gritted together with the excitement of finally being involved.

  ‘What?’ he urges.

  ‘He left me the house.’ Antonio takes the paperwork from me. ‘Article four,’ I say, directing him to the relevant section. He reads while I stare at the butterflies sitting next to my bed.

  ‘He left you the house.’ Antonio flicks through the last pages, turns over the whole document and looks at the back in search of hidden secrets. ‘There is something written here. A number.’ He points to a handwritten series of digits, scrawled on the back in the same calligraphic handwriting: 0020-95-03-19-02-84. ‘What does that mean?’ he asks.

  I shake my head. ‘I’ve no idea.’

  ‘Phone number?’

  I look again at the numbers, the delicate blue ink. ‘I don’t think so. At least not in the UK.’

  ‘And not Italia,’ he confirms, as if there was a chance. I smile, because it reminds me of just how much he wants to be useful to me. How much he wants to be an integral part of my life. How much he used to try. And for that reason I think of Matt, and just how guilty I feel for what I have done.

  Antonio continues skimming through the document, certain that we must have missed something. Then suddenly he jumps to his feet, tapping at the papers with the back of his hand. He thrusts them at me, pointing at the signature. ‘There, look. The date.’ I shrug my shoulders to indicate I don’t know what he is so excited about. He points again, pushing his finger into the page. ‘That’s only a couple of days ago.’

  And he is right. The will was written on the same day I arrived at the house. I remember my father in the study. Wasn’t he signing something that night when I went to find him? Is this what he wanted to give me? I snatch up the picture of the butterflies and drive it with a strong forearm into the wall. Antonio staggers backwards in shock. I watch as the glass shatters into tiny pieces, parts of the painting tearing as it falls. Instantly I regret what I have done.

  21

  ‘We should look into the number. The number has to mean something,’ Antonio insists, not for the first time since we came downstairs. The radiators are kicking in and I can hear them clanking in the background as I sip on a glass of red. There is a chill in the air, and the house feels smaller than it once did, like Antonio and I are stumbling over each other. He reaches for an oversized sweater draped over the edge of the couch. A light drizzle whips at the windows.

  ‘I don’t even want to think about the number. I just want to forget about it.’ If I am entirely honest, what I want to do is get drunk, pass out, and wake up tomorrow as a different person. Again. I settle for saying, ‘I don’t want his money, or his house.’

  Antonio nods, but seems less than certain. He tries to hide his displeasure at my unwillingness, but he doesn’t do it well. I have known him too long for him to be able to mask it, and I know what he is really thinking. He believes this document creates a connection to my family. That he can exploit it, heal my wounds, and finally I will give him what he wants. He tries to settle next to me on the couch for a while as we watch some inane show about the mating habits of the dung beetle, but it doesn’t take long for him to get the fidgets. He sets his wine glass down untouched, heads over to my desk. I can see him working on the Internet, typing the number from the back of my father’s will into different search engines.

  After a couple of hours and another bottle of Merlot, I am feeling better and he has finished his research. He begins giving me options, possible solutions as to what the number means: telephone listings in Egypt, Fibonacci sequences, and a television show called Number Alert. He reassures me that the television show has already been discounted as a dead end. Next up, details about how to calculate an international banking code, instructions on how to create a Swiss bank account, and notes about the instability of the human genome. All from the number scrawled on the back of my father’s will. It pisses me off that he seems to have been enjoying himself, creating a treasure hunt out of irrelevant Internet finds, like this is all part of a game.

  ‘This is not a conspiracy theory,’ I say, snappier than I intended. ‘What is this shit?’ I push his pile of handwritten papers away, and when he doesn’t take them, I dump them on the coffee table. He looks offended. But I am one too many glasses in, and I cannot string together a convincing charade about how his research is useful. Fucking Fibonacci. Trust an Italian to come up with an Italian solution.

  ‘We have no idea what this number is. We should try to work it out. It’s obviously important if your father gave it to you.’ He reaches for my hand, but I snatch it away. I don’t want him near. His presence is grating, making me itch.

  ‘My father gave me nothing before tonight. If I cared what the number meant, I would find the telephone number of the lawyer who countersigned the document. I’m sure if the number was important he would be able to explain what it meant. After all, he would have been there when the document was drawn up, don’t you think?’ Keep your voice down. She is upstairs. I don’t want her to overhear. Was it me he was talking about, or Elle? I had thought it was me, but now I’m not so sure. I swill the last of the wine down and set the empty glass on the table, rectifying the topple created by my unsteady hand. It’s so silent without the ticking of the grandfather clock in the background. I can’t hide here like I once could.

  ‘But he was your father and he left you a lot. For years you have wished that your past wasn’t how it was. I thought you had resolved your issues with him. Elle said you had been up all night talking. That you hadn’t even gone to bed.’

  So there is my mistake. In Elle’s version of the truth we never went to bed, and yet that is where my father ended his life. Antonio’s hand settles on my leg and begins stroking at it. But in my drunken daze, wrapped up in the wounds of my past, all I can think is how I wish it was Matt who was here with me, a man I barely know.

  ‘If you miss him,’ he continues, ‘if you are sad, we can work it out together. Plus, he left you his whole estate.’

  ‘But I don’t want his whole estate. And why are you so interested?’ I say as I flick his hand away, swatting at him like a fly on a summer’s day. ‘I told you I want nothing to do with them. Not her. Not him. But you won’t leave it alone. Is it because you think there might be money involved? You think we would be set up for life if we claimed this inheritance?’

  He jars his teeth, parts his lips. Looks away so he doesn’t have to look at me. ‘You don’t mean that. I know you don’t think that way about me.’ He is hurt by my accusation, yet my stance doesn’t seem to soften. ‘You have just drunk too much.’ He picks up the empty bottles and takes them into the kitchen. Even though I know that what I am saying is nonsense, it still keeps coming out, my hurtful allegations following him as he leaves.

  ‘Is that why you are still here?’ I shout. ‘For the money? You were planning to leave me before my mother died. Don’t think I didn’t see that bag. But instead you stuck around because you think I am about to hit the jackpot. That I can pay your phone bill, order your takeaways,’ I say as I remember the pizza smudge on the kitchen floor. ‘This place, for example. When did you last pay a bill?’ And in this instant I’m sure that I’m on to something. When did he last pay a bill? I can’t fucking remember. He is grinding his teeth, standing in the doorway, trying really hard not to respond. But I wish he would, because in this moment I want him to hate me. It’s the only thing that will make me feel better and justify my continued silence. It would show me that he’s using me just like I was using him. I can almost convince myself that he doesn’t deserve the truth. ‘Even when my mother died you couldn’t bring yourself to offer to come with me. You don’t know how to support me. All you’ve been doing for the past three years is living off me. Using my money.
You think you’re that good? You think you’re worth it?’

  He storms towards me, and in a last-minute diversion of his energy he smacks his hand against my wine glass instead of my face. His hand goes back up in the air, ready for another strike, but as he looks down from his towering position above me, he lets it drop to his side.

  ‘Well, go on then, if that’s what you want. Hit me.’ I push up towards him, grapple for his hand but find it immovable, stone at his side. ‘You think you’ve fucked up now, don’t you? Worried you’ve lost your meal ticket, the best thing you ever had.’

  But he doesn’t even hear my last words. Powered by his anger, he drives his fist into the second wine glass, sending it careering off on the same path as the first. I yelp, cower backwards, watching as the veins in his head swell with rage. Beads of red wine splatter up the wall like the bloody remains of us. He shouts something in Italian as he charges through the door towards the stairs. I have heard it before. It means go fuck yourself.

  For a while I picture us years ago, when everything was fresh. Him shirtless, holding a small sanding pad, moving it back and forth across the skirting board in the same delicate way he touches my scarred leg. Back then he would stop, turn to look at me, caress me with his sawdust-covered hands. Even by nightfall the musky smell of sanded wood would be lingering on my skin. Did he really only stay in order to benefit from my desperate need for somebody who loved me? I’m not so sure now. If only we could go back to those early days. But that was a long time ago.

  My heart is still racing when he comes back ten minutes later carrying a pair of thick socks. I watch as he wipes up the wine and scoops the shards of glass into a dustpan without saying a word. He inspects the wall with his fingertips and looks disappointed. In himself, but also with me. Probably. He throws the socks at me and whispers, ‘You should put those on so you don’t cut yourself. We will talk tomorrow,’ then slips upstairs without another sound.