Little Sister

by Isabel Ashdown

  I started to worry more and more about the things I was getting wrong, grew paranoid about poisoning Chloe, and so I decided I’d breastfeed her for as long as possible so I wouldn’t put her at any risk. But when Chloe got to ten months, Alicia and the health visitor suggested it might be better for me if I moved on to the bottle, and incapable of resisting their power, I embarked on a fortnight of weaning that left Chloe fretful and me swollen with mastitis and anxiety. My dreams became increasingly disturbed. I imagined Alicia, creeping into Chloe’s room on tiny shiny shoes, standing at her cot-side as she inhaled the baby’s life force until she was no more than a wizened sack. From a distance, I watched James in a passionate embrace with a strange woman, and when they stepped out of the darkness, I screamed without a sound when I saw it was her. I knew these were only dreams, but equally, I knew it meant something. It meant I shouldn’t trust Alicia, and I told James so, told him his mother was a harbinger of bad things, that she had to go if we were to thrive.

  I never should have said that, because then the doctors came with their stethoscopes and adjusted prescriptions and softly examining voices, and Alicia stood in the doorway beyond them, nodding sadly throughout, but I could see the victory shining wetly in her narrowed eyes.

  “You must rest now, dear,” she told me when James walked the doctors to the front door, and she kissed me gently on the forehead and smiled with warmth, but I wasn’t fooled. Even if James was.

  5

  Jess

  I’m about to turn the lights out downstairs when Emily appears at the foot of the stairs. James and Chloe have gone to bed, and we’re alone. Emily falls against me, her arms clinging to my back in an embrace that takes me back, far, far back into early childhood, when we would grab on to each other in a fierce gesture of affectionate play, a jaw-clenching pleasure of happiness and safety.

  “I’m so scared, Jess,” she says, her words muffled against the shoulder of my sweater. The press have been hammering down the door again, and earlier this evening one of them climbed into the backyard and came right up to the kitchen window, photographing Emily in her dressing gown. It had shaken her terribly, and we were all grateful to have DC Piper here to chase them off with threats of arrest.

  I run my hand over the dome of her head, kissing the top of it, moving her away from me so I can look into her face. “I know, Ems.” I nod, and I know she understands that I mean to say more, but that no words can really convey what either of us are feeling. “Hot chocolate?” I offer, and somehow it’s the right thing to say.

  Emily smiles gratefully, and we move into the kitchen, where she pulls out the stools around the island unit as I fetch mugs and milk to make the drinks. Outside, the moon is high over the house, and through the back window, the yard is illuminated as brightly as if it was lit up by a street lamp. The light is so clean and clear that you can see the detail of every shrub, every paving slab, every neatly tended blade of grass. Daisy’s out there somewhere, perhaps even with that woman, under this same moon. When I turn back to look at Emily, to pass her her drink, I see she is gazing out into the moonlit night too, and for a moment that long-buried sisterly connection revives, the intense feeling of it stronger than ever. I know what she’s thinking.

  “She’ll be fine, Ems,” I say. “We can’t know for sure that she’s with Avril, but if she is, she’ll be safe, I’m sure of it. Avril thinks she’s taken her own daughter—Chloe—and James said she’d never hurt a hair on her head.”

  Emily lifts her mug with great effort, and it saddens me to note the sedative-slow responses that have become the norm for her lately. I’ve mentioned it to James, but the doctor says she’s taking the right amount, that she’s probably better off with them at the moment than without.

  She looks at me directly, and it seems all the fight has left her. Before the news of Avril emerged, when we had no idea where Daisy was or what had happened to her, Emily’s anger and spite lived right on the surface where we could all see it—ready to erupt into a rage at the slightest provocation. Poor Chloe seemed to have had the worst of it, as if her very presence made the absence of Daisy all the more visible.

  “Jess, I’m sorry I’ve been such a bitch,” Emily says.

  I’m startled. I can’t think of another time in our lives when she’s apologized like this; in childhood we’d simply move past it, pretending that any unpleasantness had never happened. “That’s OK.” I smile at her. “We’re all allowed to fly off the handle once in a while. And these are pretty exceptional circumstances, Ems.”

  “No, I mean it, Jess. I don’t know what I was thinking back there for a while—I’ve been feeling so paranoid about everything. I even thought you and James—I saw you meeting him for lunch a few days back, and—”

  “Oh, Emily! Oh, no, you mustn’t think that! It was my idea, not his—we just met for a quick bite in town, because—well, because I’ve been worried about you, and I just wanted to talk it through, away from here. Oh, Ems! I’m sorry!” I put down my cup and grapple her into a tight embrace.

  When I release her and return to my own seat, I see her cheeks are flushed with embarrassment.

  “You know I was convinced James was involved with someone else, and I’ve been hating him for it for months, certain he was lying about something—and then there was this letter I found, signed from ‘A.’ With a kiss. Oh, what a bloody fool I am, Jess. Of course, I realize now it must have been from her. From Avril. I completely misread the meaning in it. She said she wanted to see him, ‘to talk about things’—and I just thought—well, I jumped to all the wrong conclusions. It wasn’t James she wanted. It was Chloe.”

  I remember the day I had walked in on Emily, going through James’s desk: the naked shame on her face as she tried to pass it off casually, before confessing her fears that he was having an affair. That would have cost her a lot, admitting to me that everything wasn’t completely rosy in the garden. And that letter—he should have destroyed it; these things have a habit of coming back to haunt you.

  “It’s hardly surprising, Ems. He told you she was dead! You’d hardly be likely to think this letter you saw was from a dead wife rather than a lover!”

  She manages a small laugh, dropping her face into her hands to smooth back the tension and tiredness that etches her features.

  “Is that why you did it?” I ask, softly.

  Emily looks up, her face scrunched in a frown. “What—Marcus?” she replies, and I nod. “No,” she says casually, and the old, unrepentant Emily is back. “Well, yes, I suppose. I guess part of me was lashing out at James, because I thought he was playing away with someone else. But another part of me just wanted to, to do something for myself, something reckless. You know? None of that’s important now, though, is it? And he’s still lying to me, every day—I just know it.”

  She’s sitting upright now, her posture defiant. She brings the cup to her lips and drinks deeply, her eyes lingering on mine a second too long before she drops down off the bar stool and takes her cup to the sink. And I think, am I being paranoid now, or is she aiming that last comment at me?

  * * *

  In our first year at secondary school, we were placed in the same class. It was a large school—eight classes per year group—and really we should have been separated, so that we could spread our wings a little and develop our independent lives. We were given the choice, and we chose to be placed together as much out of fear of the unknown as from devotion to each other. Emily was far more vocal about it than me, but I was glad that she wanted so vehemently to remain with me, glad that my big sister needed me as much as I needed her. Arriving in our new classroom on the first day, where the tiny smattering of familiar faces was obscured by so many strange ones, I was relieved to have Emily beside me. But that feeling soon subsided, once Emily had gained the confidence of new friendships and the self-assurance to cut me loose.

  When I look back on it now, I can see the very moment that her love for me began to strain. Two weeks into the new
term, our form teacher, Mrs. Emery, handed out thirty blank slips of paper in registration period and gave us just one minute to each nominate a class captain. The three pupils with the highest number of nominations would then have a week to rally votes for the final election the following Monday. There was a ripple of excitement around the room, followed by frantic scribbling as Mrs. Emery walked from aisle to aisle, chivvying us along and collecting the anonymous nominations in a frayed wicker fruit bowl. She returned to her desk, silently sorting the paper slips, until finally she was ready to announce the three finalists.

  “Now, quiet down! If I read your name out, please stand and come to the front of the room.” She paused momentously. “Our first nominee is Emily Tyler.”

  Emily just about sprinted to the front, her face aglow. I was so happy: class captain was perfect for her. She was clever, confident, and a born organizer—everything I wasn’t. I gave her the thumbs-up, and she returned the gesture, struggling to damp down the wide smile on her face.

  “Next we have—David Simpson.”

  David took his place beside Emily, and they smiled good-heartedly at each other before the last name was called. Mrs. Emery held up a final piece of paper.

  “And our third nominee is—Jessica Tyler!”

  As my name was called out, Emily’s expression shifted from pride to anger, and she glared at me as though I had fixed it that way, as though I had done it to hurt her. I stood, hardly aware of my legs moving and joined the two others in front of the blackboard, smiling dully at the applause of our seated classmates. I thought it was one of the worst moments of my life until a week later, when despite my devoted lobbying in favor of Emily—something that only seemed to win me more votes—I was named as class captain, and I realized that that was the worst moment of my life. My relationship with Emily would never be quite the same again.

  * * *

  The hard expression on Emily’s face passes as quickly as it had arrived.

  “What are you thinking about?” I ask as I clear away the cocoa mugs and wipe up the milk spills I’ve made.

  “I was thinking about Chloe,” she replies. I’m ready for bed, but Emily looks firmly settled back at the island unit, ready to talk. “About her—and her mother—and how strange it is that Avril suddenly turned up like this.”

  “What do you mean, Ems?” I return to my stool, slide in to sit across from her.

  “Well, it would be natural enough for a teenage girl to want to know more about her real mother, wouldn’t it? And it’s not hard to find information online these days—what if she started searching for information about Avril and discovered she was still alive? What if Avril’s letter to James was in response to Chloe first having made contact with her?”

  I shake my head. “No, Ems, she would have said something. Imagine if you’d discovered your mum wasn’t dead after all—it would be impossible to keep that secret! She would’ve been demanding answers from James, not looking for Avril secretly.”

  Emily looks set on her theory. “I’m not so sure, Jess. She can be deceitful, that one—you don’t know her the way I do. She’s been in a real state since this all happened, behaving just like someone with an awful secret.”

  “Of course she’s in a state! Her baby sister’s been taken!” I’m trying to keep the lightness in my tone.

  Emily leans in, lowering her voice. “All those lies about her boyfriend,” she whispers, “and about where she was on New Year’s Eve—we believed her then, didn’t we, and it all turned out to be untrue. She’s a convincing liar. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if it was Chloe who first caused Avril to contact James, who gave her our address.” Her tone is excited, and it seems that the more she talks about this, the more she is wedded to the idea. “I’m not saying she meant for this to happen—of course she wouldn’t have planned it this way—but it’s not beyond the realm of possibility that Chloe may have made the first contact.”

  I can hardly believe what I’m hearing. Chloe? I know Emily doesn’t believe it any more than I do. She’s doing what she always does when she’s cornered, when the guilt is spilling out of her; she’s deflecting the blame. “There’s no way Chloe’s behind it,” I tell her.

  “We’ll see,” Emily replies. “I know you want to think the best of her, Jess. But you were wrong about James keeping secrets—and I think you’re probably wrong about his precious daughter too.”

  6

  Emily

  Emily is aware of James shaking her for several seconds before her mind catches up with her body and she opens her eyelids, flinching against the bright morning light that streams through the bedroom windows.

  “Emily? Emily?” His face is barely recognizable, sallow and drooped. When did this happen? Emily wonders as she stares up at him, blinking slowly. When did he grow so old? “Chloe’s gone,” he tells her, taking a step back, snatching up his wife’s dropped clothes and stuffing them in the laundry basket, sharp criticism conveyed in the simple movement. “Her bed wasn’t slept in.”

  With great effort, Emily pulls herself to a sitting position and runs a hand across her face, pushing the hair away. The daylight is coursing in, directly onto her face, and she shrinks from it, imagining the effort it would take to ease her legs out of bed and cross the carpet to draw the curtains closed again. Her attention is pulled back to James, whose movements are jerky and impatient. What does he want her to say?

  “Emily!” He shouts it now, moving to her bedside to pick up a glass of water that’s stale and bubbled.

  Even in his panic, James is tidying up, Emily notices. She allows herself the briefest memory of Marcus’s eyes locked on hers, his wide hands hard on her hips as he thrust her against the wooden beach hut. She can’t remember the last time James looked her in the eyes as they made love. She can’t remember the last time they made love. She blames him for all of it—for Daisy, for Avril, for Marcus—for all of it.

  James glares at her. “Didn’t you hear me? Chloe has gone!”

  “So?” she replies. You’re still hiding something, she thinks. I can see it in your eyes.

  “Christ, you’re insane,” he says. His eyes are bulging, and she wants to laugh. “What if she’s with Avril?” he demands. “What if Avril worked out she’s got it wrong with Daisy and came back here for Chloe?”

  Emily snorts. Two days ago, she learned that her husband had been lying to her about one of the most fundamental parts of his life—of their life—and now he expects her to continue playing Happy Families as if nothing has happened? He’s deluded.

  “She’ll be with Max, James. Obviously.”

  James’s face moves through conflicting emotions, ultimately landing on relief. Max is better than Avril, his face says.

  “So what if your underage daughter’s shacked up with a nineteen-year-old man? It’s not a big deal, James. Not on the scale of things.” Emily can’t stop herself. She’s woken full of hatred, and it has to go somewhere. She shrugs like a child and raises her eyebrows, inviting her husband’s response.

  “What do you mean, it’s not a big deal?” he says, and he looks as though he believes he might be dreaming the whole thing. Welcome to my world, Emily thinks.

  “Well, it’s not as if we need to protect her chastity, is it? Max has seen to that already. Nothing to protect there.”

  Even as she says it, she knows she’s gone too far. At close range, James throws the water in his wife’s face, drenching her, shocking her into silence.

  “You’d better get dressed,” he says, calmly now. “DCI Jacobs will be here in half an hour. They’re going to give us an update.”

  * * *

  Emily knows herself well enough to recognize that sometimes she gets a little carried away with her emotions. She remembers a time in their early teens when a secret she had only ever told Jess started circulating around their year group—the details of an insignificant and long-extinguished crush she’d had on one of the popular boys two years above them. It was a silly thing, a tiny thin
g, but by the time the rumor mill had done its worst, the story was that she’d kissed him—“got off with him”—and worse, until it finally reached his ears and he stopped her in the corridor for a public showdown. As if he’d ever go near a year nine? What did she think he was, some kind of pervert? His girlfriend had stood beside him, eyeing her, crossed-armed and pitying, and the whole experience had been degrading in the extreme.

  Jess had insisted she knew nothing about it, that she’d forgotten all about her sister’s fleeting fascination with the boy, and while her pleas had been convincing, Emily wouldn’t believe her. Instead, she retaliated with her own rumor—that Jess’s fainting episodes weren’t real but were merely a ruse she used to get attention. Their school friends were incensed: How could Jess lie about something so serious? How could she trick them all like this? It was disgusting and generally agreed that she should be given the silent treatment for a couple of weeks to teach her an important lesson about friendship. Jess tried to talk to them, but whenever she approached any of the group, they’d turn their backs, swatting her away like a wasp, pretending they couldn’t hear a word. After a week of this, she broke down, refusing to go to school, to eat, to speak. Mum and Dad were fretful with worry, and Emily resented Jess more than ever. It all came to a head one morning as Emily was getting ready for school, when Jess collapsed in a dead faint, resulting in a two-night hospital stay while they monitored her heart rate. While she wanted to believe her sister was faking, the doctors’ reports said otherwise, and Emily had to admit to herself that she felt just a little bit guilty for her part in Jess’s state of stress before the collapse. So, when it had finally emerged that the source of the original rumor was Emily’s best friend Sammie, who had sneaked a read of her diary and clumsily let it slip, she had known that the right thing to do was to apologize to Jess, to make things right. But honestly, by now she’d had enough of being her little sister’s guardian, and she was glad to have cause to keep her at arm’s length. These fits of hers—or faints, or whatever it was she was having—were getting more and more frequent, and Emily had had enough. It was time for Jess to stand on her own two feet.