episode 3

Until the memory of my other covenant relationship leashes me back down from my high.

"But, what about her?" I ask, helpless to the diehard habit of worrying about my sister.

Our move from London had been no less than emotionally exhausting. My sister had cried

for days, mourning as if I was joining our parents in the grave. She hadn't let me go

without drama - she'd even gone on a hunger strike and called my phone non-stop until I

was forced to contact the unshakeable Dr Marion to intervene. I couldn't even stomach

visiting her in her home after the wahala. Moving away felt like fresh air but it hadn't fixed

the duty I still felt complied to give.

We would always be sisters, united by a shared loss. I couldn't remove that attachment

even if I wanted or tried. She wouldn't let me forget, she wouldn't let me forget her. Since

our parents' passing, my sister and I lived like celestial bodies in a predestined orbit. I had

even turned down my dream of studying at Edinburgh just to be near her. Just to make

sure she remembered how to survive. She had always needed someone - usually me or Dr

Marion - to remind her to keep fighting, to keep wanting to live, even when she couldn't

find reasons to anymore.

It had been her idea to remember our parents' passing. She was the youngest, our

mother's twin and the apple of their eyes. Their death had understandably hit her

hardest, she had been only nine years old.

One year on the anniversary of our parents' death, we stood by their grave together and

she turned to me in a heavy black pea coat despite the summer heat. She had started to

laugh and I had looked across at her with such shock I almost lost my footing on the

uneven grass. I couldn't remember the last time I'd heard her laugh.

"Have you seen that film?

"What film?"

She rotated the peony flower stem between her fingers - my mum's favourite flower.

"It's about today;" she said.

I noticed our foster father in my peripheral vision watching us beadily from his Corsa. My

sister instructed him not to get out of the car. Everybody was terrified of her, her grief

was like a battle-axe when provoked.

When I didn't reply, she took a big breath as though mustering up the courage to speak

the forbidden words.

"July 15th" she breathed shakily, "Today. It's about today. It's about two friends and their

lives every July 15h after they meet.!"

Irecalled seeing a movie poster the previous year. One Day.

"Odd" I managed. Because it was eerily odd that this fictional story held such truthful

significance for us

"We should do that," my sister insisted "We should do something together, like the friends

in the film, to remember Mum and Dad. Every year, every July 15th

My insides twisted.

"Listen, Nina..." I started, readying to remind her to live in the present.

But my sister sapped.

"No, Stephanie, no". And suddenly there it was. The tears. Her face started to contort, to

crumble. I had this perception that I had power over her. Just the sound of my voice

reduced her to tears. I watched her sob until I felt faint and sick at the sight of her

shaking and gasping for air.

"Stop" I pleaded. I couldn't bear another meltdown. I was exhausted.

Ha, who was I kidding? Because my sister had a much stronger power over me. The same

power a baby has when they cry for their caregiver, knowing they'll get whatever they

want if they just screwed up their face and cry. She could do that to me. She was my

younger sister. I had a duty of care to her. And there was nothing I could do to change

that.

Our foster father came running over, looking like Santa on vacation in cargo shorts and

hiker boots. But his approach only agitated us.

to be continued.

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