Why yes, I am occasionally over enthusiastic...
Title: Jacob and Esau
Topic: Theft
Wordcount: 3758
Notes: I'm not really sure where this idea came from, though I suspect it's got something to do with guilt I feel thanks to a related, but totally different situation (which I can explain, but not without spoiling what this is about before you've even read it). I woke up this morning with the whole thing fully formed in my head, and just had to sit down and write (thankfully, today was my day off, and I could do just that). I am totally not usually this efficient in getting things done.
Also: it has been spell-checked, but not proof read, so correct as needed.
My mother loved babies. I remember being six years old, and allowed to play at Suzanne Morris’ house down the road on a Tuesday afternoon, because Mum worked one day a week and wouldn’t be home until late. She’d stop in to pick me up on her way home, and it would always be, “Oh, I’ll just stay for a minute, Jan,” when Mrs. Morris invited her in for a cup of tea, and then we’d be there until past 6 while she made funny noises over Suzanne’s little brother, Jack. Then Dad would ring, wondering where we were, and we’d have to have fish and chips for dinner, because it was too late to cook.
Once, before Mum arrived, Suzanne asked me why I didn’t have brothers and sisters, when my Mum was so keen on Jack (and, oh, maybe we could take Jack home with us, because then he wouldn’t scream all night and keep her awake). I didn’t know, and said as much. The thought had never really crossed my mind: it had always been Mum, and Dad, and me, and sometimes my Nan, who lived up the coast but came to visit for weeks at a time. I’d never thought about having a little brother of my own.
So I asked her, that night, and she didn’t really give me an answer. I don’t remember what she actually said, but it didn’t make things any clearer. So I asked Dad. He looked at me, really sad, and shook his head. This, I remember clearly. “Aren’t you happy with just Mummy and me, poppet?” he asked, and he laughed, which looked and sounded odd, since he still didn’t look very happy. “Don’t we do just fine, the three of us?” And, of course, we did, so I didn’t ask again.
By the time I was ten, none of my school friends had baby siblings anymore, and that was, frankly, a bit of a relief. By then, I found it embarrassing: the way she always wanted to stay for a while, and play with the baby. The way her expression went all funny, as if she was sad about something, which I kind of resented because - well, wasn’t I her baby? Never mind that I grew like a weed, taller than even most of the boys in my class at school.
Unfortunately, that was also the year that the Thompsons, who lived next door, moved to Perth, and the Durrow family moved in. Mrs. Durrow didn’t seem much older than a teenager, and insisted I call her Belle - which I did with great pleasure until Mum told me it wasn’t polite, no matter what I’d been told. Secretly, I still thought of her as Belle, and even called her that when Mum wasn’t around - our little secret, she’d tell me, grinning. There were actually two little secrets, though the second came out later than the first.
I walked to and from school, by this stage, because Mum worked five days a week, now, and besides, I was old enough to walk safely on my own, and even look after myself, so long as the neighbours knew I was there in case of trouble. Belle didn’t work at all, so I’d often stop in to talk to her, before going home - she seemed to really enjoy my company, at the time, though I have no idea whether that was my childish delusion or not. Often, she’d be working in the tiny patch of garden they had at the front of their terrace, or reading a book, but she’d stop when I came close, and we’d talk about anything and everything.
One Thursday, she seemed utterly overjoyed to see me, beckoning me in to sit on the step beside her. “I’ve got a secret, Emily, and you mustn’t tell anyone about it.”
“I don’t tell secrets,” I promised her, inwardly thrilled to be trusted with the secret of an adult, no matter how young she looked.
“I didn’t think you were that type,” she said, nodding. “That’s why I’m trusting you, Em. Because I know you won’t tell.”
I watched her, utterly curious. Her face was flushed with-- excitement, I suppose, and her hand, which had reached out to grasp at mine, was sweaty. She was silent for maybe thirty seconds, and I almost thought she’d forgotten she was going to tell me something, when she burst out, “I’m going to have a baby, Emily. A little baby, all of my own!”
“You don’t look old enough to have a baby!” I burst out, surprised. Of all the things I had tossed through my mind as potential secrets (I regret to say that they were all equally ludicrous, and tended to involve my own fantasies), this was not something I had considered for a moment.
Belle turned pink. She’d already been a bit pink, but now she was really pink, and I felt momentarily guilty. “I’m twenty-three,” she told me, quietly. “Plenty old enough. Anyway, age doesn’t matter, really. So long as you want to be a mother - and I do. Very much. Aren’t you happy for me, Em?”
“Of course I am,” I told her, quickly, though I was well aware of what this was going to mean. “Only... I don’t think you should live here, if you’re going to.”
“What do you mean?” Belle sounded confused, even a little irritated, as though I wasn’t appreciating her secret enough.
“Mum will never leave you alone,” I explained, heavily. “She’ll go all crazy again.”
Belle went very still, watching me. “Oh,” she said, finally. “Oh, I see. Does your Mum want another baby?”
“I don’t think so,” I said, truthfully as far as I knew. “If she wanted one, she’d have one, wouldn’t she? I mean, you do.”
“Not necessarily,” she explained, shaking her head. “Sometimes it isn’t that easy. Look - we’ll be careful, with your mother. I’m sure it’s going to be fine.”
For months and months, it was our little secret. Scott - Belle’s husband - knew, obviously, but I didn’t tell a soul. Winter came, and as Belle’s tummy started getting bigger, she just kept wearing big, loose clothes, so if I hadn’t known, I probably never would have guessed. I’m not sure, in retrospect, why it was such a big secret, but Belle was insistent. Exactly how she intended it to come out, however, I’ll never know: when she was about six months on, something happened, and she was rushed to the hospital to have the baby right then and there.
You can imagine the shock, of course. No one had even known she was pregnant, and now Belle was recovering from an emergency operation, and they had a little tiny baby in intensive care, and it was really touch and go as to whether it would live or die. It was a boy. Scott came around to tell us, looking really old and sad, and said they were naming him Toby Alexander, and they were hopeful of a good result. My mother left the room, crying. I thought it was an overreaction, but Dad told me to go make her a cup of tea, and said something very quietly to Scott, who went kind of pale, and nodded.
We didn’t see much of him, after that, and Belle was still in the hospital. I missed them both, and was, at the same time, deathly curious about how tiny, exactly, a really tiny premature baby was (because babies seemed pretty small to me, anyway). And Mum started getting really, really odd. I thought that, maybe, she was really sad for Belle and Scott and Toby, and I told her that I bet he’d be okay, and they’d be home soon. That made her cry more.
I was actually right, though I certainly wasn’t speaking with any knowledge. Despite being born nearly three months early, and with a number of complications, Toby proved to be a fighter, and it looked like he’d be fine, eventually, once he grew a bit. Belle came home from the hospital, and eventually, Scott went back to work, though both of them spent a lot of time at the hospital. This didn’t make Mum any happier, though; in fact, it made her worse.
She started staying in her room, with the door shut and the blinds down. She barely talked to me, anymore, and didn’t eat much, either. Dad usually cooked something out of a packet when he got home from work, because, now aged eleven, I wasn’t really old enough to do it on my own. Even when she was home, Belle spent a lot of time sleeping, and I felt bad going over there all the time, so I spent most of my afternoons on my own. I didn’t understand what was happening.
Eventually, Belle and Scott brought Toby home, and they let me see him. He was tiny - and Belle swore that he’d grown an awful lot since he’d been born. I was scared I’d break him by breathing too close, but Belle let me touch his little fingers and tiny toes, and I almost fell in love with him, despite having never had much patience for babies before.
I started spending more time there, again, to help out. It wasn’t like it used to be - Belle didn’t seem to have time for anything but the baby, but I didn’t really mind. Sometimes, we talked, but mostly about Toby, and about Scott, and about how tired Belle was. I knew: the wall of my room was connected to the wall of Toby’s room, and the two terraces did not have thick walls.
“How’s your mother?” Belle asked me, her expression a little queer, one afternoon.
“I don’t really know. She sleeps a lot. She’s not going to work anymore.”
Belle pursed her lips, and nodded. “It must be very hard for her?”
“What?”
“Seeing us with Toby.”
“Because she loves babies so much? She hasn’t even come over and seen him... has she?”
“No, and I don’t think she will. But that’s not what I meant, Emily. I meant, because of your brother.”
I stared at her. “I don’t have a brother.”
“The one who died.”
“I have a brother that died?”
She went very, very pale. “Oh, god. I thought you knew. I had no idea they’d-- oh, god.”
Toby took that moment to burst into tears. Belle sat there a moment longer, staring at me in open-mouthed horror, and then rushed over to pick him up, crooning nonsense words at him as she rocked him back and forth. I fled. I don’t think she realised I was gone immediately; certainly, she didn’t look at me as I rushed through the door.
When Dad got home, I was waiting for him at the kitchen table. He took one look at me and asked what was wrong. “Why didn’t you tell me I had a brother?” I asked him, barely able to keep my voice from cracking.
I don’t know what went through his head at that moment; he went slightly pale, much like Belle had done only an hour before, and hesitated visibly. “We don’t talk about it. It didn’t seem like there was much point.”
“But there is. I have a brother, and I never knew. That’s not fair, to keep that from me.”
“You had a brother. Had. What does it matter?”
“It matters to me. When? Was it before I was born? It must have been, if I knew nothing about it.”
But my father shook his head. If he’d intended to just leave it at this - with no details - he had obviously given up on that, in this moment, because he sat down across from me, and picked up my hand. “No, Emily,” he said. “Christopher was your twin brother.”
I was struck dumb. I hadn’t expected that. I stared.
After a lengthy pause, Dad began to speak again, very quietly - I was conscious, suddenly, that he was doing his best to make sure my mother, if she was awake, couldn’t hear. “You were born early. Not as early as Toby Durrow next door, but early, nonetheless. You were healthy - small, but still healthy. Christopher wasn’t. He had... a number of problems, and he died.”
“Why was I healthy, when he wasn’t?”
“Emily, leave it. It’s ancient history, it doesn’t matter. We don’t like to talk about it. Don’t say a single word to your mother, do you hear me?” He was stern, then, and I knew better than to deny that. I nodded.
But I was still curious. The next afternoon, when I knew Mum was asleep, and Dad was still at work, I rang my grandmother. Nan doesn’t visit as much as she used to - she’s getting old, I guess - and I hadn’t talked to her for a while. Dad had always said we shouldn’t worry her with things, so when she asked after Mum, I said I thought she was doing okay. I don’t know if she believed me.
“But why are you ringing, Emily Rose? This is more than just a chat, I think.”
“I-- I want to know about Christopher, Nan. Dad won’t talk to me.”
The silence on the other end of the line lasted for so long I almost thought I’d been cut off. Then, a heavy sigh. “They told you, then.”
“Belle - er, Mrs. Durrow, next door - told me by accident. I asked Dad, but he didn’t really want to talk about it, and - it doesn’t seem fair to keep it from me, Nan.”
I twined the curls of the phone cord around my finger as I paced the kitchen. Nan sighed again. “I’m not sure if I should be telling you, dearest, if your father doesn’t want you to know. But I’ve never liked the secrecy. Where’s your mother?”
I hesitated. “In bed.”
There was another long silence. I don’t think Nan was aware, until then, how bad things were.
“Ask your father to let you come visit me, this weekend. I’m sure he won’t object. We’ll talk, then.”
He didn’t object. In fact, he seemed delighted, and even suggested that if the visit went well, I might want to go for the whole two weeks of my term three holiday, which was only a few weeks away. He drove me to Gosford on Friday night, and Nan met us there. She suggested we have dinner together, but he waved her off, insisting he had things to get back to. He didn’t like leaving my Mum for long, I think. Nan looked worried.
Nan lives another hour north from Gosford, and we talked - or rather, she talked - as she drove. It’s not a conversation I can remember word for word, though I could no doubt recreate most of it, if I tried. The facts, however, were fairly simple: we were born at 33 weeks, some seven weeks early. I was larger than expected, given the early birth. Christopher was tiny, and severely behind in development. This I do remember: Nan, telling me quietly, “It happens with twins, sometimes. One steals all the nutrients, feeds off the other. It’s not your fault that he died, though, Emily. It’s not.”
But it was. I certainly hadn’t done it intentionally, but I’d done it, nonetheless. I had lived - thrived, even - because I’d pushed him back, stolen his opportunities. Had I been less pushy, perhaps both of us would have lived. Both twins do survive, most of the time. I felt ill.
And yet, at the same time, I resented the idea. How could she blame me for it? How dare she love him more than me? As if reading my thoughts, Nan murmured something - a quote, though I didn’t know it at the time, “Jacob I loved, but Esau I hated.” I glanced at her, but she didn’t offer an explanation, and I didn’t ask.
We sat in silence for a while, driving through the dark, with the light of cars driving in the other direction flashing through from time to time. Finally, Nan started talking again. “What’s going on with your mother, Emily? Speak truthfully.”
“I don’t know,” I told her, honestly. “Ever since Belle-- I mean--”
“Call her Belle if it suits you, Emily. I won’t complain.”
I nodded. “Ever since Belle had her baby, she’s been upset. She didn’t even know Belle was pregnant - Belle wanted to keep it a secret, and then it all came out because she had Toby too early, and he was in intensive care, and--” I realised I was babbling, and slowed down. “After he started getting better, Mum started getting worse. She’s stopped going to work, and just sits in her room all day. She doesn’t even talk to me anymore, much.”
“And you didn’t ask what was wrong?”
I felt guilt upon my shoulders, and shook my head. I’d never been the kind of child that asked these things. I’d never even asked about my birth, in the entirety of my childhood. And I’d not asked why my mother was falling to pieces.
Nan sighed. “Laura never got over Christopher’s death. She still had you, but she wanted her son. By the time she managed to get out of her depression, she’d missed a good deal of your babyhood, and she regretted it bitterly. She became obsessed with babies, desperate for one, but too terrified of losing one to have one herself. And--”
“She blames me, doesn’t she. That’s why she won’t talk to me.”
“A little, I think. And she hates herself for that. Don’t let that get to you, Emily. It isn’t your fault. It isn’t.”
But I couldn’t help but think that it was.
The rest of the weekend was quiet. I walked on the beach, and Nan and I made biscuits - batches of them, until the whole house smelled of cinnamon and melted chocolate. I didn’t really want to go back home, on Sunday night, not with all this knowledge weighing heavily on me, and not to a house where everyone walked on tiptoe, and we ate packet mix macaroni and cheese three nights a week. I promised I’d come back for the holidays. Nan told me to ring, whenever I felt like it.
Things got steadily worse, at home. Therapists came and went, but my mother refused to speak to any of them; she hardly even talked to my father, by this stage, I think, and that made things even worse. He didn’t speak to me, either. I went to Belle’s, occasionally, but she’d become less open and talkative, now - I imagine she felt guilty. I was glad she’d blurted. Some honesty was just what we needed around here.
I spent the holidays with Nan, and sobbed the whole way home. I learned how to cook, though, so we started eating better, though Mum rarely ate anything, and Dad didn’t seem to notice, except that he didn’t have to do anything when he got home from work. Summer was coming, and I was already making plans to spend the entire holidays with Nan, if I could help it. The idea of spending Christmas at my place was beyond any comprehension of awful.
But something had to break. We couldn’t keep going like this, not with the family falling to pieces, and no one able to do anything to stop it. I would never have guessed it, until it happened, but when something did break, it wasn’t Mum, more than she already had. It was me.
I’d had a bad day. I hated school, and hated, especially, the fact that my parents never came to anything. I was going to graduate, soon - I’d start High School, in the autumn - and everyone else had everything sorted out. I knew I was going to the local high school, but that was it. I wanted... Well. I was tired of being forgotten, I suppose. I was tired of not being important, while everyone else celebrated the fact that we were almost finished with primary school.
On this particular day, I don’t remember what happened - what set me off. I was just angry. And when I got home, I couldn’t take it anymore. The words were running through my head, as I stormed my way home, and up the stairs, and into Mum’s room. I hadn’t been in there in a while; on the rare occasion that I saw my Mum, it was because she’d been cajoled downstairs for a little while. The room was dark, and it smelled musty. Mum looked terrible. She stared at me.
I stared back. I yelled. It was more of a tantrum than anything; I don’t remember much of what I was saying - I’m sure the kind of thing it was is fairly obvious, though. I assume I yelled at her for blaming me for something that wasn’t my fault, for hiding things from me, for daring to resent Toby living, when Christopher died. I yelled at her for giving up when she still had me, and I was still alive, and I needed a mother, too.
I assume Belle must have overheard, from next door. She must have heard the crash as I shoved over the chest of drawers, and the mirror toppled down. My mother started screaming. Not words - no, she just screamed, and screamed, and I yelled, and yelled, and tried to throw things around, and the next thing I knew Belle had her arms around me, and was rocking me back and forth, whispering soothing words into my ear.
They ended up calling it a complete breakdown. Mum, that is. I was just called a child put under too much stress, and, after a bit of therapy, considered good as new. But Mum was admitted to the hospital, and for a long time she hardly seemed aware of her own identity, let alone anyone else. That was hard on Dad, who visited daily. I suppose it was hard on me, too, but I was distant from it all, living up the coast with Nan, and, eventually, starting high school in a whole new place.
While I was in therapy, they asked me if I felt guilt over the whole thing. About my brother dying, about the way it impacted my mother, about everything that happened. I surprised myself in saying no, and in explaining that I think my mother stole more from me than I stole from her - though I didn’t blame her.
Not much, anyway.
Topic: Theft
Wordcount: 3758
Notes: I'm not really sure where this idea came from, though I suspect it's got something to do with guilt I feel thanks to a related, but totally different situation (which I can explain, but not without spoiling what this is about before you've even read it). I woke up this morning with the whole thing fully formed in my head, and just had to sit down and write (thankfully, today was my day off, and I could do just that). I am totally not usually this efficient in getting things done.
Also: it has been spell-checked, but not proof read, so correct as needed.
My mother loved babies. I remember being six years old, and allowed to play at Suzanne Morris’ house down the road on a Tuesday afternoon, because Mum worked one day a week and wouldn’t be home until late. She’d stop in to pick me up on her way home, and it would always be, “Oh, I’ll just stay for a minute, Jan,” when Mrs. Morris invited her in for a cup of tea, and then we’d be there until past 6 while she made funny noises over Suzanne’s little brother, Jack. Then Dad would ring, wondering where we were, and we’d have to have fish and chips for dinner, because it was too late to cook.
Once, before Mum arrived, Suzanne asked me why I didn’t have brothers and sisters, when my Mum was so keen on Jack (and, oh, maybe we could take Jack home with us, because then he wouldn’t scream all night and keep her awake). I didn’t know, and said as much. The thought had never really crossed my mind: it had always been Mum, and Dad, and me, and sometimes my Nan, who lived up the coast but came to visit for weeks at a time. I’d never thought about having a little brother of my own.
So I asked her, that night, and she didn’t really give me an answer. I don’t remember what she actually said, but it didn’t make things any clearer. So I asked Dad. He looked at me, really sad, and shook his head. This, I remember clearly. “Aren’t you happy with just Mummy and me, poppet?” he asked, and he laughed, which looked and sounded odd, since he still didn’t look very happy. “Don’t we do just fine, the three of us?” And, of course, we did, so I didn’t ask again.
By the time I was ten, none of my school friends had baby siblings anymore, and that was, frankly, a bit of a relief. By then, I found it embarrassing: the way she always wanted to stay for a while, and play with the baby. The way her expression went all funny, as if she was sad about something, which I kind of resented because - well, wasn’t I her baby? Never mind that I grew like a weed, taller than even most of the boys in my class at school.
Unfortunately, that was also the year that the Thompsons, who lived next door, moved to Perth, and the Durrow family moved in. Mrs. Durrow didn’t seem much older than a teenager, and insisted I call her Belle - which I did with great pleasure until Mum told me it wasn’t polite, no matter what I’d been told. Secretly, I still thought of her as Belle, and even called her that when Mum wasn’t around - our little secret, she’d tell me, grinning. There were actually two little secrets, though the second came out later than the first.
I walked to and from school, by this stage, because Mum worked five days a week, now, and besides, I was old enough to walk safely on my own, and even look after myself, so long as the neighbours knew I was there in case of trouble. Belle didn’t work at all, so I’d often stop in to talk to her, before going home - she seemed to really enjoy my company, at the time, though I have no idea whether that was my childish delusion or not. Often, she’d be working in the tiny patch of garden they had at the front of their terrace, or reading a book, but she’d stop when I came close, and we’d talk about anything and everything.
One Thursday, she seemed utterly overjoyed to see me, beckoning me in to sit on the step beside her. “I’ve got a secret, Emily, and you mustn’t tell anyone about it.”
“I don’t tell secrets,” I promised her, inwardly thrilled to be trusted with the secret of an adult, no matter how young she looked.
“I didn’t think you were that type,” she said, nodding. “That’s why I’m trusting you, Em. Because I know you won’t tell.”
I watched her, utterly curious. Her face was flushed with-- excitement, I suppose, and her hand, which had reached out to grasp at mine, was sweaty. She was silent for maybe thirty seconds, and I almost thought she’d forgotten she was going to tell me something, when she burst out, “I’m going to have a baby, Emily. A little baby, all of my own!”
“You don’t look old enough to have a baby!” I burst out, surprised. Of all the things I had tossed through my mind as potential secrets (I regret to say that they were all equally ludicrous, and tended to involve my own fantasies), this was not something I had considered for a moment.
Belle turned pink. She’d already been a bit pink, but now she was really pink, and I felt momentarily guilty. “I’m twenty-three,” she told me, quietly. “Plenty old enough. Anyway, age doesn’t matter, really. So long as you want to be a mother - and I do. Very much. Aren’t you happy for me, Em?”
“Of course I am,” I told her, quickly, though I was well aware of what this was going to mean. “Only... I don’t think you should live here, if you’re going to.”
“What do you mean?” Belle sounded confused, even a little irritated, as though I wasn’t appreciating her secret enough.
“Mum will never leave you alone,” I explained, heavily. “She’ll go all crazy again.”
Belle went very still, watching me. “Oh,” she said, finally. “Oh, I see. Does your Mum want another baby?”
“I don’t think so,” I said, truthfully as far as I knew. “If she wanted one, she’d have one, wouldn’t she? I mean, you do.”
“Not necessarily,” she explained, shaking her head. “Sometimes it isn’t that easy. Look - we’ll be careful, with your mother. I’m sure it’s going to be fine.”
For months and months, it was our little secret. Scott - Belle’s husband - knew, obviously, but I didn’t tell a soul. Winter came, and as Belle’s tummy started getting bigger, she just kept wearing big, loose clothes, so if I hadn’t known, I probably never would have guessed. I’m not sure, in retrospect, why it was such a big secret, but Belle was insistent. Exactly how she intended it to come out, however, I’ll never know: when she was about six months on, something happened, and she was rushed to the hospital to have the baby right then and there.
You can imagine the shock, of course. No one had even known she was pregnant, and now Belle was recovering from an emergency operation, and they had a little tiny baby in intensive care, and it was really touch and go as to whether it would live or die. It was a boy. Scott came around to tell us, looking really old and sad, and said they were naming him Toby Alexander, and they were hopeful of a good result. My mother left the room, crying. I thought it was an overreaction, but Dad told me to go make her a cup of tea, and said something very quietly to Scott, who went kind of pale, and nodded.
We didn’t see much of him, after that, and Belle was still in the hospital. I missed them both, and was, at the same time, deathly curious about how tiny, exactly, a really tiny premature baby was (because babies seemed pretty small to me, anyway). And Mum started getting really, really odd. I thought that, maybe, she was really sad for Belle and Scott and Toby, and I told her that I bet he’d be okay, and they’d be home soon. That made her cry more.
I was actually right, though I certainly wasn’t speaking with any knowledge. Despite being born nearly three months early, and with a number of complications, Toby proved to be a fighter, and it looked like he’d be fine, eventually, once he grew a bit. Belle came home from the hospital, and eventually, Scott went back to work, though both of them spent a lot of time at the hospital. This didn’t make Mum any happier, though; in fact, it made her worse.
She started staying in her room, with the door shut and the blinds down. She barely talked to me, anymore, and didn’t eat much, either. Dad usually cooked something out of a packet when he got home from work, because, now aged eleven, I wasn’t really old enough to do it on my own. Even when she was home, Belle spent a lot of time sleeping, and I felt bad going over there all the time, so I spent most of my afternoons on my own. I didn’t understand what was happening.
Eventually, Belle and Scott brought Toby home, and they let me see him. He was tiny - and Belle swore that he’d grown an awful lot since he’d been born. I was scared I’d break him by breathing too close, but Belle let me touch his little fingers and tiny toes, and I almost fell in love with him, despite having never had much patience for babies before.
I started spending more time there, again, to help out. It wasn’t like it used to be - Belle didn’t seem to have time for anything but the baby, but I didn’t really mind. Sometimes, we talked, but mostly about Toby, and about Scott, and about how tired Belle was. I knew: the wall of my room was connected to the wall of Toby’s room, and the two terraces did not have thick walls.
“How’s your mother?” Belle asked me, her expression a little queer, one afternoon.
“I don’t really know. She sleeps a lot. She’s not going to work anymore.”
Belle pursed her lips, and nodded. “It must be very hard for her?”
“What?”
“Seeing us with Toby.”
“Because she loves babies so much? She hasn’t even come over and seen him... has she?”
“No, and I don’t think she will. But that’s not what I meant, Emily. I meant, because of your brother.”
I stared at her. “I don’t have a brother.”
“The one who died.”
“I have a brother that died?”
She went very, very pale. “Oh, god. I thought you knew. I had no idea they’d-- oh, god.”
Toby took that moment to burst into tears. Belle sat there a moment longer, staring at me in open-mouthed horror, and then rushed over to pick him up, crooning nonsense words at him as she rocked him back and forth. I fled. I don’t think she realised I was gone immediately; certainly, she didn’t look at me as I rushed through the door.
When Dad got home, I was waiting for him at the kitchen table. He took one look at me and asked what was wrong. “Why didn’t you tell me I had a brother?” I asked him, barely able to keep my voice from cracking.
I don’t know what went through his head at that moment; he went slightly pale, much like Belle had done only an hour before, and hesitated visibly. “We don’t talk about it. It didn’t seem like there was much point.”
“But there is. I have a brother, and I never knew. That’s not fair, to keep that from me.”
“You had a brother. Had. What does it matter?”
“It matters to me. When? Was it before I was born? It must have been, if I knew nothing about it.”
But my father shook his head. If he’d intended to just leave it at this - with no details - he had obviously given up on that, in this moment, because he sat down across from me, and picked up my hand. “No, Emily,” he said. “Christopher was your twin brother.”
I was struck dumb. I hadn’t expected that. I stared.
After a lengthy pause, Dad began to speak again, very quietly - I was conscious, suddenly, that he was doing his best to make sure my mother, if she was awake, couldn’t hear. “You were born early. Not as early as Toby Durrow next door, but early, nonetheless. You were healthy - small, but still healthy. Christopher wasn’t. He had... a number of problems, and he died.”
“Why was I healthy, when he wasn’t?”
“Emily, leave it. It’s ancient history, it doesn’t matter. We don’t like to talk about it. Don’t say a single word to your mother, do you hear me?” He was stern, then, and I knew better than to deny that. I nodded.
But I was still curious. The next afternoon, when I knew Mum was asleep, and Dad was still at work, I rang my grandmother. Nan doesn’t visit as much as she used to - she’s getting old, I guess - and I hadn’t talked to her for a while. Dad had always said we shouldn’t worry her with things, so when she asked after Mum, I said I thought she was doing okay. I don’t know if she believed me.
“But why are you ringing, Emily Rose? This is more than just a chat, I think.”
“I-- I want to know about Christopher, Nan. Dad won’t talk to me.”
The silence on the other end of the line lasted for so long I almost thought I’d been cut off. Then, a heavy sigh. “They told you, then.”
“Belle - er, Mrs. Durrow, next door - told me by accident. I asked Dad, but he didn’t really want to talk about it, and - it doesn’t seem fair to keep it from me, Nan.”
I twined the curls of the phone cord around my finger as I paced the kitchen. Nan sighed again. “I’m not sure if I should be telling you, dearest, if your father doesn’t want you to know. But I’ve never liked the secrecy. Where’s your mother?”
I hesitated. “In bed.”
There was another long silence. I don’t think Nan was aware, until then, how bad things were.
“Ask your father to let you come visit me, this weekend. I’m sure he won’t object. We’ll talk, then.”
He didn’t object. In fact, he seemed delighted, and even suggested that if the visit went well, I might want to go for the whole two weeks of my term three holiday, which was only a few weeks away. He drove me to Gosford on Friday night, and Nan met us there. She suggested we have dinner together, but he waved her off, insisting he had things to get back to. He didn’t like leaving my Mum for long, I think. Nan looked worried.
Nan lives another hour north from Gosford, and we talked - or rather, she talked - as she drove. It’s not a conversation I can remember word for word, though I could no doubt recreate most of it, if I tried. The facts, however, were fairly simple: we were born at 33 weeks, some seven weeks early. I was larger than expected, given the early birth. Christopher was tiny, and severely behind in development. This I do remember: Nan, telling me quietly, “It happens with twins, sometimes. One steals all the nutrients, feeds off the other. It’s not your fault that he died, though, Emily. It’s not.”
But it was. I certainly hadn’t done it intentionally, but I’d done it, nonetheless. I had lived - thrived, even - because I’d pushed him back, stolen his opportunities. Had I been less pushy, perhaps both of us would have lived. Both twins do survive, most of the time. I felt ill.
And yet, at the same time, I resented the idea. How could she blame me for it? How dare she love him more than me? As if reading my thoughts, Nan murmured something - a quote, though I didn’t know it at the time, “Jacob I loved, but Esau I hated.” I glanced at her, but she didn’t offer an explanation, and I didn’t ask.
We sat in silence for a while, driving through the dark, with the light of cars driving in the other direction flashing through from time to time. Finally, Nan started talking again. “What’s going on with your mother, Emily? Speak truthfully.”
“I don’t know,” I told her, honestly. “Ever since Belle-- I mean--”
“Call her Belle if it suits you, Emily. I won’t complain.”
I nodded. “Ever since Belle had her baby, she’s been upset. She didn’t even know Belle was pregnant - Belle wanted to keep it a secret, and then it all came out because she had Toby too early, and he was in intensive care, and--” I realised I was babbling, and slowed down. “After he started getting better, Mum started getting worse. She’s stopped going to work, and just sits in her room all day. She doesn’t even talk to me anymore, much.”
“And you didn’t ask what was wrong?”
I felt guilt upon my shoulders, and shook my head. I’d never been the kind of child that asked these things. I’d never even asked about my birth, in the entirety of my childhood. And I’d not asked why my mother was falling to pieces.
Nan sighed. “Laura never got over Christopher’s death. She still had you, but she wanted her son. By the time she managed to get out of her depression, she’d missed a good deal of your babyhood, and she regretted it bitterly. She became obsessed with babies, desperate for one, but too terrified of losing one to have one herself. And--”
“She blames me, doesn’t she. That’s why she won’t talk to me.”
“A little, I think. And she hates herself for that. Don’t let that get to you, Emily. It isn’t your fault. It isn’t.”
But I couldn’t help but think that it was.
The rest of the weekend was quiet. I walked on the beach, and Nan and I made biscuits - batches of them, until the whole house smelled of cinnamon and melted chocolate. I didn’t really want to go back home, on Sunday night, not with all this knowledge weighing heavily on me, and not to a house where everyone walked on tiptoe, and we ate packet mix macaroni and cheese three nights a week. I promised I’d come back for the holidays. Nan told me to ring, whenever I felt like it.
Things got steadily worse, at home. Therapists came and went, but my mother refused to speak to any of them; she hardly even talked to my father, by this stage, I think, and that made things even worse. He didn’t speak to me, either. I went to Belle’s, occasionally, but she’d become less open and talkative, now - I imagine she felt guilty. I was glad she’d blurted. Some honesty was just what we needed around here.
I spent the holidays with Nan, and sobbed the whole way home. I learned how to cook, though, so we started eating better, though Mum rarely ate anything, and Dad didn’t seem to notice, except that he didn’t have to do anything when he got home from work. Summer was coming, and I was already making plans to spend the entire holidays with Nan, if I could help it. The idea of spending Christmas at my place was beyond any comprehension of awful.
But something had to break. We couldn’t keep going like this, not with the family falling to pieces, and no one able to do anything to stop it. I would never have guessed it, until it happened, but when something did break, it wasn’t Mum, more than she already had. It was me.
I’d had a bad day. I hated school, and hated, especially, the fact that my parents never came to anything. I was going to graduate, soon - I’d start High School, in the autumn - and everyone else had everything sorted out. I knew I was going to the local high school, but that was it. I wanted... Well. I was tired of being forgotten, I suppose. I was tired of not being important, while everyone else celebrated the fact that we were almost finished with primary school.
On this particular day, I don’t remember what happened - what set me off. I was just angry. And when I got home, I couldn’t take it anymore. The words were running through my head, as I stormed my way home, and up the stairs, and into Mum’s room. I hadn’t been in there in a while; on the rare occasion that I saw my Mum, it was because she’d been cajoled downstairs for a little while. The room was dark, and it smelled musty. Mum looked terrible. She stared at me.
I stared back. I yelled. It was more of a tantrum than anything; I don’t remember much of what I was saying - I’m sure the kind of thing it was is fairly obvious, though. I assume I yelled at her for blaming me for something that wasn’t my fault, for hiding things from me, for daring to resent Toby living, when Christopher died. I yelled at her for giving up when she still had me, and I was still alive, and I needed a mother, too.
I assume Belle must have overheard, from next door. She must have heard the crash as I shoved over the chest of drawers, and the mirror toppled down. My mother started screaming. Not words - no, she just screamed, and screamed, and I yelled, and yelled, and tried to throw things around, and the next thing I knew Belle had her arms around me, and was rocking me back and forth, whispering soothing words into my ear.
They ended up calling it a complete breakdown. Mum, that is. I was just called a child put under too much stress, and, after a bit of therapy, considered good as new. But Mum was admitted to the hospital, and for a long time she hardly seemed aware of her own identity, let alone anyone else. That was hard on Dad, who visited daily. I suppose it was hard on me, too, but I was distant from it all, living up the coast with Nan, and, eventually, starting high school in a whole new place.
While I was in therapy, they asked me if I felt guilt over the whole thing. About my brother dying, about the way it impacted my mother, about everything that happened. I surprised myself in saying no, and in explaining that I think my mother stole more from me than I stole from her - though I didn’t blame her.
Not much, anyway.