Sister

Unlike yesterday, I don’t feel a menacing presence behind me, maybe because after describing the day you were found, I have no emotional energy left for fear. I decide to walk rather than take the tube. My body needs to take cues from the real outside world, not the climate of memory. My shift at the Coyote starts in just over an hour, so I should have time to walk it.

You’re astonished, and yes, I am a hypocrite. I can still remember my patronizing tone.

“But barmaiding? Couldn’t you find something just a little less …?” I trailed off but you knew what to fill in: “ ‘brain-numbing,’ ‘beneath you,’ ‘dead end.’ ”

“It’s just to pay the bills, it’s not a career choice.”

“But why not find a day job that may lead on something?”

“It’s not a day job; it’s an evening job.”

There was something brittle behind your humor. You had seen the hidden jibe: my lack of faith in your future as an artist.

Well, it’s more than a day or evening job for me; it’s the only job I have. After three weeks of compassionate leave, my boss’s sympathy ran out. I had to tell him “one way or the other, Beatrice,” what I was going to do, so by staying in London I resigned. That makes it sound as if I’m an easygoing person who can respond to situations in a flexible way, trading in senior manager of a corporate identity design company for part-time barmaid with barely a break in my stride. But you know that I am nothing like that. And my New York job with its regular salary and pension scheme and orderly hours was my last foothold on a life that was predictable and safe. Surprisingly, I enjoy working at the Coyote.

The walking helps and after forty minutes my breathing slows; my heartbeat returns to a recognizable rhythm. I finally take notice of your telling me I should at least have phoned Dad. But I thought his new bride would comfort him far better than me. Yes, they’d been married eight years, but I still thought of her as a new bride—fresh and white and sparkling with her youth and fake diamond tiara, untainted by loss. Little wonder Dad chose her over us.

I reach the Coyote and see Bettina has put up the green awning and is arranging the old wooden tables outside. She welcomes me by opening her arms, a hug waiting for me to walk into. A few months ago, I would have been repelled. Fortunately, I have become a little less touchy. We hug tightly and I am grateful for her physicality. I finally stop shivering.

She looks at me with concern. “Are you feeling up to working?”

“I’m fine, really.”

“We watched it on the news. They said the trial would be in the summer?”

“Yes.”

“When do you reckon I’ll get my computer back?” she asks, smiling. “My writing’s illegible; no one can read their menus.” The police took her computer, knowing that you often used it, to see if there was anything on it that could help with their investigation. She does have a truly beautiful smile and it always overwhelms me. She puts her arm around me to escort me inside, and I realize she was deliberately waiting for me.

I do my shift, still feeling nauseated and headachy, but if anyone notices my quietness, no one comments. I was always good at mental math so that side of barmaiding comes easily, but the banter with the customers does not. Fortunately, Bettina can talk for two and I rely on her this evening, as I often used to on you. The customers are all regulars and have the same courtesy toward me as the staff, not asking me questions or commenting on what is happening. Tact is catching.

By the time I get home, it’s late and, physically wrung out by the day, I long to sleep. Fortunately, only three stalwart reporters remain. Maybe they’re freelancers in need of cash. No longer part of a pack, they don’t shout out questions or force lenses in my face. Instead, it’s more of a cocktail-party scenario, where they are at least conscious that I may not want to talk to them.

“Miss Hemming?”

Yesterday it was “Beatrice,” and I resented the false intimacy. (Or “Arabella” from those who’d been too sloppy to do their homework.) The woman reporter continues, at a polite distance. “Can I ask you some questions?” It’s the reporter I heard outside the kitchen window on Sunday evening talking on her mobile.

“Wouldn’t you rather be at home reading bedtime stories?”

She is visibly startled.

“I was eavesdropping.”

“My son’s with his aunt tonight. And, unfortunately, I don’t get paid for reading bedtime stories. Is there anything you’d like people to know about your sister?”

“She’d bought her baby finger paints.”