A Sister in My House

by Linda Olsson

  “I knew you had no interest in me. But afterward, it was as if you couldn’t even stand being in the same room with me. I have a memory from when I was really little. I’m not even sure if it is a memory. But I think it is. I couldn’t have made it up. It’s too strange. I think I had been having a nap, so I must have been very little. A couple of years old, perhaps. I was half-awake when I noticed that you came up to my bed and bent down over me. Although I was so little, I somehow understood that I shouldn’t open my eyes. So I stayed still. I felt how close you were. I heard your breath by my ear. Then you did something really strange. I really do think I understood how extraordinary it was. I realized that you had never come this close to me ever before. But then you took a strand of my hair between your fingers. And I think you smelled it. It was just a brief moment. Then you disappeared out of the room. I have never understood what made you do that.”

  “I remember. Strange that you should mention it now. For some reason I thought about it earlier today. It’s the only time I have ever been close enough to you to pick up your scent. Amanda’s scent was like my own. I couldn’t distinguish between the two. But your hair had your scent. I remember that.”

  That pleading expression was back on Emma’s face. But I had nothing more to give her. I couldn’t understand my own action. I had no memory of what preceded it. It was just an isolated scene without context.

  “You never took the slightest interest in me. It was as if I was something Amanda carried around. Something you hoped she would put down.”

  I nodded. “But I realized that you were a real person. And sometimes when I saw you with Amanda, and you seemed to be having a good time together . . . or were just comfortable in each other’s company . . . Well, then I just wanted to walk away.”

  “But why do you do that all the time? Why do you leave, Maria? Why don’t you wait a little before you make up your mind? Give people some time to explain? Why do you think you know their innermost emotions? That you know what they think? Amanda loved you. You first. Me, she adopted, and I loved her for it. I loved her the way a child ought to love a mother. But I am not sure if Amanda really loved me. I needed her. I’m not sure I would have survived without her. Do you remember what it was like, Maria? How lonely we were? For me, Amanda was my mother. I loved her. I trusted her. And she never failed me. But I think I always knew that you came first. That it was really you and Amanda. And I think I knew already then how hard it was for Amanda to choose between the responsibility for me and her love for you. And you know, I don’t think she ever chose me. She just realized that I wouldn’t survive without her. That is a terrible responsibility for anyone. And Amanda was just a child. I think she hoped you would understand. But you turned your back on her, Maria! Like you have done with everybody else. You just walk away when not everything is to your satisfaction. But nothing is perfect! Sometimes you have to make do with what you can get. But you, you had to have everything! And you expected too much. From everybody. Didn’t you understand how devastated Olof was when you left? Did you not consider him at all?”

  “I just had to get away. I couldn’t stand it any longer. And I couldn’t let him know about the pregnancy. I just couldn’t be with him anymore. It was a matter of survival for me.”

  “What was it you couldn’t stand? What burden did you have that I didn’t have too?”

  “You? You were in the sunniest place! Beautiful, successful, and loved. Your father adored you. However disgusting I found him, I could see that he loved you. And to Mother, you were finally the daughter she had wished for. Amanda and I, we were a mistake. A tragic mistake. But you, you were proof that Mother had finally achieved success.”

  Emma shook her head.

  “She never wanted me. It was my father. And the life he was going to provide for her. The life that only ever existed in Mother’s imagination. And when it all toppled, when Father was exposed in his shabby degradation, when the money was lost and the love was over, well, there she was, left with me. I was a tangible reminder of her failure. And I knew that when she looked at me, she didn’t see me at all. But when she talked about you, it was always with admiration. Your successes. And your father’s love grew in her imagination till she had made him into something he never was. When she looked back on her life, it was never the life she had really lived. She reshaped it. All her life she stepped out of one life and into another one. She started afresh again and again. But I was there, a shackle around her ankle. A constant reminder and proof of the present reality as well as the past. So you see, Maria, I’m the one who got the crumbs when it comes to love. You were offered everything, but you didn’t think it was enough. You never stayed long enough to give anything time to develop. You were never willing to wait for anything. And you were never able to share. It had to be yours and yours only.”

  What could I say? I looked at my sister and knew it was the truth. But it was her truth. Not mine.

  “When Amanda wasn’t there anymore, it got absolutely empty. The whole world died.” I searched for words, hunted in a void.

  “I couldn’t see. I heard nothing. I desired nothing. It was as if I had died too. I truly felt like I was dead. How could I ever have been able to offer you anything?”

  I paused.

  “You say that it was in my power to change everything. But I had no power whatsoever. It’s not possible to foresee an accident. Do you really think I would have gone out on the ice that day if I had known how it would end? You seem to think everything I do is calculated. That I have some intention in everything I do. But I’m just like anybody else. Usually, I have no intention at all. Nowadays, I never do. I put one foot ahead of the other without thinking about where I’m headed. And that’s how it was that day too. I never asked Amanda to come along. I’m not sure I knew where I was going. But it was such a gray, hopeless day. We were alone at home, as usual. And I just couldn’t stand it. So I went out.

  “And then I found myself by the canal. And then I just continued. I had no plan. Not for myself, and certainly not for you and Amanda. But when I heard Amanda call out, I knew she was scared. So I turned back toward the shore. I assumed you did the same. That we were heading back, all three of us. Just as when we came, I walked ahead, toward home, not looking back. Leaving you to do what you wanted.”

  I listened to my own voice with the same concentration as I had listened to Emma’s. Our stories lay side by side for the first time. I had come to understand Emma’s terrible grief, of course. Perhaps her sense of guilt too. I had understood them intellectually. But I had never before felt them. Never hers. Always only my own. Now, for the first time, I could see her on that wobbling ice floe. So little and so alone. Panic stricken and in shock. And for the first time, I could see myself reach the shore and climb the snowy slope with not so much as a look over my shoulder. Why had I not turned around? Checked if they were following? It wouldn’t have changed the inevitable. But it would have changed how things evolved later on. It might have made both Emma and me different people. It might even have changed our lives. Instead, I just walked away.

  It was true what Emma had said: I couldn’t stand looking at her afterward. She was a constant reminder of what had happened. I don’t think I ever put any blame on her. Not consciously. Just on myself. But to see her was to stick a pin into my heart. The pain of remembering was unbearable. I just couldn’t take it. I walked on glass, and even the slightest reminder of my enormous guilt could cause everything to collapse. Emma’s silent plea for my attention was intolerable. I had absolutely nothing to give her. In my desperation I might even emotionally have blamed her, in spite of knowing this was wrong. The little ten-year-old couldn’t have done anything to prevent the accident. I knew Amanda had led the way and chosen the direction. But I needed somewhere to place the blame, and I placed it on Emma. Anywhere, just not on myself.

  I looked at Emma’s pale face and I could see that the blame had been there all
the time, irrespective of me. That she had carried it all her life. Just like I had carried mine. I saw now that it had been in my power to relieve her of it. That I could have set her free. I had been able to do it then. I might even be able to do it now.

  But I had no idea how. How to release both Emma and myself from what we had carried for so long, from something that had come to be a part of ourselves. I just couldn’t imagine how this monumental liberation could be done.

  Emma stood up.

  “I know it wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t mine either. But as with much of what we experience in life, we are not just shaped by the incidents themselves. How we react to them is at least as important. How we deal with them afterward. There was nothing either of us could have done about the accident. But afterward, there were choices. And there have been choices ever since. I could have talked to you earlier. I could have visited you a long time ago. Written to you. Tried to forgive you. And myself. But I did nothing. I mourn the person I could have been all these years had I just made an effort. Instead, over time, I think I began to like that hopeless sense of guilt. Somehow it merged with my love of Amanda. I carried it and gradually it came to define me.”

  I was standing too. Awkwardly we stood facing each other with the table between us, both of us holding on to the backs of our chairs. As if we needed support. Or perhaps a protective shield.

  “I am grateful, Maria. Not just for you having me here. But for what you have told me. And even more for having listened to me. I don’t think you understand how apprehensive I was. And how relieved I am now. Now there is only one day left. It will be a very different day. A hopeful day, I think. I hope.”

  When she passed me on her way to her room, her hand touched my arm softly. I said nothing and I didn’t move.

  I heard her door close, and I was alone in the room.

  I cleared the table and went upstairs and sat down on the terrace.

  It occurred to me that the greatest, most formative experiences in our lives seldom become active memories. Instead, it is as if they spread in our bodies. They are pumped around by our hearts, circulating until they have left impressions in all our cells. That is how it was with me and Amanda’s death. I knew what had happened, of course. I remembered it in a theoretical sense. If someone had asked me how my sister died, I would have been able to give a correct answer. But during all these years I had not considered the details, just lived with the insufferable regret. With the darkness and the emptiness. But now I couldn’t escape Emma’s words. I saw her as she was that day, the little ten-year-old girl. She appeared in her red jacket and the blonde fringe visible beneath the brim of her hat. A little snotty and very pale. And I saw how relieved Amanda was when she started toward the shore. A little disappointed too, perhaps, or annoyed because I had chosen another way back. I saw her turn now and then, making sure Emma was following, perhaps a little uneasy still. I heard her talk eagerly about what they were going to do when they got back home, about the hot chocolate she was going to make. I thought I could see how they calmed and comforted each other. I saw the whole course of events evolve. From the moment I decided to leave and put on my jacket, hat, and mittens. How I left the stuffy apartment where everything stood still. I felt, rather than saw, how Amanda and Emma hurriedly dressed too. I saw myself walk ahead of them. Without looking at them. Without thinking. What was I feeling?

  I was angry.

  I was jealous.

  I could see that clearly now. But why I went for the canal, I still couldn’t understand. Not even now, when I was really trying to remember. Perhaps I was hoping Amanda would stop me. That she would remind me we weren’t allowed down there. Force me to stop and look at her. That I would somehow be able to make her promise some time for just the two of us, later. If I turned and followed her back home. But she said nothing at all. Not to me. I could hear her talking to Emma. But I couldn’t hear what she was saying. It wasn’t much. I realized they were struggling to keep up with me, and perhaps I purposely walked faster. Perhaps again I hoped to be stopped. That Amanda would ask me to slow down, wait for them. But she didn’t. She never once called out to me. I don’t think I had a plan. One thing just led to the next. Suddenly I was walking through the hard snow on the slope leading down to the canal. And then I was out on the ice. It surprised me a little. But I was more filled with a sense of excitement. It was chilling to see the black water between the cracks in the ice. Watch it well up as the weight of my body moved the ice floes and made them wobble.

  I could feel tears slowly trickling down my face. These last few days had brought such a profusion of tears. More tears than I had shed during my entire life before.

  I wasn’t scared out there on the ice. I realized that it was dangerous, but it didn’t really scare me. Instead, I was just excited. I wasn’t thinking. I half-ran over the uneven ice and jumped from floe to floe. When Amanda called out, I must have heard. I must have, because that was when I turned back toward the shore. Not to where Amanda and Emma were but farther along, over untouched ice.

  It hurt. And the pain was getting worse. As if I was approaching something I had been desperately avoiding. Something I didn’t want to remember. When I heard Amanda call to me, I realized she was afraid. But not for herself, for Emma. That’s what I thought. And it made me furious. Without Emma, we would have shared the excitement. Jumped across the cracks together. Chased each other over the ice. We would have shared the adventure. The chilling dangers. And if a crack had widened before us, it would have swallowed both of us. Together.

  But now I had heard Emma’s story. And now I realized that Amanda might have been afraid for her own sake too. Not just for Emma’s. That she would never have run with me over the ice, even if it had only been the two of us. If I had just stopped in my tracks and turned back to join them, she would have waited. And we would have walked back together in our tracks.

  We would have shared that experience instead.

  DAY SIX

  We had established a kind of morning routine. Again I found Emma at the table on the patio when I came downstairs. And again she had bought croissants. There was a smell of coffee and cigarettes. It surprised me how right it felt. And how much I enjoyed it.

  I poured my coffee and sat down.

  “The last day. Anything in particular that you would like to do?”

  Emma shook her head. “I’m happy just to take a stroll in town. Don’t feel that you have to take care of me. That you need to fill my day.”

  I looked at her. She had a light tan by now and it suited her.

  “It’s a shame we don’t have more time. There is so much I would like to show you. We could have gone to Barcelona, and I could have taken you to see Maya’s gallery, which is really mine, even though it’s hard for me to understand. I would have liked to hear your impression. I need some advice. I have put off making decisions ever since Maya died. But now I think the day when I have to return to real life is fast approaching. I have to decide what to do. Return to my school. Or trust that I will be able to make a living from the gallery.”

  “I suppose it’s the same for me. I will go back home to face my difficult decisions.”

  In the ensuing silence, I could hear the little red-breasted bird in the fig tree. I got up and swept the crumbs from my croissant into my hand and placed them on the wall. Almost instantly the bird appeared and picked them up.

  “Imagine how worried I was at the thought of having you here in the house.”

  Emma smiled. “Me too. I wondered how it would work. If I was intruding. But this might be just right. We can allow this to sink in. And see what to do in the future.”

  “You know, Emma, I really think we should go back to Port Lligat today. Have lunch at that little fish restaurant.”

  Emma agreed, but first she wanted to walk down to the town. She wanted to buy some small presents for Anna and Jakob.

  * * *


  A kind of peace settles over Cadaqués when summer is over. People do ordinary things. Many bars, boutiques, and restaurants close, and those that remain open somehow seem changed, as if staff and customer are family. It might be true, I suppose. People move at a different pace, neither slowly like tourists nor fast like rushed shop assistants and waiters. It’s as if the whole place exhales and returns to its normal life. The past summer was the first I had experienced in the house. It might also be the last.

  Emma had spotted a pair of earrings in a store near the cathedral, and we strolled in that direction.

  “I can’t quite remember now how I envisioned your life here. But not quite like this.”

  “In what sense?”

  “Well, I did think of you in a place by the sea. I told you, didn’t I? And I knew it would be a beautiful place. But I still didn’t think of it like this. Not this . . . well, this homey. This peaceful and . . . kind.”

  I laughed.

  “If you had come here in July or August, I don’t think you would have found it peaceful. And I don’t think you would have described it as homey. Certainly that is not a good description of my house. Not the way I keep it.”

  “I didn’t mean just the fact that the tourist season is over. It’s the place itself. And perhaps even more you.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes. During all these years when we have only seen each other sporadically, I have tried to imagine what your life would be like. Even if I knew where you lived, I never saw you in your environment. Just at my place on a few occasions. So I tried to paint a picture in my mind. I tried to envision it. What you did, how you lived. What people you socialized with.”

  “I never imagined you were thinking of me. Or that you would try to picture my life. On the other hand, I must admit that, arrogantly, I thought I knew everything about yours. Based only on my impressions from those dinners at your place. Christmas Eves and birthdays. Not a good basis, I’m sure. I realize that now. But all those years, I thought that was enough for me to understand what your life was like. But I knew nothing, did I?”