The Good Sister

by Sally Hepworth

  It gets hotter, and I become more pregnant. I’d always found the heat irritating, but pregnancy adds another suffocating layer. The library, at least, is air conditioned, but each day the walk home becomes harder to enjoy. By the end of the fourth month, my elastic-waist skirts are tight even around my hips, digging in and cutting me in half and driving me crazy. The moment I get home I tear them off and wear one of Rose’s loose nighties instead.

  Rose has also added another suffocating layer to my life. She’s around constantly, and not just in the morning and evening – some days she even pops into the library, just to say ‘hi’, wanting to feel the baby kick. The timing of these visits is invariably poor – when I’ve just finished a break or when I’m about to head into a staff meeting – and, perhaps it’s the pregnancy, but I find myself getting annoyed with her.

  As she arrives today – third unannounced visit this week – I think of what Wally said to me. It’s like she doesn’t know where she ends and you begin. It’s like she thinks . . . you belong to her or something.

  ‘What are you doing here again, Rose?’ I ask.

  She looks surprised, and a little wounded, by the question. ‘Visiting you, of course.’

  ‘Don’t you have to work?’ I ask.

  ‘I was in the area,’ Rose says, and I wonder what interior design business would have brought her to this area. She takes my arm and leads me over to the couches in the children’s area. It reminds me of what Wally said about me. You don’t have great boundaries with her either. After Wally had said this, I’d taken the opportunity to google ‘great boundaries’ and I’d come across an article entitled ‘How to Set Healthy Boundaries’, which suggested three helpful tips when saying no.

  1. Be polite but firm.

  2. Explain why, but do not overexplain.

  3. Stay calm and on message.

  I decide it might be a good moment to employ these strategies.

  ‘Thank you for the visit, Rose,’ I say, which I think meets the polite tip, ‘but, I need to work.’ Firm without overexplaining.

  Rose frowns. ‘But I’ve come all the way to see you.’

  ‘I thought you were in the area,’ I say. ‘But in any case, perhaps calling ahead next time would be a good idea.’

  Rose blinks. ‘You want me to go?’ Her face is blank now but there is a challenge in her voice. Maybe even a dare. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

  ‘Yes,’ I say.

  I stand and turn away from her, but not before I see her jaw drop. As I walk into the staffroom, I force myself not to look back. Setting boundaries isn’t easy. I walk straight to my desk and google ‘great boundaries’ again. Seems like I’m going to need a little more help with this.

  When we were little, Rose was a pro at giving someone the silent treatment. It was, Mum and I used to say behind her back, her area of expertise. The slightest infraction could result in several days of steely silence. Now that we are adults, it’s improved a lot, but she still occasionally does it. So, when I get home from the library that night, I’m prepared for the worst.

  Instead, the minute I walk in the door, I receive a smile and a large flat cardboard box, tied with a bow.

  ‘Sit down!’ Rose’s face is clear and shiny, and her eyes are bright. ‘I bought you a present.’

  She pushes me onto the couch and sits on the coffee table, right in front of me. ‘I’ve been a bit preoccupied with the baby lately, and I think I might have been a bit pushy and overzealous at times.’ She smiles. ‘Guilty as charged! So this,’ she touches the box, ‘is my way of saying that I really do appreciate you.’

  I glance nervously at the box.

  Rose puts it into my lap. ‘Open it.’

  After I fumble trying to undo the bow, Rose takes over, untying it quickly and pulling out a dress. She stands and lets it unravel against her. It’s a long dress, striped with every colour of the rainbow. It has elbow-length sleeves and an empire waistline, with light flowy fabric that runs to the floor. I rub the fabric between my fingers. It’s as soft as butter. ‘Do you love it?’ Rose says.

  I open my mouth.

  ‘I know you loved the rainbow dress that Rocco bought you,’ Rose explains. ‘And this is so similar. I bought it from Ripe Maternity, then took it to the alterations place to get French seams, so they wouldn’t irritate you.’ Her smile becomes wider. ‘And it’s 100 per cent organic bamboo!’

  Before I know it, Rose is pulling my T-shirt over my head and instructing me to stand up and take my skirt off. I do as she says, and then stand there in my bra and underwear. She puts the dress on me and makes me twirl. It’s kind of bizarre, but I go along with it. Rose can be quite convincing when she’s in this kind of mood. It’s something I’d forgotten about her. She has a gift for knowing when she is at risk of getting on my nerves and managing to sneak back into my good graces at the eleventh hour.

  Sisterly relationships are so strange in this way. The way I can be mad at Rose but still want to please her. Be terrified of her and also want to run to her. Hate her and love her, both at the same time. Maybe when it comes to sisters, boundaries are always a little bit blurry. Blurred boundaries, I think, are what sisters do best.

  JOURNAL OF ROSE INGRID CASTLE

  On the second-to-last night of our camping trip, Mum and Daniel went to bed right after dinner. ‘Don’t stay up too late,’ they said, as they disappeared into their tent. It had been a long day of swimming, hiking and collecting firewood and everyone was a little worn out.

  ‘Are we playing cards?’ Billy asked the moment they were gone. He’d been getting bolder with the beer drinking, and that night he’d even had one under the camp table during dinner, while Mum and Daniel were right there.

  ‘I’m just going to rest my eyes for a minute,’ Fern said. She had been the most active of everyone that day – always diving the deepest, climbing the highest, collecting the most firewood. She looked absolutely exhausted.

  ‘I don’t think we can play cards without her,’ I said.

  ‘You’re right,’ Billy agreed.

  I assumed that was going to be the end of it, so I was surprised when Billy said: ‘We could go to the river to skim stones if you like?’

  I hesitated. We weren’t supposed to leave the camp without telling Mum and Daniel. Daniel had been so adamant about it that Mum had joined in. ‘Did you hear that, girls? No leaving the camp without telling one of us where you are.’ But if Billy was worried about getting in trouble, he hid it well.

  ‘Rose?’ Billy prompted. ‘Do you want to?’

  Of course I wanted to. I wanted to go only slightly more than I feared getting caught. And, as it turned out, that was enough.

  ‘Sure,’ I said. ‘Why not?’

  It was pitch black as we followed the footworn path through the trees toward the river with only Billy’s torch to light the way. We didn’t talk for fear of being heard, and that was fine by me. Every stick and leaf we stepped on crackled unbelievably loud. My heart was in my throat the entire way to the river, I was so worried that Mum would wake and find us missing.

  ‘You’re shaking,’ Billy said, laughing. ‘What is the matter?’

  ‘Remember what Mum and Daniel said about not leaving the camp?’ I whispered.

  ‘Ah.’ Billy waved his hand. ‘They don’t care as long as we leave them alone.’

  I thought about that. On this trip at least, that did appear to be the case. ‘I guess you’re right.’

  He laughed again. ‘Usually am.’

  We stopped in front of the river and started picking up stones.

  ‘I’m glad we did this,’ Billy said.

  ‘Me too.’

  ‘I think you’re awesome, Rose.’

  I felt my cheeks turning crimson. I continued to collect stones. ‘Thanks. I think you’re pretty cool too.’

  I snuck a look at him. He was grinning. I found myself grinning too.

  ‘Right,’ he said, standing. ‘Shall we skim?’

  I
nodded.

  Billy picked a stone and lined up the arc. He shifted on the rocks so his legs were hip distance apart, and practised the skimming motion. Then it was time for the real thing: one, two . . . but on three, instead of releasing the stone, he turned suddenly and kissed me full on the mouth.

  The air vanished from my lungs.

  It wasn’t a kiss out of the movies. Our teeth knocked. He said, ‘Ow.’ We laughed. Billy pulled back. ‘Smooth, right?’

  ‘The teeth knocking especially,’ I agreed. ‘Did you practise that?’

  ‘Only in my head.’

  We smiled at each other. The next time he kissed me, our teeth didn’t touch. It was slower. Better.

  ‘Rose?’

  Billy and I leapt apart, blinking into the darkness. It took me a moment to recognise the voice.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Fern said.

  ‘Just skimming stones,’ Billy said, withholding a smile.

  ‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘Billy is hopeless.’

  Fern looked at us. There was something about her expression. Fern always saw more than people thought. I had a feeling she knew exactly what we were doing. She didn’t look happy about it.

  ‘Let’s go back to camp,’ I said.

  Fern waited until Billy disappeared up the track and then fell into step beside me. I waited for her to inundate me with questions, but she didn’t. She didn’t say a word. Back at the camp, Fern went straight to bed without a word and I lay awake, thinking about Billy. It wasn’t until later that I thought about the way Fern had looked at Billy down at the lake. Like she was angry. Like she hated him. It actually looked like she wanted to kill him.

  FERN

  At eighteen weeks, while setting up chairs for the Toastmasters group, I feel the baby move for the first time. It doesn’t feel like much – barely anything at all. Like someone is tapping me from the inside. A small, rather benign, experience and yet, at the same time, the very definition of pleasure. It is, I suspect, what happiness feels like.

  After that, I am aware of the baby every second. I spend hours reading books and googling. Is it cold when I am cold? Hot when I am hot? Does it hear my heart beating loudly from the inside? I pay attention to its movements to try to intuit its likes and dislikes. Judging from its movements, he or she is a little like me, because the one time I can guarantee movement is at night when it’s quiet, and I am lying in bed. I find myself looking forward to that time all day, when I pull up my nightie and watch the little elbows or feet or shoulders bumping around under my skin. I love that time because Rose isn’t around to see it. It’s our time. Just the baby and me.

  I’ve always enjoyed my job at the library, but as the months of my pregnancy pass, work becomes even more of an oasis. Carmel is part of it. Since our shadow day, she’s given me a lot more freedom, but she’s also asked for a few things in exchange. Greeting people as they enter the library with eye contact is one of them, so I’ve devised a system where I look at the patch of skin between people’s eyebrows instead. Delightfully, everyone is none the wiser, and the results of this pseudo-eye contact are surprisingly good. Now, people smile and wave to me as they enter the library. Some pause to tell me how much they enjoyed a book I recommended; others compliment me on my fashion choice of the day. Once, I even became engaged in an impromptu discussion with a group of women who’d all read The Secret Life of Shirley Sullivan by Lisa Ireland. I’d suggested they start a proper book club at the library, and Carmel gave me permission to host it in the training room and order fruit and cheese (not as good as cake, but not bad). All in all, with my new eye-contact trick, I find the front desk is no longer the fearsome place it once was, and I have Carmel to thank.

  One day, as I am taking my place at the front desk, I become aware of Gayle hovering nearby. Her eyes flicker here and there. She looks quite bizarre.

  ‘Is everything all right, Gayle?’ I ask her, as I lower myself into the ergonomic chair at my desk.

  ‘Fine,’ she says. ‘It’s just . . . may I ask you something?’

  I wince as my lower back hits the seat. ‘You may.’

  ‘I just wondered . . . if you had anything to tell us.’ She glances demonstrably at my burgeoning belly. ‘An announcement, perhaps?’

  I notice Linda, a few metres away, listening. When she sees me looking, she glances quickly at the bookshelves.

  I am perplexed by the question. I am six months pregnant now, and it is, quite frankly, obvious to anyone without vision impairment that I am pregnant.

  ‘If you’re asking if I am pregnant, I can confirm that I am. Nearly six months along,’ I add, as people (including the nurses at Sun Meadows, the lady I’d passed at the bus stop yesterday, and the sales assistant at the pharmacy where I buy my prenatal vitamins) seem interested in these sorts of details.

  Gayle and Linda gasp in unison. ‘Six months!’ Gayle says. ‘My goodness. Why didn’t you tell us?’

  I wonder if this was a social faux pas. Am I expected to tell every person that I work with that I am pregnant? I assumed they would notice my growing belly and consider themselves informed, but I am well aware of the offence it can cause if I fail to adhere to certain social graces.

  ‘Well, you don’t like to announce these things too early,’ I say, as this does appear to be the case. ‘In case, heaven forbid, something goes wrong.’

  Gayle nods, apparently satisfied with this explanation.

  ‘So who is the father?’ Linda asks. ‘It isn’t that handsome American, is it? From the bowling?’

  I busy myself by scanning my desk calendar. As I haven’t been seen with any men other than Wally, it’s natural that this is what people will assume . . . but I don’t like to confirm it since I haven’t told Wally himself. I’d hoped this would be one of those social situations where people felt it was impolite to ask. As this clearly isn’t the case, I ignore the question and start shuffling books around my desk instead. After a moment or two, Gayle and Linda take the hint and scuttle away. The downside is that Carmel chooses this moment to approach.

  ‘Just the woman I was looking for!’ she says. ‘Gayle is giving a how-to class on IT troubleshooting this morning, which covers the printers and photocopiers. I thought you might like to join.’

  I open my mouth to protest, but Carmel gets in first. ‘It’s a two-hour class, and you can sit down the whole time.’

  We lock eyes. Carmel hasn’t commented on my pregnancy yet, but it’s obvious that she knows . . . Last week, for example, when she caught me coming out of the secret cupboard after a two-hour nap, she simply looked the other way. And the week before last, she asked me to cover some new books in contact paper which allowed me to sit down for nearly half my shift. Then there’s all the times she’s brought me a glass of water or suggested I pop outside for some fresh air.

  ‘It’s pretty straightforward and if you pick it up, you could even teach the class in the future,’ Carmel says. ‘It would mean you could sit down for a few hours each week while teaching. And there are free cakes and cups of tea!’

  It’s the cakes that get me across the line. I still bring my sandwich to the library, but these last few weeks I’ve found myself ravenous between meals – and the idea of cake is simply too much to resist. I head to the training room fifteen minutes early (naturally) and take a seat at the front of the class. As others arrive, I’m encouraged by the fact that they – all older than me by at least a good thirty years – share my distaste for IT troubleshooting. I also understand that, like me, they are in a bit of an if-you-can’t-beat-them-join-them situation. As such I feel a certain camaraderie with the old folks. Like me, they grumble into their seats, glancing suspiciously at the handbooks laid out at each station before giving Gayle their reluctant attention. Like me, they are hopeful to learn, but even more hopeful that the whole process will be easy to discount as too complex, too difficult, beyond their abilities.

  So we are all disappointed to find Gayle’s voice soothing and simple, her teaching manner
straightforward, easy to digest. At the end of the two hours, I believe I could guide one of my classmates through a number of troubleshooting situations quite easily.

  Carmel is waiting for me as I exit the class and I am forced to report that the class was more straightforward than I expected. When pushed, I also tell her I might consider running the class after another session or two under Gayle’s guidance.

  From the coy smile on Carmel’s face, she takes it as a win.

  That afternoon, when I go to see Mum, Teresa is there as usual, with her machine. Mum has been getting better each time I see her. She strings two or three words together without a pause now. ‘How are you?’ ‘Aren’t you cold?’ ‘Can I have . . . more water?’ She’s not reading novels as Teresa had suggested, but she’s definitely making improvements.

  ‘Hello,’ I say from the doorway.

  Teresa looks up. ‘Fern!’

  Mum doesn’t look like she’s having a good day. Her hair isn’t done. She’s wearing pyjama pants and a T-shirt and has just socks on her feet. And her face is tear-stained.

  ‘I think Nina’s had enough for one day,’ Teresa says to me as I walk in.

  ‘What’s wrong, Mum?’

  Mum shakes her head and dabs at her cheek with a tissue. Teresa makes a motion with her head that I have learned means that I should move out into the hallway so we can have a little chat, which I do.

  When Teresa joins me, she lowers her voice. ‘I need to warn you about something.’

  Teresa pauses, as if expecting me to say something. She hasn’t asked a question, but I give her a nod as a compromise.

  ‘Your mother has been saying things, these past few weeks,’ she says.

  ‘Yes, I know.’

  ‘Yes. But she’s been saying some strange things. And I don’t want you to worry. Confabulation is common with patients with an acquired brain injury.’

  ‘Confab–’

  ‘Confabulation is the spontaneous production of false memories which never occurred. Sometimes it’s memories of actual events that are displaced in space or time.’