Salt Sisters

buried my face in her shoulder, weeping into her soft sweater. Her smell, the curve of her waist and the solidness of her were all so familiar. She held me out at arm’s length, just to get a good look at me, then pulled me in tight again.
‘And you must be Adam.’ She took his hand. ‘Thank you for bringing her home.’
Adam gulped.
‘It’s no problem at all.’ His voice tightened. ‘And I’m so sorry for your loss.’
I took a deep breath.
‘How’s Mum?’
Auntie Sue looked at me warily.
‘Well, you know your mum… She’s handling things in her own way.’
She turned back and ushered us through the hallway into the kitchen, where everyone was gathered.
The pain in the room hit me like a wave of despair. Amy’s husband, Mike, was sitting at the table with my youngest niece, Betsy curled up to him on one side and her brother, Lucas on the other, both of them softly sobbing. Hannah, their eldest girl – how old was she now? I quickly did the arithmetic and worked out she was thirteen – was sitting across from them with her feet on the bench, hugging her knees to her chest. Their faces were raw, red, and dripping with salty tears. I wanted to throw up again.
Mum was standing at the counter, cocooned in an enormous orange cardigan. She flung herself onto me.
‘Oh, Izzy darling, it’s the most terrible thing!’
I looked over her shoulder and saw that she had been stirring raisins into a large mixing bowl. Smudges of flour streaked the countertop.
‘Is that… a cake, Mum?’
‘Yes, darling. Fruit cake – your sister’s favourite. Nobody feels like eating anything, of course, but I thought if I made a nice cake, we might at least get our appetites back, and I wanted to do something useful…’
‘Mum,’ I said softly.
She avoided my eyes.
‘Amy has died, Mum. Do you understand that?’
‘Izzy!’ Auntie Sue hissed. ‘That’s quite enough!’
I sat on the bench next to Hannah and wrapped my arms around her. She wiped at her tears with her sleeve.
As Mum calmly went back to her cake, Auntie Sue put the kettle on, and she and Mike tried to fill me in on what they knew so far. As they recounted the details between them, the youngest kids started wailing again and we listened to the story through Betsy’s sobs.
Mike had come back from the pub, expecting Amy to be waiting at home. Hannah had been sleeping over at a friend’s and the younger kids had been upstairs watching a movie. His supper had been on the kitchen table. Amy had left her book, her reading glasses, and half a glass of wine in the living room. Her slippers had been left by the door and her car keys were gone. Mike asked the kids where she was, and they said she’d told them she had to pop out quickly, but hadn’t said where she was going. They couldn’t remember how long she’d been gone.
Mike didn’t worry too much, not at first, assuming Amy was running an errand. Perhaps something had come up with one of her community groups, or someone had needed a nurse. It wasn’t unusual for either of them to leave the kids home alone for a short while. Lucas was eleven and was a sensible boy, more than capable of keeping an eye on Betsy, who was already eight. As the night wore on, Mike tried to call Amy, but her phone went straight to voicemail. When she still hadn’t called or come home by midnight, he knew something was wrong.
He called her best friend, then Auntie Sue, and even the pub to see if she had shown up there. Nobody had seen her. He then phoned the police, who told him that someone would be there shortly. Mike assumed this would be to take a report and get more details. But when an officer came to the door with his hat in his hand, he knew something awful had happened.
Amy’s car had skidded off the road and crashed into a tree, on a country lane just outside the village. Nobody had seen the accident, but a motorist had arrived soon after and called 999. He’d tried in vain to give first aid to Amy as she lay there, trapped in the crumpled wreck of the car, unsure if she was still alive. When the ambulance got there, they couldn’t find a pulse.
I looked around the kitchen: my sister’s kitchen, in her home, with her family – all of it was hers, and all of it was her. She would walk through the door any minute now, if only I wished it hard enough…
I watched the door. Amy didn’t come.
Adam parked the car outside The Ship. It was a last-minute reservation, made after I had explained to him stony-faced that we would not be staying at my mum’s. Thankfully, there were two rooms available, both with a sea view.
Seahouses had two pubs – The Ship, at the top of Main Street and The Castle, out by the caravan park. Anyone desiring accommodation grander than a tin can on wheels was limited to the dozen rooms at The Ship.
We were both wired, despite our exhaustion, and decided to have a scotch in the bar after dumping our bags. It had been after 11 p.m. by the time we had left Amy’s, when all three children had finally gone to bed and Mike had insisted, red-eyed, that we should go and get some rest.
The Ship was a traditional pub, perched above the harbour and decorated with antique equipment and memorabilia from the local fishing trade. Every inch of wall space in the bar displayed an array of brass dials, gauges, and maritime gear. It was the closest pub to our house, and Dad had always insisted it attracted a better class of clientele. Most of the regulars were fishermen. He used to bring us here when Mum had evening classes, and sometimes on Sundays for lunch if nobody