The Good Sister

by Sally Hepworth

  I’d hoped for this sort of reaction when I started dating Albert.

  ‘I have a boyfriend,’ I’d told her, even though Albert and I hadn’t specifically used the terms ‘boyfriend’ and ‘girlfriend’. Still, I’d come to recognise our behaviours as typical of those in that kind of relationship, so it seemed a logical conclusion to draw. ‘His name is Albert.’

  ‘What do you mean . . . you have a boyfriend?’

  This should have been my first warning. Unlike the vast majority of the population, Rose didn’t usually ask questions to which she already knew the answer. She knew I didn’t understand it when people did this. But this day, she seemed to have forgotten.

  ‘I mean . . . I have a boyfriend,’ I replied.

  Rose didn’t gasp or giggle, but she did ask dozens of questions about Albert, none of them in the least bit interesting. What was his last name? Where did he live? What was he studying? Her lip curled as she talked, as if a boyfriend was something that personally offended her.

  ‘When can I meet him?’ had been the last question, something of a surprise given that she’d seemed so disgusted by his existence.

  After some prodding, I’d agreed to bring Albert to dinner at her place, where she’d proceeded to ask him all the same questions she’d asked me and more. There was no nudging or winking or giggling. There was nothing fun about it at all. There was nothing fun about it the next day either, when Albert stopped talking to me. So I decide it might be better not to tell Rose about Wally. For now.

  *

  At 9.15 am, when I’m about to leave for work, Mrs Hazelbury knocks on my door.

  ‘I’m sorry to bother you so early, Fern, but I wanted to catch you before you went to work. I have a copy of the body corporate documentation here.’ She holds up a stack of papers and places her eyeglasses on her nose. ‘Section 4.2 states that no dogs are permitted in the building, and section 15.6 states, and I quote, “Parking of larger vehicles including trucks, trailers and caravans is strictly not permitted by building by-laws”.’ She removes her glasses and looks at me expectantly. ‘Are you familiar with these by-laws?’

  ‘I am,’ I say. (In fact, I’d read the body corporate documents very carefully after moving Alfie into my flat, and then done subsequent research on the computers when the library was quiet.) ‘However, by-laws that have a blanket ban on pets have been found to be contrary to section 180 of the Domestic Animals Act, which advises that “a by-law must not be oppressive or unreasonable, having regard to the interest of all owners and occupiers of lots included in the scheme and the use of the common property for the scheme”.’

  Mrs Hazelbury blinks. I take her blank expression to mean she needs further explanation.

  ‘That means that the by-law can say what it wants, but owners corporations do not have the legal power to prohibit pets from private properties.’

  Now Mrs Hazelbury understands. I can tell because she becomes red in the face.

  ‘As for the van,’ I continue, ‘you’ll find it is not a caravan or trailer. It is registered as a standard motor vehicle, and as such does not breach any of the by-laws mentioned. Anyway, I do need to get going now, Mrs Hazelbury, or I’ll be late for work.’

  With that, I take Alfie by his lead, walk out and close the door behind us, leaving Mrs Hazelbury standing speechless at my front door.

  Everyone is especially kind to me at the library today, and I ascertain it is because of the scene I made at the bowling alley last night. It is also possible it is because there is a dog by my side. With Wally at his meeting today, I had no alternative but to bring Alfie to the library with me. The fact that Carmel is at an inter-library meeting for the morning is a fortuitous twist of fate, and one I take advantage of.

  Alfie is a big hit with library staff and borrowers alike. Even the grumpy old folks who’ve been bussed in from the nursing home cheer a little at the sight of him. Linda uses him as a prop during story hour. Gayle goes out to buy dog treats in her break and feeds him so many that he can’t do much more than loll about at my feet while I process returned books into the system. Of course, he chooses the second that Carmel has arrived back from her meeting to poo on the carpet.

  ‘What on earth is going on here?’ she cries, as I’m on my hands and knees with a spray bottle and paper towel.

  I look up. Carmel is wearing those eyeglasses that become sunglasses when you go outside. Except she’s inside and the glasses don’t seem to have realised.

  ‘Oh, Fern,’ she says, softer now. ‘Hello. It’s good to see that you’re . . . feeling better, after last night . . .’

  She trails off. I get the feeling I’m supposed to say something (I’m starting to get the hang of the strange way Carmel talks), but I’m not sure what. Eventually I try ‘Mmm’, and it does the trick, bizarrely.

  ‘Anyway. As I told you the other day, dogs are not allowed in the library.’

  ‘Actually,’ I say, ‘owners of assistance dogs have the right to take their animals into all public places and onto public transport, including buses and trains. The Commonwealth Disability Discrimination Act 1992 makes it unlawful to discriminate against a person with a disability who is using an assistance–’

  Carmel frowns underneath her rapidly fading glasses. ‘So . . . you’re saying this is an assistance dog?’

  I look at Alfie dubiously. ‘Yes . . .’

  ‘I see. Then I assume you know it is a requirement that assistance dog owners must provide evidence of their disability when requested.’

  I don’t reply. But Carmel waits so I throw in another ‘Mmm’.

  ‘So?’ Carmel says expectantly. ‘Where is your evidence of disability?’

  I’ve underestimated Carmel. I’ve also underestimated her glasses, because in this short time, they’ve almost returned to clear.

  I cross my arms.

  ‘Fern, the dog has got to go.’

  I frown, looking off into the distance. ‘Sorry, will you excuse me, Carmel? I think I hear someone calling–’

  I rise to my feet and am about to walk off when Carmel says: ‘Please don’t walk away while I’m talking to you, Fern.’

  I frown. ‘But you’d finished talking. You said the dog had to go, and then I walked away.’

  ‘But . . .’ Carmel looks utterly discombobulated, ‘you hadn’t answered me!’

  I place a hand to my brow and close my eyes, breathing deeply, the way women in old-fashioned movies did before they ‘took to their beds’. I’ve always wanted to try it and it is surprisingly gratifying. ‘You didn’t ask a question, Carmel. How am I supposed to answer a question, if one hasn’t been posed?’

  Carmel doesn’t reply, even though that was a question. Like me, she is also breathing deeply. I think she, too, would like to take to her bed.

  ‘Fern, will you please make alternative arrangements for the dog?’ she asks after a long silence.

  I sigh. At least she has been clear, I suppose. I pull my phone from my pocket to check the time. Wally will have finished his meeting by now. I thumb him a text. Satisfyingly, he writes back almost immediately.

  On my way.

  ‘Someone is coming to get him now,’ I say to Carmel.

  ‘Good,’ she replies, looking happier now. ‘I trust I won’t see him in the library again.’

  I wait until she finishes the sentence and, not hearing a question, hurry away before she can stop me.

  Wally arrives at the library promptly, once again dressed in a suit and tie. The sight of him sends a bizarre, not unpleasant zing through me.

  ‘Hello,’ I call out from the back of the library (perhaps too loudly given the amount of people that turn to look at me). Alfie and I trot toward him.

  ‘Hello,’ Wally says when we are closer. We have a frightening moment of eye contact before Wally bends down to pat Alfie.

  ‘How was your meeting?’

  ‘It was a bigger meeting than I expected,’ he says. ‘There were a bunch of people there. I gave a presentation.
’

  ‘Preeesentation,’ I repeat.

  Wally laughs. ‘Sorry. Prehsentation.’

  I’m enjoying the interaction so much I decide to experiment with casual touch. I step forward and punch Wally on the arm, the way I’ve seen people do when they’re having a laugh. But I think I do it too hard, because he stops laughing and looks alarmed.

  ‘Sorry,’ I say.

  ‘That’s okay,’ he says, rubbing his arm.

  ‘So it went well? Your preeesentation?’

  ‘Yes,’ he says. ‘Very well. Maybe I can tell you about it after your shift? It’s going to be a nice afternoon . . . maybe we can take a walk.’

  It is, I decide, the perfect suggestion. No noise, no smells, no unnatural light. Lots of fresh air. There would be small talk, I suppose, but I’m getting used to Wally’s small talk. Even becoming fond of it.

  ‘I can’t today,’ I say, handing over Alfie’s lead. ‘On Thursdays, after work, I visit my mother. Then I have dinner with Rose.’

  ‘Your mother?’ Wally looks bewildered. ‘But . . . I thought you said your mother died?’

  ‘I said she overdosed,’ I reply. ‘I never said she died.’

  As soon as the automatic doors slide open at Sun Meadows, the smell of casserole and urine starts to seep out. It’s a malodorous, tacky smell that clings to me, even hours after I’ve returned home, showered and washed my clothes.

  Tragically, it is also now my mother’s scent.

  Once, my mother’s scent had been talcum powder and toothpaste and laundry detergent. ‘Cleanliness, godliness and all that,’ she used to say, as she hummed around the house. I remember having to hold my breath when I was in the room with her, particularly when she bent down to kiss me at night.

  One day she asked me why I was holding my breath, and I told her. ‘Your smell makes me feel sick.’

  Mum had looked sad then. ‘I’m so sorry, baby,’ she’d said. ‘I had no idea. If you’d prefer I didn’t hug you–’

  ‘It’s okay,’ I’d said, shaking my head. ‘It’s worth it.’

  At the reception desk, a woman I don’t recognise smiles vaguely at me before returning to her paperwork. Security isn’t very tight at my mother’s establishment. I sign the visitor book, take a badge and walk past the elevator, which has been screened off and bears a handwritten sign saying, OUT OF ORDR (no ‘E’). Fine by me. Elevators make me claustrophobic anyway, and smells seem magnified in them, particularly if I’m sharing the space with other visitors. I take the stairs.

  At the top, a man in a brown dressing gown pushes a walker down the corridor, scanning the floor as if looking for something.

  ‘Hi, Fern,’ one of the nurses says. It is Onnab, whom I have determined to be one of the best nurses when it comes to Mum’s state of personal hygiene and state of mind. ‘Your mother is in her room. She is having a good day.’

  A good day, I have learned, can mean a vast range of things. It can mean Mum is happy to see me and will attempt conversation, or it could mean she is quiet and doesn’t say a word. She is rarely aggressive or combative and I’m grateful because apparently that isn’t always the case with people in this ward.

  Mum’s door is ajar, and I knock lightly then push it open. Mum is in a wheelchair in the corner, dressed in a pair of grey trousers and a white blouse that is turning a little yellow. Her hair has been brushed and is pinned back, which makes it look very grey around the temples. She’s even wearing shoes, the black Velcro ones with white socks underneath. It does indeed appear to be a good day.

  ‘Hello, Fern,’ Teresa says.

  Teresa is Mum’s new speech pathologist. She was twenty-seven years old when I’d asked last time I saw her. She has a thick brown ponytail, a singsongy voice and lots of ideas for ways to improve Mum’s speech. Today, for example, there is a machine beside Mum’s chair, which is attached to a long cord. At the end of the cord is a flat circular object that hovers over Mum’s head.

  ‘What’s all this?’

  ‘Transcranial magnetic stimulation,’ Teresa says. ‘We did it last week too. Your mother is responding very well to it. Watch.’

  She holds up a flashcard showing a picture of an apple.

  ‘A-pple,’ Mum says.

  ‘Now this one.’ Teresa holds up a flashcard of a lion.

  ‘Lion,’ Mum says.

  I am impressed. Because of Mum’s brain damage, speaking is hard for her now. Usually she pauses before each word as if gathering strength, and then her mouth stretches wide around each syllable. Even with all the effort, her pronunciation is hollow sounding and requires extreme concentration to understand. But these words come out remarkably clearly.

  Mum looks at me. ‘Pop . . . pet!’ she says, with painful slowness.

  Mum started calling me ‘Poppet’ after the overdose. I think it’s because she sometimes doesn’t remember my name; Mum had never used affectionate nicknames for us before. But a lot of things have changed about Mum. She smiles more now. She is easily delighted, reminding me of a much older lady, or a younger child. She’s actually very good company, most days.

  Mum’s overdose happened sixteen years ago. She took the pills in the evening, and Rose and I didn’t even think about it when she didn’t get up in the morning. Mum had never been a morning person. At midday, we helped ourselves to lunch. In the afternoon, we toyed with the idea of waking her, but Rose was nervous about upsetting her. She had a point – Mum was always cranky when we woke her up.

  It was 9 pm that night when we finally knocked on Mum’s door. By then she’d been in a coma for hours. Too many hours, they told us later. I called the ambulance, because Rose was mute with shock. It was perhaps the only time in our lives when I was the one to step up in a moment of emergency.

  We found out later that Mum had overdosed on valium and alcohol and her brain had been irreparably damaged. A few weeks later, Mum was moved to a permanent care facility and Rose and I were bounced around foster homes until we were eighteen.

  ‘Well,’ Teresa says in her singsongy voice. ‘I think that’s enough for one day, Nina. You should be very proud of yourself.’

  ‘You should, Mum,’ I agree. ‘I haven’t heard you sound so clear in . . . years.’

  Teresa beams. ‘If she continues to improve at this rate, she’ll be speaking in full sentences by the end of the year. I can’t wait to have a good old chitchat with her, hear all her stories.’

  Teresa removes the round thing from Mum’s head and starts fiddling with the machine. Mum looks at me. ‘Where . . . you . . . sis . . . ter?’

  Mum asks this every time. I’m not sure if it’s because she doesn’t remember that Rose never visits, or if she just hasn’t given up hope. In the early days after her accident, it had been a requirement that our various foster parents bring us for weekly visitation, but the day Rose turned eighteen, she stopped coming. (‘Mum unsettles me,’ she said when I asked her why. It must be one of those things I don’t understand, because I never feel unsettled by Mum. To the contrary, our hour of unthreatening, halted conversation is one of the most settled parts of my week.)

  ‘Rose is in Europe,’ I say.

  Mum’s eyes widen, which means she is interested.

  ‘I know,’ I say. ‘She’s gone to visit Owen. He’s taken a job there this year and Rose is visiting him for four weeks.’

  I’m grateful that today I don’t have to lie about Rose’s whereabouts. Often, when I tell Mum that Rose isn’t coming, her eyes fill with tears. Her emotions are unpredictable since her overdose, happiness to tears in an instant. I wish Rose would just come in and visit.

  ‘Owen?’ Mum frowns. ‘Eur-ope?’

  ‘Yes, he’s taken a job there,’ I repeat. ‘Anyway, Rose is just visiting him. She will be back at the end of the month.’

  Mum doesn’t reply.

  Sometimes I am sad that Mum doesn’t say much. Sometimes, like Teresa, I’d like to have a full conversation with her and see what she has to say. Sometimes she seems so frus
trated by the fact that she can’t talk, she clenches her fists and grinds her jaw. Other times, she seems like she’s made her peace with her disability, and just sits there and let’s my chatter wash over her. During those times, I have to admit, I like the fact that I can talk and talk and never have to worry about making eye contact or talking too much or missing any social cues. It’s probably the only place in the world where I feel like I can do that. That, I suppose, is what mothers are for.

  ‘I have some news,’ I say to Mum on a whim. It feels good because I never have news. Mum’s eyes widen again.

  ‘I’ve met a boy,’ I say, and finally I get the gasp I’ve been waiting for.

  When I arrive home from Sun Meadows, Wally’s kombi van is parked in my parking spot. It looks distinctive among the maroon sedans and white Toyota Corollas, and it adds some character to the place. I reach the sliding back door and pause a moment. I don’t know the proper greeting when arriving at someone’s van, so I knock loudly and wait.

  ‘Hello,’ Wally says, poking his head out of the driver’s side window. Alfie sits happily on his lap. ‘Did you have a good visit with your Mum?’

  ‘I did.’ I go around to the passenger door of the van and get in. Alfie immediately leaps across the seat and lays his head on my lap. ‘So, tell me more about your preeesentation. Who did you preeesent to?’

  ‘A group of investors. They’re the same guys who gave us the money to start up Shout!’

  ‘What is this idea? Another app?’

  He nods. ‘It’s a social prompter called FollowUp.’

  I scratch behind Alfie’s ears. ‘What is a social prompter?’