Laura Elliot - The Lost Sister

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.

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 over, she clips the rose to her hair and clicks her fingers like a Spanish dancer. They feint on the bed, this way and that. He likes games, an initial resistance, which he can masterfully overcome. He is still strong and muscular, his lovemaking as vigorous, if not as regular as in the early years of their marriage. Viagra, Lauren suspects, but, if that is the case, he will never admit it and she will never ask.

Afterwards, she lies quietly by his side while he, his breath slowing back to normal, caresses her cheek. His touch is gentle yet she feels the calluses rasp against her skin as each stroke finishes and begins again. His nails are manicured weekly, his hands nourished with moisturising oils, but the scars he earned from his years on the building sites can never be removed.

‘Everything packed?’ he asks.

‘All organised,’ she replies.

‘Passport?’

‘In my handbag.’ Her Gucci handbag rests against the opposite wall, along with her three red leather suitcases and her matching overnight case.

‘Tickets, schedule?’

‘Stop worrying about me, Steve.’ She eases away from him, allows his hand to glide from her cheek to her breasts, then fall into the empty space she leaves behind. Her nightdress ripples as she slides her legs to the floor. Each movement is a slow separation yet she makes it seem like a lingering embrace. She sits at the dressing table and nods towards her luggage.

‘Rebecca will go crazy when she sees what I’ve packed.’

Only one piece of luggage. Rebecca’s email had been specific. Anything more will cramp their living conditions. She has studied the dimensions of the camper and knows exactly where everything will fit. The six-berth is her idea, a compromise between backpacking, which is all Julie can afford, and the five-star hotel accommodation Lauren had expected.

Lauren is convinced that Rebecca, even if she were not the first-born of the four Lambert sisters, would automatically have risen in the pecking order and assumed that right. Unable to understand any form of indecisiveness, she makes everything sound effortless–flights, accommodation, itinerary; all the planning and discussion condensed on the email, which Lauren received yesterday and wilfully ignored.

Steve slides her pillow under his cheek and breathes into the indentation where her head rested. The rose lies discarded and crushed on the floor.

‘I’m sorry I won’t have an opportunity to see you wearing your wardrobe,’ he says.

‘When I come home, I’ll put on a special fashion show for you.’

‘I’ll look forward to it.’

She gathers her hair in both hands and secures it in a topknot. ‘We’d better get moving—’

‘What’s the rush, princess? We won’t see each other for a month.’ An astute man, and attuned to her thoughts, he has sensed her impatience.

‘You’ll be so busy you won’t have time to miss me.’

He shakes his head and rises, enters the ensuite. While he showers, she opens one of her suitcases and folds in another dress. A good Girl Guide must be prepared for all eventualities.

After the shock of Cathy’s initial phone call subsided, Steve planned a month-long tour of the South Island. He has been to New Zealand before, with his first wife, and knows the sights they should see. Luxury hotels, car hire, lake cruises and helicopter flights were booked in advance. They intended using Havenswalk as their base for the last ten days of the tour, with Cathy’s wedding providing the highlight of the trip. But Steve was forced to change his plans when the start-up date for a shopping complex, which he hoped would officially open before Christmas, was postponed until March. Trouble with acquiring new tenants, he explained. Worried about the slow-down in the property market, he phoned Cathy to discuss the situation. Lauren later discovered he suggested that she postpone her wedding until later in the year when he would be free to travel.

‘Why are you so angry?’ he demanded when Lauren, furious, yet not surprised, at his audacity, challenged him. ‘She waited over fifteen years to contact you. What difference will another few months make?’

‘He hasn’t changed,’ said Cathy when Lauren contacted her to apologise. ‘Thankfully, I have. My wedding takes place as arranged. I want you there, Lauren. But if you don’t feel capable of travelling without Steve, I understand.’