Haunting Memories

April 6, 1995 - Today, I saw my sister for the first time in over ten years. After spending so much time thinking about her recently, I wasn’t wholly surprised.

What did shock me was how much she hadn’t changed.

Ebony was standing by my bedroom door when I awoke during the night. She was looking at me, wearing the same weathered pyjama bottoms and baggy Bruce Springsteen T-shirt that she’d worn the last time I’d seen her. Her eyes conveyed the sadness I felt, and they were her only feature that looked any older.

She had retained her lithe body on the verge of budding, and she stooped a little as she stood, as though exhausted. Or afraid.

My voice caught in my throat, suddenly self-conscious. My mind grasped at all the things I could or should say, before discarding them as futile, feeling my tongue go numb. There was too much to say, but not enough, and all of it too late.

So in those few minutes we spent looking at each other, we were silent; Ebony, standing beside the doorway, myself frozen in place between laying down and sitting up, bedclothes grasped to my chest.

And then, she was gone, and I felt emptier than ever. There was not enough time, there was too much.

It is the great paradox of my life: I miss Ebony, but I want to forget her just as much, for what she makes me remember.

February 4, 1985 — Ebony has been going through my drawers again. She is such a little snitch. She went to mother today and told her she’d seen me smoking around the back of the garage. Mother, of course, confronted me and wouldn’t give an inch when I denied it. She was “thoroughly disappointed,” and even more by my lying about it.

I wasn’t lying, I insisted.

Even so, I moved my pack of Marlboro menthols to a better hiding place, just to be sure. And I’m glad I did, as Ebony would’ve found them.

She used to go through my drawers on the regular. Trying to find my diary to suss out who my crush of the day was, so she’d have something “on me.” Fat chance of that. I’m three years older. I’m smarter and bigger, and if she even thought about spreading any of my secrets at school, there’d be hell to pay.

Kinda like what Brian says to me when he comes to visit. But I don’t write about that.

April 7, 1995 — I saw Ebony again today, and this time she spoke to me. Why would you want to forget about me? She asked in a small voice.

I cleared my throat, hesitating. Different answers jostled in my head, and I went with the innocent angle: I never said that.

But you wrote it, she said.

My face must have betrayed some confusion, as Ebony silently indicated towards the diary sat upon the small desk in the corner of the room.

You’ve been reading my diary!? I blurted reflexively, instantly embarrassed at how indignant I seemed, how very much like my teenage self.

There was her small sad smile, nothing like the cheeky swell of her face from when I’d known her before. Of course not, she replied. I watched you write it.

I tried to mollify her. I didn’t mean what I wrote. Not really. It was all just too complicated. And too painful.

But she didn’t believe me, and she left me again, this time with an air of her former self, disgruntled and hurt. So, I went to the desk in the corner and here I am. Ebony, I hope you’re here, reading this again. Because I have to apologise.

February 5, 1985 — I confronted Ebony about going through my drawers yesterday and she denied it. Of course she did.

Mother always used to caution me that Ebony looked up to me as a role model, evidently with the hope that I’d be more aware of my actions around my younger sibling. Not bloody likely. Well, mother dearest, you were right. Not only does Ebony share my hazel eyes and brown curls, but she is learning to lie like me as well.

Brian came over again. He and mother had an argument in her bedroom. I heard her say something about him not being the man she thought; that he was just like all the others.

Then mother kicked him out of the house, and I heard the front door slam. But hours later I heard the familiar tap-tapping at my ground floor window when Brian returned. He said he’d left something behind when he’d left and didn’t want to disturb mother. I should’ve known better, but I let him inside. And he quickly lost interest in whatever it was that he’d earlier forgotten.

April 8, 1995 — I tried speaking to Ebony again today, out loud. But she wasn't there.

I will try this way again, for other things need to be said…

Ebony, I’m sorry I never knew he was doing to you what he was doing to me. But there’s more: I’m sorry I blamed you for going through my drawers that day. I never knew it was Brian trying to find my diary that day, to ensure I’d never kept a record of that which he wanted to keep secret.

I heard a whisper, and the curtains beside the window above me waved in the still air.

February 6, 1985 — I woke up this morning and Ebony was gone. She wasn’t in her room. Brian hadn’t stayed either. I spent the day sulking that Ebony was probably just attention seeking, just hiding somewhere. But tonight, I started to get scared. She didn’t like the darkness; she wouldn’t choose to stay out past nightfall for a silly game. Mother went to the police to file a missing person’s report.

I haven’t yet told mother that Brian came back here last night and that I let him in. I haven’t told her that I saw him enter your room last night, after he was done with me and I got up to use the bathroom.

April 9, 1995 — Ebony, are you still here?

I’m sorry, Ebony, for Brian's vengeful act. I’m sorry you were never able to come back from where he took you. I’m sorry I let him back into the house that night. I’m sorry I lied to the police when they asked about Brian. I was scared. I was too foolish to realise he could be stopped if I was just honest. But it was unforgivable, as it meant it took us so much longer to find you.

But I hope you find your peace now, because, today, we won. Ebony, we won.

After years of regretting and recanting those initial foolish lies I made, after many months of preparations, I made the oath, took the stand, and we won.

My diaries that Brian never found were used against him. While I never wrote explicitly what he did to me—and you—they were a record of when he visited the house and how his relationship with mother had spiralled. And that he was there that night, that night before he ran.

Ebony walked towards me with a light step, her back straighter, no longer weighed down by anguish. She smiled her sad smile—thank you—and reached her hand out towards me still seated at the corner desk. I brought my hand up to meet my sister’s, and she was gone.