The Forgotten Sister

by Caroline Bond

  This was a whole new level of losing her shit.

  The dreams were why she hadn’t wanted to come out with her friends in the first place; why she’d been sticking so close to home, rooting herself in everything that was familiar and that had, in the past, been reassuring. She had no intention of telling her lovely but totally self-obsessed mates that she was having weird dreams about being a little kid. No one wanted to be that special. She hadn’t told anyone about them, not even Erin. What was there to say. ‘Hey, I seem to be going a bit mad at the moment. I’m having visions.’ The music had obviously been the trigger this time.

  As her friends continued to flap, Cassie tuned them out and concentrated.

  She could still feel the sensation of being held; it lingered within her goose-pimpled flesh – hands holding her close, the smell of another body, warm, tangy with sweat. A shared moment of giddiness and fun: a good feeling. Yes, she was sure that what she’d felt in those few moments, in that past, had been happiness.

  What was disturbing was that she couldn’t control these blasts of memory. They just came, randomly, out of nowhere. Whether she welcomed them or feared them, she didn’t really know. All she did know was that she wanted to be home, away from the screeching and the sympathy. So when Tom finally arrived, she brushed off the competing offers from her friends to travel with her, and let her dad lead her out of the shop by the hand like a little girl. It was good to have him there, anchoring here in the present. But when he went to put his arm around her to guide across the road, back to the car, she shrugged him off, telling him she’d felt faint because she hadn’t eaten anything. He didn’t insist.

  On the journey home Cassie pretended to listen to Tom’s suddenly very definite views on the importance of hydration and nutrition, and she made the right noises as he clumsily, but lovingly, dropped in a smattering of remarks about how beautiful she was. But she drew the line when he starting making some truly dodgy jokes about stick-thin models. He was so needy sometimes, so desperate for her attention and her love. She felt confused by her reaction to his kindness, but she couldn’t control it. She knew that she was lucky to have two parents who cared, and yet at times it felt like a burden. Their love seemed to weigh heavily, their expectations to exceed her capacity. Tom was still rambling on, trying, but failing, to mask his obvious concern about anorexia – the unmentionable fear of all parents. Cassie couldn’t deal with it, so she didn’t. She had more pressing concerns. She rested her head back and closed her eyes, waiting for the ghost of her birth mother to rise up again and escort her home.

  Tom talked self-consciously and drove carefully, as he stole repeated glances at his eldest daughter. She gave nothing away. Passing out was not normal, being this uncommunicative was not normal, being this secretive was not normal, their whole relationship no longer felt normal – and that hurt. Eventually his anecdotes dried up and an uncomfortable silence filled the car.

  Cassie kept her eyes shut, blocking him out.

  Tom missed his daughter. It was true that Cassie looked more like Grace’s child, but her interests, her competitiveness, her sense of humour and her character were much closer to his. Though they often clashed – they both loved a good argument, and could keep one going for days – there had always been an understanding between them, a respect, even a sneaking admiration for each other’s pig-headedness. That bond had evaporated of late. He couldn’t even make her smile any more.

  As he drove and tried to work out how to rebuild some semblance of trust between himself and his estranged daughter, Tom remembered how, in the beginning, humour had been the bridge that had spanned the gulf between a desperately anxious ‘nearly’ father and a petrified child.

  On the day they met Cassie for the very first time, Tom was a bundle of nerves. It felt like the most important day of their lives – because it was.

  They arrived in Stockport way too early, but Tom just couldn’t drive any slower; there was too much adrenaline pumping through his heart. They pulled onto the correct street and spotted number seventeen almost immediately. A paved-over front garden with a grey people-carrier obscuring the view of the house, a glimpsed, blue front door, then they were past it. Tom turned left at the end of the road onto an almost identical street of red-brick houses, left again, then pulled randomly into a space. ‘I didn’t want to park right outside.’ He clicked his seatbelt free, an admission of just how early they were. He flexed his fingers and cracked his knuckles, causing Grace to wince. ‘Sorry.’

  The next hour felt like a day.

  With ten minutes left on the clock, they drove round the block again, parked, got out, walked up to the house, edged past the people-carrier and found themselves standing outside the blue front door, literally on the threshold of meeting their child. Before Grace had a chance to ring the bell, the door was opened by a stout woman in her early sixties. ‘Hello, come on in, we’re all ready for you.’ Her voice was high and tight with friendliness. They followed her down a narrow hallway, skirting around a basket full of children’s shoes and a bulging coat rack; the jumble of fur-trimmed hoods looked like a nest of foxes. Grace followed Tom into the lounge, where they both stuttered to a halt, overwhelmed by their expectations.

  It was a long room – once two rooms presumably, which had been knocked through to create more space. Light streamed through the back window onto a big, dusty TV, two cushion-strewn sofas, an overflowing toy box, an expanse of carpet, an ugly hearth and a huge collection of framed photos. It was a typical family home, well used, comfortable and very, very warm. Tom felt as if he’d just stepped onto a stage set and, despite days of rehearsal, had completely forgotten his lines. He could hear the dialogue and knew that he needed to play his part, but a yawning black blank had replaced his brain.

  Thankfully Jane, the foster mum, took charge. ‘Sit down. Make yourselves at home. The kettle’s on. Now, Cassidie, there’s no need to be shy. Look, Mummy Grace and Daddy Tom are here.’

  Four small words, never spoken before.

  Tom and Grace looked past Jane, searching for the child they’d been waiting a lifetime for. She was on the sofa, beneath the far window, curled up so small that she was barely visible. Her head was buried behind Wendy, her social worker. For a second they all stared at her hunched back and the sharp peaks of her shoulder blades. Her T-shirt was pale blue. It had rucked up, revealing a wide strip of skin. The sun, coming through the window, picked up the downy hairs on her back. The soles of her feet poked out from beneath her bottom. Everything about her position shouted, ‘Go away, you’re frightening me.’

  ‘It’s okay. Really,’ Grace said, though it wasn’t.

  Tom’s pulse was threatening to break through his temples, so God knows what the child must have been feeling.

  But Jane persisted. ‘Come on, Cassidie. Say hello.’ At the second command the little girl wriggled upright, and Grace and Tom saw their potential daughter for the very first time. Or at least they saw the top of her head, because she sat with her eyes downcast, one hand clutching a fistful of Wendy’s cardigan, the other to her mouth. Wendy chatted to her softly while Tom and Grace perched on the edge of the sofa, unbearably conscious of their bones and their breath, and of the wrongness of their looming presence in the room. Jane smiled at them again. ‘Don’t worry – it gets easier, I promise. Tea?’ As she crossed the room, Cassidie’s head lifted and they saw her face.

  She was as breathtaking as her picture. More so, more solid, and real, and beautiful; and, obviously, currently very frightened, because when Jane disappeared into the back of the house, Cassidie’s expression wobbled. Her compact little body leant after Jane, yearning to be close to the one person she trusted. The urge to reach out and comfort her was overwhelming, but they were frozen by the absolute certainty that if they went anywhere near Cassidie, they would terrify her. It was an appalling, distressing moment – which galvanised Tom into action.

  He clambered down onto the floor and shuffled across the carpet, on his knees, h
eading towards the toy box. Wendy smiled. Tom picked a toy out of the box, a lump of bright, pre-school plastic: four coloured boxes with closed lids, set in a row. He sat on the floor, facing Cassidie, who was still looking anxiously at the door, waiting for Jane to reappear. Tom shook the toy. Nothing. He tried again. Nothing. Then he banged it against the hearth. The noise drew Cassidie’s attention. He thumped it again, still nothing. Pure bafflement. Next he swiped it back and forth across the carpet, making a great swishing sound. Still nothing, but now he had her attention. Next Tom tried to prise open one of the lids with his fingertips – no success. He pulled a face of pure frustration. He turned the toy upside down and shook it. No luck. He dumped it down on the floor in front of him and sat back. Defeated.

  Cassidie looked up at Wendy, who nodded. ‘Go on, show Tom how it works.’

  She climbed down slowly and crouched on her haunches opposite him, her expression solemn and uncertain. Tom shrugged and shook his head, as if to say, ‘You’ve got no chance.’

  ‘It’s okay, Cassidie,’ Wendy prompted softly.

  At last her chubby little hands reached out. She pulled the toy towards her and, without a moment’s hesitation, pressed the button in front of the red lid. A pig popped out… Oink! Tom fell back as if he’d been shot. A smile transformed Cassidie’s face. Tom twisted round to address the room, marvelling at her cleverness. ‘Did you see that, Grace? This girl’s a mechanical genius.’ While he wasn’t looking, Cassidie reached out and stealthily pressed the blue button. Up popped a cow… Moo! Tom collapsed backwards again, all drama and smiles. This time Cassidie laughed, a proper chortle of delight at the game and her role as chief mischief-maker.

  By the time Jane came back into the room, the contents of the toy box were spread across the carpet and Grace and Tom were on the floor, within touching distance of their child.

  Tom was within touching distance of his daughter now, but he couldn’t reach her.

  He pulled the car onto the drive and switched off the engine. Cassie got out of the car and walked away towards the house, without waiting for him.

  Chapter 8

  AS SOON as they got back home from the shops Cassie escaped up to her room, where she crawled into her bed, hugging her secret close. She felt hemmed in by the mounting pile of unanswerable questions. It was exhausting. She lay watching the birds against the slate-grey sky, adrift. She knew that if she closed her eyes and let the weariness in, the images would come.

  After half an hour of resistance, she let them.

  She wakes.

  Her top is soggy. It sticks to her chest as she twists and turns. Breathing is difficult. She’s cold, so cold it hurts. A wet, wheezy sound fills the bedroom, like a dog snuffling for food. It’s not a nice noise. A bubble forms, pops, then re-forms on the end of her nose. The skin around her nostrils and lips is sore. The dog starts to bark and once it starts, it doesn’t stop. Her breath is hard-edged, wedged in her throat. She can’t see the dog, but it sounds awfully close. She rolls over, but succeeds only in binding herself tighter in her sheet.

  A light clicks on and a voice speaks, shushing them both. She’s lifted up and immediately the blockage in her windpipe shifts. Something soft and warm is wrapped around her. With gentle efficiency the gluey film is wiped off her face. There’s a brief stinging pain, followed by a rush of air into her lungs. She’s held close and patted – soft, regular taps on her back. There’s some shouting in another room, but it’s not aimed at her.

  She knows the sounds that she can, and must, ignore. The barking stops. Her breathing slows and settles. The voice hums and mutters, a series of sounds that begin to form a rhyme she recognises. The taps turn into strokes, keeping pace with the song. ‘Round and round the garden, like a teddy bear’, a soothing mantra rubbed into her back. She’s no longer cold. ‘One step, two step.’ Her head grows heavy. She rests it against bone and flesh and slips into sleep.

  It’s a race, but she’s in front, and she knows she’s going to win – she always wins. Their rubber-soled shoes squeak up the stairs. It’s a great sound, full of energy and life and not caring. They run straight upstairs – not looking left. The room on the left is the one that she must never go into. The room that smells different; smoky, almost nice, but not quite. There’s a meaty edge to it, like something gone bad. It’s the room in the house that is full of dark shapes and deep voices, which have nothing to do with her.

  The air whistles through her throat into her lungs. Her heart is racing, fit to burst. It feels good to rush and clatter and make a noise.

  But the stairs aren’t long enough. The race is over too soon. They are back in the bedroom, inside the trap. The same four walls. The same stale air. The same everything. She is sick of being in the bedroom.

  ‘Again. Again.’ She jumps up and down, momentum pounding inside her legs.

  ‘No.’ Short and sharp. Warning her.

  She edges back towards the door, itching to run some more, back down the stairs and out the front door, away from the house. Far away, as fast as her legs can carry her. And she is fast.

  ‘I said, “No”! That’s enough.’ There’s a pause. ‘I ain’t messing.’

  She knows that she isn’t.

  She throws herself on the mattress and pretends to go to sleep.

  She wakes and immediately knows that she’s on her own.

  It’s dark. The door is closed, but the voices downstairs reach up through the floor – loud voices, ‘fucking this’ and ‘fucking that’. She doesn’t like it. She curls up as small as she can, her knees tight against her chest, her eyes shut.

  She keeps quiet – like she’s been told.

  She hides, knowing that a blanket is not enough.

  She’s on her own, again.

  Bored.

  She’s been bored for ever.

  The door is open. Beckoning. She ignores its whispering. She’s been told, in no uncertain terms, to stay put. She concentrates on her book, but she’s looked at it a hundred times before; its pages might as well be blank, for all the interest they hold.

  Below her someone is laughing. Someone laughs back.

  Today downstairs sounds happy.

  The door is still open. She can’t hear or smell the dog.

  She goes to stand by the door. The right side of the line.

  Downstairs someone claps.

  She steps – small – over the line.

  Nothing bad happens. Three more steps, out into the open, onto the landing. ‘Proper’ naughty. But nothing happens. One foot, two feet at a time; one stair, then another stair at a time, edging towards the laughter.

  Before she knows it, she’s downstairs.

  The shock stops her – that and the voice in her head.

  But… it’s too late. ‘Hey, look. A little dude.’ Eyes and legs. The room is full of eyes and legs, and hoods. And smiles. And smoke. And they can see her. That is bad. She shouldn’t let them see her. She edges back. One of them stands up. He’s big. His face disappears, but his voice reaches down to her. ‘Hey there, Cutie. Come in and say “hi” to the guys. We don’t bite.’ The mouths in the room laugh. He reaches out and she remembers, in no uncertain terms, what she’s supposed to do if they ever try to touch her.

  He might not bite.

  But she does.

  Chapter 9

  ON THE Monday morning Cassie said she felt sick. Her mother obviously didn’t believe her, but she didn’t challenge her either – she colluded – ascribing her tiredness to a virus. ‘It’s doing the rounds at the moment. We’ve had a lot of staff off with it. Another day won’t do you any harm.’ Her mum fussed over her for ten minutes, before leaving late, with a final injunction to drink lots of water and definitely eat something.

  Left alone, Cassie spent the day rattling around the empty house, trying to make sense of what was happening. She concluded that she really must be going mad. The doctor had asked about her birth mum, Cassie had thought about her and, in thinking about her, she’d conjured
her up. It was as simple and as weird as that. The memories were coming thick and fast now. She couldn’t anticipate them, or summon them, nor could she block them. The lack of control was deeply unnerving, but it was also kind of thrilling.

  She had another mother.

  She was not Tom and Grace’s daughter.

  She had been born into a different life and somewhere, embedded deep within her, there seemed to be fragments of that other existence. What else could explain the images that were rising to the surface of her brain? But with the dreams came a sense of guilt. Cassie felt ashamed that she’d never bothered to find out more about her adoption. It hadn’t mattered to her before. Now it did.

  Needing something more tangible than confusing half-memories and weird dreams, Cassie began searching.

  An hour and a half later she sat at her desk, staring at two photos. They were glossy, square-cornered, glaringly old-fashioned. It had taken her quite a while to find them. She’d shoved them away years ago, with no ceremony or consideration, giving them the respect she’d felt they deserved – namely, none. She’d eventually uncovered them in a box file, on her bookcase, mixed in with her old school reports and dancing certificates. They were the only relics of her past that she possessed.

  Picture one was of a chubby little girl, cute, serious, sitting on a woman’s knee. The child’s fat little fists were clutching a teddy. The woman in the photo was smiling, both arms encircling the child. She was old enough to be Cassie’s grandmother, but she was not. Picture two was of the same little girl, but younger – thinner? – still cute, sitting on a different woman’s knee. No toy this time. The woman in the photo was also smiling, one arm loosely holding the child. This woman was young enough to be her mother, because she was.