Monday 7 November 2011

Missed...

My parents had three children. Mom always said, "Two to fight and one to break it up." But it didn't really work out that way. We were too far apart. My brother was born twelve years before me and my sister was five years my senior. Mom got one of us in school and had another. In essence we were all like only children and living in a remote area with only our cousins as neighbors didn't help. We barely knew each other. 

My sister and I shared a bedroom. For much of our cohabitation I recall the room being divided by a line of masking tape and her side had the door. Even her drawers had masking tape locks and when they started to lose their grip and curl in on themselves I was instantly blamed for being the nosy little sister. I was nothing but a nuisance. But there were times when she was a good sister. 

I remember being awakened on a warm summer's evening by the patter of rain on the roof. The rest of the house was asleep and my sister took me out for a walk in the rain. We didn't need our coats and I felt the rain on my skin; warm, insistent, cleansing, and reveled in the smell of the earth having a bath. It's a memory I'll always cherish. She was also there when I brought my first newborn home from the hospital. She spent time with me, helped around the house, treated me like a contemporary, loved me like a sister.

I longed for her approval. I guess that's normal for a younger sister. She was beautiful, funny, intelligent, talented, popular, all the things I wasn't, or didn't think I was. I did things and made decisions based on what she did or what I thought she would do. She cast a long shadow and I lived within it. Then, when I was thirty, she vanished.

Even though her influence wasn't always positive, I was lost. I didn't know how to be just me. For the first time in my life what she thought didn't matter. I didn't have to dress like her anymore, or try to think or act like her. It was a whole new world for me and I blossomed. Finally, I asked myself what I felt and acted on it. I thought about her. I even missed her. I wondered what would make her disappear like that. 

Nearly ten years later I was walking in downtown Calgary and noticed what I thought was a familiar figure coming toward me. It was like watching a mirage take shape. As I got closer I realized my eyes weren't playing tricks on me, it was my sister. She was impeccably dressed and walked with her usual confident stride. As we approached one another she said, "Hello Cathie" and I responded, "Hello Fay" and we just kept on walking, like two ships passing. That's the last time I saw her.

I often thought how hard it must've been for my parents to lose a daughter the way they lost my sister. Mom always wondered when she heard on the news about a woman's body found in a Calgary dumpster, if it was Fay. I can't imagine that kind of pain. I know Mom missed her. When I was caring for her there were times when dementia made her think I was my sister. I didn't bother correcting her. If it gave her some comfort to finally see her long lost daughter, who was I to take that away from her. I loved my Mom too much.

I've been angry with my sister sometimes. It would've been nice to have a sister when my Mom was failing; someone to lend a hand, spell me off a bit, share the watchdog duties. But it likely wouldn't have been as ideal as my imagination depicts and the woman I've become can't live within anyone's shadow now. I have my own. I've come a long way. 

Recently I went to court to have my sister declared dead, only after a lengthy, empty-handed search to find her. It was something I had to do in order to distribute my Mom's estate. Even though it was necessary, it left me feeling unsettled and without closure, even a little dirty. All the judge did was rub his furrowed brow, ask me a few questions and grant the judgement. In my mind I heard the officious tap of an imagined gavel declare, "Bang, bang... she's dead." 

The rest is pixie dust...

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