26a

by Diana Evans

  “It’s not the same without her, is it?” said Kemy.

  “No,” said Bessi, and Georgia sat between them, thinking about the icy stars of winter, and how delightful it would be to languish in the edges of an icy star for a long long time.

  Bessi signed all her Christmas cards Bessi and Georgia. During lunch she wasn’t allowed to have Christmas pudding or cream or turkey because she’d been to see a homeopath, a Chinese herbalist and an allergy doctor about her rash, as well as sampled many different creams from many different pharmacies—and she had collectively been advised that sugar, birds, dairy products, strawberries, wheat, oranges (the acid), mushrooms (the fungus) and red peppers (the heat) were to be avoided at all costs. She was becoming a waif of herself. Ida, who now went to church three times a week, said that God was calling Bessi’s name and she had no choice now but to answer. Aubrey had escaped baptism by going on to redecorate Ida’s bedroom and the kitchen. He raised his eyes and told his soggy button sprouts to get buggered. There was no Mr. Hyde. Mr. Hyde was dead and his ghost was trapped in Aubrey’s guilt.

  Bessi went to see more doctors. She cut out olive oil and tomatoes and lost more weight. She couldn’t sleep at all and finally, a week before their birthday in January, she surrendered to Ida. She called Waifer Avenue after midnight (Georgia was out again) and cried that she couldn’t bear it anymore, that she was ready for God.

  “Good,” said Ida. “We will go tomorrow. You must wear something white.”

  Ida had told many of the congregation at the Church for the Salvation of the Spirit about her daughter with the rash and how it was very terrible. They had all agreed that the best solution was for Brother Ronald to baptize her. Ida and Heather picked Bessi and Kemy up in Heather’s car on Wednesday afternoon. Kemy had offered to accompany Bessi for moral support, but she refused her mother’s suggestion that she should follow suit; first, her dreadlocks would get wet, and second, she was thinking of becoming a Rastafarian anyway. “There might be something in it, though,” she said, “the laying on of hands and all that.”

  Bessi wore the white dress she had worn to Georgia’s funeral and sat in the back of the car scratching all the way to Harlesden while Kemy, also in white, with a denim belt around her waist, told her to stop. Georgia was excited about the water bit.

  Heather led them up the shallow steps into the house of the white robes and white head wraps. The congregation inspected Bessi’s salmon arms. “You see?” said Ida. “See it?”

  In the middle of the service, when the congregation were on their knees after a specially prepared sermon on the sufferings of Job, Bessi complained to Ida that she could no longer stay still because the itching was too much. Heather and Ida nodded at each other and agreed that it was time. They led her downstairs to the basement, to Brother Ronald and a Brother Henry, who had a squint. Bessi was told to sit down in a little room with a hard sofa. Kemy sat next to her and looked suspiciously at Brother Henry.

  Brother Henry grabbed hold of Bessi’s forehead and spoke to the rash.

  “Ah,” he said. “Ah. And the spirit cannot manifest without the flesh but this flesh is weak, amen, this flesh is on fire!” Brother Henry threw back his head and held Bessi’s forehead tighter. Heather splashed her with holy water, which sent Bessi scratching. “Oh, my perfect God that is only to keep us well, make the flesh drink from the holy well and she will be healed, brothers and sisters.” Upstairs, the white robes sang. Brother Henry squinted and shook Bessi’s head from side to side. Bessi and Georgia got dizzy. “Set the ill one free, set the little one free! Get out, Satan, and be gone with your treacherous fire! And now she will rise and she will be healed, healed! Yes!” he said to Bessi. “There, it’s a miracle, you are healed!” He let go of her head.

  Who is this cowboy? asked Georgia, who was also scratching furiously, with the right hand.

  Bessi whimpered and clutched her head. Heather announced that Brother Ronald was ready. She told Bessi to put on a robe that opened at the back like a hospital robe and was far too big for them. They tripped over it twice on the way to Ronald.

  He was standing topless in a shallow pool of water, holding the New Testament open on Job.

  “Come, sister,” he said.

  “Go,” said Ida.

  Bessi went down the steps of the white room to Brother Ronald, who held out his arms.

  He said, “Are you ready to follow God?”

  “I suppose so,” said Bessi.

  “Are you ready to follow God?” Brother Ronald repeated more firmly.

  Bessi wanted to say, Look, brother, I have a rash, Mum said this might help, and that’s as far as it goes, all right?

  Georgia liked the cool of the water. She was looking forward to lying down. “Yes,” she said, with Bessi’s mouth.

  As Ida and Heather watched and smiled and nodded at the door, and Kemy worried for Smazel’s dignity in the backless robe, Brother Ronald in so many words told God he was giving Bessi to him. Then he dipped her whole body backward into the tepid water three times.

  “Bloody hell!” said Bessi.

  The ocean, the water, the lake, dreamed Georgia, forever.

  The water drained away the moisture in the skin. The arms, legs, and neck became raw. Bessi said thank you to Brother Ronald and ran away to get her cream. As she passed Ida, Nne-Nne said to Georgia, It is almost time to go, yes. And Georgia knew that she was right.

  GOD PROVIDED NO immediate relief from the rash. Bessi felt the right side of her body weakening and Georgia was very muffled now, when they talked to each other, and Bessi could only hear her if she closed her eyes and was surrounded by absolute silence. She walked with forward feet but the right side dragged. Around her ribs there was cooling empty space. She could feel Georgia hanging from them, hanging on, and slowly losing her grip.

  On their birthday they went to sit by the double-decker sleep. Bessi was twenty-five and Georgia wasn’t. The soil had leveled out and was almost ready for the stone. People had left birthday flowers all over the soil and Bessi and Georgia had brought roses, one of which Bessi placed at the upper end of the grave, where the face would be.

  Bessi imagined what it would be like with Georgia gone properly. Would it be a long cool drink in a Spanish dress and would it be rashless? Would there be one-sided birthdays and a right-sided limp? Would there be red? Would it get bigger, or smaller? Would there be nectarines? Did oneness have a fruit that had a taste like nothing else?

  She decided that there was no hope for the nectarine, but that oneness might have a fruit. If Georgia left, she would have to look for that fruit. She would have to develop confidence in the extraordinary oneness of her taste buds.

  She said, You know if you went, could you ever come back?

  No, said Georgia quietly.

  Then how would I talk to you?

  We’d have to talk another way. There’s lots of ways.

  Like what?

  Georgia said, You listen to the birds and feel the wind on your face. It’s a different way of talking. You smell the roses more deeply and watch the sky more closely, how it turns, the change at dusk as lilac finds indigo. You wait for rainbows to come and I am in the colors.

  And in the shadows, said Bessi.

  Yes, in the shadows, in the dark. There’s no need to be afraid.

  They put their thin arms around their knees. They thought about it carefully, about what it would be like with Bessi in oneness properly and Georgia in everything. Would it be like getting a divorce? Did they want a divorce? They closed their eyes. They sat down in the strawberry corners. They concentrated very hard and drifted through possibles.

  After five minutes they said: Twoness never ends—that’s the thing about it.

  Georgia held on to Bessi’s ribs for another three weeks. Bessi tried to hoist her up and took special care with her right side, because she was unsure about whether she could survive the separation. The night before Valentine’s Day, while Bessi was asleep, Georgia took her out.
She wanted to make sure that Bessi would know how to talk to her. She led them up through the indigo skies and found the best star. She showed Bessi how to melt into the edges of the star. She showed her how to be silver. Do you like it? she said. Oh yes, said Bessi. Then the brightest star, said Georgia, is Bessi’s Best Bed.

  They got back in the morning. It was a quarter of a century after the headlights. A quarter of a century is a long time, thought Bessi, long enough to always remain what the years had made you. Georgia was very weak now. She was beginning to exhale in Bessi’s body for the last time. It was a long exhale and it took all day. Bessi sat still on the citrus beanbag and held her right hand with her left hand. She said, No, Georgia, don’t go! But Georgia was slipping down the ribs, she was draining out of the veins and falling away, and she was whispering, Don’t forget the roses.

  Dusk crept toward them, dragging behind it one third of the moon. A crescent moon night. A journey through open space, in the dark, the way of beginnings. Bessi could no longer hear Georgia’s voice. She trembled as Georgia breathed and breathed out. As she let go of the blood and bones and skin. Let go of the last rib. The feet began to turn inward again. She let go of Bessi’s left hand and the right side went numb. They heard the call of the night birds. They sensed that they were coming to a road. Run, leap, fly, said the birds. Be boundless, all speed.

  Georgia shot forward into the night, into the all of it, and Bessi lay down on her bed.

  She was breathing on the left. She sniffed for Georgia’s scent and couldn’t find it. There was unbearable silence and the dark clutched her shoulders. She got up and ran to the window and cried out the name of the rest of her. And then she heard the birds.

  I’ll meet you by the evergreen tree, said Georgia.

  Acknowledgments

  I am grateful to Hedgebrook writers’ retreat for a cottage in the forest that summer, and to the Arts and Humanities Research Board for financial assistance. Thank you to Clare Alexander and Rebecca Carter for faith, dynamism and moments of genius. To Bernardine Evaristo and Sara Wajid for early encouragement, and Patricia Duncker for her energy and insight. Thank you to Naomi Alderman for being spooky, and Tash Aw and Jennifer Kabat for being there when you were.

  My deepest thanks go to my enormous nurturing family, and most of all to Derek A. Bardowell, for relentless love and support.

  About the Author

  DIANA EVANS has worked as a journalist and arts critic, contributing to Marie Claire, The Daily Telegraph, The Observer, and The Independent. Her short fiction has appeared in a number of anthologies. She lives in London, England.

  Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins author.

  Critical Acclaim for Diana Evans and 26a

  “[A] marvelously written novel…rich with both ordinary and extraordinary realities.”

  —Fort Lauderdale Sun-Sentinel

  “A heartwarming epic that’s never syrupy sweet. Grade: A-”

  —Entertainment Weekly

  “A funny, haunting, marvelous debut.”

  —Publishers Weekly (starred review)

  “Beautiful…. A very earthy and relatable tale of family bonds and fractures.”

  —Boston Herald

  “A trenchant debut that speaks eloquently about identity, displacement, the most anguished of losses, and bone-deep love.”

  —Booklist

  “A serious and accomplished first novel, an affecting study of togetherness and separation.”

  —Time Out (London)

  “Amazing…. 26a deserves to be read, and reread, by a large audience…. Evans deftly balances comedy and tragedy, unfolding her story in vivid patchwork pieces that come together to form a bittersweet family portrait, splashed with brilliant images.”

  —Boston Globe

  “At once tender and funny: [26a is] a keen study of home, homelessness, and the limits of symbiosis.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  “[A] compelling first novel…. Evans has a sharp eye for the quotidian charms of the girls’ childhood…. If she can reproduce the frank, bittersweet voice of her debut [in her second novel], then her writing career too may end up being magical.”

  —Time (Europe)

  “Superb [and] quirkily rendered.”

  —The Vancouver Sun

  “The sort of first novel that makes a reader look forward to the author’s second….[Evans’s] writing has enough verve and is grounded firmly enough in details that it carries off the wildest of imaginative leaps.”

  —Columbus Dispatch

  “[Evans] can turn a haunting, perfect phrase. A promising debut from a young author with much yet to offer.”

  —Library Journal

  “[A] sparky debut novel…. Enthralling from the first page, this bittersweet fusion of fairy tales and nightmares is sugared by nostalgia and salted with sadness.”

  —The Daily Mail (London)

  “Striking…. Happiness leaves plenty of bruises in this novel.”

  —Financial Times

  “Very enjoyable…. Beautifully realized and wholly convincing…. Evans writes with tremendous verve and dash. Her ear for dialogue is superb, and she has wit and sharp perception…. A consistently readable book filled with likeable characters: a study of loss that has great heart and humor.”

  —The Independent (London)

  “Evans’s first novel brims with lyricism and mysticism. [Evans] deftly captures the voices of all six family members as each one struggles with questions of identity. Meeting the topics of depression and suicide head-on, Evans treats these issues with a respect and grace that underscore the eventual triumph of spirit within the Hunter family.”

  —School Library Journal

  “An exciting and vibrant read. It’s a weird and wonderful fairy tale…. 26a is brilliant.”

  —The Sunday Express (London)

  “A narrative voice that is tender and evocative drifts seamlessly…. Diana Evans’s prose is sensual and poetic, as well as powerful and uncompromising…. 26a is a mature, compelling, and beautiful first novel.”

  —The Times Literary Supplement (London)

  “A sad, magical telling of the uncommon link between Gemini sisters…. Enchanting.”

  —The Toronto Star (Canada)

  “A poetic, complex, and lingering study of forces that can make life sometimes unlivable, wherever you come from, and wherever you live.”

  —The New Statesman (London)

  “Evans’s vigorous, vibrant style captures the immediacy with which we experience the world during childhood…. Evans’s readable first novel is a poignant look at the consequences of loss.”

  —Metro (London)

  “Diffuse and dreamlike, but it has its own haunting atmosphere.”

  —Marie Claire (London)

  “[A] remarkable first novel…. Vibrant…. Exotic.”

  —The Sunday Times (London)

  “[Evans] writes with humor and great sensitivity…. 26a is a moving and beautifully written story from a writer to watch.”

  —Black Issues Book Review

  “Louisa May Alcott updated—Little Women gone multicultural and dysfunctional…. The final pages of the novel are surreal and surprising, a heart-wrenching testimony to the unbreakable bond between twins and the solace of family, even dysfunctional family, love.”

  —National Post (Canada)

  “Kept me reading past midnight…hugely assured and very moving.”

  —The Daily Telegraph (London)

  “Striking: here is a real family and real lives. The twins grow up and apart as they are bound to do, though the book could never be called predictable. Evans herself is a twin, though she lost her sister to suicide. But the novel is a celebration of what she has called this special, magical relationship.’ 26a, however, is no mere glossed autobiography—it shows the promise of a real writer with a real future ahead of her.”

  —The Times (London)

  “[A] poignant
debut novel…. We like Evans’s vivid imagination in conjuring up chilling images…. Perfect for your next book club selection.”

  —Essence

  “Marvelous…. Illuminates not only the nature of twins but also the universal quest for both mirroring affirmation and individuality, the perils of solitude and fragmentation, and the transcendence of all separation and loss…. The writing is both mature and freshly perceptive, creating not only a warmly funny novel of a Neasden childhood…but a haunting account of the loss of innocence and mental disintegration…. A novel about being twins grows stealthily, movingly, into one about being human.”

  —The Guardian (London)

  “Bittersweet…. An alluring blend of fairy tales and nightmares.”

  —The Daily Mail (London)

  “A novel of twins, of dependence, of loss, of displacement, and of love. It affected me deeply.”

  —Bookseller (London)

  “Beautiful…. Evans is in a class of her own.”

  —Melbourne Herald Sun (Australia)

  Copyright

  This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  26A. Copyright © 2005 by Diana Evans. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.