The Good Sister - Sally Hepworth Page 0,16

I remember Mum narrowing her eyes, distracted from the coffee table for a second.

“What are you doing?” she said, her voice changing. She sounded curious, but in a careful, cold way. “Are you trying to protect her?”

She stared at me coldly. It took me a moment to realize my sin. By expressing love for Fern, by wanting to protect her, I’d betrayed Mum. Our purpose, after all, was to love her.

“I would never hurt Fern.” Mum’s voice was like ice. “It’s just a silly coffee table. What … do you think I’m some kind of monster?”

“No, Mumm—”

“Do monsters feed their children?”

“No.”

“Do they give up everything for their children?”

“No.”

Dread pooled in my stomach as Mum got right up in my face. “What about these clothes?” she said, pulling at my T-shirt. “Do monsters buy clothes for their children?”

It was the first time I thought Mum might hit me. She had never hit me before. It was a source of pride for her. “I’ve never laid a hand on my kids,” she would say to anyone who’d listen. The implication was that hitting your kids was something bad parents did, and she was not a bad mother. But that day, her face was so contorted, so angry. Her breath was so hot in my face. I was bracing for it—almost welcoming it—when abruptly she turned and marched out of the room.

Fern and I hurried after her. By the time we got to her, Mum was already pulling things off the shelves—books, toys, shoes. “Do monsters buy their kids stuffed animals?” she cried, tossing our toys across the room. “Pens? What about plastic seaside buckets?”

Thunk. Crash. Bang. She got hold of our jewelry box, the one that played music, with the little ballerina inside. Our dad had given it to us. Fern and I listened to it each night after lights out. Mum knew this, of course. That’s why she’d looked so elated as she slammed it against the wall and cracked it down the middle.

It went on and on until there was a mound of broken things in the middle of our bedroom. As Fern and I watched, I remember thinking that somehow what Mum was doing was worse than hitting. And how I wished she’d just hit me instead.

FERN

When I was a kid, I loved school. There were several reasons for this, most notably:

The routine of going every day.

The timetable, which ensured I always knew what to expect.

The learning.

The reading.

There were many things about school I found troublesome, of course. The people, the noise, the lights, the smells. Still, I became adept at finding solutions. I tried to arrive at school after the bell had sounded, hence avoiding the morning rush. I sat in the front row, where chatter tended to be kept to a minimum. At lunchtime, I ate my sandwich outside and then went to the library to read. After school I went the long way home, so I didn’t need to make small talk with any of the kids. Generally, my work-arounds worked well. But there was one day each year that I had no work-arounds for.

Swimming carnival.

For a person with sensory-processing issues, a swimming carnival is what hell would look like. The warm, wet claustrophobia of the building, the cheering and shouting, the garish team colors, the stench of chlorine. I’d composed several compelling arguments in order to persuade Mum to let me stay home, but Mum always declined. You need to show team spirit, Fern, she’d say. It’s important to support your peers.

The first year, I’d steeled myself. I wasn’t required to participate, at least (one upside of attending a school with no mandatory sport). All that was required was that I stand on the side and cheer. I came prepared with earplugs, but it was the smell that did me in. It was something else. It wasn’t the mild fragrance of salt water and chlorine like I’d smelled in backyard swimming pools. It was warm and wet; stale and dank. The moment I walked inside, I felt it permeate every pore. It felt like being underwater, but without the wonderful silence. To the contrary, it was the worst kind of loud. Inside loud.

Rose had taken my hand as we walked inside, which I knew was supposed to be a gesture of comfort, but it made my skin crawl. It felt like yet another thing coating me, begging for my attention. She led us to the top of the stadium, the second row from the back,