Letters From My Sister (13 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Bells, Mum, Dad and I are sitting in a circle in a pastel blue-painted room, a plastic clock ticking in the background. The chairs were arranged like this when we arrived. I look around. This place reminds me of hospitals. It has that same clinical feel to it, the air tangy with disinfectant. Why are we here? All I did was steal a few eyeliners and records by Adam Ant and A-ha. I didn’t even want them, the As were the closest to the door, that’s all. Is that really so bad?

Mum looks uptight, legs firmly crossed along with her arms. Dad is tapping his knees hard, as if they are a pair of drums. Mum leans across and slaps his hand. ‘Stop that,’ she orders. Neither Mum nor Dad has said much since we arrived. Mum picked me up from school. At least I missed double physics.

‘The Fletchers. Would you like to go in, please,’ the receptionist told us and pointed to the door with Family Clinic written on it.

Mum looked frantically at all the other miserable-looking patients waiting for their appointments before pushing Bells and me through the Family Clinic door with alarming speed. Dad joined us here, out of breath, complaining that he hadn’t been able to see his last client at work because of this bloody session we were about to have. Bells is the only one who looks happy to be here. She is flicking through a
Woman’s Realm
that she found on a table in the corner of the waiting-room.

The door opens and a small man limps into the room. He is so skinny his grey trousers are held up by a shiny black belt. He carries a file labelled ‘Fletcher Case’. He shakes Mum’s and Dad’s hands and smiles briskly at Bells and me. ‘Hello, I’m Simon Shackleton,’ he introduces himself. He is wearing a gold watch; black hairs sprout from his wrist to either side of the strap. I wonder what’s wrong with his foot as he pulls up a chair to join our circle.

‘What’s wrong with your leg?’ Bells asks immediately. ‘You broken it?’ If I’d asked like that I would be told off for being nosy.

I watch his mouth twitch as he smooths his thin brown hair across his forehead. ‘We haven’t come here to talk about my leg, now have we?’ He smiles at Mum and Dad and they smile awkwardly back. ‘I tend to arrange the chairs like this. It brings everyone close together,’ he says.

I watch Simon Shackleton as he peers at the first page of our file. It looks far too big for a family that doesn’t do anything most of the time. Are our problems really that bad? He closes the brown folder and looks at me. ‘Katie, can you tell me a little bit about your family?’ He leans back in his chair. For such a puny little man his voice is surprisingly bold and authoritative.

I look at Mum and Dad, who shift in their seats. ‘They’re all right.’ I shrug. ‘I don’t know what else to say, really.’ The plastic clock appears to be ticking even more loudly in the background. Mr Shackleton’s eyes are focusing hard on me. After a lengthy pause he says, ‘Well, perhaps I should make it a bit more specific. Why don’t we go around the circle saying the things we like and find, let’s say,
difficult
about each member of the family? It’s an excellent way of seeing where the main problems lie. Maybe I should start with you, Mr Fletcher?’

Dad sits up and clears his throat. ‘I love my family,’ he states. ‘I’m not going to pick out their bad points.’ He shakes his head and sinks back in his chair again.

‘Ah, so there are bad points?’ Mr Shackleton twitches his bony nose.

‘No family is perfect. Are you telling me yours is?’ Dad’s voice rises in indignation as he sits up again. Mum puts one hand on his thigh. Dad looks over at me and smiles sympathetically. It’s a smile that suggests he is sorry for what he is about to say. The ticking of the clock is getting louder. I can hear the pages of Bells’s magazine turning over and over. Finally Dad says, ‘I do wish Katie hadn’t got into trouble because then we wouldn’t be here. We were doing fine until this.’

Mr Shackleton takes some more notes. ‘Please go on, Mr Fletcher.’

‘Katie has always been a good child. She has had to cope with a lot, help look after her sister Isabel and so on. I’m sure you are aware of the medical history of our younger daughter?’

Mr Shackleton nods. ‘I am.’ He taps the file.

Bells looks up from the magazine. ‘Can we go?’ she asks. Mum tells her to be quiet. She had explained in the car why we were coming here today but Bells has clearly forgotten already.

‘We are aware that it hasn’t been easy for Katie. She has had to grow up quickly, fend for herself more. Katie’s a great girl,’ Dad continues. ‘This is a phase, nothing more. I’m sure there are other families who need counselling a lot more than us.’

‘Mr Fletcher, I am sure that is the case, but every family has their issues …’

‘Exactly,’ pounces Dad. ‘We’re no different. Do you counsel every family who has the odd hiccup, Mr Shackleton?’

‘Mr Fletcher, I don’t think you can call this a hiccup exactly. Stealing should be taken very seriously.’

‘No like this man,’ Bells says.

Mr Shackleton doesn’t appear at all offended by her remark. I look at Dad. He has managed a smile. I am sure he wanted to say exactly what Bells just has. Part of me wants to reach across our circle and hug him.

‘And I am sure you would agree with me that it is best to address this problem now,’ Mr Shackleton intones.

Dad turns to Mum, begging her to help him out.

‘To go back to what you asked us to do first, Mr Shackleton,’ Mum says. ‘I do find Katie, at times, difficult. She’s very like I was at that age. Headstrong. She does things to cause a reaction. I think a lot of young girls do. It was very foolish of her to steal but …’

‘Why are you only going on about me?’ I cry out then. ‘I’m not the only person in this family. What about Bells? She never gets told off, she’s never to blame for anything. Everyone just laughs, don’t they? It’s all one big joke when she does something naughty. But when I do something bad the police are knocking on the door.’

‘Don’t like it here,’ Bells moans, kicking her legs restlessly. ‘Want to go home.’

‘It’s not quite the same, Katie, and you know that only too well,’ Mum points out calmly to me, although I can tell she is desperately trying to keep her voice in check. ‘Mr Shackleton, is it really necessary for Isabel to come to these sessions? She doesn’t understand why we’re here. This is really to do with Katie, isn’t it?’

‘There you go again,’ I screech. ‘It’s only ever
my
fault.’

I turn to Mr Shackleton, waiting for him to tell Mum and Dad that I’m right, it’s not fair that I am the one they are criticizing. That he wants us to talk about everyone in the family. Instead he sits back as if to let us take over. I can’t stand that smug smile imprinted on his face. What do you find difficult about your family? OK, my turn then.

‘I hate it when you don’t pick me up from school,’ I tell Mum. ‘I stand there at the gates waiting and all the other parents say to me, “Doesn’t your mother know it’s the end of term?” You look different too, in your painting stuff, it’s embarrassing. I wish I could board there like some of the other girls. And I hate it that you didn’t bother to come to my sports day. I had practised every lunch hour and after school, and all the parents were there except you. I won first prize for the high jump.’

‘That was nearly three years ago, and I came to it.’ Dad hunches forward defensively, now actively taking part. ‘That’s not fair, Katie.’

‘Darling, it’s OK, if this is how she feels.’ Mum rests a hand on his. ‘We need to listen.’

I stare at her again. ‘I won the art and needlework pupil of the year award, not that you care!’ Each week the school puts up the best drawing, painting or something someone has made, and I had won the most times in the year. Dad’s face did go soft with pride when I told them that but Mum didn’t say all that much.

‘Now, that’s out of order, Katie. Of course I care. Stop feeling so sorry for yourself.’ She looks pale. ‘I’m sorry if I didn’t say “Well done” enough or come to your sports day, but you have to understand your father and I only want what is best for you. And I do care,’ she repeats. Is that water gleaming in her eyes? Real tears? ‘We work hard so we can send you to one of the best schools and now we need to work doubly hard to make sure we can send Isabel to one of the top schools in the country next year.’ Mum and Dad have spoken to me about this. They want to send Bells to a specialist school where she will be with others like herself. She will be taught all the normal things like reading and writing, and do arts and crafts, things like that.

‘I’m afraid that sometimes we can’t both get to your prize-givings, I wish we could, but at least one of us always comes,’ Mum finishes.

‘Well, it’s usually Dad. You’re always working, and I get bored at home. I can’t even bring my boyfriends back to the house because Bells hits them in the balls. They run a mile. When they can,’ I add.

Mr Shackleton straightens his hair.

‘You don’t have a boyfriend, do you?’ Dad asks.

‘I don’t now! She,’ I point to Bells, ‘frightens them off.’

‘Not funny, Katie,’ Bells cries out.

‘We hardly ever do normal things like go to the cinema or on holiday,’ I continue remorselessly, ‘we never do anything. I’m fifteen! If it wasn’t for Emma living next door I’d run away. I’m going to leave home when I’m sixteen anyway. Then you’ll be sorry.’

Mum and Dad look at each other. Dad looks hurt. I feel bad that I said that about sports day. He did come, and he entered the fathers’ race. He even won the egg and spoon. Mum looks upset too. Good.

Mr Shackleton leans forward. ‘I think we should probably call it a day there,’ he says. ‘I found it interesting that you focused on the things you find difficult and never on the positive. All your energy is being channelled into seeing faults in one another, which can’t be healthy. I can see Katie feels neglected, she craves attention like any normal teenager. She wants to be praised. Am I right, Katie?’ He turns to me expectantly. I can feel myself turning red now. ‘From this first visit, I feel you all need to spend more time together, set aside a piece of quality time each day to be with one another. Communication is the key to understanding our own and other people’s needs.’

Mum grabs her handbag and we follow her out of the door. Mr Shackleton limps after us, smoothing his thin hair over his forehead, saying we must book in another appointment on our way out and that we have already made substantial progress by talking about these issues.

We never see him again.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

I find Sam’s car-keys in his jacket pocket. I walk downstairs and out of the house. Who does Dad think he is fooling? Something is wrong.

As I drive down the grey motorway, I have this surreal feeling that I am looking down on myself, that it’s not really me driving. I tap the steering wheel hard to reassure myself that I am in control. I turn the radio on, and then flick the switch off, left alone in an oppressive silence with only two thoughts racing through my mind. What am I doing, driving home late at night? Am I going mad?

*

I pull into our driveway. Mum and Dad’s car isn’t there and instantly I feel relieved. My house keys hang on an old rusty silver key-ring with the initial K. I bend down to open the bottom lock but the key won’t turn. It isn’t locked. I turn the key in the top lock and the door creaks open. Why hasn’t Dad double-locked?

‘Hello,’ I call out, my voice echoing in the hallway. I pick up a pile of mail, place it on the hall table. The answer-machine is on but it isn’t flashing. That’s strange. Surely someone has rung them since they’ve been away?

The curtains are drawn in the sitting room. My heart races as I walk into the kitchen. The blinds are open, the plug switches on. There are two dirty mugs in the sink. Everywhere I look tells me they never went away. I open the fridge. There’s a packet of chicken, sitting in its blue polystyrene tray, curling at the edges. I read the sell-by date and it was only two days ago. There’s a box of eggs, butter and mayonnaise on the top shelf.

I walk upstairs. My pace quickens and soon I’m running down the landing and into Mum and Dad’s bedroom. The bed hasn’t been made. Mum’s moisturizing cream sits on her dressing table, along with her hairbrush and tortoiseshell hair comb. I head into their bathroom. There are Mum’s and Dad’s toothbrushes, and my father’s old-fashioned shaving cream. I turn away, unable to comprehend what’s going on. Then I hear the front door opening.

*

The only immediate noise I can hear is my own breathing. ‘Katie,’ my father says in shock when he sees me at the top of the stairs. Mum stands next to him, her pale face vivid against her auburn hair.

My panic and fear turns to anger. ‘Why aren’t you in France?’ Dad looks at Mum but neither of them says anything. I wait for some kind of explanation. ‘What’s going on? Why did you lie to me?’ Mum walks past Dad, down the corridor and into the kitchen. ‘Dad?’ I press.

He collapses in a heap on the bottom stair, his face buried in his hands. I rush downstairs and kneel down in front of him. ‘Dad, what’s wrong, what’s happened?’

‘I don’t know where to start,’ he says.

‘Mum,’ I call, my voice splintered with fear. I lift my hand off Dad’s knee and walk into the kitchen. She’s opening the drawer at the end of the kitchen table, where she keeps old letters from her mother and father. She’s ripping them into shreds. ‘What are you doing? Mum, please.’ I shake her shoulders. ‘Stop it! Mum,
please
, you’re scaring me. What’s wrong?’

‘I don’t know how to tell you,’ she says finally.

‘Why is Dad crying?’

‘Because I’ve just been told I have a brain tumour.’ She picks up another at random and tears it in half.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

I watch Dad guiding Mum down the hallway. His arm is around her waist, and she moves one of her hands behind her back so that it gently touches his.

I walk back into the kitchen and sit down. ‘This can’t be happening, it’s not true. Tell me it’s not true,’ I say over and over again.

‘I can’t,’ Dad says as he sits down at the kitchen table.

I have to compose myself. ‘How could you not have told me? Why are you going through this all alone?’

‘We thought we’d never find ourselves in this position. Our GP told us it was nothing to worry about.’

‘
What
was nothing to worry about?’

‘Your mother had an epileptic fit six months ago …’

‘An epileptic fit? Why didn’t you …’

Dad stops me. ‘We didn’t tell you because when we went to see the GP he dismissed it as something that happens at our age. He told us to go away, not to worry about it.’ Dad walks over to the drinks cabinet and pours himself a whisky. ‘Then she had another one when she was in the kitchen cooking supper. She was standing right here, in this spot, making my stupid bloody supper. Chopping vegetables.

‘And then she had another and another, the medication wasn’t touching it. I insisted she saw a neurologist. You know what she’s like, Katie, didn’t want to accept anything was wrong. When I called you to ask if you could have Bells to stay, well, we went to see the neurologist two days later. I couldn’t cope with Bells and this at the same time.’

I nod. ‘I understand, but why didn’t you tell me then?’

‘Because we still desperately hoped it was nothing, that the fits could be controlled with medication. She had the EEG and again that showed nothing untoward. She did all those other ridiculous tests, you know, told to count backwards in sevens and to follow the doctor’s finger with her eyes. She felt fine, nothing seemed wrong. Then he suggested doing an MRI and we got the results today. We’ve been at the hospital all day.’ Dad collapses back down in a chair. ‘There’s a tumour growing and the epileptic fits were caused by increased pressure on the brain. The tumour may have been there for years.’

I don’t know what to say.

‘Believe me, Katie, I wanted to tell you so much, but she wouldn’t hear of it. She felt there was no point in worrying you until we knew for sure what we were up against. We were going to tell you, I promise.’

‘Can’t she have an operation? Have it taken out?’

Dad cradles his head in his hands, trying to block out the world.

‘Isn’t there anything we can do?’ I ask.

‘Stop, Katie, please.’ He crouches down on the floor. I have never seen my father cry. I move forward to hold him, tears streaming down my face now. He clings on to the back of my top, bunching the material in his fingers, twisting and pulling the fabric. His face is pressed against my shoulder, and I can feel my top grow damp with his tears.

‘I can’t live without her, Katie. I can’t live without her.’

*

I sit on the old dressing-up box which has now been turned into a window seat in my bedroom. I light a cigarette. I can hear voices in the street, they sound happy. Maybe they have returned home from the pub after another evening out. Do they realize that their lives could change overnight? That something might happen to them tomorrow that could change everything? Of course they don’t. They are just like I was a few weeks ago. Blundering on in my own world, thinking that it was a catastrophe when my father asked me to have Bells to stay; thinking it was the end of the world when she cut the labels out of my T-shirts. My mobile rings yet again and finally I take it out of my bag. It tells me I have three new voice messages. I dial 901.

‘Where are you, and where’s my fucking car?’ Slam. ‘It’s me again,’ Sam bellows. I switch it off midway through this ranting. I’ll call him tomorrow to explain.

I walk down the dark corridor, past Bells’s old bedroom. How are we going to tell her about Mum? We have to tell her. Mum and Dad can’t lie to us any more, or try to protect us from the truth. It never helps; it only hurts.

I bend over the bathroom sink, feeling sick. I open the mirrored cupboard door and stare at the various bottles and potions. There’s an assortment of bottles with screw caps and yellowish pills inside. Everything looks ancient. I pick up one bottle, dated 1974, and throw it into the sink. I pick up all the bottles in turn, there are so many – for stomach pains, chest pains, headaches – but none to help me sleep.

I stand in front of the mirror, the one where I used to stand and pray to God as a little girl to give me blonde hair and blue eyes. ‘I know we aren’t close, but I want her back. Dad needs her. Bells needs her. I need her. Oh, dear God, please make Mum better.’

‘Katie.’ Dad strokes my back, his voice calm.

‘I can’t sleep, Dad. I’m so scared …’

‘Shh.’ He puts an arm around my shoulders and walks me back to my bedroom.

I light another cigarette. Dad hates me smoking but he doesn’t say anything. He sits down on the other end of the window seat. ‘If I was going to start smoking, now would be a good time,’ he says, taking off his black-rimmed glasses and rubbing his eyes.

I half laugh. ‘Sorry, Dad, I know I shouldn’t but …’

‘You smoke; you die. You don’t smoke; you die. What sodding difference does it make?’

I inhale deeply. ‘How’s Mum?’

‘Fast asleep.’

‘Good. I can’t believe this is happening.’

‘Nor can I. Oh, Katie, what are we going to do?’

‘I don’t know.’

We sit quietly, staring out into the dark sky. ‘Make a wish upon a star,’ Dad says.

‘Dad,’ I say cautiously, ‘when are we going to tell Bells?’

‘Soon. Your mother and I have been talking about it.’

‘I think we should call her tomorrow, tell her that Mum is unwell and that she should come home. It would hurt her so much if she found out we’d kept it from her. Mum can’t go on trying to protect her, or thinking she won’t be able to cope, because it only excludes her and makes her feel like she’s not normal and …’

‘Katie,’ Dad stops me abruptly, ‘you’re right, we agree. We want her here with us. She’s more precious to us than anything. You both are,’ he adds.

I look at Dad. His eyes seem to be a paler blue, a washed-out version of their normal colour. He stares back at me quizzically. ‘A few weeks ago you wanted nothing to do with Bells. I had to remind you that you even had a sister.’

I bite my lip. ‘This is different.’

‘Yes, I realize that, but you’ve changed. You’re fighting for her.’

‘I want to make up for being such a bad sister. Since she came to stay, well, we’ve become good friends. She’s worth fighting for.’

Dad reaches out for my hand, grips it tightly. ‘I’m so proud of you, Katie,’ he says.