Walking in Darkness

‘And you saw your opportunity! Your own child had died, you needed a child to take her place, so you talked my mother into letting you take Anya. She’s never forgiven herself for being so weak.’

Sophie remembered her mother’s face as she confessed that Anya was not dead, was alive and living in America. Mamma had blamed herself, but Sophie didn’t, she blamed Don Gowrie. The sister she had mourned as dead all these years, had loved without ever knowing, who had been her comfort when she was lonely, her one real friend all her life was not dead after all. It had been like hearing the grave open.

Sophie hadn’t been able to take it in at first. If she had had a sister during her childhood everything would have been so different. She would not have been so lonely, she wouldn’t have felt left out of the family circle of her mother and stepfather and their boys. She would have had her sister for support. How many times as a child had she wished that Anya had not died? Having her wish come true after all those years, in such a strange way, had left her dazed.

Especially when her mother huskily went on, ‘Sophie, I must see her again – you see, I’m ill, very ill . . .’

Sophie had looked at her sharply, hearing a note in her voice that sent a shiver of premonition through her.

‘What is it? What’s wrong with you, Mamma?’

‘Leukaemia.’

Sophie had taken a shocked breath, staring at her pallor, the dark shadows under her eyes, an air of exhaustion, a lack of energy she had noticed the minute she arrived back home. Her mother had never been a big woman, but she had visibly lost a lot of weight since Sophie last saw her, she had shrunk away to nothing.

‘Is it . . . serious?’ she whispered, but she guessed the answer before her mother spoke.

‘The doctors have given me three months.’

‘Three months . . .’ That was an even bigger shock.

‘They said I should have seen them sooner. The illness has gone too far, there’s nothing they can do for me now.’

‘But surely they are trying something? Can’t you have some treatment? Chemotherapy? There must be something.’ Her mother’s resignation made Sophie burn with rage. ‘Don’t just give in, Mamma. See the doctors again – make them try to help you.’

Her mother had gestured wearily, not wanting to talk about her illness. ‘Never mind that, Sophie. Listen, you must find Anya, bring her back to me – I can’t die without seeing her one more time, I’ve never forgotten her, tell her that, she was my first baby, I remember her more and more. I must see her. Promise me you’ll find her and bring her back to me.’

Sophie had nodded, her eyes insistent. ‘Yes, I’ll promise to do that, Mamma, if you promise me you’ll go to see your doctors again, at once, and ask them for treatment.’

Her mother had promised and when Sophie had talked to her again last week on the phone Mamma had said she was having fortnightly treatments at the local hospital. ‘They exhaust me, I get so sick afterwards, though,’ she had whispered, and Sophie had winced at the weakness of her voice.

‘Don’t give up going, Mamma,’ she had pleaded, and her mother had promised she wouldn’t.

‘Have you found Anya yet?’

‘I shall see Gowrie in three days’ time. Don’t worry, I’ll soon have news for you. You’ll see Anya soon, I promise.’

She had made that promise to a dying woman, but she made it for herself too. She had begun to realize that when she found her sister she could talk to the living, not the dead; could see Anya face to face, hear Anya’s voice answering her.

Don Gowrie got up from his chair and began restlessly walking round and round the room, to the door and back, to the bathroom and back, like an animal in a cage. She felt the frustrated rage from him, the scent of danger, and watched him anxiously.

‘Why in God’s name did she tell you after all this time? Why couldn’t she go on keeping her mouth shut? I kept my side of the bargain. She’s had a small fortune from me over the years.’

‘Is that all you think counts? Money?’ Sophie felt her chest tear with contempt and anger and grief. All these years she had thought her sister was dead, and she was alive, and all this man could talk about was money. ‘My mother loved Anya –’ she began and he broke in hoarsely.

‘I love her too, do you think I don’t? Not in the beginning, OK, not then, I hardly knew her at first, but I learnt to love her as if she was my own. I forgot she wasn’t. My God, this happened nearly thirty years ago.’ He swung and glared at her. ‘Your whole lifetime! Have you thought of that? You hadn’t even been born, I’ve had all those years with Cathy and –’

‘And we haven’t!’ Sophie was trembling with indignation. ‘My mother hasn’t set eyes on her own child all this time. I haven’t seen my own sister!’

‘If you care about your sister you wouldn’t be here!’ Don Gowrie said grimly, and Sophie froze, looking at him with pain, feeling a thorn pierce her heart.

He nodded at her. ‘Don’t look at me like that – you know it’s true. I’m terrified for her. What do you think it will do to her, to find out she isn’t who she thinks she is? You just arrive, after all these years, full of self-righteousness, talking like some avenging angel, demanding to see her, wanting her to know she is your sister – and if you tell her, you’ll destroy her life.’

‘My mother is dying,’ Sophie said fiercely.

He stared at her, his breathing audible.

‘She has leukaemia, and has been given three months to live. She wants to see her daughter again before she dies.’