A Sister in My House

by Linda Olsson

Genres: Family Life; Literary Fiction; Women's Fiction

Synopsis

From the author of the bestselling Astrid & Veronika, a spellbinding novel of grief and hope, betrayal and forgiveness, between two sisters bound together by a tragic moment from their past

"I can't explain why I did it. Often, it is as if a part of me has its own impulsive life beyond my control. I am astounded at the mess it causes. And occasionally the good that comes out of it..."

Maria and Emma have not seen each other since their mother's funeral two years before. Now, Emma has come to visit Maria at her house in Spain, and her presence is an unsettling intrusion on Maria's quiet and solitary life. Over six days in the seaside town together, the sisters cautiously sink into conversations recounting the years of their separate adult lives. Their walks through the quiet town and evening talks on the terrace reveal almost more than Maria can deal with, until finally, the sisters confront the unspeakable—the death of their most loved sister. And always in the background, the cold shadow of their mother. A Sister in My House is a dreamlike and compelling family drama of grief and betrayal, but ultimately, it is a story of hope and forgiveness.

Release date: April 17, 2018

Publisher: Penguin Books

Print pages: 224

Sample

Day One

"Which bed shall I make for the guest?" asked the young woman who stood facing me in the semidark dining room. Her brown eyes were expressionless. To her, it was just a practical question, of course.

But the words struck me as if I had swallowed something hot and heavy. And once ingested, they came to rest somewhere deep inside me, burning. The realization that when evening arrived, my sister would be here. Sleep in one of the beds. Occupy one of the rooms. Invade the space I considered mine. And affect the atmosphere. Not because of some intention on her part. No, it was me. I was the problem. What I consider mine has always felt so very . . . I am not sure how to describe it. Fragile perhaps. So exposed and vulnerable. In every way. I am unable to share anything that truly means something to me. And when circumstances force me to, all I want to do is walk away. Leave everything behind. It is forever ruined for me. When I think about it, I see it has always been like that. Before Emma existed too. Perhaps I am so afraid of losing, if I put up a fight, that I give up without even trying. It is not something I am proud of, but now I am able to acknowledge, without any sense of shame or guilt, that this is how it is.

I swallowed hard, to no effect. The heat had reached my stomach and I felt nauseous. The young woman waited patiently for my response. My thoughts flew from the master bedroom behind me, down the stairs, to the two bedrooms in the basement. That was where I wanted to place my sister. But if I didn't sleep in the master bedroom myself, wouldn't it seem strange not to give it to her? On the other hand, letting her have it would mean giving her a larger part of the house than I wanted to. Not just because it was the largest room but also because of its position on the entrance floor, at the heart of the house. It would be like giving her access to more of my house than I liked to. It felt as if she were already here and already affecting my relationship with the house. The nausea kept rising.

"The first room downstairs, I think," I said to the girl, and she nodded and disappeared down the stairs.

I slowly walked upstairs, to the top floor. The space there was one room, a large open area where indoors and outdoors was separated only by a glass wall with sliding doors. With the doors open, you would feel as if you were outside, and often small birds would come to visit. I spent most of my time up there. I slept on one of the hard sofas. I ate out on the terrace, unless it rained. And I worked there. It was a large house, and I really only occupied the top part of it. But I liked the feeling of the rest of it being there, below me. It worked like a kind of buffer against the world.

I walked out onto the terrace, which I used to think of as my garden. The first one I'd ever had. But it was really just a space with terra-cotta tiles on the floor and a few potted plants. A lemon tree, a lime, a vine that grew slowly, supported by the stone wall, and a few red and pink geraniums. The large, mature bougainvillea didn't quite belong, I thought, although it filled the entire left part of the terrace with its purple splendor. It had its roots beneath the flagstones in the street below, and I never considered it my responsibility. How it had grown to such height and width was a mystery. Its extravagant blossoms overshadowed the modest efforts of the other plants. I never watered it, but it didn't seem to matter. It must have found its own source of nourishment somewhere deep below.

I looked up to the sky and raised my hand to count the number of fingers between the sun and the ridge of the hills. At least an hour of daylight left. That would make it around five thirty, and the bus wasn't due until just after eight. I had time to finish the day's gardening if I got on with it straightaway. Water the plants, pick up dry leaves and twigs, sweep the floor, and fold the sun chairs. But I remained seated.

I heard the girl call good-bye from downstairs, then the sound of the front door opening and closing, followed by the gate to the alleyway, and finally the sound of her rapid, light steps on the street below.

The house was mine again.

I stood up and went downstairs. The kitchen appeared very dark after the intense light on the terrace. I poured myself a glass of cold white wine and brought it with me upstairs.

It wasn't just the plants on the terrace that needed care; the house itself also felt like a living organism that needed me. Or perhaps it was I who needed the house. It embraced me and protected me. It seemed to strive toward the sun, just like the plants did. And perhaps that was why I too lived up there, close to the sun. Far below, where the bougainvillea had its roots, were the bedrooms, always cool and in semidarkness, even when I opened the shutters. The kitchen and dining room on the entrance floor also stayed cool, even in the summer, and I found this comforting somehow. It was hard to imagine what it would feel like in the winter.

Ever since I'd first arrived, I'd slept with the curtains open. I learned how to determine the time of day with only a quick glance. I liked that and by now I trusted my assessment of the light more than I had ever trusted a watch. I saw the most beautiful sunrises and night skies of my life, and I never tired of gazing out over the bay below, where the surface of the sea constantly shifted color and mood. The white buildings climbed up the slope from the harbor, forming a kind of amphitheater, and beyond them the crest of the steep hills constituted a protective wall. I loved the view the most like this, at the end of the day.

This would be my first complete year in the house. My first winter. I no longer had any other home, although I wasn't sure I could count on being allowed to renew the lease at the end of the year or would be able to buy the house. But I thought no further than the end of the year. Wood was stacked by the fireplace in the dining room, so I assumed it might get cold eventually. But the sea was still swimmable and the sun warm.

I sat down on the wooden bench at the table and took a sip of wine. I drank too much. Too much in comparison to what? I twirled the glass in my hand and watched the condensation become tears that fell on my fingers. There wasn't really any need for me to compare myself with anything or anybody. As long as I was alone in the house, all comparisons were meaningless. Here there were no rules or regulations. Whether I drank too much could only be measured by how I felt. And apart from the hot knot in my stomach, I felt fine. This too without comparison. Fine for me. Fine for now.

I put the glass down and placed my hands on either side of it. They were strong hands, though not exactly beautiful. I hadn't been given the long, narrow fingers with beautifully shaped nails or, for that matter, the attractive slim legs. Or those dainty feet. Or the blonde hair. Strangely, this had never bothered me. Rather the opposite, really. I couldn't remember ever having wanted it to be different. I realized that Emma had inherited Mother's beauty, of course. That etheric quality. The self-evident femininity. An attractive fragility, perhaps also a kind of vulnerability. I honestly couldn't recall ever having envied her anything in that respect.

But, then, initially I wasn't alone. Then, when I had Amanda, I saw my reflection in Amanda and I liked what I saw.

Emma could keep her beauty.

Abruptly, I felt the anxiety rise again. Anxiety? No, it was more than that. It was dread. Panic really. I quickly took a large sip of wine. Perhaps I ought to take a shower? Change into something fresh? I looked down at the striped cotton dress I was wearing. It had been a long time since I had ironed my clothes. Just as I dropped many other chores and routines. Peeled away most of them. No, that wasn't really what had happened. It hadn't been a conscious decision. Rather, there had been a time when even the simplest practical chore had felt completely overwhelming. And that was when I abandoned most things. And lost a hold on my life.

I felt a small stab of something I couldn't quite define. Grief perhaps? Or bitterness? I hoped it wasn't the latter. Grief was acceptable. That old, inexhaustible grief that survived inside me. I could live with that. I might even need it in order to survive. Then, on top of it, the newer, not-yet-set grief. I nurtured that one. But bitterness has always scared me. I inspected my nails again and realized I couldn't even remember when I had last painted them. Or when I had worn makeup. I cut my own hair and usually wore it held back with a clasp. Now I removed the clasp and shook out my hair. A shower, definitely.

There was still plenty of time.

I stood under the lukewarm water, with my eyes closed. I knew exactly when it had seized me, this mad impulse. I could see us standing there, Emma and I. A few stray guests lingered, but the reception was over.

The two of us, as if inside a bubble. It felt strange. I had never experienced a sense of belonging with Emma. Not even when we were children. But I remember that I stopped in my tracks, a pile of dirty dishes in my hands, and looked at her.

"Would you like to come and visit, Emma? Stay with me in my house in Spain?"

She threw me a quick glance, with those large, pale eyes of hers a little red on the rims. She looked surprised, but she made no immediate response, just carried on picking up cutlery and scrunched napkins from the table. When her hands were full, she turned and disappeared into the kitchen.

"It would be nice if you'd come," I said when she returned, trying to make it sound as if I didn't really care too much either way. But there was something inside me that just had to say it, regardless. I do remember that I regretted the words as soon as they passed my lips.

"Oh, I don't know, Maria," she said eventually, without looking up.

I shrugged, as if it made no difference whatsoever to me. And I realized I was relieved.

"It's just a bit much right now . . ." She left the sentence unfinished. "Perhaps later. If the invitation still stands. Sometime later."

"Later" became almost two years. And by then I had forgotten my strange impulse. So much had happened in the interim. Now as I tried to think back and understand why I had blurted out that invitation, I reluctantly had to acknowledge that I might have been driven by a wish to show off. To flaunt my new life. Strut my happiness.

Mother always used to say that you mustn't allow yourself to be happy. Or at least not admit it, not to yourself. And certainly not to other people. Never show it. To do that is to challenge the powers and inevitably leads to catastrophe. If that is true, Mother must certainly have been safe. I can't remember ever seeing her happy. As for me, in spite of not really wanting to, I became cautious too. Somehow it became ingrained in me. But right at that moment, then, when I stood facing Emma after Mother's funeral, strangely, I was happy. And for a moment I allowed myself to acknowledge that I was. Mother would be proven right, of course.

2

Emma was visibly affected by the occasion. She cried through the entire funeral ceremony. And now, as she bent forward and continued to collect plates and glasses from the table, I noticed tears falling again. I had not cried at all. I was comfortably cocooned in my happiness. Not because Mother was dead, but because of the future I so arrogantly took for granted.

The funeral wasn't a particularly shattering one. Mother's death was no surprise. We had been given time to prepare, and everything had been done exactly in accordance with Mother's wishes. Lots of music, the kind she liked. French chansons well performed by a young singer and a man with an accordion. But it was a celebration that should have happened earlier. And under other circumstances. Before the guest of honor had disappeared. As it was, it felt like an empty gesture, meaningless and a little awkward. We all played our parts, particularly Emma and I. With Mother hovering over us. Emma beautiful and suitably sad. I remember reflecting that she was in her element at the funeral. She mingled with the guests with the just the right amount of restrained grief. She had been born with that natural elegance about her. At home, elegance had certainly not been nurtured. Not much else either. You had what you were born with. Anything further, you had to find on your own elsewhere. Or manage without.

I turned off the water and stepped onto the cool, polished concrete floor and dried myself slowly and carefully. Even though I hadn't gained weight, and I really didn't think I had, it was as if the flesh was in a process of slow redistribution. I stood facing the mirror and stretched, straightened my back, and pulled in my chin. I had just turned forty-eight. All I could be certain of was that aging would progress, presumably at an increasing pace. As long as I refrained from comparing myself to my young self, or to someone else, the process could be allowed its course.

But then there was Emma.