On the Outside

Outside the dining room doors, you eavesdrop on the incomprehensible grumblings of fourteen guests. You take a deep breath of courage before you enter. They clam up. You frown imploring each relative for reassurance. Your birthday wishes to 70-year-old uncle Emil is met with silence. Your estranged twin avoids your gaze too.

***

I struggle to supress a laugh. I planned it so the family would watch the home recording before my prodigal twin arrived. Uncle Emil caught walking the beach arm in arm with an unknown woman, at night. I probably would not have played it if Aunt were still with us. I do not understand why my twin recorded, kept and hid it. Uncle Emil believes I had no prior knowledge of the contents of the home video, but I did under the pretext of clearing the attic. Uncle Emil fancies himself a Don Juan, is too brazen to be embarrassed but my twin is not.

She stands there willing me to rescue her from the awkwardness, no way sister dear. Absolutely not! She abandoned me in Seaford for the bright lights of London and never looked back. She severed our bond. Imagine being abandoned by your parents in a car accident, your aunt leaves without even a note, and then the one and only person you hold dear, you thought you could count on, ups and leaves, before our 18th birthday.

When I heard she intended to attend uncle’s dinner party after 5 years, but late, I plotted to hurt her like she hurt me.

***

After the pretence of eating. You find uncle outside staring at the sun kissing the sea. Relatives shuffle indoors. You ignore your twin sitting by a plant shelf close to the open window of the conservatory. What is she up to?

Uncle’s sad eyes greet you, “you thought you had to leave when your aunt found the video and left. Your sister still has no idea.”

You stifle a sob.

“It wasn’t your fault,” uncle whispers, “you blamed yourself, when it was me, all me.”

Uncle embraces you as you sob unguarded on his chest.

***

I will soon sort out those tears of hers. There will be no ready readmission for a traitor. Not so easy. I head to my room almost knocking down an elderly relative eager for gossip on the prodigal’s reconciliation. I mumble an excuse to the huddle of busybodies, as I dash up the stairs to my bedroom that was once ours. Her Salt-N-Pepa poster still up on her side, her bed just as she left it, just in case.

I fish for the friendship bracelet box she gave me the day she left. I would have refused it if I had known her plans for that night. I stomp back to the conservatory and dump it in her hand.

I stare at her, my reflection. The corners of her mouth twitch, eyes brimming. My heart stops.

She ran away from guilt, not me.