The Secret Sister. Karen Clarke

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      My phone vibrated in my pocket, making me jump. I pulled it out and saw Gabriel’s name flash up. Christ, I’d given him my number. I declined the call and within seconds a text came through:

       Hey gorgeous. Shall we meet in the same bar tonight in Sligo? xx

      ‘Not a chance in hell,’ I whispered, typing a reply.

       It was a mistake, Gabriel. I’m sorry.

      I deleted his contact details, just in case.

      My head pounded as the bus rocked and jolted on its way, and I prayed I wouldn’t throw up. I hadn’t even got a bag to be sick in, just the hood of my jacket, which would be all kinds of messy. I breathed deeply, fighting nausea, watching the sea through the window, spreading endlessly.

      Rain speckled the window like tears, blurring the view. I gripped the necklace – a letter ‘B’ – that I always wore, and rested my head on the glass. I closed my eyes, but the sound of the man in front watching videos on YouTube on his phone and shifting in his seat prevented me from dozing.

      As the bus stopped in Sligo its exhaust backfired, jolting me alert. It had been dark when I arrived the evening before and I hadn’t appreciated the colourful buildings curving around the banks of the River Garavogue. A smile tugged at my mouth. This was the town where everything would change.

      I jumped from the bus, bought a local paper from a stand, and searched the pages for somewhere to stay.

      The cheapest place I could find was a bedsit, near the town centre.

      ‘It’s yours if you want it,’ said the man who answered the phone, with very little charm. ‘You can rent on a day-to-day basis.’

      It was obviously basic, probably terrible, but it didn’t matter. I was in Sligo, where I needed to be. This was where I would find Reagan, my father. Everything would be better then. I’d have someone on my side, to look out for me, protect me – maybe convince Jake I didn’t want to be with him anymore.

      ‘Leave her alone, you controlling bastard,’ I imagined my father saying.

      Words I could never quite say myself.

      As I headed towards the bedsit address, the rain eased off and my thoughts drifted to Celia. I couldn’t call her my mother anymore. Not after what she’d told me two weeks ago, during one of my rare visits.

      ‘It’s time you knew the truth, Colleen.’ That’s how she’d started the conversation, out of the blue.

      We’d become estranged over the years, but I made the effort to see her now and then. We would sit in her dark kitchen – it was always dark, even with the lights on – and she would make tea, a mug for me, and always a cup and saucer for her. We’d sit at the old pine table, barely saying a word, until it was time for me to leave.

      But it had been different this time.

      ‘I’m not your real mother,’ she’d said, fiddling with her spoon, not looking at me. There was no preamble. No preparation. The words sounded surreal, as though she was trying them out to see what they sounded like. As if it was a game. But Celia never played games.

      ‘What are you on about?’ I said, with a laugh that didn’t sound like mine – not that I laughed often.

      She put down her spoon. ‘She died six months ago,’ she said. ‘Your real mother.’

       Just like that.

      I’d stared at her for what felt like an hour. She kept biting her lower lip with her small teeth, her eyes looking anywhere but at me.

      ‘And you tell me this now?’ My brain couldn’t form a coherent thought. ‘Now I’m thirty-three?’ I paused. ‘When my real mother is dead? Christ, Mam.’

      ‘Don’t blaspheme, Colleen.’

      Seconds passed. I rose and began pacing, questions flooding my mind. Who was my father? Why did my mother leave me with Celia? Was Bryony adopted too? But I knew better than to mention my sister.

      ‘I only found out myself because her death was reported in a magazine.’ Celia’s voice cut through my frantic thoughts, and I stopped pacing. ‘She, Anna, is … was … a successful artist.’

      I sank back down in the chair. ‘Go on.’

      ‘I should have told you a long time ago, I know that,’ she said, her fingers twisting together. ‘I should have given you a chance to find her.’

      ‘Too right, you should have.’ My heart was beating so hard I was surprised she couldn’t hear it.

      ‘I’m sorry.’ Her eyes shimmered with tears, but this was nothing new. Celia spent nearly every moment on the edge of a nervous breakdown. And the truth was, now her words were sinking in, finding out Celia wasn’t my biological mother wasn’t such a shock, not really. It explained so much.

      ‘I wouldn’t have wanted to find her,’ I said, anger bubbling up. ‘Any mother who could give up a child—’

      ‘But you don’t know why, Colleen,’ Celia cut in. Her voice was soft, and her green eyes – eyes I’d thought were like mine – darted around the kitchen as if looking for a quick escape. She rose from the table, smoothed her apron, and went to look out at the garden. It had grown wild since her second husband walked out, years ago, but she had recently cultivated a little vegetable patch. It had made me wonder if she was improving, if her depression of so many years was finally lifting. ‘I want to tell you who your da is too,’ she said, not turning. ‘It’s time you knew everything.’

      ‘Jesus, you’re full of news today,’ I said, my mind reeling. I’d always believed Celia’s first husband – the man we’d lived with in Cork until I was five – had been that man: my father. But Celia was about to destroy that belief too.

      She crossed to a kitchen drawer, opened it, and took out a photo. ‘His name is Reagan Brody.’

      ‘Wasn’t Brody your maiden name?’

      She nodded and sat back down. ‘Reagan’s my brother,’ she said. ‘He lived abroad for a long time, but he’s back now. He’s living in Sligo.’

      ‘Your brother?’ I cried, covering my mouth.

      She nodded, her straight grey hair hanging limply on either side of her face.

      ‘So, I’d have called him Uncle and Da, had I ever met him?’ My voice was rising. ‘What a bloody mess. Jesus Christ.’

      ‘Please don’t take the Lord’s name in vain, Colleen.’

      ‘So he – my father – knew where to find me all along?’ I snatched the photo, hands shaking. It was too much to take in. I stared at his face, trying to convince myself there’d been a terrible mistake. Unable to take in that he was part of the family, and yet he’d never bothered to contact me.

      ‘We thought it was for the best,’ said Celia, her voice calm.

      As I stared at his image, СКАЧАТЬ