Sister
Emma Robinson has just arrived, the mother says, pouring a ladle of steaming green soup into a bowl. They say they saw her yesterday at the old churchyard, the flowers spilling over the Robinson grave, a wreath for old Mrs. Ruth. Theyre even talking about putting up a new monument for Ronald.
Sam, his hands trembling on the spoon, listens to every word his mother speaks. His heart aches as if it were being torn apart. Would he recognise her if he saw her? He heard just that morning that shed come. Rumours reach his garage the instant a strangers car rolls into the village. As soon as any foreign vehicle appears, the local fool, Mick Molly Mallory, sees an opportunity.
Ive got a customer for you, Sam Whitaker, and you owe me a pint, Mick sneers. Im about to puncture a tyre Wholl be the first to call?
Dont you dare! Sam snaps, his voice hard. I dont need tricksters like you.
Youve got your own workshop, Sam, Ive got mine. And theres a lady driving a pretty little car, a sweetheart looking for a few pounds. Shes the daughter of the late Ronald Vargat.
Dont even think about it! Im not going to look at your problems. Get back to the depot
The news about Emma throbs in Sams chest, sapping his strength. How many times had he not seen her? Since that night when they first whispered their secret to each other
That very evening, the moment he heard shed arrived, Sam raced to the gate of her familys old farm. A red motorcar sat in the yard, light spilling from the windows. Sam stood there, staring, a wave of melancholy crashing over him. He barely knew her; after seeing her once, shed vanished for years.
Whats wrong, love? Its getting cold, his mother says, looking into his eyes.
Its nothing Ive got work. Were prepping the trucks for the front line. Ill be late.
Night drapes over the workshop, the clank of tools echoing, keeping his thoughts at bay. His lads, Jack and Paul, hover nearby. Mr. Whitaker, its time to go home. Tomorrows a new day.
Just a minute Sam replies. Ill finish here.
The lad can work all night if he wants. Doesnt anyone wait at home? No wife, no kids a lone wolf, the boys whisper.
Sam hears it all. He knows he is that lone wolfno family, no love. He has never met the one person who could untie the knots of his heartEmma.
Approaching eleven, Sam climbs back into his car and threads the narrow, winding lanes toward the cottage by the woods. A lamp still glows in the window. He lights a cigarette, the grey smoke mingling with his memories. He knows he shouldnthe lost a lung in the warbut the bitter drag steadies him.
Sam, fetch the spade for Uncle Ronalds fence, his father shouts, wiping his sweaty brow with a greasy hand. The devil knows where my tools have gone. Where did you hide them?
Sam tosses aside the weeds, the chores his mother assigned for not reading two pages of The Enchanted River, and leaps onto his bicycle, the iron horse that carries him past the fields to the edge of the forest, to Uncle Ronalds modest cottage.
The wind whips his hair as he darts past the dust. There, at the gate, Emma stands in a light summer dress patterned with tiny flowers, her hair tied in two pink ribbons.
Are you coming to our house? she asks, squinting against the bright sun.
Yes. Im here for the spade, your father asked. And you?
Im off to fetch Mrs. Ruth some milk. Want to come?
Yes Sam replies, leaving his bike by the gate. Emmas smile blinds him, the light erasing his thoughts of the spade. He forgets his fathers expectations; Emmas voice is louder than any command.
Mrs. Ruth, Sams grandmother, lives on the far side of the village. The two dash through the garden, the brook gurgling nearbynarrow as a snake in places, widening into lazy pools in others. An old wooden bridge creaks over it, its darkgreen water shimmering through the gaps.
Lets cross the bridge, Sam Emma whispers.
Dont be scared, Sam says, extending his hand, showing the bridges old beams hold firm. He steps lightly, testing each plank.
Im scared should we go another way?
Dont be a coward, he teases. An elephant could cross it.
Emma laughs, clutches his fingers, and steps carefully onto solid ground. He feels like a hero.
Both are ten, yet something strange stirs between them. Sam cannot name the feeling that flares whenever Emma is nearit is more than brotherly affection, something deeper.
Mrs. Ruth pours cold buttermilk into tin mugs. Sam gets the larger cup, Emma the smaller, spreading plum jam on thick slices of bread. The scent makes Sams mouth water.
Dont spill the milk, Sam, Mrs. Ruth chides, noticing the white foam on his lip.
Sorry, Ill be careful, Sam replies, laughing as Emma giggles.
Did you say something? Mrs. Ruth, hard of hearing, asks.
The children burst into laughter, their cheeks dusted with buttermilk foam.
Later, Miss Tessa Semenova, the schoolmistress, scolds the pair. Vargat children, stop gossiping during dictation.
She reads each word slowly, repeating sentences. Sam watches Emma, her chestnut hair catching the sunlight, her cheek brushed by the tip of a pencil. She whispers, What? when he looks at her.
Sam feels a sudden surge, a rush of words he cannot write fast enoughanother poor grade looming. He knows the teacher will call his mother, blaming his lack of effort.
At sixteen, both are in the same class. Sam feels a strange ache when Emma laughs with Michael Tishler during break, tossing her hair, her eyes sparkling.
Later, Michael walks Emma home, and Sam lags behind, picturing Michael stumbling, falling like a log, or a wild dog tearing his trousers. The fantasy eases Sams pain, but reality snaps him back: Emma is handinhand with Michael.
Lets kiss, Sam, Emma whispers one evening while picking blackberries in the hedgerows, leaning close to his ear. It feels like nothing I can describe.
People kiss because they love, Sam says sadly. Not always.
Youve never kissed anyone, Emma teases. Afraid of girls?
She moves even closer, her smile bright, her hair in two braids, eyes as deep as a lake. Sam, unable to hold back, grabs her cheek and kisses her with a hunger that seems to drink her sweetness.
Fool! Emma screams, pulling away, You idiot!
She darts away, almost tripping an old Mrs. Ruth, who laughs. If they wont laugh, theyll argue. Wholl pick the berries then?
Mrs. Ruth, still at the farm, asks Sam to cut a branch from the cherry orchard. He hacks at the saplings with such vigor Mrs. Ruth startles.
Whats wrong with you, lad? she asks.
Everythings fine, Sam mutters, then shouts, Im fine! Why didnt you bring Emma? Youre like twins!
Its with another, Mrs. Ruth replies, adjusting her scarf, combing her grey hair.
Sam sits beside her, clutching his chest. I know Emma is my sister, but I cant control my feelings. What do I do?
Youre young, Sam, she says gently. You fell in love but she isnt your blood. Shes not even a drop of Vargat lineage.
Its true? Sam asks, bewildered.
Yes, she sighs. Uncle Ronald, after his service, brought home a wife from Odessa, with a little girl. The family kept quiet about itshe wasnt his own. Emma was only a year old then. If she hadnt been youd be different.
The school prom swirled in a light waltz. Sam could not take his eyes off Emma, who floated across the floor like a swan in a white dress, joy radiating from her. The night stretched on, and as dawn approached, classmates began to drift home. Michael escorted Emma back, while Sam lingered, hoping for a word.
Cold? Michael asked, draping his jacket over her shoulders, then leaned in, trying to kiss her. She brushed him off, whispering, Goodbye.
Sam stepped forward. Emma, I need to speak
Im exhausted, Sam. I want to go to bed. What are you talking about?
I love you he whispered, barely audible. All my life I have loved you.
Youre ill, Sam. You cant love me. Im your sister; the same blood runs through us.
Its different blood, Sam insists.
What are you saying? Emma snaps, eyes flashing.
Uncle Ronald isnt your real father she shouts, tears spilling. You need help, Sam!
Sam left, his heart a shattered stone.
For two weeks he saw Emma no more. They met by chance outside school; Emma was with friends, avoiding his gaze. She seemed sad, her eyes dull, no laughter.
In July, Emma and her mother travelled to Odessa to enroll at medical school. Summer slipped by. They never returned. Mrs. Ruth whispered that Valentina, Emmas mother, had fled there.
One afternoon Sam overheard locals gossiping about Uncle Ronald, who had been drinking alone, claiming his wife had left for Odessa. No one knew the truth.
In August Sam received his callup papers. By October he was drafted, sent to a base in Chester. Autumn conscription took him away from his village.
Later, after the war, Sam returned home, aimless. He took a job as a driver for a construction firm, then a friend suggested work in Poland. He saved enough to buy a battered red car, sold it, and opened a small garage. He began importing damaged cars, pouring himself into the trade.
He drove to Odessa hoping to find Emma, but the address Uncle Ronald gave was empty. A fellow veteran told him Emma was now engaged to a good man, planning to marry, and they were holidaying in Montenegro.
Sams heart cracked; the pain drilled into every cell.
Years later, Uncle Ronald died. Emma returned with her mother for the funeral, then fled back to Odessa. Mrs. Ruth, wailing, blamed Valentina for Ronalds death. Sam approached Emma, but she was a strangercold and distant.
Time rolled on; Sams mother begged him to think of family, but his father never saw his grandchildren. Ten years after Ronalds death, Sams brother vanished, and the family fell apart.
Sam never found a woman who matched the ideal hed cherished since childhood. Then, in a scorching summer of 2012, Sam helped a fellow soldiers wife deliver twins. The grateful husband, Guram, gifted Sam a bright red car as thanks. On the day the car was delivered to the maternity ward, Sam saw Emmanow Dr. Anastasia Robinsonworking as a midwife. Joy surged through him.
He didnt rush home. He waited until she finished her shift, invited her to dinner, and she accepted. They talked all night, then strolled along the seafront. Emma spoke of her marriage, a life that seemed fulfilled, though she had no children yetwork drained her.
I help bring new lives into the world, yet Im still childless, she confessed. Sam comforted her, urging patience.
They lingered on the pier, and Sam coaxed Emma into a nighttime swim, saying she never saw the sea at night because of work. They swam, and for a fleeting moment childhood returned. He kissed her damp lips; she didnt pull away but met him. Later, in a hotel room, they spent a night of passion.
I love you, Emma, Sam whispered at sunrise. Ive loved you all my life.
Emma, tears in her voice, said, It was a mistake. Lets promise never to speak of this again.
Attempts to meet again fizzled; Emma changed jobs, vanished without a trace. Eight long years passed.
I need to see her, Sam. Find her, Guram begged. Shes a woman, she deserves respect. Let her choose.
Sam fought on, joining the volunteers when the invasion began. He was wounded twice, lost a lung and part of his liver, yet survived. Doctors called him a miracle, saying a bullet had grazed his heart.
One more time, perhaps its Cupids arrow? Sam joked, hoping his solitary soul might finally find peace.
Months later, Sams mother mentioned seeing Emma at the local market, discovering she now had a daughter. Invite her over, Sam. Stay late at the garage, well have tea and remember the old ones, she said.
Sam left his house, the fresh cut on his arm still throbbing. He longed to hold Emmas hand, to feel her face, to never let go again.
Around seven oclock he entered the cottage. From the doorway he heard his wifes voice, heavy with grief. My husband died early in the invasion. He was a military medic, she said, tears spilling. The days were hardbirths in the bomb shelter, my daughter and I
Sam approached. Nice to meet you, he said, his throat dry. Emma stood, pressing herself against his chest, warmth radiating.
Are you grey-haired now? she asked softly.
Yes, a bit, he replied.
This is Kat, Emma introduced, pointing to a tenyearold girl.
Pleasure, Im Uncle Sam, he said, handing Kat a soft plush tiger. For you.
Kat smiled, and in that smile Sam saw his own childhood reflected, a breath stolen from his lungs.
They talked long into the nightabout life, death, hope, and the possibility of victory.
Its getting dark, Sam said, looking up at the heavy rain clouds gathering over the village. Do you plan to stay long? he asked.
I want a monument for my father then well see. Im exhausted, Emma replied, tears hidden behind the rain.
Goodnight, Uncle Sam thanks for the tiger, Kat whispered.
Goodnight, little flower, Sam replied, pulling Emma close, feeling her lean into him.
Kat, youre my daughter? Sam asked, his voice trembling.
Thank you for her, Emma whispered.
May I stay in your life? Care for you, protect you? he pleaded.
Sure, she answered.
A sudden downpour began, the heavy May rain drumming on the roofs, splashing over the wild roses, echoing in the gutters, rattling the shutters, and soaking the village in a curtain of tears.
