A Tale of Two Sisters

Not long before you get on that train and I wave you off, now, Christa. Off on your way to that Outward Bound course you’ve looked forward to for months. You can’t see what all the fuss is about, and oh, how I wish I couldn’t. You were very kind. As if, somehow, you had turned into the older sister, you patted my hand and assured me it would be fine.  

     I’m sure it will. But to this day, and for the rest of my life, I suppose, “fine” is relative.

     Sometimes it got on my nerves when people called you a “born survivor”. Well of course, in the literal sense of the word, it’s true. You survived the freak car accident when the bridge collapsed, and our parents didn’t, and neither did my little brother and your big brother, Callum. 

     But what’s it supposed to imply? That they didn’t have the strength or the courage? Christa, whilst so full of admiration that at times it feels my heart must burst thinking of your strength and courage, that’s not right. It’s not right at all.

     You were four and Callum was ten. I was fourteen, and had a rehearsal for a school play. I had been trusted with a door key and to be honest I wasn’t sorry I was allowed to miss the visit to Granny and Gramps, though I loved them dearly. 

     I was told at the time, and you were told later, that Mum and Dad and Callum “hadn’t suffered” and “it was instant”. I never believed that, and you didn’t either. If one person survives an accident with injuries that are serious but not fatal, then I’m sorry, it doesn’t make sense to assume that the other passengers were snuffed out in a merciful instant.

     There are certain kinds of books where I would now recount that I “became your mother”. Of course, it wasn’t true. No matter what happens in children’s books, nobody is going to let a fourteen year old care for a four year old, especially one with what I soon found out were termed “potentially life-altering injuries”. And I didn’t put up a protest about it. To be honest, Christa, it would have scared me – scared me what, scared me to death? It’s just impossible to edit out all phrases like that.

     But I did assume that Granny and Gramps would look after us and when I discovered that wasn’t going to happen I was furious and confused. It wasn’t long before I found out that it just wouldn’t have been possible. Granny was in poor health and Gramps in the early stages of dementia. The brave face she put on made me think her heart wasn’t breaking. I was wrong.

     We were never adopted, were we, Christa? I was an older child and you had what they termed “problems” – we were never going to be in with much as a chance. But we had a series of foster parents. In a different kind of book, this would be where I start to tell the horror stories, but I’m going to do no such thing. We were very lucky. You’re still living with Auntie Bridget (whom we now just call Bridget) and I’m in touch with her all the time – because of you, of course, but because I still value her guidance so much. She never pretends to have all the answers or never lose her patience, but has a way of seeing round problems that so often is helpful. Oh, and she has a saying, “I’ve never held to that belief that a problem shared is a problem halved. But at least it’s shared!”

     She persuaded me to let you go on this holiday. “You have to make the leap of faith, Clara,” she said, gently, but cupping my head in her hands in a gesture that I knew signified it was serious. “Nobody could have a better sister. And there’s no point to pretending that Christa won’t – oh, what’s the jargon – face certain challenges all her life. But she’s a teenager now. She has a fine brain – I hope she goes to university a few years from now, if that’s what she wants – and a very determined streak. We’ve both looked into this, and they’re very well looked after.” There were certain adaptations they could make. I knew there were courses especially for people with disabilities, and knew what your opinion of them was.

     The early days, the days, the weeks, the months after the accident have refused to fade into a protective nebula. Oh, we can manage not to have them at the foreground of our thoughts all the time, but they are there.

     You had no memories of the crash itself. I dreaded them coming back, to be honest. I did not want you to remember the crash of metal and the awful second of realising and the sheer, awful terror that I can only imagine. Perhaps you were asleep. You always slept on car journeys. Callum suffered from car-sickness and I was always in a hurry to get there, wherever there was, but you found car travel soporific. I remember to this day Mum joking that heaven help us if you ever learn to drive!

     Will you ever learn to drive? At the moment it seems unlikely, but so did a great many other things.

     I can drive, but I hate it. And, yes, I am scared of it. 

     The doctors seemed not to quite know how to handle me and what to tell me. Looking back I can sympathise. It would have been wrong to treat me either as a woman or a child. As you lay there still and silent I was told that your physical injuries were serious, but not life-threatening. Your left arm had been badly mangled, but despite their initial fears, they wouldn’t have to amputate it. I’m pretty sure they referred to “nerve damage”, though how much of that is because I now know that is the case, I’m not sure. 

     I’m pretty sure they didn’t know about the extent or nature of your brain injuries themselves. I was certainly old enough to know what brain damage was and to know that they feared you had suffered it. It was, I recall, Dr Singh, who said gently, “Clara, we genuinely don’t know. We aren’t keeping it from you.”

     Dealing with bereaved children must be a minefield. But at the time I wanted to scream when either people told me I must not feel guilty about enjoying things (I didn’t, at least not all the time!) or, conversely, assured me that time would heal. Why did they always either exaggerate it or downplay it?

     Much later on, only a few months ago, in fact, you remarked that in your case it was a double whammy.

     It became evident that your arm and hand would never regain their strength and full use. They’re not completely paralysed, and not withered, or at least, not so people would notice, but you can never hold anything heavy, or anything breakable, in your left hand. You have developed a way of using a keyboard that gives an illusion of equal use of both hands.

     There were, and still are, gaps in your memory, and I know how you hate it. Perhaps, and coward that I am, I don’t mention it very often, you have moments of even wanting to remember the crash – or at least, if you were awake, those moments, those seconds, that last half second before it, when you were happy and safe with people you loved. 

     On the surface, your memory is fine now. You can remember the words of songs and poems better than I can! But sometimes you have to struggle for a word, even, perhaps especially, a simple, everyday one, and though you generally make light of this in public, I have heard and seen your rage and frustration. Your teachers have sometimes had to report that you can be disruptive, but between us, the foster parents, and later on, myself, have managed to convince them not to exclude you or send you to a special unit. 

     I’m convinced that at least some of it is because you have so much pent-up energy, and that’s one reason why I finally agreed to this Outward Bound course. 

     I know, of course, that it is not as simple as that. 

     Sometimes you can be too trusting, and sometimes not trusting enough. And that applies to yourself as much as to other people.

     Back to those stories – and this time I think it’s true enough that “older sisters” in my situation have sacrificed their education. Nobody expected me to do that. Quite the opposite. And you know what, Christa? I’m not going to pretend that it didn’t cross my mind to apply to a university far away. But in the end, I couldn’t face it. I had to be able to see you. It was nobody’s choice but my own that I chose the one nearest to home, and now I’m (just!) a qualified teacher, I’m teaching at a school in the town where we live; though not the one you attend. That could be awkward for us both. I enjoy the work, and I’m pretty good at it, but I don’t delude myself I have any especial vocation. 

     Well, the train is out of sight now, and I stand on the platform, feeling like an extra from a film about World War 1, except that there is no swarming on the station platform, nobody else whose heart is flip-flopping and whose mind is racing round in circles after waving someone goodbye. I will have to go home now. Or maybe for a walk. Or maybe for a coffee. 

     Of course I want you to go on this course. You’ve looked forward to it so much. But this is the norm. This is the “of course, but”  that is the mantra, usually unspoken, of my thoughts about you. Of course I want you to have a boyfriend but. Of course I want you to go to the party but. Yes, I know these are thoughts one would have about a much younger sister anyway. 

     You have promised me you will call or text every day. Now of course many teenagers would forget about this in the thrill of new surroundings and it would be more a source of annoyance than anguish. But.  The supervisor has my phone number, and I have hers. That will apply to all the young people on the course, not just you. Why does it matter so much to me to remind myself of this?

     I’m glad that we parted on such good terms. There has been a degree of tension between us lately. I won’t say we never fell out before. Anyone who thinks that the orphaned survivors of a terrible family tragedy never say a cross word to each other is sadly mistaken. You can be very demanding. I can be very overbearing. Yes, it was easier when you were younger. But now it sometimes seems there is no satisfactory ending to our quarrels. I always seem to end up having to either give in or come over all heavy-handed. Though you still live with Bridget, she now often defers to me, as a grown woman, in matters concerning you. And frankly, sometimes I wish she didn’t. 

     I’ve just been round to Bridget’s for a chat. She’s never been one of those foster carers who has ten or twelve children at the same time. I’m not saying I don’t admire them, but I don’t know how you would have coped. Luckily the social services realised that. At the moment, apart from you, she only has one other foster-child, a studious ten year old boy called Mikey. You and he get on well enough, but tend to move in different orbits. Mikey was sitting reading on the couch in the lounge. As a matter of routine Bridget asked him, “Have you done your homework?” “HOURS ago,” he assured her.

     “And in his case, I’m actually inclined to believe it,” Bridget grinned, as we went through into the cosy kitchen where, somehow, it was so much easier to talk things through than in the lounge. It always has been. You often (not always) calmed down and saw things from a different perspective in the kitchen. Odd, really. You can be quite fixated about tidiness and order and “having space to breathe” but this is one instance where you apparently thrive on clutter. As Bridget herself says, “Well, it’s good clutter!”

     On the surface, for a while at least, we weren’t even talking about you beyond a brief exchange about you getting on the train. I have always been slightly nervous of the “ding” of a text message coming in, though for those who would jump to conclusions, I wasn’t told about the accident by text. To the secret (or not so secret) delight of your rather traditional English teacher, Miss Barnes, you have never quite grasped that a text message is not a novel, or at least a letter. But this time I was relieved to see a long, perfectly punctuated message. Or at least I thought I was. You told me that the hostel was “just comfortable enough” and I smiled, knowing what you meant. You might have wanted your adventure, but you’re used to a comfortable bed. Your room-mates are called Teresa and Sally, and you get on well with them though “Sally has that kind of adenoidal voice that makes me fear she’ll snore.” “Adenoidal,” Bridget shook her head. “Where does she get that word from?”

     “Er – you, possibly?” I replied, remembering how you referred to a foster-child called Jill, who was generally a delight, but sounded as if she constantly had a cold, despite medical check-ups confirming that all was in order.

     I’ll admit I’ve even been worried about your food. You don’t have any kind of eating disorder, thank goodness, but you can be very picky and squeamish and despite a taste for hotter curries than I could ever stand, are very conservative. Bridget was predictably sane about that. If you wanted tuna sandwiches for your packed lunch every day for six weeks, fine. She tried to get her foster-children to eat a diet that was healthy but not unrealistic but had no time for those magazine articles that tell you how to tempt and trick children into a more varied diet. But apparently, even though supper contained two of your pet hates, jacket potatoes with the jacket on and coleslaw, you apparently made a good meal, though you’re pleased it’s sausages tomorrow. I don’t suppose that’s on the basis of jam tomorrow and that those sausages really will materialise. You went on to say that you expect all of you will be hungry as you’re going on a long hike and then abseiling from a bridge. 

     Well, I panicked and I flipped and it took all Bridget’s skills to calm me down. “It was mentioned in the brochure and in the letters, Clara,” she said, quietly. “And they have a superb safety record and you know that her equipment will be adapted and they’ll keep a special eye on her.”

     I didn’t actually say it but Bridget knew I was thinking, sooner even a rock face than a bridge. She cupped my head in her hands. “Clara, as the kids laugh at me for saying, chill.  Do you really not think she sees or reads about bridges most days of her life? And she crosses one, I’ll grant you only a little one over the river, on her way to school! Do you think you can keep her away from them? And how on earth do you imagine she copes with my name?”

     I was about to say “that’s absurd” but amended it to “that’s different!”

     “Perhaps,” she conceded. “Maybe I was being a bit facetious. But I sometimes wonder,” her voice was suddenly very gentle, “If you’re not the one who has more issues with bridges than Christa?”

     She let it drop then, and took the cherry pie that I knew would be delicious, even if a tad misshapen (but even you don’t mind that when it comes to Bridget’s pies!) out of the oven, saying, “I’ll cut you a slice when it’s cooled down a bit.”

     But I knew what she was thinking, and knew she was right. You have been crossing bridges all your life, and will carry on having to cross bridges all your life, and not all of them will be made of stone or concrete or iron or bricks. And the worst and most terrifying one of the lot is still invisible, but you have learnt to live with that, too.

     Of course I’ll carry on worrying about you. It’s what big sisters do, even in circumstances less “dramatic” than ours. 

     But I will still rest easy tonight, and I’m pretty sure that despite Sally’s snoring, you will too.