Tracy Buchanan - The Lost Sister

‘Probably because I was trying to hide the fact I was about to start crying.’ She looks at the doctor. ‘I get teary when I’m proud. What about art?’ she continues. ‘You were always so good at drawing, Becky. Remember that painting you did of the horse for my fortieth birthday?’

‘Dog.’

‘Ah yes, dog. Such a fabulous painting. If you’d just put your mind to—’

‘I did put my mind to something!’ Becky exclaims, her patience running out. ‘I’m a vet!’

The doctor raises an eyebrow. ‘Okay, I’ll leave you both to catch up.’ She backs out of the room, shutting the door quietly behind her.

‘You’re a bit tetchy this evening,’ her mum says when the doctor leaves.

‘Discovering your mother’s dying kind of does that to a girl.’

Her mum smiles and Becky can’t help but smile back. She knows how spiky her mum can be. Why get upset about it now, when they have so little time left?

‘So the hospice your doctor mentioned sounds nice,’ she says, sitting down again.

Her mum makes a face. ‘I don’t think so.’

‘It’ll be the best place for you, really.’

She crosses her thin arms. ‘Nope. Not happening.’

‘But you can’t stay here,’ Becky counters as gently as she can. ‘Hospices like the one your doctor mentioned are there for a very specific reason. And many of them have lovely, beautiful grounds. They’re peaceful places, and more spacious.’

Her mum pulls at her sheets, biting her lip. ‘It doesn’t matter. I’d still feel trapped.’

Trapped.

Becky has a memory then, of her mum standing in front of the mirror at home. ‘Trapped, I feel trapped,’ she remembers her saying.

She pushes the memory away. ‘Look Mum,’ Becky says gently. ‘I think it’s important you—’

‘I said no!’ her mum shouts. Her voice bounces off the walls. She leans forward, grasping Becky’s hands. ‘I know where I want to die and I need your help to do it.’

‘Where?’

‘The cave. I want to die in the cave.’

Becky moves back. ‘It’s out of the question.’

‘Why?’

‘You don’t understand the care involved. Your priority soon will be comfort. Rest and comfort. And being in a cave will not provide that.’

‘It did once,’ her mum counters.

Becky feels anger bubble up. It’s so tempting to ask her mum where her eight-year-old daughter’s comfort was when she was lying in bed alone at night, wondering when her mum would return. But instead, Becky forces a soft smile, squeezing her mum’s hand.

‘I promise you won’t regret going to the hospice. Let me get more information about it, and some others too so you have options. I think you’ll come to realise it’s the right thing to do.’

Her mum shakes her head in frustration. ‘Please, you’re the only hope I have, Becky! These people here won’t chance it, all obsessed with health and bloody safety. What does it matter when I’m dying anyway?’

‘I’m sorry, Mum. I couldn’t do that to you. Let me go and ask about those brochures. Is there anything you need me to get for you while I’m out there? Shall I go to the shop, get some chocolates, a magazine?’

Her mum’s face turns glacial and she looks away. ‘No. I’d like to be alone actually. Probably best if you go home. It’s late.’

Becky watches her mum for a few moments. ‘Are you sure? I can stay, really.’

Her mum folds the top of the bedsheet down, smoothing it. ‘Absolutely.’

‘Right.’ Becky stands up. ‘You know my number, just call if you need anything. I’ll be back first thing tomorrow.’

Still no response.

Becky leans over, squeezing her mum’s shoulder. ‘It’ll be okay,’ she says softly. ‘Sleep on it. Things always seem clearer in the morning.’

Her mum’s forehead crinkles slightly. ‘Someone else said the opposite to me once. That clarity comes with darkness.’ Then she sighs and closes her eyes.

Selma

Kent, UK

27 July 1991

Idris was wearing just shorts, holding a fishing line in his hands. His golden hair fell to his tanned shoulders, and his green eyes were so vivid they didn’t seem real. His bare chest was bathed in moonlight and, in that light, I saw scars tapering down his chest.

‘You can,’ he said again, stepping towards me. ‘Whatever the question in your mind is, you must answer yes.’

I looked at him in surprise. ‘How did you know I even had a question?’

‘You’re on a precipice. I can sense it.’ He placed his rod down and sat beside me, looking out to sea. He smelt of the sea, salty and luxurious. ‘Your body screams it,’ he said. ‘Your posture, the expression on your face, everything.’

I crunched my hands into fists, watching as the sand squeezed out between my fingers. I wasn’t sitting on this beach to be preached to by someone like him, no matter how much he fascinated me.

‘I came here to be alone,’ I said.

‘Then I’ll leave.’ He went to get up.

‘Wait!’ I couldn’t let him go before asking something. ‘How do you know so much about me? My name? The fact I’m an author?’

He gestured towards the small bookshop in town. ‘You did a signing there.’

‘Ages ago.’

‘They still have a poster up at the back.’

‘Ah. I see.’

‘We’re all reading your book. It’s wonderful.’

‘The Queensbay Cave Dwellers’ Bookclub, is it now?’

He laughed. ‘Something like that. I’ll leave you to it then.’

He went to walk away but something inside me wanted him back. I was so curious about him. Why was I sending him away?

‘Wait. Stay. It’s fine. Now I know you have good reading taste anyway.’

He smiled, walking over and sitting next to me again. ‘Is that how you judge people, by what they read?’

‘Why not?’

We sat in silence for a few moments more, then I turned to him. ‘You said I should say yes to the question in my mind. What if yes means losing everything?’

He thought about it, brow creasing. ‘What is everything to you?’

‘My family. My husband and daughter.’

He explored my face. ‘No. I don’t think that’s everything.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘If that’s the case, that your family is everything, that it makes you whole, why are you looking so empty right now?’

I took in a deep breath then let it out.

‘Society tells you family is everything,’ he said, drawing a circle in the sand with his finger beneath the moonlight. ‘But for some, it’s not enough. For some, there needs to be more.’ He drew an oval around the circle, turning it into an eye.

‘What kind of more?’ I asked, feeling my heart thump against my chest, the hair on my arms stand on end. I did feel I was on the precipice of something. Idris was right.

‘You’re a writer,’ he stated. ‘How do you feel when you’re writing?’

I paused a few moments. ‘Right,’ I said eventually. ‘It just feels … right.’

‘It makes you feel whole?’

I nodded. ‘Yeah.’

‘We have callings in life.’ I couldn’t help but scoff and Idris smiled. ‘I know how clichéd that sounds, but it’s the truth. We each have a role to play. Our true callings. Anything that takes us away from that makes us unhappy.’

‘That’s too simplistic a view! Idealistic too. Real life means we can’t dedicate all of our time to one thing.’

He looked me in the eye. ‘Whose version of real life?’

‘Everybody’s!’

‘No, it’s society’s view. It stifles us.’

‘So you recommend we all go live in a cave and write, paint, do whatever it is you and the others in your cave do?’