My Sister

by Michelle Adams

  After Miss McKenna laid out the case that I was uncontrollable, an effort that brought her close to tears, the headmistress, a stocky woman with big calves, suggested a psychotherapist. I remember Uncle Marcus stating that it was a familial problem, which made Aunt Jemima drop her head in shame. Shame that she was part of the family with the problem. She was my paternal aunt after all. It was her genes, and her brother’s decision to get rid of one of his kids that had thrust me into their midst. Uncle Marcus even suggested it was a genetic abnormality, that I was the same as my sister. I didn’t understand what he meant at the time.

  But, they stressed, making absolutely certain that it was understood, they weren’t my parents. What were they supposed to do? This night wasn’t even for them. It was for parents and teachers. They had been lumped with me, like a kitten found in the back garden that you don’t really want but you haven’t got the heart to watch starve to death. So you take it in and pretend to like cats, hope it will become tame. That’s what Aunt Jemima and Uncle Marcus were to me. The reluctant guardians who watched helplessly as I left a trail of kitten shit all over their nice organised lives, full of ordered and pretty children with good hips who didn’t wear hand-me-downs and who had been wanted from the start.

  So Kiddiwinks was an effort to make me a better child. The psychotherapist said it would help. I was supposed to learn how to integrate, as if all that was needed was a few simple play dates. We were supposed to ignore the fact that I knew my parents didn’t want me, that kids at school called me Peg Leg Irini and that I shared the Harringford genes. Soft play with kids I didn’t know. The apparent answer to all my childhood problems.

  But even at eight years old I was sceptical. Climbing over rubber cubes and swinging from nets, sliding down spiral slides and bouncing on trampolines is all fun and ball games when you’re able-bodied. But I wasn’t able-bodied. I could walk by that point, didn’t even need my frame. I was still lame, but most people ignored the limp and the slight tendency to veer to the right. Climbing wasn’t fun, though. Clambering wasn’t fun. Running wasn’t fun. Still, when they encouraged me into the soft play area like an animal into a circus ring, I was expected to perform. I saw them watching with horror at my lack of integration, that elusive something that apparently could be found at the bottom of a ball pit. So I smiled and waved and made an effort. I pushed myself deeper into the land of foam and watched Aunt Jemima pray for a miracle. I managed to climb over one obstacle, then slipped head first into a pit of balls. The only other option had been a climbing net made of rope, and there was no way I was following my cousins over that. So in I went, letting myself sink. I thought at least I could hide there until it was time to leave.

  But when they couldn’t find me, all hell broke loose. I called out but they couldn’t hear me over the commotion. My dodgy leg wouldn’t balance with all those plastic balls underfoot, and I couldn’t swing it back round to gain any purchase on the good leg. The police were called, along with the fire brigade. They had to dismantle part of the play area and empty the balls out one at a time from the top. They reached me after another hour. Of course they assumed I had done it on purpose. Attention-seeking was what they said. Family trait, Uncle Marcus claimed, one judgemental eye cast towards Aunt Jemima.

  That was the last time we went to Kiddiwinks. We scrapped the search for integration, and the psychotherapist who suggested it in the first place. We have three children of our own, you know. We can’t afford for you to see a therapist, just because you can’t learn how to behave. There was no money for hare-brained schemes like that, not even with what my father was sending.

  So, out of fresh ideas, they began to wonder if a reunion with my sister might help. Aunt Jemima told me at the time that Elle had begged them for it. I was so excited. This was, after all, what I wanted. For my family to want me. Elle had apparently made all sorts of promises about how good she would be if only they would let her see me. I guess they still had hopes for who she might become.

  My father brought her to Aunt Jemima’s house. My mother came too, but all I remember of her was listening as she cried in the hallway while Aunt Jemima did her best to comfort her. I had worn my best dress in the hope that my mother might like it. Aunt Jemima had braided my hair with a red ribbon tied on the end. I thought that if she could only appreciate the effort I had made, she might realise her mistake and take me home. But they ushered us outside to play in the garden before she even got a chance to see me.

  For a moment at least they must have got distracted, because within fifteen minutes I was standing half-naked on the railings of Slateford Aqueduct, watching Elle floating face down in the water below. It was my turn to jump, just like I had promised her. I wanted to impress her, but I remained unconvinced how that could happen if we were both dead. Maybe that’s why I didn’t jump, and instead let myself be coaxed down by a friendly passer-by. Any ideas regarding family reunification were scrapped after that. Instead, Aunt Jemima moved house, taking me with her, and hoped that might be the answer.

  The story of my childhood assault on Margot Wolfe gained notoriety in the following years. Margot, of course, hated me for what I’d done, and would show everybody the scar that Peg Leg Irini had given her. And yes, it still hurt, even after all those years, thank you for asking. Even though she deserved it, I hated the sympathy that Margot Wolfe got. I hated the fact that she hated me. So after Elle found me four years later and we put Robert Kneel in hospital, I decided to finish what I’d started when I was a kid. Reunited with Elle, I felt unstoppable. Nobody even knew that we were seeing each other. I saw being with Elle as a way forward, and a chance at something better. A chance to put the past behind me and become somebody who was wanted. It was time, I thought, to teach Margot Wolfe a lesson. I had no idea the lesson would end up being mine, and one I would live to regret for the rest of my life.

  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 look
s 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.