Sister Yes, Sister No

This story is by Annie Chandler and was part of our 2024 Fall Writing Contest. You can find all the writing contest stories here.

I looked at my inbox and drew in a sharp breath. I looked again at the author, hovering over it over it with the mouse, unsure whether to open it. Why, after over five years of silence and dismissing me as her sister, would she bother to email me? Was it actually from her? Or was it someone having access to her emails who was going to be the bearer of bad news? If so, did I really care?

As usual, my mind was a tornado of different thoughts, spinning around and collecting other things to contemplate in its path. Once again, I pondered if I should expose its contents and, in doing so, render my heart to more pain and conflict that took me years of therapy to resolve. I was already feeling the pain returning and pictured her evil face as she threw her parting words at me. ‘You may be my sister by blood; however, I no longer need to accept you are that and there will be no further personal communication. I never want to see or hear from you again. The Public Trustees will finalize Mother’s affairs.’

If Alice was seeking forgiveness, was I ready to accept her olive branch? Or, knowing Alice, had she decided she’d given me enough time to pursue my apology for what she perceived was my fault in the injustice of the division of our mother’s assets. After all, Alice had moved to England twenty years ago to escape from who she thought was a domineering and neglectful mother during our formative years. She left me to deal with her, an alcoholic, all the while trying to work and raise my own family. The stress ruined my marriage and had me returning to live with our mother permanently after my children were building their own lives.

Mother had been an acrimonious woman and a man-hater. Something had obviously happened when she was younger, which had never been discussed. Sometimes, after a cask of cheap wine, she’d babble on about making sure my children were kept away from their father and were not to sleep in his bed. She also had a bee in her bonnet about me going to Mass every Sunday to atone for my sins, which she would list endlessly in her drunken slurs. I was a whore, as I’d lived with my husband before our marriage. I should be flogged, as I was a divorcee who managed to have several other relationships out of wedlock. I would be banished to hell, as I was looking for a nursing home as her Alzheimer’s progressed. Apparently, I was not a nice person and was informed that daily. I was also useless at everything from keeping house to cooking. People asked why I accepted this continual abuse. I always replied, ‘She is my mother, and I love her, even when I dislike what she is doing to me.’

Alice knew nothing of this yet had held me accountable and accused me of persuading our mother to leave the house to me on her death and hadn’t considered the jewellery and paintings, silverware and collectables she had pilfered and taken back to England with her the few times she’d bothered to return home and actually visit Mother.

Did I want to open this Pandora’s Box, knowing it was filled with hatred, envy, bitterness, and regret? Should I be the better person and be the one to make peace, no matter what the email said, assuming it wasn’t a notification of her demise? If that were the case, I wouldn’t have to go into crisis talks with myself about the best line of defence to protect my sanity and heart.

I looked at the affirmations I had printed and laminated, which lined the wall of my study. Many had been given to me by my therapist, some by friends who understood my burden, while others I had searched online when I was having a particularly bad day, and I could feel the shadow of the black dog hovering over me. I looked at them and chose ‘I am appreciated and valued as I am’ and ‘I am confident and believe in myself’ to boost my waning spirits. With that in mind, I decided to let sleeping dogs lie and leave the email unopened. Many more urgent ones needed my full attention, which was more important to me. Tomorrow would be another day, and I’d make a decision then.

 

Alice saw the email had not been opened. She took another gulp of her wine and swore at her computer screen. ‘Open it, for God’s sake.’ Her head spun a little as she stood up to refill her glass. ‘All I want is access to Mother’s home. I need to collect the silver French coffee pot and milk jug, which are rightfully mine. Come on… I haven’t got all day to wait for your reply.’ She’d forgotten she was eight hours behind and her sister would probably be in bed. Patience was not a given with Alice. Most people became a little calmer as they age, but not her. If anything, along with her increased drinking, which she believed she had under control, her animosity for everyone and everything was becoming more apparent. She slammed down the lid of her laptop without bothering to close off the many tabs she had open. Alice was restless. She gripped her hands tightly together and could feel the tension in her neck, so she decided a warm bath might be the remedy she needed, along with her book, a scented candle, and the rest of the bottle of red wine. As there wasn’t much wine left, she topped up her glass almost to the brim and uncorked another. There was no better way to destress than taking a long hot bath with the things you enjoy most. And she needed to calm down. Getting herself upset over that silly woman, others considered her sister, would not achieve that.

 

I had a disturbed sleep. Sometimes, I dreamt about the contents of the email when I slept. The periods I was awake, I worried about how reading the email would essentially make me feel. I wasn’t ready to open myself to Alice’s wrath, which is what I was sure the email would contain. Once again, after I had dealt with all the other emails in my inbox, replied to those requiring it, and then filed them away as I always did, I stared at Alice’s email. I wasn’t sure whether I was hoping for some form of Divine Intervention, and I’d know the correct path to take. Or, whether I’d need to make the decision I believed was best for my wellbeing, now and into the future. Why was I letting this control me? Why was I letting her dominate me again? Did I really need to put myself in a position to be hurt and nearly destroyed a second time? After a second cup of coffee and two Tim Tams, I clicked on the email and pressed the delete button. I smiled. Then, to make sure I didn’t change my mind, I opened the Delete box and emptied the contents, forever sending her email into cyberspace. I felt good. I felt strong. I felt proud of myself.

 

An email caught my attention immediately. I’d forgotten about Alice’s email of weeks before, filing it away in the back of my mind in the folder of Useless Information. This one was different. This wasn’t from Alice. This was from a lawyer in London. I felt cold, as if the wind from the South Pole blew in through my window, unlike the warm breeze of late spring. I knew this was more serious. I knew I’d have to open this one. Yet I hesitated again. Was she taking things to the next level? Was she demanding something from me through legal channels? I rose from my desk and looked at the Indian Ocean, staring across the nine thousand miles from Perth, Western Australia, to London, England. We were a world away from each other, and it was that distance which saved me when, in earlier years, I trembled at the thought of Alice coming back, demanding a share in the home that was rightfully mine and in which, for two decades, I looked after our mother. The gentle rolling of the waves didn’t soothe my soul as usual, and I felt a migraine forming behind my eyes. I knew the best way to restrict its power was to take a prescribed tablet and lie down in my darkened bedroom for at least two hours. That, however, wouldn’t make the email go away.

So, sitting at my desk again, and with a trembling hand, I clicked open the email.

Dear Ms Rebecca Sinclair

We regret to inform you of the death of your sister, Alice Montomery…