The Sisters Grimm

by Menna Van Praag

  In the darkness, Scarlet’s thoughts return inevitably to Ezekiel Wolfe, to his hand so close to her thigh, to their fingers nearly touching, to that kiss. She starts to stroke her hand across her chest, imagining it to be his, her touch as light and soft as the cotton sheets. Shivering slightly, Scarlet slides her hand along her ribs, gathering her T-shirt so it settles in folds over her belly. Scarlet closes her eyes and licks her finger and strokes it across her skin as the streetlamp outside her window begins to flicker.

  Ezekiel slides his hand up her thigh. Scarlet twists her body in the sheets. He pulls her into his lap. Scarlet holds her breath. Downstairs, in the café, the kettle’s plug blows its fuse. He begins to unbutton her, to place single kisses along her throat, to her breasts, her ribs . . .

  As Scarlet begins to shudder, the kitchen lights begin to flicker and flicker. Until, at last, Scarlet lets out a long low moan of delight, and the streetlamp outside shatters, scattering glass and sparks into the night.

  3:33 a.m.—Esme

  It is in the early morning hours that Esme thinks of her daughter. She wakes from the same dream she’s had every night for the past ten years, ever since the last time she saw Ruby.

  In the dream, Esme’s on a carousel, not one fashioned from psychedelic painted metal but stitched from spiders’ webs and spinning so fast that Esme grips the muzzle of the sculpted horse on which she sits. It’s surprisingly solid, given that, along with every other animal, it’s crafted from silken threads. As the carousel spins, Esme begins to find her balance, adapting to the dizzying speed.

  The moon is bright and the spiders’ webs glimmer as they catch the light. Esme realizes that the carousel is suspended in midair, tethered to the clouds, always spinning but always still. It’s then that she sees her little girl sitting astride a gossamer unicorn, red hair streaming out as they turn, one chubby hand ungripping the unicorn’s horn as Ruby waves.

  “No!” Esme screams. “Don’t let go!”

  Esme slides down from her horse and runs, reaching towards her daughter, slipping, stumbling, shouting. It’s then that he appears. Every night the same. A tall man with white hair, golden eyes, and a face so lined with wrinkles he might be ten thousand years old. One moment he’s standing alone, the next he’s beside Ruby, his hands at her waist.

  “No!” Esme screams. “Don’t touch her!”

  But he lifts Ruby from the unicorn. Her legs kick out as she starts to cry.

  As Esme stumbles forward the cobwebs soften, her feet sinking into sticky threads. She’s pulling against them when the spiders appear, long thin legs uncurling towards her ankles. The carousel spins, faster and faster, as Esme cries for her daughter. Ruby’s captor leaps into the air, rising into the clouds like a balloon, glancing back with a final, triumphant grin.

  Esme wakes at 3:33 a.m. Every night the same, as if she’s been switched on, lit up, alarmed. There’s no return to sleep, not yet, not for a long while. Years ago, she fought it. Now she surrenders. Now she waits. She watches the ceiling as doors creak ajar and corridors of memory open.

  Sometimes Esme sees her daughter as a baby, with wide brown eyes, wispy red curls, and tiny pink toes. Sometimes as a teenager, with braces, acne, and self-doubt. Sometimes she’s pregnant, or playing with her baby, or teaching Scarlet to ride a bike. Over the past decade, Esme must have recalled every moment—every day, month, year of Ruby’s life. The only way Esme never sees her daughter is old.

  4:37 a.m.—Goldie

  When I finally get back to the flat, Teddy is still asleep, just as I’d left him. I know I shouldn’t have left him, technically, but it felt safe. He rarely wakes before six. Seven, if I’m lucky. Anything after eight is, perhaps, a biannual miracle. Instead of slumping on the sofa, I curl up beside him. He’s so small, so thin, all bones. After being with Leo, lying next to Teddy is almost like being alone. He’s still only half of a human, almost a pet. I can’t find comfort in my little brother’s arms. And yet, I know he loves me more than anything else in the world. Even more than his new blue blazer that, I now notice, he’s wearing with his pyjamas.

  4:37 p.m.—Bea

  “I’ve been thinking about what you said yesterday,” Bea says.

  Vali grins. “You’ve been thinking about me?”

  “I didn’t say that. That’s not what I said.”

  Vali’s grin only deepens. “Then what were you thinking about?”

  They stroll along Trinity Street, side by side. Vali has brought coffee and croissants. Bea has let him.

  “All your psychologizing. All that shit you were saying about my ego and other people’s expectations,” Bea says. “Mamá tells me I’m—it always comes back to the mother, doesn’t it? That’s what all you fucking shrinks think, isn’t it?”

  Vali rips into his croissant. “Well, Bowlby and Freud certainly did skew things in that direction. But don’t forget the father—only fair he should shoulder half the blame.”

  “I never had one.” Bea bites the lip of her coffee cup. “So does that make it solely Mamá’s fault or half mine?”

  “Your father still had an effect.” Vali chews. “After all, absence is as affecting as presence, don’t you think?”

  Bea shrugs. “I don’t remember missing him.”

  Vali gulps his coffee. “So you say. But I think this tough act—as if you don’t need nothing or no one—is all pretence.”

  “Piss off.”

  “Psychologically speaking, those with the stoniest exteriors have the softest interiors,” Vali says through another mouthful of croissant. “And vice versa. No one realizes, of course, because everyone takes everyone else at face value—but it’s the violent ones who, deep down, are the most vulnerable. Though they’ll probably never know it themselves. Or, if they do”—he gives her a pointed look—“They’d rather kill or die than admit it.”

  Bea scowls at him. “Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t realize I was paying for the privilege of this little drink with you.”

  “You’re not,” Vali says. “I am.”

  “Then stop fucking psychologizing me.”

  Vali grins again. “Did I hit a nerve?”

  Bea ignores him. At the corner of Trinity Lane, Vali doesn’t turn but keeps walking.

  “Hey.” Bea stops. “Where are you going?”

  He shrugs. “What’s the rush? Let’s take the scenic route.”

  Bea frowns but follows him.

  “You know, the reverse is true too,” Vali says, swallowing the last of his croissant. “It’s the nice ones you should watch out for. It’s the simpering, smiling ones who secretly want to slap everyone—”

  “So I should watch out for you then.” Bea sips her coffee.

  Vali laughs. “Touché.”

  “Well, you’re wrong,” Bea says. “I’m stone inside and out. I never missed my father. And, frankly, I wish my mamá would fuck off too. I’ll tell you who I miss: my cat.”

  “You don’t mean that.”

  “I do,” Bea says. “I love that cat.”

  As they pass King’s College Chapel, sunlight through the stained-glass windows scatters cubes of coloured light on the pavement like brightly wrapped sweets at their feet.

  “You know what I mean.”

  “Yeah,” Bea says. “And you’ve never met Mamá.”

  Vali brightens. “I’d like to. If—”

  Bea drops her paper cup in a dustbin. “No chance. Never. Not happening.”

  “Okay, no need to sugar-coat it.” Vali pats his stomach. “I’ve got enough padding to absorb the blows.”

  “Don’t do that.”

  “What?”

  “You’re not very perceptive for a shrink, are you?” Bea nibbles at her croissant. “All that self-deprecating bullshit. Just cos your mamá treated you like crap doesn’t mean you need to do it too.”

  Vali tugs his beard, smiling. “I didn’t know you cared.”

  “I don’t,” Bea says. “It’s just annoying. Anyway, if you’re going to sort out other
people’s shit, you’d better sort out your own first, don’t you think?”

  “I never claimed to be doing anything of the sort,” Vali says. “My focus is more theoretical than practical. Are you going to eat that?”

  Bea hands Vali her nibbled croissant. “What use is that to anyone?”

  “Thanks.” Vali takes it. “Says the philosopher.”

  “Touché to you too, you little prick.” Bea smiles. “And your mamá was wrong. Being fat isn’t so bad.” She stops walking to eye him up and down. “You’re soft and cuddly, like a baby owl.”

  “I thought you were the owl,” Vali says. “And I’m the mouse.”

  “Yeah,” Bea says. “That was before I knew you. Anyway, if you’re an owl, then I’m an eagle.”

  Above them, the golden weather vanes of Corpus Christi College spin unseen in the wind. Catching a reflected glint of light on the pavement, Bea glances up, thinking she’ll drop in on Dr. Finch later and finagle him into giving her access to the glider again.

  11:59 p.m.—Liyana

  Liyana can’t stop thinking about the damn voice and its cryptic messages. She’d been shocked and scared to hear it again. But, as experience became memory, fear began to fade and frustration had seeped in. She’s been searching for clues, for a possible code. But she’s never liked crossword puzzles and only has four sentences to work with:

  I’m going to kill Cassie when I see her.

  Oh, Grandma, what are we going to do?

  I said stop smiling—now you look like a constipated hamster.

  It’s time to find your sisters.

  Liyana doesn’t want to kill anyone. She doesn’t have a grandmother, at least not living. And she’s certainly never called anyone a constipated hamster. Her insults, learned at her aunt’s knee, are in her mother tongue. But strangest of all is the instruction, since Liyana doesn’t have any sisters. Also, why should she be trying to find these fictitious sisters, when what she really needs to find is a job?

  Liyana sits up in bed shading the contours of BlackBird’s breasts underneath her leather jacket. As she curls the halo of BlackBird’s hair, Liyana pauses. She touches her hand to her own hair and thinks of her mummy, of the bottle of thick white gloop that burned her skin. An echo of pain flushes Liyana’s scalp. She rubs at the sting and the memory pinballs to sitting in her mummy’s arms, snuggling into her approval, asking to be told the story of her birth.

  You were born with the rain. As I birthed you, the rain rushed from the gutters and drains, flooding the streets. You were born on the bridge from one day to the next—your head emerging a moment before midnight, your limbs a moment after. You didn’t cry. You hardly ever cried. You were a good baby, so soft, so quiet.

  I was the first to hold you, the first to whisper secrets into the tiny shells of your ears. We chatted in a language without words, cementing a connection that rose from the roots of life itself. When you blinked up at me I saw your soul in your watery eyes and I knew your name. You were a daughter of the rain, so I called you Liyana. A good, strong Zulu name, in honour of your maternal great-grandfather, meaning “it is raining.” And I knew that whenever I called your name I would be calling the rain. This would be my gift to you. You were birthed in a flood and you, like every plant and animal in our magnificent country, would thrive in the rain. Then Aunt Nya added your middle name. Miriro: “she who was wished for.”

  Liyana stares at her drawing and realizes, all of a sudden, that she needs to stop. To stop being so soft and quiet. To stop being this sicker, subtler shade of her own spirit. To stop being so white, this pale ghost of herself. To stop being so cowardly. To stop being so full of fucking self-doubt.

  Liyana needs to throw off her mother’s expectations. Enough of fading into the background, of trying so hard to be accepted, to fit into their adopted homeland with fake straight hair and soft voices. Why hadn’t her mother let her be who she truly was? Why had her mother fought so hard to shave off Liyana’s edges, to shape her into something suitable, to whittle her essence away? What good had it done but to leave Liyana full of fear? Fear of being different, fear of standing out, fear of being judged.

  But Liyana will not succumb to this fear. She’s tried so hard to be accepted and approved of, to be well-spoken and well-behaved, to be that which she is not. But no longer. She has tried and she has failed. Her true self has been fighting to be felt, struggling to be seen. Now it will rise.

  The priest was wrong. Liyana isn’t losing her grip on reality. She doesn’t know what the hell is going on, but she knows it’s nothing to fear. The voices are telling her something. And instead of being scared over the state of her sanity, Liyana will listen. She will consult her cards. Instead of cowering in the corner, she will leap into the fray. Instead of hiding from the enormity of the unknown, she’ll face it, will try to make sense of it. She’ll stop hiding, will stop avoiding her girlfriend and confront the situation. She’ll return Mazmo’s calls. She’ll apply for every single job she can find. And, even though she believes she has no sisters, Liyana will start looking for them.

  A decade ago

  Everwhere

  You’ve been waiting for the next first-quarter moon, counting the days, the hours, the minutes. The first time you went was an accident. This time you’ve planned everything, down to the last second. You don’t know if there are any other entrances, so you go to the same place, the same gate you found yourself in front of before. At 3:33 a.m. What were you doing there? Can you remember? Could you explain yourself, if called upon? You probably wouldn’t care to. Alone on the streets of London in the early morning hours, wandering aimlessly, until you found yourself standing in front of a rather charming church on Tavistock Place, Bloomsbury. Not your usual neighbourhood. What brought you here last time? An overflow of sadness or an overflow of joy? Either way, you stood there for a while. An hour passed, maybe two. The church clock chimed and you glanced up.

  That was when you felt it. A shift in the air. You looked around, wondering if someone was watching you. You saw nothing in the shadows but noticed the wrought-iron gate, a onetime entrance to the graveyard long since locked and barred. You gazed at it, for some reason caught and held—by the intricate workings in the metal, perhaps?—for several seconds. Just as, stepping forward, you reached up to touch the black petals of a metal rose, the moon came out from behind the clouds to cast a silver shimmer over the iron, and the moment you pressed your fingertips to the gate it swung open. As if it had been waiting for you.

  Tonight, you arrive early. You can’t quite recall the exact time the gate opened before. You don’t know if it was important or not—how precise do you need to be?—but you’re not taking any chances. Although the experience of Everwhere has faded, it’s still been at the back of your mind, humming at the edges of every day, every hour, since you left. A few times, maybe more, you’ve taken long, circuitous walks home from work, simply to look at the gate, though you never tried to push it open, never even touched it. If anyone had asked, you’d have told them you were there for the chocolate pecan biscuits sold in the café across the street. You even told yourself the same thing at first, though you don’t especially like chocolate.

  Tonight, the streets are empty, thanks to the lateness of the hour and the chill in the air. You hug your coat close, wish you’d worn a jumper and, almost, wish the café were open so you could have a cup of burning-hot coffee and even a biscuit or two. You stick your bare fingers under your armpits and press them tight against your chest. You pace back and forth, marking time with each misty puff of air.

  When the hour strikes, your heart quickens. Three o’clock. You continue pacing. You hope no one is watching, no curious insomniacs behind twitching curtains or homeless people searching for a warm spot on a winter night. When at last the half hour strikes, you feel that shift in the air again and release a long puff of breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding. Recently, you’d been having doubts, worried you might have imagined the whole thing
. Perhaps you’d been drunk or dreaming.

  But now you know you weren’t wrong.

  Your fingertips twitch with recognition. It’s the same. The moon. The air. The gate. It’s about to happen again. And, sure enough, at precisely 3:33 a.m. (you check your watch) the clouds part and moonlight illuminates the gate. You reach up to touch the same black rose; you push the gate open and step through.

  Goldie

  The thing I missed most of all was a garden. More than a real father, since by Ma’s account I wasn’t missing much there anyway—and if my stepfather was anything to go by. Anyway, I decided that a garden was better than a father, in a great many ways. A living, breathing thing that brought comfort but never hugged you too tight or interrogated you about your day. Instead it waited, steadfast and dependable, for you to come on your own terms. So, when I sat under a tree or in a patch of daisies, I felt alone and in company all at once.

  I believed that gardens had their own gods, protective spirits imbuing each place with its own particular feeling. It was the same with inside places too, just different. When I was six Ma took me, on a rare foray into culture, to hear the carols in King’s College Chapel on Christmas Eve. It was the most spectacular place I’d ever been, and when I looked up at the soaring stained-glass windows reaching fifty feet to the delicate carved stone ceiling, I started to cry. But still, being in a garden has always felt more spiritual than being in a house, no matter how beautiful the house.

  As soon as I stepped into any garden I felt calmer. I felt connected to it all, as if the soles of my feet were the earth, the branches of the trees my fingertips. I imagined that if I stood still long enough roots would grow from my toes and plant me in the soil. I felt strong, as immovable and immortal as an ancient oak.

  I’d felt this way since I was a little girl. The earliest memory I had was of staring up into a jigsaw puzzle of leaves, pieces of white sky visible between the green. Perhaps that was why I felt so drawn to Everwhere, it being a place where nature seemed to have taken over entirely, not a brick in sight. I’d have loved to live in a place like that. I didn’t know how I’d survive, but I thought I’d be fine.