The Lost Sister. Laura Elliot
all of you in little ways. Most of all, Conor is uniquely himself. He’s anxious to meet his aunts. Please come and visit us. I’ll put you up in the chalets so it’ll only cost you the plane fare.’
‘No…I can’t. It’s nothing to do with the cost. It’s just…did you really expect it to be that easy?’
‘I didn’t expect anything. I just hoped—’
‘I’m sorry…sorry…it’s too soon. I’m not able to handle this at the moment. I’m sure the others…Do you have Julie’s number? Lauren’s in Spain; I can give you her mobile.’
‘I have their numbers. I wanted to speak to you first. Oh, Becks—’
Headlights beam through the darkness: the sanctuary crew, arriving with the latest victims of the night’s excesses.
‘I have to go, Cathy. Yes, give me your number. I’ll ring…of course I’ll ring. Goodbye…goodbye.’
Rebecca hurries to help Lulu May, the sanctuary manager, to calm an injured horse whose hoofs flail dangerously when they lead him down the ramp. Her life has moved on a long way from bobbing apples and dipping for pennies.
The sanctuary is quiet when she finishes her shift; the new arrivals sedated and out of pain. Leaves squelch under her feet as she walks across the field towards her cottage. The dank earth releases the smell of the dying year. She is facing into a grey Irish winter but spring is underway in New Zealand. A time of renewal, Cathy said. A time for closure.
She opens her cottage door. Her legs are leaden, her eyes gritty from tiredness. She switches on her computer. Amazing to think the information she needed about her youngest sister’s whereabouts had been only a finger-tap away. All that was missing was the key word–Havenswalk.
Havenswalk does indeed look like a walk in heaven. A cluster of wooden Alpine-style chalets encircle a central two-storey building where guests gather to eat, meditate and practise yoga. Outside, they soak in hot tubs under star-lit skies, relax under umbrellas, loll by a swimming pool that appears to have been hollowed from a rock. Accompanied by the haunting strains of panpipes, Havenswalk promises Serenity, Tranquillity, Spiritual Harmony, Empowerment, Healing Energy, Emotional Balance.
Cathy’s photograph smiles from the Home Page. Her eyes are bluer than Rebecca remembers, as blue as a painted icon. No longer wasted behind thick black eyeliner but staring outwards in an open, welcoming gaze. Her crimped Kate Bush hair has been tamed and replaced by a sleek black plait. From Goth to guru in little more than fifteen years. How has such a transformation occurred?
Teabag slithers from underneath an armchair and rubs against her ankles, demanding attention. Rebecca lifts the cat, cradles him against her neck. She stands by the window and watches the sun lift above the fields. Time is a thief, she thinks, gilding sorrow, stealing the intensity of loss and allowing people to move on with their lives. But all it takes is a trigger: a song, a smell, a juggernaut flashing past–or a forgotten voice echoing from another time–and memory becomes a flailing thing, capable of shattering rock.
The rain has ceased. Only tears remain on the sodden branches, glistening like pearls in the milky morning light.
Chapter Two
Rebecca’s Journal–1985 1985
Name–Mary Green
Occupation Social worker Intention–To break up our family Obstacle to achieving her goal–Me! Duration of visit–2 hrs
Mary Green doesn’t like it when I make notes but I’m not supposed to object when she does the same. Was she trained to ask questions then wait silently, however long it takes, for me to stumble into her trap? Or did she pick up the trick when she started dealing with ‘dysfunctional’ families? She makes ‘orphans’ sound like a disease and ‘Care’ sound like the Promised Land.
Cathy has nits in her hair…so what? Everyone in her class has them. It’s called an infestation. Julie bunks off school. Her and half of the student population, but when she does it, it’s seen like a crisis for the State. Lauren…well, there’s the rub…I don’t have any easy answers but she’s not going anywhere and if they try to take her away they’ll do so over my dead body. Mary Green says I’m overwrought, hysterical, too young and inexperienced. She forgets to include ‘grieving’.
We’re drowning in tears. It’s awful. Julie is the loudest. She’s loudest at everything and her grief is terrible to hear. Crying with her face in the cushions or against Paul’s chest, crying over the slightest thing, and I want to scream at her to stop…stop…stop!! but I can’t because it only makes her cry louder and call me a heartless cow.
Cathy cries in corners or behind chairs or under bedclothes. I know by her eyes. They’re pools of grief. She’s like a shadow behind me, clinging to my presence, afraid I’ll disappear if she lets me out of her sight. I don’t blame her. I feel myself disappearing all the time, my dreams dissolving one by one. Then I’m furious with myself for being resentful when we have all lost so much. What kind of person thinks about trivial things like college and friends and travel and being able to walk away from it all?
She writes letters to Mammy. She showed me one but I choked up and couldn’t finish it. I showed her how to spell ‘angel’ correctly. Why did I do that? Why didn’t I rock her in my arms instead? I would have…in the past. I would have held her until her chest stopped heaving and her face was dry. She falls asleep in class. She’s slipping behind the main stream. It’s all there in Mary Green’s little black book.
How am I supposed to manage? I couldn’t boil an egg before they died. Julie says my dinners look like Nero’s vomit but she eats everything-unlike Lauren, who never says a word, even when she’s dumping hers in the bin. Cathy says I’m the best cook ever. She’s forever trying to please me but not the way she used to. It’s more like she’s learning new lines and is unsure of the way forward. After all, I’m the boss now. But I’m only seventeen! I haven’t a clue what I’m doing. Little steps, Lydia says, step by little step, anything is possible.
I’ve accepted the Morans’ invitation. A break will do us good. They’ve a fabulous house, and horses too. Country air will be good for Lauren, put some colour in her cheeks.
Lauren’s tears are like icicles. When I hold her, I get nothing but frost burn. I’m afraid if I hold her too tight she’ll snap cleanly away from me. I wish she’d cry like Julie, howl and yell and kick the doors. But she’s frozen with guilt. I keep telling her it’s not her fault. But she doesn’t hear me. Even if she did, she’d figure I was lying.
I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to forgive her.
Chapter Three
Dublin-January 2009
Lauren Moran awakens to the whirr of freshly ground coffee beans. She hears her husband’s step on the stairs and imagines what he will see when he enters their bedroom: her black hair spilling over the pillows, the sultry welcome in her eyes, her voluptuous mouth. Aware that her lips are taut, she clenches her face, holds for a count of ten, then relaxes. A new day is beginning. The day of departure.
Steve hesitates at the door, a light tap, and, without waiting for her response, enters. A tray with coffee and crisp, flaky croissants, lime marmalade and whorls of butter, slender as wood shavings, is placed before her. The centrepiece is a long-stemmed rose in a delicate cut-glass vase. No thorns are visible and the scent is lost behind the aroma of coffee.
‘You spoil me.’ She smiles at him and lazily rises.
‘Always,’ he replies. His movements are deft, almost delicate, as he pours coffee for two and butters croissants. The thin straps of her nightdress slip from her shoulders when she leans forward to accept the cup from him. He touches the satiny fabric, lifts one strap back into place and leaves the other resting against her arm. The creamy shade emphasises her tanned skin, draws his eyes to the deep plunge of lace at her breasts.
When breakfast is