My Sister

by Michelle Adams

  And I realise what is happening here. All those years without Elle have allowed me to forget who I really am. I pretend to be somebody other than that little girl who was abandoned. But now that we are reunited, I exist. I came here for the truth, and now, within minutes of being with Elle, I have the first part of it: I will always be that little girl, the one they decided they didn’t want. It doesn’t matter how hard I fight it, or how I lie and tell myself my relationship with Antonio is everything I need.

  I think of all those times I have run from Elle, trying to get away to finally be myself. All that time with Antonio thinking that we had found something good, that I had been completed by him and had finally said goodbye to poor Peg Leg Irini. Years of study to become a doctor, a mask so people wouldn’t see the real me. All that wasted time. I can already feel Elle slipping back into the cracks of my life like a poison, filling me up, making me whole. I want to cry as I watch the sharp cut of her bobbed hair slash like a knife with each step she takes. Because now I realise that there was only ever one person I have the right to be. Me, the unwanted little girl, just as I existed from birth.

  4

  Elle hands me my bag as we climb into the bullet-grey E-class Mercedes, taking cover from the harsh Scottish wind. She turns the key and a chorus of operatic music screams through the speakers as the engine roars into life. She reaches for the CD player, sinking us into silence. Inside it is cold, even with the heaters on full, and the air is blasting at my face, squeezing out tears. I sit like an idiot in the passenger seat, with no clue what to say because she still hasn’t answered my question.

  ‘Elle,’ I say quietly, my voice apologetic as I brush my fringe from my eyes. ‘I asked you to tell me how she died.’

  She fastens her seat belt, adjusts the tension across her chest as if I haven’t spoken. ‘Shall I take you to have a look at her?’ she asks, scrutinising the dials and levers with the same care with which a pilot might check a cockpit before takeoff. ‘I think it would be nice for you to meet her,’ she suggests, her smile sickly and her stare vacant. ‘The little butterfly returning to the nest after all these years.’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ I say with a quick shake of the head, my eyes wide and nervous. I’ve felt like this before, moments as a teenager when I wasn’t sure where Elle was leading me. She continues to test the wipers, even though it’s not raining. They flop across the windscreen, thwack, schweep, thwack, schweep, before she adds in a squirt of foamy green water. I look back at Departures as she pulls away, gazing at the passengers who are travelling somewhere new, smiles and laughter all over their faces. ‘Why would I want to see her body? Especially when you won’t even tell me how she died.’

  ‘She just died, all right? Dead. She is D E A fucking D. What else could you possibly need to know?’ She sighs. ‘So where do you want to go if you don’t want to see our dead mother?’ It is as if we are bargaining between a visit to Costa or Starbucks. She glides on to the nearest motorway, heading towards the English border, test-perfect control of the car despite her frustration.

  The open green space of the countryside seems endless, with only sporadic views of the elevated castle and the grand clock tower of the Balmoral Hotel flashing through weaker sections of hedgerow. I could cope there, I think, swallowed up by concrete and crowds, despite the memories I have with Elle in this city. But the countryside is like the open ocean, deep and vast, unbreachable. As though there is no escape. ‘If you don’t want to see her, let’s do something together.’ She pats my leg like a mother might to offer a child gentle encouragement. Like I saw Aunt Jemima do once to one of her own children, the children who, she liked to remind me, had always been part of their plans. But all it does is make me shiver, tense up. I feel as tight as a coiled spring.

  ‘I want to go to a hotel,’ I say, trying to sound confident, trying to remember the person I have endeavoured to be in the years leading up to this moment. I want to take a bath and sleep. Smoke a bit, drink some wine. Chew a few Valium. That would really help. Anything that doesn’t involve Elle will help. But her silence in the wake of my request is unnerving, and it makes my attempt at certainty feel like bad judgement. I can see now that I shouldn’t have come here. ‘Something close by. Whatever hotel you think,’ I add nervously, an unconvincing attempt to cushion the impact of my certitude.

  Without glancing at her watch she says, ‘It’s only five past five. What are you going to do in a hotel at this time of day when we have only just reconciled after,’ and she turns to look me straight in the eye as we drive at eighty miles per hour along the motorway, ‘six years? The only place you are going is with me.’ It’s enough to let me know that I am not the only one who harbours mixed emotions, pent-up feelings that for the sake of politeness remain hidden.

  ‘I’m tired from the flight,’ I maintain, but even as I say it I know I have lost this argument. She has waited six long years to see me again. It was easier for both of us when I was younger. I was always more willing back then. But who isn’t when they are only thirteen?

  That’s how old I was when Elle first turned up unannounced, despite our parents’ best efforts to keep us apart. She walked into my life a hero, saved me from Robert Kneel and his band of bullies. How he regretted making me his target that day after she had finished with him. Then there were the late-night trips to the park when Aunt Jemima thought I was asleep in bed, the shoplifting Elle did on my behalf. The alcohol she bought for me, and her tentative care when I puked it all back up.

  ‘Well, you will not be staying at a hotel,’ she says, spittle flying, her patience exhausted. I know what she is going to say. She means for me to stay with her, at the house. My almost family home. But to stay in the place that could never have been my home is unthinkable. A joke. ‘Besides, we live in the middle of nowhere. There are no hotels. You will be staying at the house with me.’ I open my mouth to protest, but I am pathetically powerless. It’s like I’m driftwood caught on a wave, at the mercy of the sea. She just pats my leg again, her composure regained, and we continue our drive in silence. I can’t believe how easy I have made it for her this time.

  After a quiet hour on the road I sense we are slowing down, weaving into smaller lanes, taking us to the village that I have been told lies just north of the border. I steal a glance outside for the first time since she told me she was bringing me here. I see little more than overgrown hedgerows and distant mountains, all blanketed by a low layer of oppressive grey cloud that appears set to swallow me up. There is no hiding place here. No orange city glow to remind me I’m in London. I can’t even see the sun. But I see the sign, smudged with dirt and surrounded by pink foxgloves: Welcome to Horton. And I know this is the place. We are nearly there.

  By the time we reach the entrance to the family estate, I have nibbled a tear around the edge of my thumb, a childhood habit that never quite disappeared. The skin lifts and blood rushes to the surface as we pass a slate sign engraved with the words Mam Tor. I wrap my fingers over the wound, scared to look up and see what is outside, because somehow I know that we have arrived. We follow a long driveway, the ground lumpy and poorly formed. We slow down as we approach the gates and I force myself to take a look. Beyond the lofty corridor of trees I see a house. I feel a wave of nausea as we drive towards it.

  The property is a double-fronted monstrosity, big enough to house five families. As we pass through the gates I spot a conservatory on the left, and beyond a field full of trees that I assume is an orchard and to which a layer of fog clings. I look right to find another building, a block of garages, six in total. Six fucking garages.

  ‘It was built by my father’s construction company in the seventies,’ Elle says in the style of a tour guide, before laughing to herself. ‘Sorry. I mean our father.’ My lips flicker into a sort of smile/seizure combo. The windows bulge out in mock-Victorian bays, and behind I can make out swathes of drapery, big and heavy, smothering the frames. Beyond that I see nothing, like the whole place is just one gi
ant black hole, waiting to suck me in.

  Elle pulls up outside the garage block, the gravel crunching under the tyres. She gets out, slams the door, making the car shake, then breaks into a half-hearted jog, springing light as a feather towards the double-fronted doors in her ultra-high-fashion sportswear and trainers. And in the shadow of this house, her expensive clothes and shoes matter like never before.

  Because before, it was easy to tell myself that my birth family were poor. Poor, and all as mental as Elle. That there was some benefit to not being with them. But it isn’t true. At least not the part about being poor. The realisation of their wealth makes me want to vomit, and I wonder, if I did, whether Elle would hold back my hair and wipe my cheeks like she always used to.

  It matters because I was always the kid in the hand-me-downs, the unbranded clothes that scratched at your skin and never quite fitted properly. Discarded things for the discarded child. Aunt Jemima wasn’t inclined to spend her family’s money on me, choosing instead to stick to the allowance my father sent her, which never seemed to stretch very far. One time I was handed down a pair of Reeboks, brown and scuffed from previous wear, but nevertheless Reeboks. And for the first time in my life I felt proud. I walked into the school gym that day on top of the world, like I was dancing on the clouds. But this house shits all over those shoes. This house is so big that whoever lives inside it could have afforded hundreds of new Reeboks.

  I get out and slam the door, trapping the edge of my woolly jacket. I yank it out and watch as a thread pulls out in a silvery slither. I breathe in, tell myself to calm down. ‘You’re here for the truth,’ I whisper to myself. I look through the window of the car, past the reflection of my face and the house, and see that I have left my bag inside. I pull on the door handle but the car is already locked. ‘My bag,’ I call to Elle, and wait as she reaches backwards and clicks the button on the key. The lights flicker on and off and I test the door handle again. Still locked. I hear her laugh, taunting me as she disappears into the house.

  I crunch my way across the driveway, the sound of broken bones underfoot. I look back as I hear the screech of metal to see the iron gates closing me in, the trees of the driveway twisting and curling into a gnarly canopy. Beyond the conservatory the land rises abruptly in the shape of a hill, peppered with rocky outcrops, the ground black and saturated after recent rain.

  Elle has left the door ajar, a heavy oak thing that I push open. Behind it I see nothing in the hallway except for space filled with elongated shadows and clouds of dust. I hear the ticking of a clock somewhere in the background and I push the door open a little further. Not to go in, just to allow some of the late-afternoon light to slip in through the gap. I don’t want to go into the dark.

  Oil paintings adorn the walls, a mixture of noble faces that all somehow look the same. The eyes, perhaps, which I note are not unlike mine. Ancestors? Family? There is a Chinese urn mounted on an obelisk next to the door, and the whole place bears the mark of a museum, right down to the musty scent. In some ways, that’s exactly what it is, a museum of my history, the one I was never allowed to know. I am like an archaeologist, Indiana Jones without the cool hat and trusty sidekick, digging at the earliest years of my life. I gaze along and find a sweeping staircase that snakes its way into the upper levels of the house. I don’t want to know what is up there.

  Elle breezes back through in that light, springy way, clutching a fresh bottle of Evian. She hits the light switch and a harsh glow spreads out from the chandelier, patterns dancing about like cut-out paper snowflakes.

  ‘What about your bag?’ she asks. She is deadly serious too, as if she really expected me to be carrying it.

  ‘The car is locked. You locked it.’

  ‘Well, you’ll need it, won’t you?’

  She offers me the water bottle, but as thirsty as I am, I refuse. ‘No thanks,’ I say, one foot inside the house. She glides towards me, pulls me inside, and then pushes the front door shut. For a second there is silence, just the two of us alone. And then I see him, stationary, watching me from halfway up the staircase.

  ‘Irini.’ It has to be him, my father, although I can’t see properly, his face cast in shadow. I open my mouth to speak as I feel Elle’s grip tighten around my arm. I move my lips, but no words come out. What would I say? Where would I begin? I make a sound but it is just a squeak. ‘You’re here.’ He sounds . . . warm. ‘Why don’t I arrange some tea and we can—’ he begins, but Elle doesn’t give him a chance to finish, and he takes a step back as she swings around to face him.

  ‘She’s tired from the trip,’ she tells him. I feel a shiver run through me, rough like a fissure through ice, as she pats the top of my hand, leading me away. Never once does she take her eyes off him. I look down as she guides me, her grip tight, snatching stolen glances here and there. Despite my desperation to ask him Why? Why me? I say nothing. ‘Let me show you to your room.’

  ‘Yes, maybe that’s for the best,’ he calls after us as we walk away, edging his way down two more steps. ‘We can talk when you’re feeling up to it.’ I feel like my heart has stopped, and I can’t open my mouth. I gasp, but no air gets into my lungs. He really wants to talk to me.

  Elle drags me into the kitchen and closes the door behind us. It is brighter in here than in the hallway, and the air feels cleaner, less stale. I’m still thinking about my father, but as I take in the bare windows and the detailed tiling of the floor, a memory hits me. Comes out of nowhere, smack in the face. I stagger back, perhaps only saved from falling by Elle’s grip. I see myself as a baby, dragging my limp little body along the black and white floor, laughing as somebody calls out Well done! from behind me. A woman’s voice. Strong arms, I think. I always had strong arms. They had to be strong because I couldn’t walk. I remember how cold the floor used to feel, with the exception of one tile near the sink where the heat from a hot-water pipe escaped. Is this real? Is it possible I have memories of this place?

  Elle pulls me onwards, breaking the vision. I look back before we slip through another door, the memory, if that’s what it was, already gone. With a jerk of my arm she leads me along a maze of corridors that meander through the house like a jagged network of tunnels, gradually getting darker and tighter until we arrive at a stairway. I can feel the dust in my throat. It’s like we have stepped into an unused wing of an old castle, a place of work and servants. I can even hear the boiler ticking over. In comparison to the stairs leading away from the hallway, this is a small staircase, straight, running up the side of a wall. There is little in the way of decoration; no portraits, paintings or fancy heirlooms adorn these walls.

  We climb the stairs, covered in a deep red carpet that looks like it has been here since the house was built. The cornicing is decorated with edges and curves, ornate filigree to excite the senses. Everything feels old, antiquated somehow, as if it has been unused for years. It is so different from my house in London, where I have done all I can to bleach it of personality. We arrive on a landing, dimly lit like the hallway. There are a couple of panelled doors with elegant wrought-iron handles leading from it, plus one dead-end corridor no more than a metre deep. There is a tall dresser with high shelves against this wall, covered in photos. I lean in to take a look, but Elle steps in front of me.

  ‘Bathroom,’ she snaps as she points in one direction. ‘Bedroom.’ She points in the other. Her casual and lofty demeanour has vanished. There is a weight on her shoulders, bearing down on her from above. She is hunched and quiet, and she slips back down the stairs without so much as a goodbye. I watch as she leaves, unsurprised by how quickly her mood has changed. It’s another reminder that she is still the same old Elle. I turn and look at the pictures, wondering if I am in any of them. But when I hear Elle and my father’s raised voices in the kitchen, I am overcome by an urge to get away. I might want the truth, but this feels like too much too soon.

  I push open the bedroom door, jiggling the handle, which is stuck. When the door gives way, I see tha
t the inside of the bedroom is not much better. It smells damp and mouldy. The bed looks small, and as I sit on the edge of it, a cloud of dust encircles me. There is a smattering of old furniture, a lame butterfly painting on the wall, colours muted, or faded. Some sort of hook above the bed that was probably part of an old lighting fixture. The window is a narrow slit, poor-quality double glazing with a diamond pattern on the glass. The whistle of a light breeze glides past outside, and as I try to open the window, I see just how flimsy the frame really is. The kind a child might fall through if they leaned against it. I open the window and let in some air. It is a welcome relief. Finally I breathe.

  Just off to the left, behind the six-car garage, I see workmen busy on scaffolding. I watch as they hack at the conifer trees that line the entrance to the nearby woods, and I search my mind for another memory. Do I remember those trees? I try to imagine them without three decades of maturity, squat like bushes. Maybe the garage wasn’t even built back then. But nothing else comes to me, not like in the kitchen. I spot another maintenance man working in front of the garages, wiping over the car that I arrived in. He has the doors open, and I see my bag inside. My two jumpers and changes of underwear. My cigarettes and Valium. And my phone. My loose connection to the outside world, the one without a history, where memories don’t jump out at me because they simply don’t exist. I am struck by the realisation that I should have made things better with Antonio before I came here. Because right now he is the only remaining connection to the person I want so much to be, which makes him the only life raft I have. I look to the door, willing myself downstairs. I really want that phone, really should talk to Antonio. But now that I’m here in this room, I feel trapped.

  I look around and spot an old phone on the bedside table. It is black, the flex fragile and in places exposed. An old rotary thing. I edge back on the bed, dust billowing upwards as the mattress creaks and groans, my knees bent up because the bed is so short. I pick up the handset to call Antonio. But instead of hearing the tone of a working line, I hear voices.