A Sister in My House

by Linda Olsson

  I turned off the water and stepped onto the cool, polished concrete floor and dried myself slowly and carefully. Even though I hadn’t gained weight, and I really didn’t think I had, it was as if the flesh was in a process of slow redistribution. I stood facing the mirror and stretched, straightened my back, and pulled in my chin. I had just turned forty-eight. All I could be certain of was that aging would progress, presumably at an increasing pace. As long as I refrained from comparing myself to my young self, or to someone else, the process could be allowed its course.

  But then there was Emma.

  I lifted first one arm, then the other, and regarded myself in the mirror. It felt as if it had been a long time since I had. And it felt as if the distance between me and my image had increased, as if we were slowly separating. I applied deodorant. Brushed my teeth. Why, I have no idea. I was soon to have another glass of wine. I combed my hair and quickly pulled on clean clothes. Jeans and a striped shirt. Then I took a step back and watched myself. And I realized that there I was, doing exactly what I shouldn’t. I compared myself. To my younger self. To Mother. And foremost to Emma. She was forty-two. Six years younger than me.

  It had seemed a big difference when Emma first entered my life. Then, as we grew older, it hadn’t seemed much at all. Now, suddenly, it again felt like a considerable difference.

  Six years earlier I had been happy.

  * * *

  I had heard nothing from Emma after the funeral. Not that I had expected it. I hadn’t been in touch either. Our contact had always been sporadic, at best. Even during the last few months of Mother’s life, I had not called very often. And when Emma and I talked, it rarely developed into a proper conversation. I asked what I thought I should ask. Extended offers to help financially. Offers that were nevertheless never taken up. Somehow it felt like Mother’s illness was Emma’s responsibility and only hers. Whether this was what I made myself believe because I felt guilty or was a fact, I am not sure. Emma never complained, never asked for anything. I think I was relieved. What little contact we had during those last few months before the funeral ceased completely afterward. It wasn’t that Mother had been a link that held us together, exactly, but her physical presence might have provided a tangible reminder that we were related. Afterward, there was nothing left, and I hardly gave a thought to my sister or her life.

  So Emma’s e-mail arrived as a complete surprise.

  Maria, I am not sure if you remember that you invited me to visit you in Spain. If the invitation still stands, I would very much like to come. Would sometime in October suit?

  E

  That was all. But it was just right. If she had written more, asked about my health or added a greeting of some kind, I would have reacted differently and probably not in a good way. This short, neutral message was manageable. It felt genuine and therefore difficult to dismiss. So I replied, yes, that would be just fine. Anytime in October.

  Now it was the fourteenth. And Emma was on her way.

  When I returned to the terrace with my refilled glass, the sun was perched on the crest of the hills above the harbor. The sky was orange along the black silhouette, only to fade into pink and then gradually darken further up. The town itself was already in semidarkness. It was that uncertain moment when the day gives in and lets the night take over. To me, the best time of day.

  I lingered, but eventually I couldn’t defer it any longer. It was time to leave.

  I tried to take a deep breath in the cooling evening air as I closed the front door behind me. But my insides seemed to have contracted, and it felt as if I couldn’t fill my lungs properly.

  As I came down the stone steps on my way to the harbor, I spotted Pau. Barefoot and wearing shorts, he stood in the doorway of his house, framed by the bright-blue wooden trim. He was smoking and had his eyes on a row of pulled-up stone slabs at his feet. When he heard me, he looked up and smiled.

  “Bona tarda, Maria. Here I am trying to decide if I should have a go at fixing the drain now or if I should leave it till tomorrow and go upstairs and have my evening drink on the terrace. What do you think?”

  “Good evening,” I said. I still couldn’t make myself try even the simplest phrases in Catalan, not even those I actually knew. “It will soon be completely dark. Perhaps you had better leave it for tomorrow?”

  He nodded, stuck the cigarette between his lips, and bent down and lifted one of the slabs and placed it, leaning, against the wall.

  “Good advice, thank you. I’ll leave it till tomorrow. I’ll just move these out of the way for now. Can’t have people stumbling on them in the dark.” He smiled again, and his teeth shone white in the sudden darkness as the last rays of sun had disappeared behind his house.

  “I’m on my way to meet my sister at the bus terminal,” I said. I felt as if I had to say something. We usually exchanged a few words when we happened to meet, which was most evenings when I passed his house on the way to have a dinner. It never evolved into a proper conversation. But for some reason, I felt compelled to tell him about Emma’s visit. Perhaps I said it more to myself than to him. As if I tried to make Emma’s visit into something entirely normal and natural by mentioning it casually, in passing.

  “Nice! You will have company for a while. You must be looking forward to that.” We waved good-bye, and he continued his work while I carried on down the stairs to the harbor.

  I walked slowly, tempted to stop and sit down at one of the cafés. But it was too late, so I carried on toward the bus terminal.

  The large new terminal was deserted, and the ticket office looked closed. I sat down on one of the benches but soon stood up again. I just couldn’t sit still.

  The bus turned into the terminal on time and parked in front of me. The doors opened with a sigh, and the covers to the baggage compartment unfolded like the wings of a giant beetle. There were just a few pieces of luggage inside. A young man jumped off, through the front doors, and picked up a backpack and a bag, leaving only a suitcase.

  Then I caught sight of her. She treaded the steps so cautiously, as if hesitant about how to do it. It looked strange. She moved like an old person. Also, her hair was cut very short. I couldn’t remember her ever wearing it so short. I felt unpleasantly affected by both observations. When I waved in greeting, she gave me a nod in response. But not even a shadow of a smile. I stepped forward and pulled out what I assumed must be her suitcase.

  “Welcome,” I said. But when I went to give her a hug, she took a step back, stopping me with a gesture.

  “Don’t come too close. I was sick for the last part of the trip. I had no idea the road would be so winding. I would have taken a pill had I known.”

  Now I noticed how pale she was.

  I couldn’t think of anything to say. Was I expected to apologize for the state of the road?

  “It’s not far. I hope you’ll be okay walking,” was what I managed eventually.

  “Of course. It’ll be nice to get some fresh air. I’ll be fine.”

  I pulled her suitcase behind me, and she made no attempt to take it from me. When we reached the town square, I stopped.

  “There, up there, is where the house is,” I said, pointing. “Not far at all. But perhaps we should have a bite to eat? Or would you rather go straight home?”

  She didn’t respond at first, just stood with her eyes on the sea ahead.

  “It’s so beautiful,” she said quietly. “Just as I imagined it.”

  “Even more beautiful in daylight,” I said. “You’ll see tomorrow. What do you say? Shall we sit down at one of the places here?” I pointed to the row of small restaurants and bars that lined the square.

  She nodded. “Yes, it might be good for me to have something to eat.”

  We entered a tapas place where I often had my solitary dinners. And I felt a stab of that same stinginess at having to share what I considered mine. As if my en
joyment of the place would somehow be ruined if I shared it with Emma. I had been coming there more or less regularly, and the staff knew me by name, as I knew them. I usually sat at a table in the corner, by the window, and often I brought something to read. They left me undisturbed for as long as I liked. Purposely, I asked for another table when Adriana met us with a smile.

  We sat down. And the moment arrived when we had to face each other.

  “Thank you for letting me come. I really appreciate it.”

  “Yes, but I have to admit that I had forgotten the invitation. It was such a long time ago.” I realized how this sounded.

  She nodded. “Yes, and so much has happened in between. I hope you would have told me if it didn’t suit.”

  “A lot has happened here too, Emma,” I said, avoiding her gaze.

  “Your partner, is he not here?”

  A perfectly natural question. Expected too, and yet it cut straight through my prepared defense. I couldn’t even begin to consider a response.

  “No, it’s just me.” It was all I could manage. “Shall we take a look at the menu?”

  We placed our orders, and I suppose we managed some kind of stilted conversation, but I have no recollection about what. I was no longer hungry. But as soon as the wine arrived, I took a gulp.

  “And Olof? He’s not traveling with you?”

  Emma lifted her gaze and regarded me with what looked like an almost pleading expression. For a moment, I thought her eyes were brimming with tears, but it could have been the light from the flickering candle on the table. She shook her head.

  “No, I’ve been visiting a friend who has a house near Avignon. That’s why I sent you that e-mail. I realized it wasn’t far from here. And the train connections are excellent, too.”

  An obvious evasive maneuver. She was better at it than I was. As she had always been. Already as a child, Emma used to paint beautiful backdrops.

  We picked at the food on the plates between us, neither of us with much enthusiasm.

  “So you live here permanently now?”

  I shrugged. “Not exactly. But I don’t live anywhere else either. I suppose you could say that this is the most homelike place I have. I try to take one day at a time. It’s peaceful here and I take the odd job every now and then. Jobs I can do from here. I’ll see what to do about the future in due course.”

  “So you’re renting? I thought you had bought a house here. It sounded as if you had when you invited me to come and stay.”

  I stuck some food in my mouth and took my time to chew and swallow.

  “I’m thinking about it. But I’m renting for now.”

  This will be awful, I thought. This mutual prodding into the other’s secret hiding places. Not that I was interested in Emma’s private life. But I had to say something to avert her questions.

  “How are the children?”

  She started, as if I had said something unexpected. Then she cleared her throat.

  “Fine, just fine, as far as I know.”

  There was a time when I knew Emma’s children. Especially Anna, her oldest. One summer when Anna was nine or ten we spent a couple of weeks together. It was a long time since I had given any thought to those weeks. I had come back to Sweden for a summer holiday, for once. Then, just like now, I had been surprised to hear from Emma. Even more surprised when she asked if I would consider having Anna for a couple of weeks. I never really had an explanation as to why, not at the time, and not later. I knew nothing about Emma’s married life. Not what it really was like. After Emma and Olof married, we only saw each other occasionally, at their home. The odd Christmas Eve and birthday, big ones and cause for major celebration. Not mine, certainly not mine. But Mother’s, I think. And perhaps Emma’s. Her thirtieth, possibly. Mother’s sixtieth. I never felt like I belonged at their parties. And I never asked any of them to visit me in London. I didn’t feel as if we knew each other at all. Or rather, in a sense I knew Emma, in a way. And Olof. But only as individuals, not as a couple. It was probably my fault. The departing person is responsible for staying in touch. Be that as it may, the fact was that I knew nothing about Emma and Olof together. Not much about them as individuals either, really. Emma insisted on maintaining a facade of us as a happy extended family that celebrated important occasions together. They had a beautiful, generous home, and Emma was an ambitious hostess. As for me, I had to mobilize all the strength I was capable of in order to endure her lavish offerings. And in order to socialize naturally with Olof.

  But from the moment I collected Anna that sunny June morning, she and I were the best of friends. It amazed me. I have no children of my own. Children have never really interested me. Not any more than adults do. I don’t like children just because they are children, but I like some children because they are interesting human beings. And Anna captured my heart.

  She looked like Emma’s daughter, absolutely. Beautiful, ethereal, like a little fairy. Blonde and almost translucent. But that was just the surface. Underneath, there was so much that I recognized from myself. Good and bad. So we had our battles during those weeks. And our remarkable high points. Anna learned to dive from the landing. The house I had rented in the archipelago was well equipped, and we had our own little dinghy. So when she had mastered diving from the landing, we rowed to a small islet where there was a high, rounded rock, about six or seven meters high, with deep water below. I watched her knees shake, but then she threw herself into the water without a word. I could feel her apprehension before, as well as her triumph when she had conquered it. I could identify with her, and it felt like a small victory for me too. Evenings, we played chess. As soon as she learned how the pieces moved, she quickly became a strong opponent. She hated losing, and she never gave up. I think I began to love her then.

  But over the years that followed, I only saw her sporadically. Until she came to see me in London. She was seventeen then. I hadn’t been in touch with her, or with Emma, for a long time, so this meeting was unexpected. But that’s what our family is like. Small, sudden bursts of contact, and then silence for years.

  I looked up at Emma. I didn’t understand what she meant by “as far as I know,” but I didn’t want to ask. So I let it pass without comment.

  “And Olof, how is he?”

  For a moment she stared at me, and I thought she looked frightened. Then she looked down and groped for her wineglass. She took several large gulps, drank as if it was water. When she put the glass back, it fell over and wine spilled out over the table.

  “Forgive me. I’m so sorry.” Emma put her hand over her mouth, and then I was sure there were tears in her eyes. “I’m so clumsy.” She was crying audibly.

  “Don’t worry. It’s nothing,” I said, and lifted the glass. Adriana came running, carrying a cloth. But before wiping the table, she leaned down over Emma.

  “Dip your finger in the wine and touch your forehead.” Her English was very good, but Emma stared at her, as if not understanding. “It’s bad luck to spill your wine, but if you rub a little of it on your forehead, you turn the bad luck into good luck.”

  She looked encouragingly at Emma, who hesitantly dipped her finger in the wine and ran it across her forehead.

  “There. All is well again,” Adriana said, and started to wipe the table. She replaced the tablecloth and made sure all was tidy before she filled Emma’s glass. It took only a moment.

  But Emma was weeping uncontrollably.

  I sat in silence, unsure what to do or say. I gave her the time she needed.

  “Olof has left me.”

  She sat hunched in her chair, and when she again stretched out her hand for the wineglass, it looked as if she was searching for something to hold on to so as not to collapse completely.

  I was stunned. Any questions I might have asked seemed impossible. Any words of comfort, or at least empathy, that I should have been able to produce
escaped me. So I lifted my glass and stretched it cautiously across the table.

  “We don’t need to talk about it now, Emma. We don’t need to talk about it at all. You’ve had a long day. Let’s finish the wine and then go back to the house.” Emma lifted her glass, and we raised them and let them touch quietly.

  I signaled to Adriana that we wanted the bill.

  * * *

  We stepped inside, and I closed the door behind us. Emma stopped and stood with her arms crossed over her chest, embracing herself as if cold. For a moment, standing side by side, it felt as if I was the taller one. This couldn’t be right. Emma was five centimeters taller; I knew that for sure. Mother had often pointed it out. I glanced at Emma, but she was looking straight ahead, so I saw her face in profile. She was as beautiful as always, but in some inexplicable way this didn’t make the impression on me it had in the past. I wasn’t sure I liked the change. There is a kind of reassurance in things remaining the same.

  “I thought you could sleep in here.” I pointed toward the master bedroom beyond the dining room. “I just have to make the bed. The girl who cleans for me should have been here today, but she never showed up.”

  I opened the bedroom door and pulled her suitcase inside. I heard her following behind me as I opened one of the windows.

  “You have to make sure the shutters are secured when open, so the wind doesn’t catch them. There is no wind right now, but it rises suddenly here.”

  Emma sank down on the edge of the bed. Again it struck me that she moved so slowly and with such deliberation. Emma who used to tread so lightly. Almost weightless. Now it was as if she could hardly lift her feet. But perhaps she was just tired.

  “I’ll just pop down and get the bed linen and towels.”