Sister Crazy. Emma Richler

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      ‘What if I just don’t notice it is on? What if I don’t even want to watch it then? What if I’m too busy or I have a TV and it is broken? What if—’

      ‘JEM!’

      Then my mother speaks. She is standing in the doorway, she is leaning into the frame, her head tilted to one side, her hands clasped loosely in front. ‘Jem. Bedtime.’ And suddenly all the noise goes out of the world and bed seems like the best place to go and I don’t get this movie anyway. Where does all the fresh dark earth go when they are digging out the tunnels, where does all that wood come from, and the material for the uniforms? The guy going blind and the one with claustrophobia are a bit depressing and I am tired and I am going to bed. Jude, who is lying on his side, getting his usual sideways view of the TV, will explain it all to me tomorrow. He will tell me the good bits I missed, if he is in the mood. Mum holds out a hand for me, but I can’t take it right away due to a cross feeling within. I am cross with my dad who is pretending to shoot a machine gun.

      ‘Quick! Run for it! I’ll cover you!’ He is creased up with mirth but I ignore him, I do my best. Bloody.

      I take Mum’s hand at the foot of the stairs and it’s the best grip in the world. It’s loose, not too loose, firm not tight. She has long fingers and incredibly silky skin and the temperature is just right, cool not cold, and the feel is dry not rough, never rough. I take in all these details about her hand and the way she holds mine because I am not crazy for holding hands; I get squirmy and bad-tempered, I feel my fingers getting squashed or my elbow twisted and wrenched in the grip of most people. But I could hold my mum’s hand and never let go, and stay happy, I know it. I may not believe in angels, I find the whole subject confusing. At the convent, for instance, I remember when my friend Christina’s little brother died, having fallen out of a window playing hide and seek, the mother superior said at assembly, ‘Now let us all pray for Julian who is with the saints and angels in heaven.’ Then Christina cried, the first time I saw her do so, and I was mad at the nuns, all of them. No. No. He is not with the saints and angels in heaven.

      Holding my mother’s hand, I wonder if angels can sneak inside people, because I think this is what it must feel like to hold hands with one. It’s a weird thought, but as I said, I have these suspicions about my mother.

      ‘Jem,’ Ben says, ready to make an announcement.

      I look at him, showing him I am ready too.

      ‘I dreamed about Mummy and in the dream she was a witch and she looked like Cruella De Vil in 101 Dalmatians. You know.’ His eyes have a spooked look.

      ‘Whoa,’ I say.

      ‘Yeah.’

      ‘Bloody!’

      ‘Yeah.’

      I try to look spooked and nervous too, because I do not want to disappoint Ben. I know that a big part of having a gothic imagination like Ben’s is making other people nervous about your gothic view of things, and I do not want to let my brother down, especially since it cost him so much to tell me this news. I even take in and let out a big breath and gaze at the floor and hold off finishing my binocular, which I’d really like to be eating. But I do not want to hear any more from Ben. Our mother does look like Cruella De Vil, if Cruella suddenly became a lovely character, and she even has that shock of white at her forehead, a zap of lightning almost, in a black sky. I like it. It’s cool. So this Cruella business does not strike me as at all gothic, but the witch part is a bit worrying and if my mother does strange witch type things in this dream, I do not want the details, no thank you.

      ‘Whoa. Bloody,’ I repeat. ‘Ben, I am going to do my homework so I can see the film with you, okay?’

      ‘Sure,’ he says, still giving me a spooky look. ‘Okay.’

      I need to change out of my uniform and as I push open the door of the room I share with my sister, I get ready for Harriet to leap out at me from somewhere, from the cupboard or behind the door. This is something she really enjoys doing and I always act really scared so she can have a good time. Today Harriet does not fly at me. She must have grown bored waiting for me as I was so long downstairs with Ben.

      I put on jeans and one of Jude’s old rugby tops. I like to wear Jude’s old clothes. I plan to do my homework outside at the wrought-iron table on the terrace with all the cherub statues standing all around. Statuary, Mum calls it. Some of the statues are not cherubs but naked grown-ups carrying sheaves of wheat and scythes and things or carrying nothing at all but looking wistful, leaning their weight on one leg. I like doing my homework there.

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