‘I’m not,’ I retort, as if I’m thirteen years old, but I never said anything like that when I was thirteen, not as far as I can remember anyway, Marthe would slam doors and tear strips off Mum during puberty, creating drama whenever she wasn’t allowed something she wanted, and all the while I acted the grown-up, looking at Mum and shaking my head at how impossible Marthe was being. I never did more than I was allowed to, I consoled Mum when Marthe was unwell or being unreasonable, I was there by her side; I feel the injustice, rampant and raging, there’s no one to console me, poor old me, not a single soul to console me, 137I can’t carry on like this, lamenting things that happened a lifetime ago.

Mum crosses her arms and leans against the doorframe.

‘Can’t we at least try to have a nice time together for these last few days?’ she says. ‘Are you willing to try?’

I can’t face her irritation. I’ve never been able to. I look at the clothes I’ve placed in my bag, my arms awkward and heavy by my sides.

‘Things will work themselves out once Marthe gets back,’ Mum says. ‘Then we’ll have a barbecue tomorrow, what do you say?’

I nod, feel myself clenching my fists, my eyes welling up.

‘OK,’ I say.

‘Lovely,’ Mum says, her tone vaguely impatient, she pats my shoulder before leaving the room.

139

Chapter 20

I lie curled up under a blanket in the hammock and gaze upwards; brightness lingers in the twilight, a summer sky. My stomach is hollow, I’ve not eaten enough, feel dizzy. I’m not just sad, the hammock rocks slowly from side to side, I’m not just sad. My hands and feet are warmer now, my pulse is moving through my body with intense force. What if nothing turns out the way I’d expected. What if there’s something else, something different from everything I’ve imagined. Something a little more ordinary. Something a little happier.

Then I hear the car, half get up, the thud of the car door and Marthe’s footsteps on the gravel, then the cabin door opening and slamming closed again. I can hear that it’s her, there’s something about the rhythm. It’s the sort of thing that sisters know, I think to myself, how to hurt one another, what one another’s footsteps sound like, moving through the house at night, on a gravel path by the cabin.

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