A Sister in My House

by Linda Olsson

  Praise for Linda Olsson

  “Linda Olsson’s [Astrid & Veronika] casts the themes of secrecy, passion, and loss in the shape of a double helix, intertwining the stories of two women . . . Natural and vivid, utterly convincing . . . simply so beguiling.”

  —The New York Times Book Review

  “Linda Olsson evokes, with great precision and beauty, the landscape of a friendship . . . Astrid & Veronika is penetrating and beautifully written, and it affirms the power of narrative to transform.”

  —Kim Edwards, author of The Memory Keeper’s Daughter

  “Readers of Anne Tyler and Jodi Picoult will appreciate the lyrical prose and expert rendering of the themes of heartbreak and loss.”

  —Booklist

  “Olsson’s deft writing [is] beautiful, capable of both painting the scene and creating a mood . . . Booksellers from around the country as well as locally have raved about Astrid & Veronika. It’s easy to understand why.”

  —Portland Tribune

  “[Astrid & Veronika] has the hallmarks of an Ingmar Bergman film: a leisurely pace, a chilly Scandinavian setting leavened by rich observations of nature, and characters whose prim, polite facades eventually disappear, exposing years of anger and hurt.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  “Olsson understands how memory works—the combination of fact and fiction, photographs and moments . . . Readers will love [Sonata for Miriam].”

  —Los Angeles Times Book Review

  “Olsson’s eloquent prose [in The Memory of Love] offers an intimate, poignant portrait of a woman at midlife who finds her way back . . . to a life filled with love.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  PENGUIN BOOKS

  A SISTER IN MY HOUSE

  LINDA OLSSON was born in Stockholm, Sweden, in 1948. She graduated from Stockholm University with a law degree and worked in law and finance until she left Sweden in 1986. What was intended as a three-year posting to Kenya then became a tour of the world with stops in Singapore, the UK, and Japan, until she settled in New Zealand with her family in 1990. In 1993 she completed a bachelor of arts in English and German literature at Victoria University of Wellington. Her first novel, Astrid & Veronika, became an international success. It was followed by Sonata for Miriam and The Memory of Love. Olsson divides her time between Auckland, New Zealand, and Stockholm, Sweden.

  PENGUIN BOOKS

  An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

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  New York, New York 10014

  penguin.com

  Copyright © 2016 by Linda Olsson

  Translation copyright © 2018 by Linda Olsson

  Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.

  Originally published in Swedish as En syster i mitt hus by Brombergs Bokförlag, Stockholm.

  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

  Names: Olsson, Linda, author.

  Title: A sister in my house : a novel / Linda Olsson.

  Other titles: Syster i mitt hus. English

  Description: New York : Penguin Books, 2018

  Identifiers: LCCN 2017016917 | ISBN 9780143131694 (pbk.) | ISBN 9781524705565 (ebook)

  Classification: LCC PT9877.25.L77 S9713 2018 | DDC 839.73/8—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017016917

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Version_1

  CONTENTS

  Praise for Linda Olsson

  About the Author

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  PROLOGUE

  DAY ONE

  DAY TWO

  DAY THREE

  DAY FOUR

  DAY FIVE

  DAY SIX

  To Sally, with gratitude for Hatepe

  One Sister have I in our house—

  And one, a hedge away.

  There’s only one recorded,

  But both belong to me.

  —EMILY DICKINSON

  I can’t explain why I did it. Often, it is as if a part of me has its own impulsive life beyond my control. I am astounded at the mess it causes. And occasionally at the good that comes of it regardless. But whichever way, it is always my conscious self that has to deal with the consequences. Good or bad.

  Now, when I look back at how this particular whim came to have such a profound effect on how I view myself and my life, I can’t understand that I had no notion of it at the time. That I didn’t understand the seriousness of my ill-considered invitation. A few words sprung from some cache deep inside me, seemingly without any particular effect when uttered. None that I was able to discern at the time, anyway.

  Was there perhaps some subconscious intention? Some unacknowledged hope that lingered deep inside me? Was I after all affected by what had preceded that moment when I stood facing my sister and invited her to come visit me? Or was there something about her that caused me to speak those words? I don’t know. I can’t answer my own questions. I don’t understand myself.

  All I can do is accept the consequences. And try to live the rest of my life as best I can. Try to savor what remains of what I previously so lightly discarded.

  DAY ONE

  “Which bed shall I make for the guest?” asked the young woman who stood facing me in the semidark dining room. Her brown eyes were expressionless. To her, it was just a practical question, of course.

  But the words struck me as if I had swallowed something hot and heavy. And once ingested, they came to rest somewhere deep inside me, burning. The realization that when evening arrived, my sister would be here. Sleep in one of the beds. Occupy one of the rooms. Invade the space I considered mine. And affect the atmosphere. Not because of some intention on her part. No, it was me. I was the problem. What I consider mine has always felt so very . . . I am not sure how to describe it. Fragile perhaps. So exposed and vulnerable. In every way. I am unable to share anything that truly means something to me. And when circumstances force me to, all I want to do is walk away. Leave everything behind. It is forever ruined for me. When I think about it, I see it has always been like that. Before Emma existed too. Perhaps I am so afraid of losing, if I put up a fight, that I give up without even trying. It is not something I am proud of, but now I am able to acknowledge, without any sense of shame or guilt, that this is how it is.

  I swallowed hard, to no effect. The heat had reached my stomach and I felt nauseous. The young woman waited patiently for my response. My thoughts flew from the master bedroom behind me, down the stairs, to the two bedrooms in the basement. That was where I wanted to place my sister. But if I didn’t sleep in the master bedroom myself, wouldn’t it seem strange not to give it to her? On the other hand, letting her have it would mean giving her a larger part of the house than I wanted to. Not just because it was the largest room but also because of its position on the entrance floor, at the heart of the house. It would be like giving her access to more of my house than I liked to. It felt as if she were already here a
nd already affecting my relationship with the house. The nausea kept rising.

  “The first room downstairs, I think,” I said to the girl, and she nodded and disappeared down the stairs.

  I slowly walked upstairs, to the top floor. The space there was one room, a large open area where indoors and outdoors was separated only by a glass wall with sliding doors. With the doors open, you would feel as if you were outside, and often small birds would come to visit. I spent most of my time up there. I slept on one of the hard sofas. I ate out on the terrace, unless it rained. And I worked there. It was a large house, and I really only occupied the top part of it. But I liked the feeling of the rest of it being there, below me. It worked like a kind of buffer against the world.

  I walked out onto the terrace, which I used to think of as my garden. The first one I’d ever had. But it was really just a space with terra-cotta tiles on the floor and a few potted plants. A lemon tree, a lime, a vine that grew slowly, supported by the stone wall, and a few red and pink geraniums. The large, mature bougainvillea didn’t quite belong, I thought, although it filled the entire left part of the terrace with its purple splendor. It had its roots beneath the flagstones in the street below, and I never considered it my responsibility. How it had grown to such height and width was a mystery. Its extravagant blossoms overshadowed the modest efforts of the other plants. I never watered it, but it didn’t seem to matter. It must have found its own source of nourishment somewhere deep below.

  I looked up to the sky and raised my hand to count the number of fingers between the sun and the ridge of the hills. At least an hour of daylight left. That would make it around five thirty, and the bus wasn’t due until just after eight. I had time to finish the day’s gardening if I got on with it straightaway. Water the plants, pick up dry leaves and twigs, sweep the floor, and fold the sun chairs. But I remained seated.

  I heard the girl call good-bye from downstairs, then the sound of the front door opening and closing, followed by the gate to the alleyway, and finally the sound of her rapid, light steps on the street below.

  The house was mine again.

  I stood up and went downstairs. The kitchen appeared very dark after the intense light on the terrace. I poured myself a glass of cold white wine and brought it with me upstairs.

  It wasn’t just the plants on the terrace that needed care; the house itself also felt like a living organism that needed me. Or perhaps it was I who needed the house. It embraced me and protected me. It seemed to strive toward the sun, just like the plants did. And perhaps that was why I too lived up there, close to the sun. Far below, where the bougainvillea had its roots, were the bedrooms, always cool and in semidarkness, even when I opened the shutters. The kitchen and dining room on the entrance floor also stayed cool, even in the summer, and I found this comforting somehow. It was hard to imagine what it would feel like in the winter.

  Ever since I’d first arrived, I’d slept with the curtains open. I learned how to determine the time of day with only a quick glance. I liked that and by now I trusted my assessment of the light more than I had ever trusted a watch. I saw the most beautiful sunrises and night skies of my life, and I never tired of gazing out over the bay below, where the surface of the sea constantly shifted color and mood. The white buildings climbed up the slope from the harbor, forming a kind of amphitheater, and beyond them the crest of the steep hills constituted a protective wall. I loved the view the most like this, at the end of the day.

  This would be my first complete year in the house. My first winter. I no longer had any other home, although I wasn’t sure I could count on being allowed to renew the lease at the end of the year or would be able to buy the house. But I thought no further than the end of the year. Wood was stacked by the fireplace in the dining room, so I assumed it might get cold eventually. But the sea was still swimmable and the sun warm.

  I sat down on the wooden bench at the table and took a sip of wine. I drank too much. Too much in comparison to what? I twirled the glass in my hand and watched the condensation become tears that fell on my fingers. There wasn’t really any need for me to compare myself with anything or anybody. As long as I was alone in the house, all comparisons were meaningless. Here there were no rules or regulations. Whether I drank too much could only be measured by how I felt. And apart from the hot knot in my stomach, I felt fine. This too without comparison. Fine for me. Fine for now.

  I put the glass down and placed my hands on either side of it. They were strong hands, though not exactly beautiful. I hadn’t been given the long, narrow fingers with beautifully shaped nails or, for that matter, the attractive slim legs. Or those dainty feet. Or the blonde hair. Strangely, this had never bothered me. Rather the opposite, really. I couldn’t remember ever having wanted it to be different. I realized that Emma had inherited Mother’s beauty, of course. That ethereal quality. The self-evident femininity. An attractive fragility, perhaps also a kind of vulnerability. I honestly couldn’t recall ever having envied her anything in that respect.

  But, then, initially I wasn’t alone. Then, when I had Amanda, I saw my reflection in Amanda and I liked what I saw.

  Emma could keep her beauty.

  Abruptly, I felt the anxiety rise again. Anxiety? No, it was more than that. It was dread. Panic really. I quickly took a large sip of wine. Perhaps I ought to take a shower? Change into something fresh? I looked down at the striped cotton dress I was wearing. It had been a long time since I had ironed my clothes. Just as I dropped many other chores and routines. Peeled away most of them. No, that wasn’t really what had happened. It hadn’t been a conscious decision. Rather, there had been a time when even the simplest practical chore had felt completely overwhelming. And that was when I abandoned most things. And lost a hold on my life.

  I felt a small stab of something I couldn’t quite define. Grief perhaps? Or bitterness? I hoped it wasn’t the latter. Grief was acceptable. That old, inexhaustible grief that survived inside me. I could live with that. I might even need it in order to survive. Then, on top of it, the newer, not-yet-set grief. I nurtured that one. But bitterness has always scared me. I inspected my nails again and realized I couldn’t even remember when I had last painted them. Or when I had worn makeup. I cut my own hair and usually wore it held back with a clasp. Now I removed the clasp and shook out my hair. A shower, definitely.

  There was still plenty of time.

  I stood under the lukewarm water, with my eyes closed. I knew exactly when it had seized me, this mad impulse. I could see us standing there, Emma and I. A few stray guests lingered, but the reception was over.

  The two of us, as if inside a bubble. It felt strange. I had never experienced a sense of belonging with Emma. Not even when we were children. But I remember that I stopped in my tracks, a pile of dirty dishes in my hands, and looked at her.

  “Would you like to come and visit, Emma? Stay with me in my house in Spain?”

  She threw me a quick glance, with those large, pale eyes of hers a little red on the rims. She looked surprised, but she made no immediate response, just carried on picking up cutlery and scrunched napkins from the table. When her hands were full, she turned and disappeared into the kitchen.

  “It would be nice if you’d come,” I said when she returned, trying to make it sound as if I didn’t really care too much either way. But there was something inside me that just had to say it, regardless. I do remember that I regretted the words as soon as they passed my lips.

  “Oh, I don’t know, Maria,” she said eventually, without looking up.

  I shrugged, as if it made no difference whatsoever to me. And I realized I was relieved.

  “It’s just a bit much right now . . .” She left the sentence unfinished. “Perhaps later. If the invitation still stands. Sometime later.”

  “Later” became almost two years. And by then I had forgotten my strange impulse. So much had happened in the interim. Now as I tried
to think back and understand why I had blurted out that invitation, I reluctantly had to acknowledge that I might have been driven by a wish to show off. To flaunt my new life. Strut my happiness.

  Mother always used to say that you mustn’t allow yourself to be happy. Or at least not admit it, not to yourself. And certainly not to other people. Never show it. To do that is to challenge the powers and inevitably leads to catastrophe. If that is true, Mother must certainly have been safe. I can’t remember ever seeing her happy. As for me, in spite of not really wanting to, I became cautious too. Somehow it became ingrained in me. But right at that moment, then, when I stood facing Emma after Mother’s funeral, strangely, I was happy. And for a moment I allowed myself to acknowledge that I was. Mother would be proven right, of course.

  * * *

  Emma was visibly affected by the occasion. She cried through the entire funeral ceremony. And now, as she bent forward and continued to collect plates and glasses from the table, I noticed tears falling again. I had not cried at all. I was comfortably cocooned in my happiness. Not because Mother was dead, but because of the future I so arrogantly took for granted.

  The funeral wasn’t a particularly shattering one. Mother’s death was no surprise. We had been given time to prepare, and everything had been done exactly in accordance with Mother’s wishes. Lots of music, the kind she liked. French chansons well performed by a young singer and a man with an accordion. But it was a celebration that should have happened earlier. And under other circumstances. Before the guest of honor had disappeared. As it was, it felt like an empty gesture, meaningless and a little awkward. We all played our parts, particularly Emma and I. With Mother hovering over us. Emma beautiful and suitably sad. I remember reflecting that she was in her element at the funeral. She mingled with the guests with the just the right amount of restrained grief. She had been born with that natural elegance about her. At home, elegance had certainly not been nurtured. Not much else either. You had what you were born with. Anything further, you had to find on your own elsewhere. Or manage without.