The Lost Sister: A gripping emotional page turner with a breathtaking twist
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‘Come in then,’ her mum calls out. The nurse opens the door. ‘I’ll leave you to it,’ he whispers with a raised eyebrow. Then he walks away.
Becky stands at the threshold. She can’t see her mum properly, just the end of her bed and a large window that looks out to sea. Suddenly, she feels the urge to run away. Hadn’t her mum once, when Becky needed her the most? She was just eight, for God’s sake. And yet her mum had still turned on her heel and left, hadn’t she?
But she wasn’t like her mum.
She walks in, her mum gradually revealed with each step she takes. She’s lying in bed, head turned towards the window, her once lush dark hair now brittle and greying in parts. Her arms that were once plump and tanned are now thin, papery and white, and her apple cheeks are sunken.
She turns towards Becky. Even her blue eyes have changed. Once vivid but now pale and watery. The only sign of her old self is a kind of fierceness in those eyes. And, of course, the vividly coloured nightdress, bright green nightingales against navy skies.
Her mum smiles slightly and, for a moment, time stops. Becky’s that eight-year-old girl again, standing on a windswept beach, reaching her hand out to her mum as she smiles down at her.
‘You came,’ her mum says.
‘Of course.’ Becky walks over as her mum struggles to pull herself up, adjusting the top of her nightdress. Becky examines her mum’s face. There are folds and creases there she’s unused to. Her mum was never smooth-faced – a few pockmarks from childhood acne on her cheeks, crinkles around her eyes even when she was young – but they made her even more beautiful. But her age is really showing now. The torment of illness.
‘Not quite how you remember me, I imagine,’ her mum says as though reading Becky’s thoughts.
‘It has been ten years,’ Becky replies. She moves a book from the chair by her mum’s bed so she can sit down. Love by Angela Carter. She remembers her mum reading a lot of Angela Carter’s books.
‘Has it really been ten years?’ her mum asks.
‘Yes, that long.’ Becky leans forward. She feels like she ought to take her mum’s hand, kiss her cheek. But things feel so brittle between them, like one touch might break everything. ‘How long have you known?’
‘I’ve known about the cancer for years.’
Becky frowns. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘I seem to recall you saying you never wanted to speak to me again the last time we talked.’
Becky’s cheeks flush.
‘Anyway, I’ve been managing fine until now.’ Her mum straightens her crisp white bedsheets with her fingers and shrugs. ‘Had to catch up with me sooner or later, I suppose.’
‘I presume it’s spread?’ Becky asks.
Her mum nods. ‘Brain. Bones. Liver. Cuticles and hair strands too, probably. The lot.’
Becky turns away, a tear trailing down her cheek. Out of the corner of her eye, she notices her mum reaching her hand out for her.
Then there’s a knock on the door.
Her mum lowers her hand. ‘Come in!’ she calls out in a faux bright voice.
A doctor walks in; an Indian woman, tall and serious looking.
‘Ah, you have a visitor,’ the doctor says, smiling.
‘Yes, this is my daughter,’ Becky’s mum replies.
Becky stands, putting her hand out to the doctor. ‘I’m Becky.’
The doctor shakes it. ‘Doctor Panchal.’ She turns to her patient. ‘How are you today?’
‘Not dead yet,’ Becky’s mum replies.
Doctor Panchal gives her a stern look. She turns to Becky. ‘I’m pleased you’re here. Your mum may have explained that we’re making preparations to move her to a hospice, a very good one. They have an excellent reputation in palliative care.’
Becky blinks. Palliative care. End of life. End of her mum’s life.
‘My daughter’s one of you lot, you know,’ her mum says to the doctor.
‘You’re a doctor too?’ the doctor asks Becky.
‘No, a vet,’ Becky explains.
The doctor smiles. ‘Wonderful. I have two cats.’
‘What sort?’ Becky asks, clutching onto the familiar conversation to stop her whirling down a rabbit’s hole of grief.
‘Siamese.’
‘I had a Siamese cat in one of my novels,’ her mum says.
‘Oh yes,’ the doctor replied. ‘The Circle, wasn’t it?’
‘That’s right.’ Becky’s mum sighs. ‘It’s actually my least favourite novel.’
‘Oh really?’ the doctor says. ‘I loved it!’
It still feels alien to Becky, hearing people fuss over her mum’s novels. She was used to those early years, when her mum was struggling to make a success of things. But now, her mum has several million book sales and awards under her belt. Of course, she’d watched it all happen from afar, reading articles in newspapers describing her mum as the ‘Sunday Times bestselling author’ and ‘book club favourite’, the publicity photo of her staring out to sea, trademark sunglasses on, all Greta Garbo-esque. Then she’d won a major book award a few months later, and foreign deals meant she made it big in the States too.
At first, she gave interviews that Becky would read and throw away in frustration when she saw the little white lies littered throughout them: ‘My divorce was amicable; I still see my husband.’ Or: ‘I see my daughter as much as I can.’
But the articles petered out after her mum started withdrawing from the public eye – no more inviting journalists into her home to chat. Becky had been surprised at how much she’d resented that. She was hungry for more details of her mum’s life outside the brief visits they had before they became estranged, so her mum’s new solitude made her angry.
And then her mum had moved to the vast house above the cave. Becky had found out about it a few years ago after reading a feature in one of the glossy Sunday magazines, a photo of the ‘reclusive author’ outside her new home, the cave sprawled out below it. Becky wanted to call the journalist who’d written the piece and scream: ‘That cave was where she ran away to! That was what she abandoned me for.’
But she hadn’t. Of course she hadn’t. Instead, she tried to ignore any mention of her mum, of her growing book sales and accolades, glamour and enigma.
‘I think Becky could have been a good writer actually,’ her mum says now.
Becky laughs. ‘Seriously?’
‘You won that short story competition once, remember?’
Becky knows what she’s referring to. And she hadn’t won it, she’d got third place. She was still proud though, and had even brought it to one of the monthly meet-ups she’d had with her mum in those initial years after she’d left. Her mum had read the story, then peered up at her. ‘You’ll improve, with time.’ And that was it, nothing else.
‘I came third, Mum,’ Becky says now.
‘Oh, first or third, it doesn’t matter. It was a wonderful story.’
Becky frowned. ‘You didn’t give that impression when you read it!’
‘Probably because I was trying to hide the fact I was about to start crying.’ She looks at the doctor. ‘I get teary when I’m proud. What about art?’ she continues. ‘You were always so good at drawing, Becky. Remember that painting you did of the horse for my fortieth birthday?’
‘Dog.’
‘Ah yes, dog. Such a fabulous painting. If you’d just put your mind to—’
‘I did put my mind to something!’ Becky exclaims, her patience running out. ‘I’m a vet!’
The doctor raises an eyebrow. ‘Okay, I’ll leave you both to catch up.’ She backs out of the room, shutting the door quietly behind her.
‘You’re a bit tetchy this evening,’ her mum says when the doctor leaves.
‘Discovering your mother’s dying kind of does that to a girl.’
Her mum smiles and Becky can’t help but smile back. She knows how spiky her mum can be. Why get upset about it now, when they have so little time left?
‘So the hospice your doctor mentioned sounds nice,’ she says, sitting down again.
Her mum makes a face. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘It’ll be the best place for you, really.’
She crosses her thin arms. ‘Nope. Not happening.’
‘But you can’t stay here,’ Becky counters as gently as she can. ‘Hospices like the one your doctor mentioned are there for a very specific reason. And many of them have lovely, beautiful grounds. They’re peaceful places, and more spacious.’
Her mum pulls at her sheets, biting her lip. ‘It doesn’t matter. I’d still feel trapped.’
Trapped.
Becky has a memory then, of her mum standing in front of the mirror at home. ‘Trapped, I feel trapped,’ she remembers her saying.
She pushes the memory away. ‘Look Mum,’ Becky says gently. ‘I think it’s important you—’
‘I said no!’ her mum shouts. Her voice bounces off the walls. She leans forward, grasping Becky’s hands. ‘I know where I want to die and I need your help to do it.’
‘Where?’
‘The cave. I want to die in the cave.’
Becky moves back. ‘It’s out of the question.’
‘Why?’
‘You don’t understand the care involved. Your priority soon will be comfort. Rest and comfort. And being in a cave will not provide that.’
‘It did once,’ her mum counters.
Becky feels anger bubble up. It’s so tempting to ask her mum where her eight-year-old daughter’s comfort was when she was lying in bed alone at night, wondering when her mum would return. But instead, Becky forces a soft smile, squeezing her mum’s hand.
‘I promise you won’t regret going to the hospice. Let me get more information about it, and some others too so you have options. I think you’ll come to realise it’s the right thing to do.’
Her mum shakes her head in frustration. ‘Please, you’re the only hope I have, Becky! These people here won’t chance it, all obsessed with health and bloody safety. What does it matter when I’m dying anyway?’
‘I’m sorry, Mum. I couldn’t do that to you. Let me go and ask about those brochures. Is there anything you need me to get for you while I’m out there? Shall I go to the shop, get some chocolates, a magazine?’
Her mum’s face turns glacial and she looks away. ‘No. I’d like to be alone actually. Probably best if you go home. It’s late.’
Becky watches her mum for a few moments. ‘Are you sure? I can stay, really.’
Her mum folds the top of the bedsheet down, smoothing it. ‘Absolutely.’
‘Right.’ Becky stands up. ‘You know my number, just call if you need anything. I’ll be back first thing tomorrow.’
Still no response.
Becky leans over, squeezing her mum’s shoulder. ‘It’ll be okay,’ she says softly. ‘Sleep on it. Things always seem clearer in the morning.’
Her mum’s forehead crinkles slightly. ‘Someone else said the opposite to me once. That clarity comes with darkness.’ Then she sighs and closes her eyes.
Chapter Six
Selma
Kent, UK
27 July 1991
Idris was wearing just shorts, holding a fishing line in his hands. His golden hair fell to his tanned shoulders, and his green eyes were so vivid they didn’t seem real. His bare chest was bathed in moonlight and, in that light, I saw scars tapering down his chest.
‘You can,’ he said again, stepping towards me. ‘Whatever the question in your mind is, you must answer yes.’
I looked at him in surprise. ‘How did you know I even had a question?’
‘You’re on a precipice. I can sense it.’ He placed his rod down and sat beside me, looking out to sea. He smelt of the sea, salty and luxurious. ‘Your body screams it,’ he said. ‘Your posture, the expression on your face, everything.’
I crunched my hands into fists, watching as the sand squeezed out between my fingers. I wasn’t sitting on this beach to be preached to by someone like him, no matter how much he fascinated me.
‘I came here to be alone,’ I said.
‘Then I’ll leave.’ He went to get up.
‘Wait!’ I couldn’t let him go before asking something. ‘How do you know so much about me? My name? The fact I’m an author?’
He gestured towards the small bookshop in town. ‘You did a signing there.’
‘Ages ago.’
‘They still have a poster up at the back.’
‘Ah. I see.’
‘We’re all reading your book. It’s wonderful.’
‘The Queensbay Cave Dwellers’ Bookclub, is it now?’
He laughed. ‘Something like that. I’ll leave you to it then.’
He went to walk away but something inside me wanted him back. I was so curious about him. Why was I sending him away?
‘Wait. Stay. It’s fine. Now I know you have good reading taste anyway.’
He smiled, walking over and sitting next to me again. ‘Is that how you judge people, by what they read?’
‘Why not?’
We sat in silence for a few moments more, then I turned to him. ‘You said I should say yes to the question in my mind. What if yes means losing everything?’
He thought about it, brow creasing. ‘What is everything to you?’
‘My family. My husband and daughter.’
He explored my face. ‘No. I don’t think that’s everything.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘If that’s the case, that your family is everything, that it makes you whole, why are you looking so empty right now?’
I took in a deep breath then let it out.
‘Society tells you family is everything,’ he said, drawing a circle in the sand with his finger beneath the moonlight. ‘But for some, it’s not enough. For some, there needs to be more.’ He drew an oval around the circle, turning it into an eye.
‘What kind of more?’ I asked, feeling my heart thump against my chest, the hair on my arms stand on end. I did feel I was on the precipice of something. Idris was right.
‘You’re a writer,’ he stated. ‘How do you feel when you’re writing?’
I paused a few moments. ‘Right,’ I said eventually. ‘It just feels … right.’
‘It makes you feel whole?’
I nodded. ‘Yeah.’
‘We have callings in life.’ I couldn’t help but scoff and Idris smiled. ‘I know how clichéd that sounds, but it’s the truth. We each have a role to play. Our true callings. Anything that takes us away from that makes us unhappy.’
‘That’s too simplistic a view! Idealistic too. Real life means we can’t dedicate all of our time to one thing.’
He looked me in the eye. ‘Whose version of real life?’
‘Everybody’s!’
‘No, it’s society’s view. It stifles us.’
‘So you recommend we all go live in a cave and write, paint, do whatever it is you and the others in your cave do?’
He shrugged. ‘Why not?’
I sighed. ‘Family. It comes back to my family.’
‘Bring them.’
I laughed. ‘I’m not sure my husband would really be up for that.’
‘Your daughter would. She’d love it.’
‘I’m sure she would until it rained and her dolls got wet.’
He smiled as he peered out to sea. ‘Children love a bit of rain.’
I took a moment to explore his face, to take in the golden bristles on his cheeks, the way his beard glowed white beneath the moonlight. ‘I can’t believe I’m even discussing this with you.’
‘What’s wrong with discussing it? In fact, take it a step further. Come and meet everyone.’ He jutted his chin towards the direction of the cave. ‘The cave is larger than it looks from the outside. We’re making quite a home of it.’
‘You’re seriously trying to recruit me?’
He tilted his head, examining my face. ‘Recruit. That’s an interesting word choice.’ There was an earnestness in his green eyes, a kindness in his expression. He didn’t seem deranged or weird like some said.
‘Who are you?’ I asked him.
He shrugged. ‘A painter. A sculptor.’
‘Where are you from?’
‘Where are you from?’
‘Ah, I see, you’re a politician answering questions with more questions.’
He laughed. ‘Very far from it.’ His face grew serious. ‘It is an interesting question though. Who are you, Selma Rhys? Close your eyes, really think about it. Block out the light. Clarity comes with darkness. Who are you?’
I tried to grapple with the question. I saw Becky, Mike … then my mother. Her beautiful face. Those cold, cold eyes.
‘Who do you think you are, Selma?’ I remembered my mother once asking. ‘Just who do you think you are?’
Fast-forward twenty years, feeling the weight of my first novel in my hands after it arrived in the post. ‘A writer, Mother. I’m a fucking writer,’ I remembered saying out loud.
‘A writer,’ I said, snapping my eyes open. I realised tears were streaming down my face. I wiped them away, embarrassed. ‘Warm wine always makes me emotional,’ I said with a small laugh.
Idris stood up, putting his hand out to me. ‘Come on, come meet the others.’
I looked at his hand, hesitating. Then I found myself taking it and standing with him in the darkness.
Chapter Seven
Becky
Kent, UK
2 June 2018
Becky stares into the darkness of her room. She hears the gentle snores of her dogs from the landing, trying to take comfort in the familiar sound of it. But she can’t sleep. Her mind is racing. All she can see is the desperation in her mum’s eyes as she pleaded to be taken to the cave. Then the bitter disappointment when Becky refused.
Becky looks at the time. Three in the morning. Not even light.
Clarity comes with darkness.
She sighs and gets up, walking to the window and staring out over the field. Summer senses her movement, as she always does, and contemplates her from the landing, her long face resting on her paws.
‘Oh Summer,’ Becky says to her. ‘What am I going to do?’
Summer rises and trots over, putting her face close to Becky’s leg. Becky strokes her soft head.
‘Clarity comes with darkness, apparently,’ she says. ‘So why haven’t I got a clue what to do about my mum?’
In response, Summer jumps up, her paws on the window sill as she peers out, tail wagging. She lets out a low whine, which Becky knows means ‘I want to go out’.
‘You want to go for a walk now?’ Becky asks.
At the mention of the word walk, Womble and Danny suddenly wake up, alert. Becky groans. She should have known not to use that word out loud.
‘I can’t believe this,’ she says as they pad over, wagging their tails. ‘I’m going to have to take you all out, aren’t I?’ They grow more excited and she laughs. ‘Fine. Come on then! Maybe the darkness will give me some clarity.’
She pulls on some jeans and a light jumper, then heads outside. She is surprised that it’s not pitch black, as the moon casts a silver light across the fields. The dogs leap ahead of her, excited at being out in the dark. Becky welcomes the cool air of night. But it doesn’t clear the cobwebs inside. Her mum is wrong, darkness doesn’t bring clarity.
‘Ah, another person who’s awake,’ a voice says from the darkness. She looks up to see David. He’s standing at his kitchen door, a mug in his hand. The dogs leap over the fence and bound over to him as he laughs.
‘Couldn’t sleep either?’ Becky asks him.
‘Never been a big sleeper. Not seen you out at this time of night before though.’
‘I’ve got a lot of things on my mind.’
‘Your mother?’
Becky nods. She’d told him about it as she’d hurriedly rushed to her car the evening before, asking him to let the dogs out if she wasn’t back within three hours or so.
‘Want to talk about it?’ he asks now.
‘Only if you have another one of those going,’ she says, gesturing towards his mug.
‘I can certainly arrange that for you.’
She smiles and lets herself into his garden through the gate, walking into the kitchen. There’s a lamp on, casting a soft glow around the room. She’s always liked his kitchen, full of knick-knacks picked up from his years running a pub in Ireland: ornate pint glasses, horses’ shoes, framed photos of racehorses. It feels comfortable in there, a contrast to the place she used to live in with her dad in Busby-on-Sea, which was always so sparse.
‘So, how is your mother?’ David asks, bringing a mug of steaming hot chocolate over to her.
‘Her usual defiant self. A few lies thrown in too, par the course.’
He smiles. She’s told him about her mum over the years – small details, but enough to form a picture.
‘I met her doctor,’ Becky adds, blowing on her drink, steam spiralling up from the mug. She takes a quick sip, feeling the tears start to come. ‘What she said is true. They think she only has a few days.’
David frowns, looking down at his own drink. ‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ he says with a heavy sigh.
‘She wants to die in the cave she ran away to.’
He peers up at Becky, his frown deepening. ‘Really?’
‘Yep. It’s impossible, of course. What with all the medication and equipment she needs.’
‘Is it?’ He looks into her eyes. ‘Or are you just hoping it’s impossible?’
‘What do you mean?’
David places his mug down and drags his chair to be closer to her. Under the light of the lamp, she notices how old he looks, how tired.
‘I mean maybe you don’t want to do as your mother asks because she’s been doing as she wants all her life. Maybe this time, you’re in control and that feels good.’
Becky shakes her head. ‘It’s not like that. You know I’m not like that!’
He shrugs. ‘I didn’t know the little girl who got left behind by her mother. This is bringing all that back, I bet.’
Becky frowns. ‘Maybe. But the fact still remains, a cave isn’t a nice place to die.’
‘Isn’t it? Just don’t rush into a decision you might regret. If she thinks she was happy there, for a while anyway, then it might be the best place for her.’
I think you’ll be happy here, Becks, I really do.
A memory comes to her of her mum smiling down at her, the cave behind her. Her mum had said that to her once.
David yawns.
‘Sorry, this isn’t exactly the conversation to have at three in the morning,’ Becky says.
‘I don’t mind.’
‘No, really,’ Becky replies, standing. ‘I’m tired anyway. We both are.’
‘You know I’m always here.’
‘I do.’ She squeezes his hand. That’s the thing with David, he is more than just a neighbour. She always finds it so easy to talk to him. It’s probably because he gives such sensible, sound advice.
A few minutes later, Becky is back in bed, the dogs flat out on the landing. She closes her eyes and sleep comes instantly, but it’s peppered with dreams of her mum, as she was back then. So beautiful, full of curves, those blue eyes, arms wrapping around Becky’s small body. The cave again, her mum’s words: I think you’ll be happy here, Becks, I really do.
Then the scene changes. Her mum’s sitting on a swing, crying. She peers up, sees Becky and smiles. ‘Only you make me smile,’ she hears her whisper. ‘Only you, Becky.’
Scenes from a party next, loud music, a cake in the shape of a monkey. Everyone is smiling, happy, apart from her mum.
Then finally, the sight of her mum running away into the darkness, a look of freedom on her face that Becky had never seen before, the cave beckoning her …
Just as the sun begins to rise the next day, Becky makes her way back to the hospital. When she gets there, it’s eerily quiet. The light from the sun outside the vast windows is white, blinding. She heads to her mum’s room but a nurse, tired and disapproving, stops her. ‘No visitors until nine.’
‘It’s important,’ Becky says.
The nurse holds her gaze. Something in Becky’s expression must make her change her mind. ‘Okay, just a few minutes,’ the nurse says.
Becky walks to her mum’s room. Her mum is sitting up in bed, as though she’s been expecting her.
‘You wanted me to live in the cave with you, didn’t you?’ Becky asks her.