The Lake Louise Sharland (each kindness read aloud txt) 📖

days before. I push aside my pale cup of tea and retreat to the hospital’s sensory garden, where I soak up the morning sun and the scent of lavender and camomile. I feel myself nodding off when I hear the ping of an incoming text.

Just checked in at hotel. Will meet you at the café inside main entrance in ten. Gx

I return to that same table, check my mobile, fiddle with the clasp on my bag, reapply my lipstick; but most of all I try to keep my breathing deep and steady. I imagine every possible scenario in the few minutes before my sister’s arrival. Hearing the click of high heels, I look up and see Grace. Her hair is longer than I remember, falling in soft curls around her shoulders. We have the same strong bone structure – high cheekbones inherited from Celtic ancestors – and blue-green eyes the colour of a glacial lake. Unlike Grace, however, I’m a Nordic-looking blonde. Both of us are tall and long-limbed, with narrow hips and small breasts. Adam used to comment that we were built for sport; too tall for gymnastics but perfect for athletics.

I watch my sister as a stranger might – interested but removed, as if she were a model on the catwalk. Grace wears designer jeans and a cream-coloured jumper that slips down from one shoulder, exposing a long, pale neck.

‘Don’t you dare turn and look back at that boy, you Jezebel!’

Grace is thirteen and I am ten. We’ve travelled with our mother to Plymouth for the day to buy school shoes. Both of us, forced to wear the drab headscarves and long skirts of our sect, attract attention.

‘I didn’t,’ replies an indignant Grace.

Both intrigued and confused by the argument, I look back to see what my mother is referring to.

‘And you as well!’

I feel a sharp pain as she pinches my arm.

‘You can’t stop people from looking at us,’ says Grace in a tone I recognise as dangerous. ‘It’s because they think we’re a bunch of freaks. They’re not leching!’

It is the first time Grace has ever raised her voice to our mother, and although I don’t know why, I’m certain that things will never be the same. In a fury, Grace tears the headscarf from her hair and throws it to the ground.

‘I hate these things!’ she screams. ‘I hate not having any friends, and I hate not being allowed to watch telly!’

My mother moves forward to silence her, but Grace is too agile and too quick. ‘And I hate you!’ Turning, she runs and disappears into the Saturday morning crowds.

Shaking the memory away, I get up and walk towards my sister. At first Grace doesn’t recognise me, but then her eyes widen, her face changes, and she smiles.

‘Kat!’ she cries, and, pulling me into her arms, she kisses me fiercely on both cheeks. ‘How are you? She steps back and scrutinises me closely. ‘You look tired, and thin. Are you eating?’

‘I’m fine.’ I respond, and Grace raises an eyebrow. ‘Well there’s been so much to think about, and I haven’t really had the time to …’ I begin to feel unsteady, as if I’m standing on the juddering floor of a funhouse. Grace takes my arm and leads me to a bench opposite the lifts.

‘Are you really okay?’

‘I’m managing.’ I dab at the thin film of perspiration that has appeared above my upper lip. ‘It all just gets a bit much sometimes.’

‘I’m not surprised,’ says Grace. ‘I just wish I lived a bit closer.’ I’m not quite sure what response she expects, so I remain silent. She reaches over and grips my hand. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t ring on Michael’s anniversary.’

‘It’s okay.’ I know what to say. ‘I got your card.’

‘No, it’s not okay. I should have called.’ Grace closes her eyes, revealing dark circles hidden beneath expensive concealer. ‘I was thinking about you,’ she says, and she looks as if she’s going to cry. ‘And about Michael, of course. God knows I was.’

‘Grace, it’s all right.’

‘It’s just that,’ she pauses as if struggling with what to say next, ‘we’ve been having a terrible time with Ellie.’ She bites her lower lip. ‘Simon thinks we should get her to see someone.’

‘Someone?’

‘A therapist, counsellor, whatever.’ She pushes the sleeve of her jumper up to expose a large, fist-shaped bruise on her arm.

‘Jesus!’

‘All the crap we’ve had to put up with. Swearing, throwing things, cutting herself. She even …’ Grace shakes her head, unable to continue.

‘I’m sorry.’ I try hard to sound sympathetic, but I wish more than anything that I was in her place.

‘But this isn’t the time, is it?’ says Grace, aware of my discomfort. Taking a deep breath, she seems to gather herself in, as if buttoning a coat up tight. ‘So, aren’t you going to ask me how the drive was?’

‘How was the drive?’

‘Roadworks and an overturned caravan on the M25; the usual.’ She grimaces and tucks a long strand of chestnut-coloured hair behind one ear. ‘So, you’d better give it to me straight, Kat. How’s Mum?’

At first, Grace is calm, almost stoical; but when our mother starts to cough and the saliva trickles down her chin, her composure crumbles.

‘What’s going on?’

‘The stroke and associated dysphasia can sometimes make swallowing difficult,’ I say, adjusting Mum’s pillows. ‘All pretty standard stuff.’ After a moment Grace sits down, rests her arm on the edge of the bed, but refrains from taking our mother’s hand. She talks about the weather, her teaching job, Simon’s new car; a fixed smile masks the emotion that I know is bubbling just underneath. Once or twice I catch her desperate expression: get me out of here, she seems to be pleading, but I don’t know how. My mother is so pleased to see her.

Finally, a nurse arrives with medication, giving us both an excuse to leave. We take the stairs to the back entrance, follow a woodchip-covered path to the nature reserve that borders the hospital, and sit on a bench