Little Sister

by Isabel Ashdown

  I point to a bottle of house white in the display fridge and watch Becca as she opens it and lays down two glasses. “She’s a mess at the moment, Becca; some days I think she’s going to lose it altogether. I know the cause of it all is Daisy’s disappearance, but the weirdest thing is that sometimes I wonder if she even misses her, if she’s even all that sad that her baby has gone.” I don’t know why I’m saying all this to Becca; it’s not as though I know her that well, but I like her, and something tells me I can trust her. “Of course, that’s not really the case, but it’s just the way she seems right now—as if she’s completely absent of any feeling, other than rage. I guess all we can do for the time being is to try to keep her grounded. Make sure she can hold it together until Daisy comes home.”

  I resist the urge to turn and look in Emily’s direction, to see if she’s noticed us chatting. Becca peers over my shoulder, checking on Emily, reading my thoughts. “She’s fine. She’s reading the menu. Listen, if there’s anything you need, just let me know, Jess? How’s Chloe today?”

  I think of Chloe’s tired little face when I popped up to see her earlier, how she seemed smaller and younger than ever before. “She’s OK. I took her up a bowl of soup just before we left, and the color’s coming back to her cheeks already. She just needs a bit of rest now—maybe I’ll take a bit of that cheesecake home for her later, cheer her up.”

  Becca picks up a knife and slices a generous portion of the strawberry cheesecake that sits on the countertop, wrapping it in tin foil and sliding it across to me. “On the house. Tell her Becca and Todd send their love, will you? Now, why don’t you take these drinks back to your table, and I’ll be over to take your order in two ticks?” She pats the counter and turns away, and I think that’s what the world needs to make it a better place: more Beccas.

  When I sit down opposite Emily, I’m relieved to see the lively sparkle in her eyes, and I can hardly believe she’s the same woman who staggered through the front door yesterday afternoon.

  “Well, I’m not sure about mains, but I know what I’m having for dessert—look, they’ve got millionaire’s shortcake, just like we used to order in Minxies on West Street.” She waves to attract Becca’s attention, turning her smile back to me, her face open with nostalgia. “Remember Minxies, Jess? God, we used to love that place!”

  * * *

  Minxies was a 1950s-styled diner that had been on the high street in our hometown for as long as we could remember, a place frequented by the older kids too cool for the doily-decked Olde Country Café on the opposite side of the road. We first dared to set foot inside Minxies on Emily’s sixteenth birthday, when she gathered a small posse of us—me, Sammie, Jane Warren, and Jo Floyd—to join her after school for a spontaneous celebration. I’ll never forget the feeling of walking in there in our uncertain little group, with Emily boldly leading the way along the aisle, swinging her hips and sliding into the first free booth she came to. We all slid in around her, glad of the red high-backed stall that shielded us from the scary sixth-formers and college kids whose eyes had examined us on the way in.

  A large candy-striped waitress called over from behind the glass cake cabinet, waving a pair of pastry tongs in our direction. “It’s counter service, girls. You’ll have to come to the till to order.”

  I blushed, and Emily tutted, nudging little Sammie to shove along so we could all trail up to the counter to choose our hot chocolates or Cokes or whatever it was that we wanted. I felt like a silly little baby under the judging scrutiny of all those older, more confident diners, but by the time we returned to our booth, I was too distracted by the tall strawberry milkshake and pink iced bun Emily had treated me to, too entranced by the honeyed jukebox sounds of Nina Simone to care about the big kids on the other side of our private padded booth. I can see us all now, as clear as day: Emily with her shiny hair piled high in a swirling bun, her lips a smooth raspberry pout of color; Sammie, in her soft pink sweater looking pretty as a princess; Jane and Jo barely distinguishable from one another with their heavy bangs and identical denim jackets; and me, boyish in a stripy T-shirt and jeans, my long, sun-lightened hair in need of a good brush. What a funny little group we must have seemed, mismatched in so many ways.

  For the next two years, Minxies was where it all happened. It was a period of harmony for Emily and me, a time when we were as easy together as we’d ever been, and collectively we soon became such a firm fixture at the diner that the large candy-striped waitress treated us like proper regulars. She gave us names to match our favorite orders, so I was Miss Strawberry Milkshake and Emily was Miss Millionaire’s Shortcake. Sammie was Miss Chocolate Donut, which she wasn’t so keen on because she thought it made her sound fat. Minxies was the place to go in our little group, its American dream charm seeing us through all manner of exam nerves and heartache, family strife and growing pains. Minxies felt good—it smelled good, it tasted good, it sounded good too—and it made us feel happy about ourselves, as though we were part of something grown-up and real.

  It was in Minxies that Emily and I could be the best versions of ourselves together, where we could laugh and joke and sing along to the jukebox and never think a bad thought about each other. It was where we went for every celebration or commiseration, where we’d stop on the way back from shopping before a night out, so that we could plan our outfits together, pulling new purchases from our crinkly shopping bags to lay them out on the table and tell each other we would look just great. Minxies was the last place Emily and I had been together before that party at Sammie’s house when I had just turned seventeen. But after that party we never returned to Minxies again, either together or alone.

  * * *

  “Did they miss me?” I ask Emily after Becca has cleared away the plates from our main course. Emily looks up from her wineglass, startled. “Did Mum and Dad miss me, after I’d gone?”

  She takes a slow, considered sip from her drink before reaching for the bottle and topping up our glasses, her measures coming dangerously close to spilling over. “Well, they must have done, I’m sure.” She returns the bottle to its position at the edge of the table.

  “So they never said as much?” I hadn’t meant to bring this up. It must be the wine talking—I’m not used to drinking during the day. “They never worried, or wondered where I’d gone?”

  “Well, yes, but I told them what we’d agreed I would. That you’d got yourself a job in London, and wanted a fresh start, away from home. That is what we’d agreed, wasn’t it?”

  Of course, she’s right. That was what we had agreed—or at least what my big sister had suggested, and I had gone along with.

  I remember her voice, soft and kind enough to be persuasive, as she’d knelt in the darkness at my bedside a few nights before I left home. “You’ll hurt them more if you hang around reminding them of the whole awful thing,” she had whispered. The crack of light from the street lamps beyond the curtains had lit her up momentarily, illuminating the shine of her glossy hair, the wet of her eyes. She’d moved back into darkness.

  “But what if I were to talk to them? Explain it all? Maybe they’d understand? Maybe they’d see that it wasn’t how it sounds.”

  Emily had made a horrible scoffing sound, and even as I said it, I knew I was wrong to hope I could make them see something as terrible as this as anything other than sinful. Even if my father could forgive me, my mother’s morals were so hardwired that it was impossible to imagine her even hearing the words, let alone forgiving the actions. Mum, I got pregnant by a boy I hardly know—and then I aborted it. I murdered an unborn child. These were words I would never speak; I could no more bear to say them aloud than my mother could bear to hear them on my lips.

  Emily was resolute. “You didn’t see her after the phone call, Jess. When the clinic phoned, she was crushed. Haven’t you seen the way she’s been around us all lately? I promise you, she’s not ready to talk about it yet.”

  She was right. Mum had been puffy-eyed and withdrawn lately
. Dad did his best to go along with the charade that all was tickety-boo, but it was clear she was depressed, and it was all my fault.

  I lay there, reeling from the news that the clinic had phoned her. “But I thought the clinic was supposed to be confidential? They even had posters saying that, on the walls! You said once I’d done it, Ems, that would be the end of it. Why did they have to tell her?” I broke into a sob—I can recall the raw pain of the emotion to this day—and I clamped my hand to my mouth to stop the loneliness and self-hatred from spilling out into the darkness, my body straining to let it all out, to let my keening voice be heard.

  “You’re under eighteen, Jess. I guess they must have a rule about telling your parents if you’re under eighteen. I didn’t know, honest.”

  We were silent then for a while, until Emily had stood and patted my arm and told me I’d be fine. “Just take yourself away for six months—maybe a bit more—and then we’ll see? It’ll be for the best, Jess. Trust me.” And then she had left the room.

  Trust me. The words pass through my head now as my big sister sits across the table from me, upending the last few drops of wine into her own glass. Trust me, she had said, and I had. Despite everything I knew about Emily, despite every little wrong she’d ever done me, I had trusted her.

  But that was then, and this is now. “Yes,” I reply, returning her unblinking gaze. “You’re right, Ems. That’s what we agreed.”

  12

  Emily

  It was nice, going out for lunch like that with Jess, but something about it has left Emily uneasy. She sits on the edge of the bed in the early evening light. Was it something in the hard edge to Jess’s voice when she asked about their parents, something in the way she was so quick to accept Emily’s version of events? Of course, they were drinking too, and it’s quite possible that on top of her tablets and her fatigue and sorrow, Emily is feeling edgy and mistrustful, imagining an atmosphere between them that isn’t even there. After all, Jess has been her salvation these past few days, since the news came through about Avril. It’s Jess who has kept Emily functioning when all she wants to do is curl up and die. She’s kept them fed and clothed; she’s prevented the house from falling into disarray, quietly buoying James enough to keep getting up and going to work, and dealing with all the problems of Chloe so that Emily doesn’t have to. So why, then, does she feel so uneasy now? Is it suspicion and mistrust she feels? No, not exactly. It’s something more like fear of letting herself go, of giving herself back to her sister without reservation. Perhaps it’s guilt, a rare and honest voice whispers inside her head: guilt at the decades they’ve wasted apart, guilt at her own stubborn refusal to let bygones be bygones and bring Jess back to the fold years earlier.

  Whatever it is, she tells herself, she’s being neurotic, and she ought to be grateful to Jess, not tight-minded and suspicious. As she lies back on her bed and closes her eyes, a terrifying thought occurs to her: what if Jess leaves her now? Her heart races—she can’t allow that to happen, not now that she’s here—Jess has become the glue in this family, the one thing that is holding them all together. She even plugged Emily’s phone into the bedside charger this afternoon, insisting she must keep it switched on in case any news comes through, and of course Emily knew she was right. She can’t leave them now. Emily leans over to the bedside table and snatches up her mobile phone, urgently tapping out a message and pressing SEND before she has time to change her mind. She flops back against the pillows and exhales with relief.

  THANKS FOR TODAY, JESS. SO GLAD YOU’RE HERE. LOVE YOU, EMS XXX

  By Emily’s standards, the message is positively gushing, and that in itself makes her feel exposed. What is it with open displays of affection that spook her so? She doesn’t know the answer to this, nor to so many of the other questions that hurtle through her mind at all hours these days, but she does know that Jess will appreciate it, that she will know she’s needed, and that’s the important message that Emily must convey.

  Jess went out again a while ago. She didn’t say where she was going or what she was doing, just that she’d tell Emily all about it in the morning. Perhaps she’s off on another of her long walks across the island; perhaps she just needs a bit of time alone. Before she set off, Jess cooked up a big pan of chili, taking a bowlful up to Chloe’s room and plating up two more so that Emily can eat together with James when he gets back from work. He’s gone in even though it’s Saturday, claiming that he’s got a lot to catch up on after taking off so much time over Daisy, and while that may well be true, Emily knows he’s glad to be away from her as much as possible. Jesus, this is one ugly great mess. Just one month ago, if anyone had predicted the future to Emily, she would have written them off as insane. If they had said to her, “By mid-January, Emily, you will have slept with your husband’s best friend, and your baby will have been abducted. Your stepdaughter, who hates you, will have been hospitalized with alcohol poisoning, and your husband’s first wife will have turned up alive and well, not dead as you’d believed for the past thirteen years. Oh, and your long-estranged sister will be the one person you can really rely on, the one person you believe just might be able to get you through this nightmare if you don’t go crazy first.” If someone had told her that this was what her future held, she would have laughed in their face.

  Emily turns to look at the digital numbers of the clock, sees it is 7:00 p.m. Should she look in on Chloe, see if she needs anything? Part of her wants to, but the other part of her knows that Chloe’s not interested in anything she has to say. She’ll leave her for now, let her sleep. Yes, that’s the thing to do. She emerges from the dim loneliness of her bedroom to seek out a new bottle of wine. She’ll take it back upstairs with her, and with no one here to cast judgment, she’ll crawl into bed and drink it alone.

  * * *

  They are lying on the beach under a gently scorching sun, the sand mounded over their concealed bodies, their heads resting side by side on warm, sand-built pillows. To passersby they might look like a pair of tiny Egyptian princesses, prepared for internment in sarcophagi made of golden sand. Where are they? Emily tries to remember as she lies on her bed, half-dozing, and it comes to her, strangely, that it was here, on this very island, on a rare summer holiday over from the mainland. They can’t have been very old at all, but the memory is as sharp as a photograph: beyond their feet is the sea, lapping and glimmering, alive with the sounds of splashing children and laughing adults, and the low but clear tones of their own parents’ voices tell her they are nearby, perhaps on a picnic blanket outside of her line of vision. She’d look, but she can’t turn her head without fracturing the sand that pins her shoulders. Overhead the sun is a misty white, and as gulls and pipers squabble and soar across the skyline, she must squint as her gaze follows them for fear of burning her eyes out.

  “My face is stinging,” Jess says. She remembers now, how it was so often her—Emily—that Jess would turn to for help and advice, rather than Mum. Why was that? Was she more available? More approachable? Or was it, as Emily suspects, that she guarded her little sister so fiercely that Jess knew it was easier to ask her in the first place? “Emi, my face is stinging.”

  “Five more minutes,” Emily replies. She allows her fingers to burrow stealthily beneath the sand until the tips of her hand find those of her little sister, and they stay there like that for a while longer, until they’re both pink and singed and hungry for sandwiches.

  * * *

  The phone rings, and Emily sits bolt upright in her bedroom, wishing she could remain on that beach with her little sister forever, warm and secure. Why doesn’t anyone answer it? she wonders irritably, before remembering that it’s just her and Chloe here in the house. She dashes out to the landing and picks up the extension there, a hot pain behind her right eyeball pounding with the beginnings of a hangover.

  “Hello?” she barks, with more aggression than she had intended. Perhaps she thinks it will be James, phoning to say he’ll be late. But he’s already lat
e. It’s too late to say you’ll be late.

  “Emily?” The voice is familiar to her, but Emily can’t quite place it.

  “Ye-es?” she replies with caution. It could be a trick; it could be a journalist. She can smell her own acrid breath, tainted with wine.

  “Emily! It’s Sammie! God, I’m so glad I finally got through to you!”

  Sammie. One of her oldest friends, someone she once would have trusted with her life, a friend who was with her through school days and early adulthood, through thick and thin. Little Sammie, who never topped five foot and looked like a fairy; little Sammie, who bought her Converse trainers from the kids section of Bentalls, because she only took a size three and they were at least a tenner cheaper. Sammie, the one friend who had been there for her through childhood, always around in the fun times, always ready to pick her up each time her heart was broken. Why did they drift apart?

  Sammie’s voice starts off excitable—but now it drops, adopting the generic concerned tone Emily so despises. “I’ve heard about everything that’s happened, Ems. I heard about Daisy,” she says. “I can’t even begin to imagine what you’re going through.”

  Another overused cliché. I can’t begin to imagine how you’re feeling. Of course you can’t, you thoughtless idiots. How could you ever begin to imagine, unless you’d been there yourself? Emily wonders if there’s a special instruction manual these people are all consulting, a catalog of trite phrases for the lost and grieving.

  “It’s been pretty dreadful,” she hears her own voice replying.

  “What are the police saying? Is there any fresh news?”

  Emily sighs heavily. “Well, I expect you’ve seen that they suspect James’s first wife now?” The shame she feels at this—at admitting to the world that she had no idea about Avril, that her husband keeps secrets from her—it’s unbearable. “You can’t have missed it, Sammie—it’s been all over the papers.”

  There’s a little pause, and she guesses Sammie can hear the jaded misery in her voice. “I saw it online this morning,” Sammie admits. “That’s sort of what made me call. I couldn’t believe it, Ems. They think she’s taken Daisy, don’t they? Surely that’s better news, isn’t it, than, well—than some complete, um, stranger or something . . . ?” Her sentence grows weak at the end, as so often happens in conversations of this kind. She started off all right, but then she just had to keep talking, didn’t she, leading the conversation into suggestions of psychopaths lurking in alleyways, evil men, murderers—all the terrible kinds of monsters that have, of course, raced through Emily’s own tortured imagination.