Sister of Mine

by Laurie Petrou

  I turned on a small fan and pointed it towards the bed, where I lay down, listening to the movements of my body. Wondering who was in there, and what would come.

  Hearing the story about my mother had jarred me. She had always looked out for people; even in small ways, sought justice. I ignored the simmering shame of everything that had happened until now, and focused on the fact that I was giving Hattie a child. If our mother was here, would she be glad of the outcome, despite how it came about? Would she tell me to strike out, finally, on my own? Maybe she would see that I deserved it, after all I’d been through.

  Thoughts about leaving St. Margaret’s had long been taking shape. They seemed like a real possibility, now that I was closer to the end. I began to put my plan in motion. An escape, a getaway, because what I needed more than anything was a way out.

  18

  Hattie and Jameson got married right at the last moment. Right when I was ready to burst. There were only three of us there for the ceremony, which was in the same church where I was married. I looked around at the chapel, the almost empty pews, save for a couple of curious strangers. It was a day so vastly different, so wholly apart from my own wedding day. There I stood, the fabric of my autumnal dress pushing out in cheerful floral, and there were Hattie and Jameson, his one hand in both of hers, and facing each other in absolute devotion. She was a vision: her hair folded up into loose knots, a simple cream lace dress that looked like it had been dropped from above, hanging just so on her slight curves and bones. Jameson, in a linen suit, grinning like a fool, that almost-father. I stood to the side, holding the flowers, holding the baby inside, holding it all in. Tears running down my face for all the wrong reasons. I let myself think of my night with Jameson. What if she knew what he’d done, I wondered. But she couldn’t know, if only for my own self-preservation. He’d chosen her, anyhow, and I grieved this in the face of the celebration. The stained glass windows filtered the October sun through rich jeweled colors. A bird flew by, casting a dark shadow for just a moment before the light shone again.

  Afterward we went for lunch. We laughed, and ate to the point of bursting. It was, by all three accounts, a most wonderful day.

  “Soon,” Hattie said, tipsily raising a glass, “soon the baby will be here. Soon we’ll be a real family.”

  Jameson stopped me as I came out of the bathroom. I stood close to him, aware of my girth between us. He looked at my belly, pushing its way between us. I heard someone laughing in the other room.

  “Penny—”

  “Want to feel it?” I lifted his hand gingerly and placed it on me, covering it with my own, feeling the warmth between us. “That’s us in there, you know.” Whatever else she had, this was ours.

  He swallowed, surprised. A moment passed between us, and then he moved back slightly, pulling his hand away. “Penny.” He looked at me, his eyes worried. “She can never know.”

  I almost burst out laughing. We all think that we are too good to be bad, to have these kinds of skeletons. But here we are. There we go.

  I smiled. “Of course, Jameson. I know. I agree. It’s our secret.” Ours.

  Something borrowed, something blue.

  * * *

  They call it giving birth. Giving this birth over, finally giving way and giving in, it struck me like a hammer. I crouched on my side, my knees drawn up under the pain. Sheets around me, a swirling undertow. I cried out. And then it stopped. Labor is such a curious thing: body-bending pain, and then nothing. Nothing between the pains. No throbbing, no sting, no residual memory of pain, until it strikes again, over and over, teasing a pause before the next. The body almost forgets for minutes at a time what it feels like, finally learning to gather strength, to prepare for an onslaught, a gathering wave that feels it will almost drown you, and then suddenly you are breathing again.

  I was scared like a panicked child, a cornered cat, by the increasing pain, and was unable to prevent the yowls that escaped me; they came from some bottom, bodily place, rising and falling as my body squeezed itself unconsciously. So strange to have your muscles working without your brain telling them to, to have all your strength focused on a motion over which you have no control.

  I heard Joseph rapping at the door below, then fumbling with some keys. A small flush of embarrassment about my ratty nightgown, my braless, terrified state, before another contraction hit, and I yelled out. For an older man, the rapidity with which he hustled up the stairs was astonishing.

  “Penelope? Penelope! Is it happening? Can I come in?” He was, at this point, already in, on the threshold of the living room, hardly containing himself as he leaned around frantically looking for me. He caught sight of me holding onto the doorframe of my bedroom, pushing my back out in a way I found instinctually offered some respite during the pain. I laughed, in spite of myself.

  “Yes,” I panted, “I believe it is happening.”

  “Holy Jesus! Oh my Lord, here, lemme—” And he rushed over to me as I howled and sank to my knees. “Lemme take you to the hospital, Penelope, okay, here, let me. Where is your bag?”

  “I’m not going to the hospital. The midwife is on her way.”

  “Midwife? Are you—isn’t that kinda—okay, whatever you say, oh, hang on there, what can I do, does this help?” He held my hand and rubbed my back in circles. I wanted to punch him.

  “No. Just. Can you just—be quiet. And push against my back as hard as you can. Yes. That’s it. Lower. Yes. Thank you.”

  Kneeling behind me, smelling like cigarettes and beer and sawdust, he leaned against me, and I felt a dim appreciation. I gasped as Joseph called out the number of minutes between contractions.

  “I need you to call Hattie.”

  “Okay, darlin’. I can do that. Hang on there, I think what’s her name is here.”

  I heard the midwife closing her car door out front. He hurried downstairs and let the midwife in, both of them returning in no time. A dynamo with dyed-blonde hair in a punk cut, Alice, my midwife, was at once professional and comforting. The air in the place seemed to quicken and slow at the right times while she prepared my bed for the birth. She spoke to me in firm, calm tones, orchestrated the events in a way that made it seem she had some control of things. I almost cried with gratitude.

  Then Hattie came. A force of nature, a rainstorm, making me thank God that this debt to her would finally be paid. Up the stairs, pounding frantically, calling my name, urging Jameson to come on, come on. Alice took one look at me and understood how to handle her. She gave Hattie jobs. It was the best thing to do, give her seemingly important tasks to keep her away from me but make her feel integral to the birth. When I think back to those hours, Hattie was like a whirring, ticking machine in the background, calling out at me occasionally with axioms of love and encouragement.

  Jameson stood in a corner with Joseph, neither of them sure of what to do, where to go, if they were needed. I whispered hoarsely to Alice to send them downstairs, and she did, deftly guiding them, to their great relief, making it sound like it would be an enormous help if they left. “Maybe make a pot of coffee or tea. Or something stronger!” She smiled kindly and saw them down the stairs.

  It felt like hours and then like it took no time at all. The bodily force, the impetus to keep going, it was like time was contracting along with me. Alice described it as work, a job I had to do. I screamed wildly as my body focused, taking over, whipping my midsection into a fury of tightening, tightening like a giant fist. My hair was drenched and I was naked on the bed, a wild thing. This is what it took, this was my penance. I know now that some scores can never be settled, but there I was, pushing through to some other side, to a new life.

  And when I finally, at last, pushed him from me, that squirming red and wrinkly boy, when I pushed him out and away and into Hattie’s waiting hands, to her wailing delight, I threw back my head, and I cried.

  Part II

  19

  It is remarkable how someone who considers herself normal can rationali
ze the decision, finally, to murder. But everyone has their price. Everyone has their breaking point. And the price might be the nightmares, which followed me even to Paris, but I still believe they are worth it.

  When I read about heinous crimes taking place in the city around me, in the most romantic city in the world, those that took on the gothic black of their Parisian settings, I wondered if the psychopaths there were all that different from the ones at home, in small towns, in St. Margaret’s. But was I the psychopath or the victim? Maybe our actions define who we are, but maybe it is the actions of all those around us who make us. Mum made me good, and then she was gone. Buddy made me bad.

  That day, I waited until the time was right. Until my collarbone had healed. Until I was strong. That morning, a kind of adrenaline protected me, and from the moment I woke, the morning of Buddy’s death, I was ready. I was sure. I was in control, in some kind of autopilot, almost as though driven by another person altogether. Maybe that seems like an excuse. Perhaps it is. What choice do I have now, now that it is done, but to present my course of action as the only possible one?

  I woke facing Buddy, and as I took in his face, a part of me said goodbye but another part told him he’d asked for it. I hardened. I am a hard woman still. I pulled back the covers gently on my side and mentally set things in motion, like turning a crank. I planned my day. I took one last look at my home, which had never been a comfort, but a kind of cell. I assessed the flammability of every article: wood, textiles, rugs, pillows. I did, I remember, feel the softness of my sheets between my fingers with regret. Despite the fact that that bed had never softened the brutality of my nights, they were nice sheets.

  I had told Hattie my plan the day before. I called her up while Buddy was out. I was smoking, something I never did; I was shaking and nervous. She wasn’t home. I waited half an hour and called her again, letting the phone ring over and over. Finally, with a breathlessness that told me she was just in the door, putting down her purse and smiling into the receiver, she answered. She sensed my tension right away, pausing, asking, with a stillness she brought on our trips to the emergency room consoling me over burns and bruises, if I was okay. And I told her: I am going to kill Buddy, Hattie, and I need your help.

  There was silence on the phone, but I knew she was there. I heard her pull out a chair, and in my mind’s eye I saw the cord of the phone, which had been stretched and tangled over years of teenage bids for privacy, dangle lifelessly at her side. She started to say something, my name, then stopped.

  “Okay,” she said.

  “I’m going to come over tomorrow afternoon. We can work on that quilt you’re making. We’ll have dinner together. I’m going to sleep over because we’re going watch a movie and catch up.”

  “Okay.”

  “But listen. I’m not really coming until after. Until after it happens. But I need you—listen, Hattie—I need you to make it look like I was there. Two plates, two glasses, everything. Watch the movie, okay? Are you listening? Make it look like I have been there the whole time.”

  Her voice shaking. Just a kid. “Right. I get it.”

  “It’s very important. And if anyone calls, you tell them I’m there, okay? Or if you talk to a neighbor, tell them I’m going to be coming by that afternoon. I’m going to walk there.”

  “What are you—how are you going to do it?” A delicate, fragile, porcelain whisper.

  “There’s going to be a fire.”

  She was silent.

  “Hattie?”

  “Be careful. Please be careful, Penny,” her voice caught, “I can’t lose you, too.”

  “I will be, alright? I’ll be careful. I need you to just be strong, just wait there for me, got it?”

  “Yes. Alright. I’ll do that.” Her voice shaking, crying almost silent tears.

  “I’m going to be fine now, Hattie. You’re going to help me. I need you.”

  I heard her pulling herself together. “I’ll be here.”

  * * *

  I had to leave her. I had to make a clean break. I had delivered the baby, paid my debt, and little Elliot would be there in my stead. He would fill my void.

  I went to France. It was exactly far enough away and struck me as exactly the kind of romantic and self-serving leap I needed. Hattie couldn’t reach me there; she couldn’t visit, not with a newborn. I may as well have chartered a rocket to the moon.

  Bon voyage! Hattie had cried, tearfully, waving Elliot’s small hand frantically as I walked through to my gate at the airport. The minute they were out of sight, I exhaled and smiled. Freedom.

  I stayed. One month turned into the next, and soon I had been there for over a year. And Paris became, in its anonymity, in its urban strangeness, my new home. Having never had a real home outside of ours, everything was a discovery. I got a job at a small florist shop in a touristy area. It was mindless and exactly what I needed, the pay being enough to keep me comfortable in my minimalist life. The flat, where I moved to after my first year there, leaving behind the temporary one I’d found on my arrival, was perfect for me. It was clean to the point of being sterile, completely white, with old fixtures—chandeliers, light switches, and heaters—all white as well. The landlady was a severe woman in her fifties, and I was fascinated by her, not that she’d ever let me spend more than five minutes in her company. I admired her tough, frank nature, and her commitment to her opinions, because despite those few firm decisions in my life, I have never felt very sure of anything. She reprimanded me regularly and scoffed at my French, which was Canadian-schoolgirl French, rather than France—let alone Paris—French. Undeterred, I was always pleased when I encountered her outside the building, or when I had an excuse to call her on the phone. Madame Durant was her name, and she tsked quietly, her tongue chastising me delicately, whenever I said it. A little clicking, so much judgment.

  I had furnished the place sparsely but carefully. I bought a large rug, which cost me a great deal, but of which I was proud, and it made the entire flat come together. It was woven in rich colors, reds and burgundies, purples and dark blues. I often sat crossed-legged on it like a child, trying my hand at reading the Parisian newspapers, my back up against a chair. Other than that, my furnishings were strictly functional and plain, not unlike my encounters with people there. I secretly hoped that Mme. Durant approved of this no-nonsense approach to decoration, although I never got that sense from her. I was, as I had planned, entirely alone.

  Hattie and I spoke semi-regularly, at first. We had a standing date to speak on the phone, with its strange long-distance pauses and the cost that overshadowed any frivolous talk. She was busy, with the harsh newness of motherhood, and eventually the calls became more infrequent, and soon they were only occasional. She mailed pictures of Elliot, a serious-looking baby with a thicket of black hair, and kept me up to date on his progress as though reporting to a teacher her own progress. I kept an interested distance but couldn’t bring myself to look too closely at his pictures for fear I might feel something.

  “He’s not quite walking, but I can tell he really wants to. He’s dying to! Jameson says I worry too much about his milestones, but I can’t help it.”

  Hearing Jameson’s name always struck a chord of pain. I was hurt and angry at him for forgetting me so easily, for moving on in his role of husband and father. And I missed him terribly. I thought I could get away, but distance wasn’t enough. I kept myself busy. I distracted myself. And still I thought of them all. I had dreams about the baby: that I was pushing him in a stroller, that I had come home to my apartment and he was there, gurgling on the carpet, or cooing in a high chair. In the daytime hours, I pretended none of it had ever happened.

  “I’m sure you’re doing great,” I told her. She seemed to think that by giving birth I had some innate knowledge that she didn’t, and I was constantly reassuring her. “I know nothing about babies, but he sounds like a good one. You’re a great mom, Hattie.”

  “He looks just like Jameson, you know.”r />
  “I noticed,” I remarked, holding the phone under my chin, the cord pulling over to the sink, where I was washing dishes. I glanced at a picture of Elliot on my fridge.

  “Except when he cries. He actually looks like you then.” She laughed.

  “Glad I could give him something.” A twinge, an ache. I laughed it off.

  “He loves daycare. We send him twice a week, you know, to give Mommy a break,” she said, her voice faltering a little. “It’s not the same here. Especially without you. It feels like insult to injury. Please, just come home, already!”

  I deflected these regular pleas, trying to convince her that I was happy with my new life.

  “One day, I promise. But I really love it here.”

  Hattie had left the salon when Elliot was born and had then gotten a part-time job at the library, which satisfied her desire for stories and to be surrounded by books. Soon an eccentric writer who frequented the library and had her doing research for his next book.

  “On lady spies of the Second World War!” she trilled down the phone line. I could hear Elliot gabbling happily in the background with Jameson.

  “Right up your alley,” I said.

  “The pay is good, too. Better than the library. And since Jameson has been full time at the school for a while now, we don’t have to worry as much.”

  Our conversations skimmed the surface, too much else churning below, too much left unsaid. It was a relief to all of us when they began to diminish, as time and space invariably worm their way into any relationship and expand. I didn’t even have to avoid her calls or find excuses not to reach out. I thought of them all a little less, as they no doubt thought of me less, my solitude in a foreign country stretching out like a blanket of fog.