Sister Sister

by Sue Fortin

  Alice Kennedy has the most amazing blue eyes. It’s something that I remember vividly about her. Everyone who saw her used to comment on how big and blue they were. Blue eyes run in both my mother’s family and Patrick Kennedy’s family. And there they are, staring right back at me.

  I look at the contact lens box on the bed and the blue-eye graphic I realise is not a generic graphic – it’s colour-specific. I take a closer look. On the other side, three small boxes are printed, each has one word underneath: blue, brown, green. The square above the word ‘blue’ is ticked. These aren’t normal contact lenses; these are for changing the appearance of eye colour.

  A wave of nausea swells in my stomach and for a moment I consider making a dash for the bathroom. I clench my stomach with my hand and, sitting up straight to allow as much oxygen into my lungs as possible, I take deep breaths – in through my nose and release slowly out through my mouth. The sensation passes but my mind is in turmoil.

  I push my hands through my hair. I don’t know what to do. I stand. I pull at my hair. I stride across the room to the window. It takes just three paces. I stride back to the bed. I want to sit. I want to stand. I pick up the photographs again. I run the scenario through my mind, slowly, very slowly, just to check I haven’t made a mistake anywhere. I’m usually very thorough with things like this. I don’t usually make mistakes. How I wish that this time I had. I want to be wrong.

  I am not.

  I shudder and goose bumps prick their way down my spine, then both my arms prickle with fear and I’m engulfed in a fleeting moment of cold air. I shiver and scrunch my shoulders up. My brain formally identifying the terrifying thought. The young woman at home with my family is not who she says she is. She is not Alice. She is Martha and she has taken my sister’s identity.

  I sink onto the bed and bury my head in the photographs, my arms sweeping them into me. I have no concept of time or space. I can only think of my darling sister and what might have happened to her.

  I don’t know how long I’ve been lying on the bed amongst the photographs but at some point the pain has switched to anger. I need to know what exactly has happened to Alice. There is only one person who can answer this – the imposter in my home.

  I grab my mobile and call Luke. My fingers fumble with the phone as the adrenalin starts to pump through me. If Martha is capable of taking on Alice’s identity, capable of being so cold-hearted and callous to trick, not just me and Luke, but my Mum as well, then she is capable of anything and right now she’s with my family. I can’t bear to think what this will do to Mum.

  While I wait for the call to connect and for Luke to answer his bloody phone, I know I have to detach myself from what I think the worse-case scenario might be. I need to keep a professional head if I’m to get through this and find out the truth. Luke’s phone goes to voicemail. I hang up without leaving a message.

  It’s early evening here in Florida, which, given the five-hour time difference, means it’s mid-afternoon in the UK. Luke will probably be picking Hannah up from school. I wait for an hour and then try again, but he still doesn’t answer. In desperation, I call the house phone.

  Mum answers. ‘Hi, Mum,’ I say. ‘It’s me, Clare.’

  ‘Hello.’ I can tell from the frosty reception that Mum is not impressed with my transatlantic trip. ‘I hope you’re ringing to say you’re on your way home.’

  ‘Mum, please.’ She still has the ability to make me feel like a naughty teenager who is late home from a party. ‘I’ll be home Wednesday morning. First thing.’

  ‘Whatever possessed you to go to America?’

  ‘I needed to come. There are so many things that don’t add up.’

  ‘You’re stirring trouble, that’s what you’re doing. Have you any idea how upset I’ve been? How upset your sister has been? There’s nothing in America that you need to worry about.’

  ‘I met Roma Kendrick,’ I say slowly.

  ‘What did you do that for?’

  ‘I wanted to ask her about things. About Dad.’

  ‘Honestly, Clare, I really don’t know what you’re hoping to find out or prove from this … this … carry-on. It’s ridiculous.’

  ‘Don’t you want to know what she said?’ I’m tired and I shouldn’t be having this conversation with Mum right now, but I can’t help myself. I’m fed up with her avoiding talking about the past.

  ‘No. Actually, I don’t.’

  ‘She said Patrick always let her believe he wasn’t my father.’ The words are out and I can’t take them back. I hear Mum gasp.

  ‘She would say that, wouldn’t she? What does she know?’ Mum’s in full recovery mode. ‘And even if your father did say that, he would only have been saying it for his own benefit.’

  ‘Why didn’t he take me, then? Why take only Alice?’

  ‘Enough! I’m not discussing this fanciful idea any further. Now, was there anything you wanted or did you ring up just to have another argument?’

  ‘I wanted to speak to Luke,’ I say, sensing I will get no further on the subject of Patrick tonight.

  ‘Luke’s taken the girls for their swimming lessons. Of course, if you were at home you’d know that,’ she says, with no sign of the frost thawing. ‘Hold on a moment, Alice is saying something.’ I hear muffled voices and guess Mum has put her hand over the receiver. She comes back after a moment. ‘Alice wants to speak to you. I’ll pass you over.’

  I try to protest that Alice, or rather Martha, is the last person I want to speak to, but the receiver exchanges hands before I can speak and then I hear Martha.

  ‘Hello, Clare,’ she says. ‘How are you?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ I say. ‘Look, I’m quite busy, did you want anything important?’ My skin tingles, as if a thousand ants are making their way around my body. I close my eyes and focus my mind, throwing away thoughts of my sister that may betray me.

  ‘Mum says you’re in America,’ says Martha. I can hear the acoustics change and assume Martha is moving away from the kitchen, or wherever she took the call, to find a more private space, away from Mum. The sound of a door closing confirms this.

  ‘That’s right,’ I say. I can take this conversation one of two ways. I opt for keeping up the pretence for now. I don’t want this all to come to a head in the UK while I’m stuck over here in the States. ‘I was going to stay with a friend up in Cambridgeshire, but changed my mind at the last minute.’ I keep the facts to a minimum.

  ‘Cool. Where exactly are you? Anywhere near my neighbourhood?’ There’s a light-hearted tone to her words, but I suspect this is false. Martha is wary.

  ‘No. No. I’m in New York.’ I close my eyes and hope Martha doesn’t notice how quiet it is. ‘I’m in my hotel room at the moment,’ I add to counter the lack of background noise of a busy city.

  ‘Is that so?’ she says. ‘Of course, if you were in Florida, I’d be wondering who you were talking to. Whether you were hanging out at any of the places I used to. Talking to my friends and all.’ She gives a little laugh. And I mean little.

  I return the laugh. ‘Oh yeah, I could, couldn’t I? And that wouldn’t do at all.’

  ‘No, that wouldn’t. But then, you shouldn’t believe everything everyone says. You, of all people, should know that,’ says Martha. There’s an awkward pause and I can feel the tension crackle up and down the line between us. ‘Knowledge is a dangerous thing.’

  ‘Knowledge is power,’ I say.

  ‘I’m also of the mind that ignorance is bliss,’ she retorts, her voice dropping an octave, her words slower as each one is emphasised. ‘That way no one gets hurt.’

  ‘That’s true. Anyway, I need to get on, got some legal stuff for work to check.’

  ‘Sure, I wouldn’t wanna keep you from your work.’

  ‘See you Wednesday.’

  ‘I’ll look forward to it. You can tell me all about your trip.’

  ‘Yeah. Sure.’ I hang up and close my eyes for a moment, recalling the conversation with all its
subtext. It does nothing to settle my already-fragile nerves. I need to get home. I need to protect my family – I’m not entirely sure what from. I can’t pin it down to one thing or one word, all I know is that they are surrounded by lies and deceit.

  An hour later, my phone rings and I’m sure it is Luke. However, Leonard’s name is on the screen.

  ‘Hello, Leonard. Everything all right?’ I find myself asking this question more and more often. Every time the phone rings, I think something has happened. I am becoming a nervous wreck.

  ‘No. Everything is not all right. When I said take gardening leave, I meant stay at home with your family. Get to know your sister and sort your marriage out. I didn’t mean jet off to America.’

  ‘Hello to you too. Yes, I’m fine. Thanks for asking. Oh, there was something you wanted to chat about, was there?’ I can’t help myself. Leonard has all the subtlety of a Chieftain tank at times and thinks he can ride straight over me. I swear he forgets I’m a grown woman. An adult. A business partner.

  ‘Didn’t realise I had to do the polite chit-chat with you, Clare,’ comes the retort, which has the tiniest thread of attrition.

  ‘And while I’m at it, since when did I have to answer to you as to what I choose to do with my spare time? Spare time that I didn’t want, I might add. Either I’m working and am accountable for my hours or I’m on gardening leave and can do as I bloody well please.’ I feel quite proud of myself for standing up to Leonard.

  ‘Well, that’s me told,’ he says. I imagine him looking rather startled at the telephone for a moment. ‘So, are you okay?’

  ‘Yes, I’m fine, thank you,’ I say, the indignation leaving me and experiencing genuine appreciation of the obvious concern in his voice.

  ‘What exactly are you doing in America?’

  ‘I needed to sort a few things out. Please don’t worry. I’m flying home tomorrow night. How did you know I was here, anyway?’

  ‘Your mother told me,’ he replies. ‘She also told me about the new evidence. CCTV footage.’

  ‘It wasn’t me.’

  ‘Do you need any help? Legal help or otherwise?’

  ‘No. It’s okay. I can sort this out myself, but thank you, anyway.’

  ‘It won’t look good for the business if anything comes of this,’ says Leonard, his voice taking on a more businesslike approach.

  ‘Nothing will come of it. I didn’t do it. Don’t worry, I won’t sully the reputation of the firm.’ I scold myself at my own tetchiness. ‘I’m sorry, I’m just a bit tired and on edge, if I’m honest.’

  ‘It’s not like you at all. That’s why I called, really. Your mum asked me to,’ says Leonard softly. ‘She’s desperate for things to work out well with Alice.’

  ‘I know. All these years, she’s just been marking time, going through the motions of life, as she waited for her daughter to come back. The thing is …’ I stop myself short, not wishing to say what I fear out loud. Not yet anyway.

  ‘Don’t be quick to judge,’ says Leonard. ‘It’s just as hard for Alice as it is for you. Whatever is it you’re hoping to find by poking around over there in America, will only cause a lot of hurt.’

  ‘Has Mum changed her will or anything to do with the trust fund?’ I ask, taking the conversation off at a tangent.

  ‘You know I can’t divulge any information about your mother’s finances. Client confidentiality and all that.’

  ‘But you could tell me, as your business partner. I take it I am still your partner?’

  ‘Yes, of course you are, but there’s also conflict of interest. Whatever conversations I have with my client, regardless of the fact she’s your mother and how they may affect you are, at this point, strictly confidential. Not even you can be party to them.’

  ‘What about Alice? Has she spoken to you about anything?’

  ‘Alice? No, why would she?’

  ‘I don’t just mean professionally, but personally. She’s not asked for your advice about anything?’ I close my eyes as I think of Tom telling me he’d seen Martha and Leonard at the café. I can’t bear the fact that Leonard might be lying to me. ‘Even just casually, as a one-off?’

  ‘What’s this all about?’

  ‘I’m just asking.’

  ‘You’re worrying me, Clare. Stop being so bloody paranoid about everyone and everything. Now, I’m going to end this call before we fall out with each other. I suggest you get a good night’s sleep, get yourself on that aircraft tomorrow, get yourself back here and get your life back on track.’ With that he hangs up.

  I spend the next few minutes staring at the telephone, wondering whether I should call home again and try to speak to Luke. In the end I decide against it.

  I head out to the diner opposite the motel. It’s a quiet night, from what I can tell, and I sit undisturbed while I eat a burger and chips I don’t really want and drink a beer that I do want.

  When I came over to Amelia Island just two days ago, I wasn’t sure what I would find. I knew there was more to Alice than met the eye, but what I didn’t know was the full extent of it. And now I do. Again, I have to banish the thought of might have happened to Alice Kennedy, my sister. I can’t let myself go there, not yet.

  When I get back to my room, I check my rucksack to make sure I have my passport, tickets and bank card all ready for tomorrow’s journey home. I wonder if Luke will call me back. He probably hasn’t even looked at his phone. I have to say that about my husband, he’s not one for constantly checking social media, uploading pictures of his dinner or pictures of the girls. To Luke a phone is a necessity for communication verbally or via text, nothing more. Still, I wait up just in case he does call. When he doesn’t, I put it down to him being busy sorting the girls out for bed. I don’t want to acknowledge the notion that he might actually be avoiding me.

  When my phone rings just after midnight, I immediately think it must be Luke after all. My heart gives a little flip of relief. At last someone I can talk to, who I trust. I pause. I do trust him, don’t I? Another thought to banish. Of course I do. I was just overreacting about Alice or Martha, whatever the hell her name is.

  I grapple with the bedside light and snatch at my phone.

  Home calling, I’m informed by the screen message. Strange. Why would Luke call on the house phone? I answer it.

  ‘Hello, Luke?’

  ‘It’s me.’

  I struggle for a second to think who it could be. The voice is lowered to almost a whisper. It’s definitely not Luke. ‘Mum?’ I try the next logical person, although something tells me logic is not applicable here.

  ‘No, it’s not your mother.’

  ‘Alice?’

  ‘Who else?’

  ‘Why are you calling me?’

  ‘Listen, Clare, listen carefully.’ There’s a hardness to her voice I haven’t heard before. It puts me on alert. I wait for her to continue. ‘I don’t know what you’re doing in America and I don’t know what you think you may or may not have found, but I’m warning you, whatever it is you think you know, you’d be wise to keep it to yourself.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘You know exactly what I’m talking about.’

  ‘And why, exactly, would I want to keep it to myself – presuming I know anything?’

  ‘Don’t get involved, Clare. You’ll regret it.’

  ‘Are you threatening me?’

  ‘Things have gone too far. It’s out of my hands now. You need to drop it.’

  ‘Do you really think for one minute that I’m scared of you?’ I frantically search my phone for the ‘record’ app. I quite often record work conversations so I can go back and check the nitty-gritty detail. I have a feeling this is going to be useful.

  ‘It’s not me you need to be frightened of.’

  ‘What?’ I hit the ‘record’ button, but it’s too late. The line has gone dead. ‘Shit.’

  I try to ring back but the call doesn’t connect. I suspect she’s unplugged it from the w
all. I check the ‘record’ app on my phone but all I have managed to get is me saying ‘What?’

  I rest my head in my hands and try to think clearly. There seems little point in trying to get hold of Luke or Mum. What am I supposed to say? They won’t believe me, they’ll just defer back to Martha, who will, of course, deny it all and then they’ll blame my jealousy or rampant paranoia they’ve decided I am now suffering from.

  I think back over the conversation and grab my notebook and pen as I write it down word for word, or at least as close to that as I can remember. Her final words are the ones that scare me the most. I underline them three times, the pressure of the nib scoring through the paper.

  IT’S NOT ME YOU NEED TO BE FRIGHTENED OF.

  Chapter 23

  I must have dozed off at some point during the night, but I didn’t sleep well at all. I awoke several times and checked my phone to see if Luke had called. He hadn’t. I’m up and dressed by six this morning. I need to be at the airport by eleven and drop the hire car back. I have a long day ahead with a lay-over in Atlanta of three hours before the transatlantic flight back to the UK.

  I keep checking my phone, but by the time I board the international flight from the States, I’ve given up all hope of Luke calling me.

  Even the night-time flight home doesn’t grant me sleep. I once again take to pen and paper to try to figure things out.

  * Martha is Alice.

  * Martha’s motive – money? Personality disorder? Wants to be someone else – Alice. Not satisfied with that now, wants everything I have – Mum, Luke, girls. Trying to cut me off from my own life, like she did with Alice.

  * Planned in advance NOT opportunist.

  * Working with someone – hence threat.

  * What has happened to the real Alice? Was Martha involved?