Sisters and Lies

by Bernice Barrington

  ‘No,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘No, we don’t know each other from anywhere.’

  Mortified, I hurried away, cheeks flaming, no idea why I had acted like such a complete and utter fool.

  In a nearby café I nursed a cup of tea and tried to get a grip on myself. It was like I was losing my mind along with everything else, turning into some mad person who accosted strangers. But there had been something about the man, something that had reminded me …

  He was an artist, Rachel, but he was troubled.

  Out of nowhere, Mammy’s voice rang out, clear as day. A memory of a conversation we’d had when she was dying. When she’d been talking about my father, what he’d been like.

  ‘An artist,’ I’d replied. ‘You said he was a fisherman.’

  ‘He was. But his real passion lay in art. He painted you as children, do you remember?’ I shook my head, though I did vaguely recall something – me and Evie under an old oak tree, the warmth of the light streaming onto our skin.

  ‘I have the sketchbooks somewhere. If only I could find them.’ She’d tried to get out of bed then, attempting to throw off the sheets like a wilful child.

  ‘Mammy,’ I said, catching her by the shoulders, directing her gently back into bed. ‘It doesn’t matter about the sketchbooks or about Daddy.’

  ‘But it does,’ she wailed. ‘It does. I got it all wrong, you see. I should have told you everything. I thought I was protecting you but I wasn’t.’

  I remained silent. What was she on about? What was this about protecting us? But then I reminded myself that these were just words. Ravings. She was on a lot of painkillers.

  ‘It was the illness, not him,’ she whispered. ‘I know that now.’

  There was a cold, hard feeling in the pit of my stomach, like a stone.

  ‘He tried for so long, Rachel. Five years. But it was the eighties. There was no work. Then he slipped into a depression …’

  ‘Depression?’

  ‘Yes,’ Mammy said. ‘I suppose nowadays you might call it bipolar. Some days he was in great form, full of plans, full of ambition, and other days …’

  ‘Other days?’ I couldn’t contain my curiosity.

  But Mammy’s voice had trailed off, the morphine overtaking her.

  Later that night, she had taken a turn for the worse, and the conversations about my father had stopped, so I never found out what he had done on those other days. I didn’t really want to know. That way madness lay.

  I paused, churning the memory in my head. Was that what Evie had too? Bipolar disorder? Could that explain the mood swings, the creativity, the alleged drug-taking and promiscuity that Janet had talked about?

  I’d never for a moment thought Evie could suffer from something as serious as that. But suddenly I could see how it would all fit. And if it did, had Ainsworth been right all along? Had Evie been trying to kill herself?

  I’d always rejected the simplistic idea that Evie had chosen to take Donnagh’s car and crash it into a wall – but maybe I had to face up to the fact that it made sense. She’d had an illness; she was spiralling out of control. And it wasn’t as if she hadn’t tried before – back when she was twenty-one, at the end of her second year in college.

  I thought of that time now too – Mammy on the phone to me in Australia, where I was working at the time, trying to bite back sobs as she explained that Evie had downed a cocktail of prescription drugs and vodka. Her flatmate had come back just in time to call an ambulance.

  Stupid, stupid girl, I’d thought at the time, as I flew home, enraged by Evie’s selfishness. But when I finally saw her, that gaunt, shivering thing, I knew I’d got the wrong end of the stick. The question wasn’t why Evie had tried to kill herself, but how, through all her suffering, she’d stayed alive for so long.

  I spent the rest of the evening googling bipolar disorder. As far as I could tell, there seemed to be numerous different permutations of the condition, ranging from mania and delusions to a version so mild that people often mistook it for high spirits.

  I tried to tie some of what I had read to Evie. It often affected highly intelligent, creative people, so that fitted. Some believed it could be exacerbated by trauma, such as bereavement. Again, that would apply to Evie.

  But at the same time I couldn’t be sure. Did Evie experience racing thoughts, euphoria? As a kid she’d been highly energetic and disciplined – she often studied for five or six hours a night – and I knew she also experienced low moods. But did that make her bipolar? I had no idea.

  I scrabbled around on the internet for a bit longer, finally landing on a list of famous people who’d suffered with the condition: Sylvia Plath, Virginia Woolf, Stephen Fry, Vincent Van Gogh, Michelangelo.

  Van Gogh.

  I remembered the Starry Night poster on Evie’s desk at work. The postcard of the two children I’d found among her mail. He’d been an inspiration to Evie all her life, his work moving her to emotions she rarely liked to show. Once, after I’d received my first advance, I’d brought Evie to the Van Gogh museum in Amsterdam, and watched as she studied his paintings in tears.

  ‘His story is very sad,’ I’d said, wrapping my arms around her shoulders. ‘Especially the last few paintings.’

  ‘It’s like he knew he was going to die.’ She wasn’t crying now, just looking past me, past everything.

  At the time I hadn’t thought much of it. Evie was a sensitive person, we all knew that. Now her words seemed to take on a different hue.

  I thought back again to those two objects – the small poster in her office, the Van Gogh postcard she’d received from France. Was there a clue in there? Something to do with that artist? Nothing came to me, and the frustration made me feel like a fly bashing its wings against a windowpane. Where did the answer lie? Was there even an answer? Or was I deluding myself? No grand narrative. No conspiracy theory. Just me, refusing to see reality until, like the fly on the windowpane, I bashed myself apart.

  49.

  Following hours of such fruitless thought, I decided to go out and get something to eat. But in the end I never made it as far as the burger joint I’d planned to visit. Instead I found myself in a pub, knocking back tumblers of whiskey to deal with the twin emotions currently doing battle in my brain: depression and dread.

  As I drank, I thought about Evie and our father. That he still hadn’t responded to my voicemail (and probably never would – useless bastard) but, on a deeper level, how much damage he had inflicted on Evie and me by leaving us as kids. His abandonment had rendered Evie so insecure that she’d latched onto anything she could think of to give herself a sense of self-worth – exams and straight As as a teenager, drugs and one-night-stands as an adult. As for me, while my maternal instincts had never been strong, I’d cultivated a secret fear that I could turn out just like him, a disastrous parent. After the termination, I’d ruled out kids altogether. Best to make that decision when I was young and single before any more damage was done.

  Eventually, after hours of drinking, I stumbled home to find Donnagh in the sitting room, laughing at something on the telly. He turned to look at me as I staggered through the door. ‘Oh, Rachel, I was wondering where you’d got to. Had a good night?’

  I stared at him, a funny feeling passing through me. I didn’t like the way he was sitting there, in Evie’s blue armchair. So fucking comfortable. ‘It was okay,’ I slurred. ‘You?’

  ‘Just watching a bit of telly. Do you want to join me? You should – it’s absolutely hilarious.’

  That funny feeling rippled through me again, slowly, like a wave. ‘No, thanks,’ I said. ‘In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m not really in the mood for comedy, these days.’

  ‘Rachel?’ he said, glancing upwards. ‘Have I said something wrong? Are you okay?’

  ‘Okay?’ I said. ‘You’re asking me if I’m okay?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, stiffening a little, clearly regretting the question.

  ‘Oh, I’m fine. Apart from the fact th
at my husband and I have separated, my sister is in a coma – oh, and the guy who swears blind he loves her is currently laughing his head off at Mrs fucking Brown’s Boys.’

  ‘It’s Graham Norton, actually,’ Donnagh said, making a feeble attempt at a joke.

  I glared at him. ‘You think this situation is funny, do you?’

  ‘Of course I don’t. I just think you’re pissed. That maybe you need a glass of water.’ He stood up.

  ‘You’re telling me what to do now?’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake, Rachel, of course I’m not. I’m just concerned about you. You seem upset. Has something happened?’

  I looked at him, the earnest way he was standing, and felt myself crumple. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said, collapsing onto the sofa. ‘I shouldn’t be having a go at you. It’s not your fault. I’m just so scared.’

  Donnagh walked over to the sink, turned on the tap and poured some water into a glass. Then he returned to where I was sitting and pressed it into my hand. ‘Here, drink this. You’ll feel better.’

  I did as I was told, glad to have someone telling me what to do for a change.

  When I was done, Donnagh sat down beside me – close but not touching. ‘Rachel, I know you’re terrified for Evie, just as I am.’ He glanced up at me, and our eyes met. I could see worry in them and they were ringed with purple, as if he hadn’t been getting much sleep. ‘I know it seems callous, watching stupid TV shows when she’s lying in hospital, but I don’t know what else to do. I feel so impotent.’

  I couldn’t resist a watery smile. ‘You? Impotent? Surely not!’

  He shrugged, gave a half-smile back. ‘You know what I mean, Rachel. I have money. I have contacts – well, to some extent, anyway – yet I can’t do anything to save my girlfriend. To save the one person who actually means something to me.’

  I sighed. I knew exactly how he felt.

  ‘What are we going to do now?’ he asked quietly.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  We were silent for a little while until finally Donnagh stood up. ‘Rachel, I meant to say, I’m due to go to Chicago again tomorrow – a brief trip – but I can cancel if you want me to stick around. If you’d prefer not to be alone.’

  ‘It’s okay,’ I said. ‘There’s nothing you can do, and I can manage. I’ll keep you posted – let you know if anything changes.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I’m sure.’

  ‘Oh, and one other thing.’

  I looked up from my glass.

  ‘My apartment is nearly ready – I should be able to move in soon, probably when I get back from the trip.’

  ‘What?’ I was suddenly winded.

  ‘They finished a little earlier than expected. Are you okay with that?’

  ‘Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?’ I said.

  ‘No, it’s just …’ Donnagh petered out, a faint blush spreading across his cheeks. ‘Well, I’d better be off to bed. Early flight and all that.’

  ‘Yes,’ I mumbled. It was weird, but now that it was actually happening, I didn’t want him to leave.

  The truth was, I would miss him.

  Perhaps it was a sense of impending loneliness, but after Donnagh went to bed, I continued to drink until I lapsed into complete unconsciousness. It was stupid, of course, but strangely cathartic. Now that reality had become officially unbearable, drink seemed as good an option as any. Sure, it was just temporary but who cared? At least it offered a momentary window of reprieve.

  At some point in the night I vaguely recalled Donnagh coming back in, possibly to get a glass of water, possibly handing me one too. But perhaps I’m imagining that. And perhaps I also imagined trying to get off the couch, feeling wobbly. Falling backwards. Thinking, Fuck it, I can sleep here – right here on the floor.

  Whatever, the next morning Donnagh was gone – with a note saying he’d be back in a week. And then it was just me, chronically hung-over, on the floor, nursing the worst headache I’d ever experienced in my life.

  When I tried to remember the previous few hours, nothing would come. It wasn’t so much that my memories were scattered. Quite the opposite. I had no memories at all.

  It took almost four days for the toxic hangover to lift – during which time all kinds of weird shit ran through my head. In the end I put my suffering and memory loss down to the fact that, as well as drinking half a bottle of whiskey, I’d also contracted flu. That would explain the aches and pains. The lethargy. This strange mind fog I’d been experiencing ever since I’d got so stupendously drunk.

  Eventually, though, the symptoms passed, and while the episode had left me rattled, I soon got back into my routine of visiting Evie, the days bleeding into one another until I could barely tell them apart.

  We were nearly three weeks in now. I felt I was on the final countdown. If she didn’t wake up within the next seven days, it was over. Okay, technically, Evie could wake up after that. But she would probably be brain-damaged or, at the very least, partially disabled. It would be virtually impossible for her to go back to leading a normal life.

  In the evenings I arrived home to an empty flat and wished Donnagh was still there to keep me company. Yes, I’d mistrusted him at the beginning, but now I saw he had acted as an anchor, tethering me to real life, to the real world.

  He’d texted me, saying he was staying longer than anticipated in Chicago, but that he’d be back as soon as he could. In the meantime, he was visiting a neurologist his uncle knew, asking for a second opinion. It all sounded very worthy, but I couldn’t help feeling he was distancing himself, running away.

  Quite frankly, I envied his ability to run.

  Everything was losing its shape now. I couldn’t tell what day or date it was. Seven days left to go, until we were into the dreaded month-long coma.

  Sometimes when I got home I didn’t eat. I just sat on Evie’s beautiful blue armchair and rocked slowly back and forth, trying not to think about another funeral. About losing another person I loved. In those moments I thought of Jacob. And sometimes, when I did, everything that had happened between us seemed so stupid, so trivial. Who cared if he had (almost) slept with another woman or that we were at odds over children? Surely we could reach a compromise. Surely we could work something out. Yet every time I picked up the phone to reconcile, something stopped me. I wasn’t sure what it was. Stubbornness? Stupidity? An inability to forgive?

  But then it occurred to me, late one night as I sat smoking a cigarette on the balcony, I could not reignite my life while Evie’s hung so precariously in the balance. Maybe I could move forward some day, when all of this was over, but for now I was waiting for my sister to wake up. To come back to me. Until that happened, nothing else could be done.

  50.

  Evie

  I’ll admit things begin to get a bit hazy after brunch with Gemma and Mick. But as far as I know the following was what happened. There was a flood – a big one – in Donnagh’s apartment block and he asked to move in with me for a little while. I think it was something to do with my flat being relatively close to his office in Canary Wharf. I can’t be entirely sure.

  Anyway, my further recollections suggest I let him.

  What the fuck was I thinking? But you must remember I’m Irish and therefore in possession of extremely low self-esteem. It is literally embedded in my genes to be a people-pleaser. Saying no was not an option.

  So he moved in – ostensibly for a few days. Well, five long days, actually, during which time I was forced to stash away all my books and paintings and photographs so that he wouldn’t uncover my real identity and realize how much I had lied. Luckily, I had a hiding place – a legacy from the Second World War, which the estate agent had shown me when I’d first viewed the flat. At the time it had seemed like a quaint little folly – to be honest, I’d almost forgotten about it. Now it was a godsend – the shifty person’s equivalent of a walk-in wardrobe.

  Having said that, Donnagh didn’t look like a man who ha
d much time for sleuthing – he was gone by seven in the morning and not home till ten or eleven at night. In fact, by the time Friday afternoon rolled around, I was marvelling at how straightforward the whole thing had been, and was looking forward to seeing the back of him that evening. But another call at work put the kibosh on that.

  ‘The repairs are going to take at least another fortnight, Eve. I’m really sorry to ask, but do you mind if I stay at yours a bit longer?’

  I felt like slamming the phone hard against the wall. This guy had loads of money: he could afford any five-star hotel in London. Why was he insisting on staying with me?

  ‘I can go to a hotel, if you’d prefer,’ he said, but I could tell there wasn’t much heft behind it.

  ‘No, no,’ I replied. ‘It’s fine. Of course you can stay with me.’

  He’d thanked me profusely and promised to make it up to me that night.

  Donnagh worked a half-day that Saturday, then collapsed on the couch and fell asleep, meaning we ended up staying in and getting a takeaway rather than going out on our usual hedonistic rampaging. As I tried to eat my sweet and sour chicken, I sneaked peeps at him out of the corner of my eye. He was wearing a pair of tracksuit bottoms and a hoodie – more relaxed than I’d ever seen him – laughing at something on the telly. To the naked eye, he looked like a normal guy. A supremely good-looking, tanned guy, but a normal one nonetheless.

  A thought struck me. Was he normal? Had he grown out of that evil teenage-boy phase and become a vaguely acceptable human being?

  Hard though it was to admit, he’d been pretty decent to me over the past few weeks. There’d been countless bunches of flowers and numerous restaurant trips. And even though I hadn’t expected it, on each of those occasions he’d made me laugh, treated me with courtesy …

  Another thought struck me, disconcerting this time: was it wrong to be lying to him? Should I come clean about who I really was?

  I gave myself a stern talking-to: there was no way I could reveal my true identity – not yet anyway. He’d think I was a lunatic, a psychopath. No, better to wait a while, see where this thing was going.