Sisters

My phone rings and I don’t have to look at it to know it's my sister.

It's not that I have a special ringtone for Rebecca. I always have the absent thought of getting one. Especially after answering. It seems to become more of a pressing thought by then. 

A specialised ringtone would give me some time to prepare for her. A few precious seconds to make it sound like I'm doing something that remotely indicates that I have a life. Or maybe time to better conceal my obvious defensiveness when she starts asking probing questions like, ‘How are you?’ or the even more invasive, ‘How are you, really?’

We call each other under very specific circumstances, never idly and never without purpose. Rebecca does not call me after her workday ends (it never does ostensibly) or I don't call her when I pass an old playground that makes me nostalgic. 

She doesn't call when she can't find the keys to Dad’s office and I don't call when I smell someone wearing the same clean perfume as her. She doesn't call when she's feeling frustrated about me and I don't when I'm feeling guilty about her.

We have a stricter allotted regimen. I don't call her at all, and she calls me on three specific occasions; on birthdays, when she has done something very accomplished and wants to validate this by asking me about my unaccomplished life, and when our mother needs to tell me something but hasn't the energy to deal with her ‘wayward daughter’ (as she puts it so delicately) so my sister passes on the message.

My mother Debra and I’s relationship is punctured with evidence of this agreement. It seems that every time we see each other, she trills the accusing phrase, ‘Didn't your sister tell you?’ followed by an increasingly ludicrous update about her life.  

This can range from idle gossip about her gains in the turf war at the country club, to details about her upcoming ‘emergency’ procedure that she has had booked for two years, to vital information about the company, which I really should have been privy to six weeks ago.

It is a very easy strategy, I think, but it works despite its frustrating opacity. Debra absolves herself from any culpability in the strain of our relationship. It delineates my sister as the villain. All the fresh petty hurts help me to forget the more pressing ones. 

I haven't yet figured out the true antagonist, though unfortunately I can't deny that I’m beginning to look pretty suspicious these days. The veritable picture of a man twirling a sinister yet impressive moustache. 

I can blame Rebecca for my hurt when she rings. She becomes both my salvation and a tangible manifestation of everything that makes my life so sore and pathetic. Surprisingly, it makes it hard to navigate our interactions.

I’m food shopping when she calls. The fluorescent lights above hum a little too loudly as I stand in front of the produce aisle, staring at the apples like I’m waiting for them to talk. The phone rings again, and I press my thumb to the screen without even looking. 

I brace myself and the static of her voice on the other end fills the space around me. She's already asking about the day, about the details that seem unnecessary, but I can tell she's cataloguing them. "How are you?" she says, too casually, like she hasn’t made this call before. Like she hasn't been prompted by my mother. 

I stand still, shoppers moving past me, the cold of the refrigerator doors brushing my shoulders. “Just fine, thank you. How are you?” I say, my voice sounding petulantly chipper. I cringe at my own self-indulgence, she tries to be earnest with me and I scoff at it.

"Really?" she quickly presses, her voice lowers in that way that feels both concerned and dismissive. She ignores my question of course. Bec never indulges me in my routines. In fact, I think she is immune to them at this stage. I can recognise it must be an extremely frustrating bit to take part in. No fun at all.
 
Rebecca is still waiting for me to answer, and I hate that I know this silence so very well. 

“Yes,” I say defiantly, my hand gripping the cart a little too hard. "Just busy. You know me!" My sarcasm is cloying even to me, yet some childish part of me still enjoys trying to get a rise out of her. It just feels more honest when she is openly annoyed with me.

I hear her click her tongue and the familiar exhale of disappointment that bites me. “You sure? You sound... tired. What’s going on?"

Rebecca’s spectrum for negative emotion always seems to land on tired.

I look at the apples again. “Nothing,” I say, my voice sounding more dismissive than I intend. "Just work stuff."

Another silence stretches between us. I can almost feel her eyes on me, even through the phone, trying to sift through the layers of whatever this is, whatever it’s always been.

“Okay,” she says after a long pause. “Well, Mum wanted me to remind you about Sunday. You’re still coming to the luncheon, yes?”

“You know Bec, has anyone ever told you that you have a habit of answering your own questions. It's very charming.” 

Rebecca looks very unimpressed. “Well it just makes sure that I get the right answer”.

 And she strikes. 

“Yes, you always were a little nerd.” Not my best riposte, I admit.  “I’ll be there.”

"Good," she says, but it’s not. "I need you by my side, we have to look united.”

She pauses again. “You’ll be okay, though?"

I'm tempted to let her know that she has finally gotten the wrong answer. 

Instead, I say, “Yes. I’ll be okay.”

The conversation cuts, and I can feel her waiting for something. A crack. But I don’t give it to her.

I end the call, hanging up before I give her the chance to say something else. I push my cart forward, my arms weaker than a few moments ago. I hate the way she does this to me, makes me feel like I’m failing when really it's just everything piling up. 

Maybe I'm just feeling a bit raw. I haven't talked to her since Dad died. The funeral was last week.

---

“Christ, it's warm in here.” Bec turns from the crowd and fans her tan silk blouse in and out. Her nervous energy is both contagious and comforting, a strange mix. 

 It is very hot. It’s a surprisingly pleasant day for September, and the room faced a window wall and balcony which magnified the stuffy atmosphere. And all of the stuffy people. The large curved roof and its plum curtains supply the space with the gravitas my Father would have wanted. The room’s marble polished floors supply the right amount of solemnity. As well as amplifying the acoustics of varying types of muttering. Potted plants that shone neon green in the sun dotted the hall. I am currently hiding behind a wide bushy one. 

Sunday had unfortunately arrived and the luncheon was just beginning. It was supposed to be in commemoration of Robert Mayers, media conglomerate, founder of Mayers newspaper, and the very headquarters we were in. However, as the afternoon went on, it was uninspiringly going to transform into some sort of power grab.

 I survey the group before us. Men and Women in sharp suits and soft coats. In circles and squares. Very symmetrical.

They speak in quiet tones, respect and grief softening their volume. Yet some voices still ring from the crowd. Cloying timbres of We were very close, Robert and I , whispered pitying ones of He never did look after himself, did he? and curious hissed ones in my direction of That’s her? The youngest Meyers girl? God, the stories I’ve heard about her. 

I'm attempting to ignore the last ones. Which are becoming increasingly brazen as this charade goes on. I suppose they understand that there is no point in sucking up to me. It’s not exactly a secret that I have little influence in the company. Or that Rebecca and I are not on the best of terms. 

“They must be pumping heat through the vents”, I extrapolate. “It's probably for the best, I don’t think this crowd could survive under a temperature of fifteen degrees.”

“Snakes?” Bec guesses. 

“I was going for old people, but yours is more poetic.”

“Yes, it is a rather geriatric group isn't it?” she frowns, sipping her flute of sparkling wine. 

I could feel her observing me with mine earlier, burning the side of my face. I had the strongest urge to be the worst clique ever and get drunk at my Dad’s funeral lunch. The more people watch how I act around alcohol, the worse I want to behave. It's a stubborn compulsion that still takes effort to shake.

“I'm guessing the young execs are waiting until the old brigade have given their sympathies first before they try to promote themselves”, I say still stubbornly holding the same flute I had an hour ago. It's gone flat from my tight, warm grip. 

“Wait until they find out that the only one who can promote them is me.”

“Rebecca”, I say, moving my eyebrows in what I’m sure are interesting shapes.

“Shut up Bobbie”, she says rolling her eyes, but she’s failing to hide her smile. I find we hate each other less in closer proximity, a strange thing really. We hide out in the corner under the guise of surveying the room a little longer, until Rebecca stretches her shoulder in a tight circle. 

“Right, I better get back out there”, she affirmed with a sigh that sounded very enduring and a sudden clap of her hands which startles me out of my head. “Madden is set to come in about thirty minutes, and I don’t need a quip about how I was hiding in the corner with my little sister”. 

“Oh yes, I think it's better if I hide alone, it decreases my chances of being found. Besides, I need another drink, do you want one?”

 Rebecca gives me a look then, out of the corner of her eyes, shaded with something close to extreme nervousness. It lasts just long enough that I can’t tell myself I imagined it. The whispering of the crowd fills the space between us.

“No, I’m good.” She opens her mouth to say more but then just blows breath through her nose. Rebecca thinks my question was a test of some kind, she’s calculating what to do with it. It was a genuine question, though.

I forgot how it might be misconstrued. A surge of disappointment hits suddenly and I feel a little desperate. I want to correct her. I want to correct myself. Well, if she hates my question, I hate her answer. It’s so composed. It's so…. Rebecca.

“Excuse me, I think heat is starting to get to me.” She makes to walk away, and I almost want to drag her back. We were getting along and then of course she thinks the worst of me. That, surprisingly, always makes me want to think the worst about her.

“Well, you know, get out of the kitchen then!” I blurt, trying to salvage this somehow.

“What.” She punctuates a little too harshly. Her brow is one big, confused scrunch.

“Yano. If you can’t handle the heat…” I finish rather lamely. Rebecca looks at me up and down, contemplating on whether this is a dig or not. The results are inconclusive.

“Right…. I’m going to go”, she says, smoothing out invisible creases on her cuffs. She has a blob of icing on the corner of her face that I neglected to tell her about earlier. I can’t send my soldier out like that.

I lick my finger and reach up towards her face to wipe it off. “Here, you’ve got a-"

Rebecca’s hand reaches up reflexively and shoves my wrist back. This in turn causes me to hit myself in the nose. My eyes water and I see the outline of a very concerned Rebecca. 
“OW! What the hell was that for!” 

“Shit! Sorry! I thought…. I’m so sorry.”

“You have cake on your face, you freak.”

Rebecca hastily wipes the icing off her face. She’s so flustered, it makes me laugh sharply which then makes me gasp from hurt. I’m still holding my nose. It’s extremely tender even now that I’m sober. “Oh, come on I barely touched you,” she rolls her eyes.

“It’s sensitive!” I defend my honour.

“Well, that’s not my fault, is it?” Rebecca turns her piercing eyes to me then. “It’s yours.”

My stomach drops. My own eyes match her fire, and I dare her to say more. I’m trapped and I don’t know how to answer. I can see Rebecca’s satisfaction that I finally have to acknowledge what I always refuse to. I stay silent. We’re both enraged and validated in our self-righteousness.

She walks away and leaves me hiding in the bushes.

Nicely done Bobbie.

---

I head out to the balcony after it becomes clear that I can’t handle the heat either. There’s too many people to avoid in this pseudo wake. 

As long as I can stay away from my mother, I should survive for at least an hour. I’m ruminating on these familiar sentiments when I feel a presence behind me. Then I hear a familiar voice.

“What did you do to her this time?”

I turn around and I’m faced with violent feelings of the past. Young skin and hot summers and rough hands. It’s Mathew. Perhaps the last person I want to see me now, even above Debra. I go on the defensive.

“I was just trying to lick her clean”.

His face crinkles comically, and I’m already enjoying myself too much.

“I was trying to groom her”, I say and feel my creeping smile.

“What?” 

I can see the beginnings of his smile too. I put him out of his misery. 

“I was trying to rub some cake off her face, and she jumped like I just grabbed her tit.”

“How dare she. And your mouth being so famously clean at that.”

“Speaking of grooming, how’s your Dad doing?”

“I hate you.”

“I'm sure.”

 He looks different. Older I suppose. His hazel eyes and brown hair are the same. A bit more tired at the edges maybe, but still the same. I find myself wondering whether he gets enough sleep these days and I’m promptly embarrassed at myself. I shut down those lines of thoughts. Seeing escape at the lull of conversation, I go to walk away with an awkward nod. Just as I turn, Mathew grabs my arm.

It’s alarming how unsettled this single piece of contact between us makes me. His face is a combination of frustration, affection and humour, a well-worn mixture in our interactions. 

I think the both of us have spent the majority of our lives tethered to this tension between us, trying to decode just how easily we affect each other. And I think we get worse at navigating it in our interactions. Though I guess as those become increasingly sparse, this can’t be helped. The pressure of all that remains unsaid between us builds up against all that we have said to each other. 

Mathew looks around and seems to compose himself with a self-deprecating shake of his head. His move to grab me was more urgent and reckless than I have seen from him in a while. I remember when he used to be shaped by his urges, never hesitating when he wanted. Whether it was school, work or girls, once he set his mind on something, he got it. 

I remember when he used to be that way around me. He sighs and gently lets go of my wrist. I swear I feel every indent of his warm palm slide against the smooth underside of my arm, fingers slightly tensing before they release. God, I really am pathetic. 

“Is that all I get?”, he asks in a teasing tone that does not quite match his eyes. I follow his lead. 

“Well, it depends on what you want to get,” I droll. “It's not some is it?”, I say, raising my brow slowly, “because I don't know what your Dad told you but I don’t do that anymore”. I hate myself. 

“Can you not be a menace for five minutes please?” he chastises in his way, both sharp and soft. He used to say that I love to play up our dynamic like this, and he would be right.

But Mathew enjoyed it too, I could tell. My favourite part was seeing how he tried to hide his amusement. And seeing how long he could go before inevitably feeding into me. 

But today, Mathew’s face is calculating and I know that he is not going to go easy on me. He knows how I disengage every time he tries to corner me and talk. But I can tell he’s too hurt right now and he’s not treading as carefully.

Then, I can almost see it on his face when he tries to factor in Dad and the funeral.

That look on his face makes me feel too raw. The disappointment. It stings me. And reminds me of when we last saw each other. Last winter. When I left Meyers and all that followed.  

It was the coldest winter I can remember. The snow fell early and didn’t melt for weeks. Once, when I was feeling a little melodramatic (and maybe more than a little drunk), I came home for Christmas. In secret of course. To spy on my ridiculous excuse for a family.