Nine Years
Nine years.
Kim Ford was nine years old when her sister was born.
Those nine years are the reason that Meg not only doesn't remember a life without her sister, she doesn't remember a life without her sister being in charge, at least part of the time. Because by the time Meg was old enough to remember anything in a coherent, linear way, Kim was old enough to be left to look after her sister when their parents were out.
Meg was never worried if Kim was there. It may have begun just because Kim's room was closer than their parents', and when Meg was four and afraid of nightmares or thunderstorms, it was easier to find the courage to run across the hall than all the way down it. And somehow, when Meg was too scared or (on a few occasions) too sick to go anywhere, or even to call for help, Kim always seemed to know to come and check. And nothing bad could possibly happen to Meg if Kim was there; Kim wouldn't let it.
As far as Meg was concerned, Kim could do anything. And so, when Kim dreamed dreams, or set grand goals for her future, Meg never questioned it. Even when she was old enough to understand that most people don't get to do good in big ways, she didn't doubt that her sister would be one of the few who did.
Her whole life, Meg had teachers who called her by her sister's name. Had family friends told her how much like Kim she looked, or how much she reminded them of her sister. And it made her smile. The only goal Meg ever had was to be like her sister.
Nine years.
Meg Ford was nine years old when her sister left home for the University of Toronto.
It's the reason Meg never kept a diary; she never needed to. Her sister got long, incredibly detailed letters, three and four times a week. And once she'd written it all down for Kim, there was no reason to write it all down again, at least, not that Meg could see. And when Kim was home, talking eliminated the need to write anything about her life. Meg took endless notes on almost everything else, in scores of neatly labeled blue notebooks, but her life was simply confided to Kim.
And so Kim always knew anything there was to know about Meg, because Meg told her. And over the years the secrets shifted from the small sins of childhood, to crushes that left Meg pink-cheeked and giggling, to the half-formed ideas of a girl trying to find the woman she'll be. But it never, in sixteen years, occurred to Meg to keep things from her sister. And she probably wouldn't have succeeded if she'd tried.
And maybe that's just not fair, to ask any one person to be hero and savior and role model and confidant and confessor, best friend and older sister. Because who could possibly live up to all of that? What ending could there be but the bitter resentment of disillusionment?
Because now, with nine years more gone, Meg keeps secrets from her sister, and they fill the pages of the diary she started on her seventeenth birthday. And she no longer smiles when people tell her how much like her sister she is. And thunder is just the collision of air masses, and no one has slept in the room across the hall for a year and a half.
And Meg is capable of taking care of herself.
And she's lonelier than she ever would have thought possible.
Kim Ford was nine years old when her sister was born.
Those nine years are the reason that Meg not only doesn't remember a life without her sister, she doesn't remember a life without her sister being in charge, at least part of the time. Because by the time Meg was old enough to remember anything in a coherent, linear way, Kim was old enough to be left to look after her sister when their parents were out.
Meg was never worried if Kim was there. It may have begun just because Kim's room was closer than their parents', and when Meg was four and afraid of nightmares or thunderstorms, it was easier to find the courage to run across the hall than all the way down it. And somehow, when Meg was too scared or (on a few occasions) too sick to go anywhere, or even to call for help, Kim always seemed to know to come and check. And nothing bad could possibly happen to Meg if Kim was there; Kim wouldn't let it.
As far as Meg was concerned, Kim could do anything. And so, when Kim dreamed dreams, or set grand goals for her future, Meg never questioned it. Even when she was old enough to understand that most people don't get to do good in big ways, she didn't doubt that her sister would be one of the few who did.
Her whole life, Meg had teachers who called her by her sister's name. Had family friends told her how much like Kim she looked, or how much she reminded them of her sister. And it made her smile. The only goal Meg ever had was to be like her sister.
Nine years.
Meg Ford was nine years old when her sister left home for the University of Toronto.
It's the reason Meg never kept a diary; she never needed to. Her sister got long, incredibly detailed letters, three and four times a week. And once she'd written it all down for Kim, there was no reason to write it all down again, at least, not that Meg could see. And when Kim was home, talking eliminated the need to write anything about her life. Meg took endless notes on almost everything else, in scores of neatly labeled blue notebooks, but her life was simply confided to Kim.
And so Kim always knew anything there was to know about Meg, because Meg told her. And over the years the secrets shifted from the small sins of childhood, to crushes that left Meg pink-cheeked and giggling, to the half-formed ideas of a girl trying to find the woman she'll be. But it never, in sixteen years, occurred to Meg to keep things from her sister. And she probably wouldn't have succeeded if she'd tried.
And maybe that's just not fair, to ask any one person to be hero and savior and role model and confidant and confessor, best friend and older sister. Because who could possibly live up to all of that? What ending could there be but the bitter resentment of disillusionment?
Because now, with nine years more gone, Meg keeps secrets from her sister, and they fill the pages of the diary she started on her seventeenth birthday. And she no longer smiles when people tell her how much like her sister she is. And thunder is just the collision of air masses, and no one has slept in the room across the hall for a year and a half.
And Meg is capable of taking care of herself.
And she's lonelier than she ever would have thought possible.