My Sister and Other Liars

by Ruth Dugdall

  Images of the past are useful in encouraging the brain to remember; Dr Gregg had told us that, when Jena had moved to Minsmere and he asked us to bring photos for her room. Mum collected some from around the house, to try and stir her memory. But now I felt we needed to push faster, to go further.

  And if the past was the key to unlocking Jena’s brain, then I knew just what to show her: Dad’s home movies.

  ‘Dad?’ I called, as I opened our front door.

  There was silence.

  He was likely in his shed, developing pictures, editing films on his computer, losing himself in old images of Jena to forget about ‘now’. Film-making and photography were always his hobbies, but they had now become his therapy. He’d been in the shed almost constantly in the six weeks since the attack.

  I moved quickly up the stairs to the landing, where I pulled down the ladder using the blue rope, and then climbed the rickety steps to reach the attic. The attic was crammed with boxes, a bin bag of old clothes, broken bits of furniture. Laid on the rafters was the spindly Christmas tree (still with baubles attached) that came out each year, and propped against a joist was the freaky Easter Bunny costume Jena wore on fun days at Pleasurepark, the local theme park, where she worked as part of the entertainment team. Dad worked there too. He was the chief engineer, though he’d been on compassionate leave since the attack; it was him that got Jena the job. Also in the attic was a TV with a built-in DVD player, put up here when we upgraded, but still useful for watching the home movies on: long-forgotten films of birthday parties and Christmases past.

  In the corner I found the Asda cardboard box where he kept the films, along with older camcorders he’d discarded. The box had torn sides and the base was strengthened with duct tape, but inside DVDs were neatly lined up in chronological order accompanied by envelopes of photos. My childhood was in that Asda box, recorded by Dad, and I hadn’t watched the movies in years. Films showing a normal life, when the worst thing that could happen to me was falling off my bike or scabbing my knee.

  Also in the attic was stuff belonging to Jena, things she’d stored here, as she’d packed up boxes ready for her move to the new flat. It was a big deal for Jena to leave home. I looked inside the nearest box and saw a collection of the romance books she loved, a sewing kit that had never been opened, and an old chocolate box. I recognised it: it was the Black Magic box.

  The old Black Magic chocolate box she used to put hair grips in, but it had more recently become her memory box. I opened it, and saw some of the photos she’d taken and developed, back when she was really into photography.

  An emotional need to visit the past tugged at me, and I found the plug socket in the attic wall, hidden behind a bag of old toys, juggling clubs and diablo sets, and brought the dusty television to life. I pressed ‘Play’ and watched as Jena’s face filled the screen.

  The camera wobbles as it zooms in, then suddenly Jena’s too close, obscured by pink sunglasses and a toothy grin. I’m next to her, a smiley, pig-tailed girl with missing front teeth, wearing a yellow Minnie Mouse T-shirt and red shorts. We are at Pleasurepark, a place we went all the time when I was little, on account of Dad working there. We got in free; we even got free milkshakes and treats from the staff who knew us. It was our favourite place in the whole world.

  Dad films the iron waves of rollercoaster track, people surfing the tide of fear and excitement, hands grabbing air as they fall, then he focuses back on his daughters. I run up to a wooden model of a child, chipped paint in primary colours, a height marker sticking out of its forehead: YOU CAN ONLY GO ON THIS RIDE IF YOU ARE TALLER THAN ME!

  I jump up by the wooden boy, placing myself under the marker. ‘See! I can go on.’

  There’s a gap between my hair and the wood, wide enough for Jena to slide her hand in.

  ‘No, Sam, you’re too little. It’s dangerous.’

  ‘Please,’ I beg, puppy eyes liable to weep any second.

  Off-camera, my dad’s voice says, ‘Let her do it.’

  In the seat of the rollercoaster I look small next to Jena. There’s a stomach-churning stagger forward as the coaster begins its climb, and Jena clutches my hand. She’s ashen with fear.

  An odd angle, the screen shows sky, then the side of Jena’s face. Her skin is pulled, her body is slumped heavily against the car. Dad is filming her, even though she’s upset.

  The camera jolts then and my head disappears; I’m slipping from view, as I slide down in my seat.

  Jena panics. ‘Sam!’

  Her glasses fall on to the bridge of her nose as she tries to pull me up. She screams my name again, terrified, as the car tips forward, plunging us towards the ground.

  Jena, my big sister. Always so protective of me, so loving. But now, my final memory before the attack was of her anger as she ran out into the rain. Her vicious anger at Dad for gifting me her precious camera, and at me for accepting it. On my sixteenth birthday we’d all hurt her, and it was too late to be sorry.

  I wanted to show her the film; I wanted to show her anything that would help jolt her back to being as she was, but the Black Magic box was easier to carry than an Asda box of home movies. I slid it into my rucksack and headed back to the hospital.

  I looked for her in the dining room first, opening the door in a waft of stewed cabbage and fresh bleach. Another patient, Olaf, was by the window, tugging at the curtains to hide a tower of cups that he’d balanced on the window ledge.

  ‘Hey, Olaf, have you seen Jena?’

  His eyes skittered over to where I stood; he shook his head and snarled, warning me away from his wobbling tower of china cups. I backed away, slowly. This was a madhouse. Jena shouldn’t be here; she was nothing like the other patients.

  Along the corridor lolloped Lance, who everyone in town knew because he’d sold the Big Issue on the Cornhill for years. He’d always try and talk with Jena, whenever we were passing, and she was kind to him but not interested.

  Things had changed now, though. Suddenly, in the few weeks she’d been at Minsmere, he’d become her best friend.

  His hair was poker straight and blue-black dark, except where he was scarred down the middle of his head and it had grown back white. Since Jena moved to Minsmere, they’d bonded over a shared interest in game shows; programmes she had thought lame before the attack, she now loved. Last week, they’d watched Big Brother in a three-day binge, but it gave Jena a horrific nightmare, and she had spent the following day searching in cupboards for cameras.

  ‘Hey, Lance. Do you know where Jena is?’

  He ran a hand over his hair, making the white tuft stand up; his lips turned down at the edges and he said, ‘Poor Jena.’

  ‘Why? What’s wrong?’ That sinking feeling came again.

  ‘She had a fit.’

  Dr Gregg said that if she had any more seizures they’d move her back to Eastern Ward, the dementia ward, where she’d spent that first hideous week after she came round from the coma. The thought of her returning there made me shudder.

  ‘Happened just now.’ Lance looked at his wrist, as if there might be a watch there. ‘I didn’t want to leave her, but I’m late for work.’ Then he put his hand to his head, showing me a space on his pale, smooth brow.

  ‘She’s hurt bad.’

  I stop speaking, not because I’m ready to, but because Clive places his hand on my arm and brings me back to myself. The sun is fully risen and around us staff are moving; Stacey is walking sleepily towards the shower room and the other girls are making their way to their rooms. It will soon be breakfast-time.

  ‘You’ve done well, Sam. You spoke for twenty minutes. But I think that’s enough for today.’

  He looks nervous, as though my story is worrying him. It should. It’s an ugly story and we’re only getting started.

  I’m getting dressed for breakfast when Stacey waltzes in. She’s wearing massive pink sunglasses and a matching boob tube. She’s dressed for Spain in summer, not Suffolk in January.

  ‘
The weatherman predicts snow,’ she says, sliding her glasses on to her head and looking up at my tiny window. ‘This is my Après Ski look.’ She’s been listening to Fiona again, her boastful stories of winters in the Alps and summers in Italy. Stacey loves hearing about Fiona’s travels as much as she likes reading Hello! magazine, because they show her a better world, one different from her own.

  She pulls at my black T-shirt and it sticks to my skin. ‘Yuk, is this what you slept in? You need to shower, Sam. You stink.’

  ‘Yeah, well I haven’t got any dates lined up. Where d’ya get that pink top anyway? London Road?’ That’s the prostitute area in Ipswich.

  She clicks her tongue, and is about to say something when we hear noises in the corridor. It’s a girl’s voice, distressed, then Birute’s soothing broken English. The door to the next room, the one that’s been empty for months, is unlocked and then we hear the sound of weeping, hopeless and heartfelt.

  Someone new has arrived.

  CHAPTER 7

  4 January

  I know from the activity in the bathroom that it’s a weighing day. The staff do it randomly, so we can’t put batteries in our knickers or sneak coins into our hair (anything small and heavy and concealable: we’ll cheat in any way we can), but it’s impossible to weigh five anorexics without at least three having prior knowledge. Stacey is bent over the sink, glugging water from the tap.

  ‘Not worth it,’ I tell her, but she doesn’t stop.

  A young girl, not yet a teenager, leans against the cold tiles, watching. She must have been Clive’s emergency admission interview yesterday, the source of the weeping I heard coming from the next room. Her eyes are puffy, her nose is red, and I imagine the staff had to force her to finally leave her room. She has bushy brown hair that is covered on the top by a flat tartan hat with a red bobble, the sort a Scot might wear.

  ‘I’m Sam, your neighbour,’ I say. ‘Who’re you?’

  ‘Pearl.’ Her girlish voice is lost against the harsh ceramic walls. She reminds me of a woodland elf, so slight she could fly away.

  ‘What isn’t worth it?’ she asks, nervously whispering, dark eyes bloodshot in her sunken face. Her question tells me that she hasn’t been an in-patient before.

  ‘Stacey’s waterloading. To weigh more on the scales.’

  Stacey comes up from the tap like a drowning man, gasping for air, water dripping from her chin on to her Wonder Woman nightdress.

  ‘S’right,’ she tells Pearl. ‘Don’t let the bastards beat you.’

  The elf-girl moves forward to the tap, and bends to take some water, holding her hat with one hand so it doesn’t slip, and in that moment I see a kid, just a little kid in a funny hat, who needs help. I put my hand over her arm, which is so thin I can touch my thumb to my finger. Her BMI can’t be above twelve.

  ‘Don’t, Pearl. Please.’

  She pulls back from me, nervously running her fingers over her hat and reaching for a strand of hair. She wraps her finger around it and tugs so the curly strands fall away from her scalp, on to the tiled floor.

  ‘But she’s doing it.’

  ‘Okay, Pearl. Let me give you some advice. If you start waterloading, you’ll have to do it every week or you’ll show a big loss. And if you show a loss, they’ll tube you.’

  Pearl’s mouth drops open and I can see where the enamel has been eroded from her teeth, all that stomach acid playing havoc. I touch my tube to show her, and she stares with avid interest.

  ‘Once you have one of these things, you have no control over your food. You don’t want that. You’ve only just arrived; give yourself a chance to get better.’

  Stacey makes a sound like humph, wipes her mouth with the back of her hand and neatens her sodden nightdress.

  ‘Yeah, well, I’m gonna go for it,’ she says proudly, waddling out of the bathroom to the weighing area. ‘I must’ve drunk four litres. My tummy hurts, it’s so big. But at least I’ll weigh more.’

  I look at Pearl and wink. ‘That’s if her bladder doesn’t explode first.’

  It feels good when she offers a tiny smile in return.

  After she’s served the other girls their lunch, Manda pops her head into my room. She’s holding a finger of shortbread, which is the food I hate and love most. She knows I can’t resist the sugary, buttery taste.

  ‘Here, Sam.’ She hands me the stick of fat, and crumbs fall on my fingers. ‘You know it’ll do you good. And I’ll write it on your log for the other staff to see.’

  She watches me nibble the edge of the biscuit, and smiles. Then she shivers, rubs her arms.

  ‘It feels cold enough to snow in here.’

  I don’t tell her that I’ve turned the radiator off. Being cold makes the body work harder, burns more calories. Sian would have realised what I’ve done, but Manda likes to think the best of me.

  ‘And so bare. Why don’t you put some posters up or something?’

  She picks up my duvet, feeling the thread between her soft padded fingers. ‘There must be someone who could bring some nice things in for you? What about the person who sends you letters? Or the boy who wants to visit?’

  I mumble vaguely, suggesting I will think about it, and put down the biscuit. But I’ll never make this room comfortable, and I won’t have anyone visit me; I won’t even reply to Jena’s letters. I don’t deserve any comforts. This isn’t my home; it’s a cell.

  In the end, Manda leaves, only one tiny corner of shortbread gone. I hear her sigh as she closes my door.

  My room is a blank, a nothing, the outside representation of my brain.

  I have a plain blue duvet, and a simple desk with nothing on it but a comb; an unbreakable mirror is nailed to the wall over it. Hanging in the open wardrobe are five pairs of identical black leggings, six oversized plain T-shirts and one jumper. And at the back, hidden away from the staff’s prying eyes, a black jumper with a pink swallow on the front: my sixteenth birthday present from Jena. I can’t bring myself to throw it away, but could never wear it. Some days, because of its link to her, I can’t even look at it.

  One of my ongoing therapy targets is to go shopping for something pretty and feminine. It’s a theory I’ve heard often: that I’m not comfortable transitioning from teenager to grown woman, so I’m trying to reverse my sexual development. So I need to go and buy a strappy dress to prove otherwise, when I’m well enough to go shopping.

  Jena’s room at Minsmere Unit was the exact opposite of this. After arriving there on 13 May she turned the room into a toy zoo, filling it with stuffed rabbits and bears, gifts sent in from neighbours and friends. Her favourite was Sid the Sloth, which she’d bought me years before, after we’d watched Ice Age together. I took it to her, back when she was still in a coma, and since regaining consciousness she’d slept with Sid every night, hugging him when she was upset. Jena was possessive over how her room was arranged, in a way she never was over her bedroom at home, and she ordered any photos we took her into a neat line on the windowsill. She’d push all the recent photos to the back and move photos from years ago into the best spots, the nicest frames. Her favourite was in the middle, a picture of me as a baby, and she’d stare at these photos, in a sort of trance.

  Dr Gregg said it was normal for there to be some degree of personality change – obsessive behaviour was frequently observed after brain trauma – but that we shouldn’t worry.

  I’ve been stalling; I know that, of course. For eighteen months, I’ve refused to talk about Jena, or even think about her; I’ve never allowed Dad’s face to appear in my mind’s eye, as if I can shut away all that happened.

  Since I was told she’d died, though, I can’t shut away Mum. She’s with me, in my deep-set eyes, my sallow skin. The echoes of her are in the pathetic beat of my heart, the faint pain as my internal organs struggle to keep me alive when my soul is dead.

  When Clive comes for me, I’m ready for him.

  I’m ready to talk for fifteen minutes, and it’s time to talk about Jena.


  Reaching Jena’s room, I placed my hands on the door frame, snatching deep breaths as I peered through the glass panel. Jena was hunched on the bed, leaning against Mum, who was holding her tight. I could feel my fear ebb a little, but my shoulders had risen up to my ears and there was a band round my ribs, an early warning sign that I needed to calm down or I was heading for an asthma attack. I rummaged in my rucksack for my Ventolin and took a couple of puffs before I entered her room.

  ‘Hi, Jena.’

  She was holding a framed photo in her hands, one that I’d brought in to the hospital just after the attack, when Dr Gregg told us that photos could help her memory return. Snuggled in her lap was my Sid the Sloth, his pointy nose flattened from being rubbed against her cheek.

  I knelt at Jena’s feet, my hands over her bare knees, a scab beneath my right palm. I ran my fingers over the ridge, thinking how easily it would lift, how quickly the blood would flow.

  ‘How are you feeling today, Jen-Jen?’

  She reached for me, hugged me so tightly I couldn’t breathe, my mouth on her tangled hair. After a few seconds, Mum tried to ease her away, but Jena wasn’t letting go. She smelt of cheap body spray and piss; she’d probably wet herself when she had the fit.

  Mum cleared her throat painfully, a flush rising on her neck.

  ‘I found her on the floor, in full seizure, banging her head on the wardrobe. No staff around, so God knows how long it’d been going on.’

  Jena squeezed my cheek. ‘Sammy! Don’t look so serious. I’m going to tell you a joke to make you laugh.’ She grinned at me, and for a moment she was unchanged, my big sister. Dr Gregg said this would happen, these moments when the brain was coherent and the patient seemed their old self; this seemed the cruellest part of brain damage. Jena had always liked to make me laugh – when I fell and cut my knees it was how she’d stop my tears – and it killed me that she was still trying to make me smile, when she was the one with the problem.