The Secret Sister

arch of ancient elm trees. The house was a three-story brick structure, its front porch cluttered with broken bicycles, spider plants, boxes and an ancient refrigerator. Though spring buds were sprouting on the two lilac bushes by the front steps and the front lawn was freshly mowed, the house had seen better days. Someone had tried to scrub graffiti off the walls and abandoned the task halfway, two broken front windows were wrapped in dingy plastic sheeting and propped against the sidewall and the rusty metal gate hung off one hinge.
I sat back in the car, watching skinny, hunched kids come and go through the battered front door. I knew what it was like to be one of them. Tired, permanently hungry and pissed off. Our room had been on the top floor. I looked up at the tiny window and remembered gazing down onto the street on frigid winter mornings before school, my eyes sore and dry, nausea twisting my gut because Birdie had jerked around the bed all night drifting from one nightmare into the next.
Birdie and I landed up there after the Penners because there was no suitable foster placement available for two siblings. At nine we were much younger than the twelve- to seventeen-year-olds living there. But we were soon lost in the cloying disorder of the place, supervised by a succession of nervous twenty-one-year-olds who spent more time on the phone talking to friends rather than to us. But despite the nuisance of hair pulling, mild bullying and petty thievery it was still preferable to Luke and Esther Penners’ frigid charity. Birdie and I enjoyed our roles as the unofficial mascots of the place. We were petted, cossetted and fought over by neurotic teens who pinched or slapped us one minute, then hugged and cuddled us the next. We grew tough there and learned more than a few survival tricks.
Birdie recovered some of her perkiness when she discovered it worked like a charm with the other kids. She became the cute little performer and I her sulky sidekick, lurking in her shadow, lank hair hiding my face, lips drooping at the corners in a permanent huff. One of the older workers had grown-up kids who’d left home so she took a real shine to Birdie. She brought a massive bag of clothes for her. Some were dated from the late seventies and early eighties. Lots of plaid and neon pink and green, but Birdie didn’t care. She wore a different outfit every day. Danced and sang and kept up my flagging spirits with her endless energy.
Be pretty, twirl your skirts and pull a silly face. Hop around on one leg and play silly monkey tricks. That’s how she collected pockets full of Bazooka gum, licorice and sour peaches. We went to bed sucking on Ring Pops, Tootsie Rolls and red licorice. No wonder I had a mouth full of cavities when I got to university.
I shuddered at the thought and pulled away before Dane showed up. Didn’t want him to think I was stalking him. I just had this sudden urge to revisit places I’d been with Birdie. It seemed odd that since meeting Guy, the past was seeping into my consciousness like water through cracks in a wall. And I thought I’d barricaded my emotions in so tight that nobody could touch them, which put me in a cold sweat. I’d lost touch with those feelings long ago. They hurt too much.
Guy taught at the university two nights a week, so when I got back to the apartment, it was empty. I shucked off my clothes at the door and wandered round the place in my underwear. Pressed my body against the rough honey-colored brick wall, lay my cheek and breasts across the cool granite counter top, traced fingertips down the length of the stainless-steel fridge, threw myself onto the pale leather sectional and rolled onto the white fur rug where I made snow angel movements and looked up at the chrome chandelier. Then I pulled myself up and padded to the bathroom for a long, hot bath.
I didn’t feel fit for Guy’s place until I’d washed off the dirt from school.
Finally, I stood in the bedroom looking at myself in the lavender lace bra and panties Guy had bought me. It occurred to me that he was a very trusting man to leave me here with all his things. That’s when I went to his bedside table and slid the drawer open. Maybe I’d learn something about him from his personal stuff. Some quirk or weird habit or obsession. But the top drawer was filled with briefs and boxers. All neutral colors. Arranged in neat little rolls. Opening the drawer had shifted the rows so I tried to get them back in perfect order. The bottom drawer was filled with socks in the same arrangement. The chest of drawers revealed the same story. Sweatpants, T-shirts, shorts, gloves, each with their own exclusive drawer. All in pristine order.
So he was anally obsessive. I liked that about him. I’d lived among chaos and disarray for far too much of my life. I could actually breathe in a tidy place like this.
I decided to leave the closet for another day since I was starving. Throwing on my robe, I poured myself a glass of chilled Pinot and arranged a plate of olives, Reggiano cheese, Prosciutto, cantaloupe and focaccia. I was just about to set it in front of the TV when the phone rang. I lunged for it hoping to hear Guy tell me he’d missed me all day.
“Hello.”
“Who is this?” said a voice that sounded like Guy’s but deeper.
“Anna.”
“You Guy’s cleaner?”
“Not exactly.”
“This is Gord, Guy’s father. Tell him I called, Mandy. Oh – and tell him to call me ASAP.”
The phone clicked, leaving the dial tone purring in my ear. Who actually says ASAP? And gets my name wrong immediately after hearing it? It hadn’t even phased him that I was a stranger, alone in