The Girl Who Cried Wolf(8)
I was beginning to think this had all been planned. How did Dr Braby know Izzy tried to give me these things and I had all but thrown them back at her?
My hands were a little shaky so the good doctor ordered me to lie back against the propped up pillows, and can you imagine that I actually let her cleanse my skin with the wipes? It felt tingly and fresh against my dry face. She gently massaged and moisturized with Clinique and it felt a little like a spa treatment. I felt relaxed and maybe a less afraid. Who knows, one day I might get better, maybe my hair would grow back and I could find a way to be me again. Dangerous optimism.
She dabbed the concealer around my eyes and finished off with a dusting of her own Chanel powder and a tiny bit of bronzer.
‘You look so different, Anna.’
I didn’t really believe her, but ever hopeful, I found myself smiling back at her.
‘That’s the first time you’ve ever smiled at me properly. It’s so much nicer than being scowled and shouted at.’ She was reaching into the larger bag and pulling out some bronze tissue paper. ‘I bought this in Italy a long time ago. I haven’t worn it – it never suited me – but I was clearing out my drawers and I … Well, I thought you might like it.’
Looking a little awkward, she pulled out a silk Ralph Lauren head scarf, cream with gold buckles and horseshoes. It was beautiful. I let the silky material glide through my bony fingers.
‘I couldn’t,’ I began to say, but she swiftly folded the scarf a few times (she had clearly done this before) and gently placed it over me, covering my forehead, tying it low at the back so the two ends fell over my shoulders. Then she held up the mirror.
‘Maybe you’re ready to look at yourself again.’
I breathed deeply and took the mirror, gasping when I saw the reflection. I still looked very different but there was no mistaking the girl looking back at me. The one I thought had already died.
Dr Braby left soon after, and I almost thanked her as she started to walk through the door. Instead I asked, ‘Do you give all your patients silk head scarves?’
‘No,’ she replied simply. ‘But technically, you’re not my patient. I seem to have adopted you.’
I spent the next ten minutes alone, growing ever more critical of the girl in the mirror. I actually thought I looked sort of pretty. A little fragile, but it suited me. It was the eyebrows and lashes that let me down, that made me look ill, not to mention the fact that under the scarf I had about as much hair as a newly hatched chick. I smudged a little grey pencil around my eyes, applied some lip gloss, and was trying desperately to be positive when Isabel walked back in. She was carrying what appeared to be a market stall worth of fruit. Looking a little taken aback, she dropped the fruit on the table (and floor) and sat next to me, leaning in for a closer look.
I had to ask her the question I would be too afraid to ask anyone else. Doctors, Jules, my parents … I knew she would tell me the truth; she could be brutal and knew I did not need to be patronized. Izzy had seen me at my best and now my very worst. She knew all my secrets. We had always been a little competitive – she was naturally pretty in a way I envied. She envied my flair, and my incessant need to take centre stage had always riled her. We loved and fought each other and I knew as I lay pathetic and spent in that hospital bed, she could make or break me.
‘How do I look?’
Her grey eyes never left mine, nor did they waver for a second.
‘Like Scarlett Johansson.’
And that, ladies and gentleman, is why God created sisters.
***
I had just turned four when Izzy was born, but I still remember the events surrounding her arrival rather well. It began with my parents sitting me down in our grand living room and talking to me about my cousins Cher and Natasha.
‘You know that they’re sisters, darling? Well, how would you feel about having a little brother or sister to play with?’
Hmmph. This was a tricky one. My young mind whirled around the possibilities of this new concept. For one, I did always feel a little bit of an outsider when we were all together. Tash and Cher had a bond that reminded me of an exclusive club, or a secret that I was not quite privy to. On the other hand, they did spend a lot of time fighting like monsters, and I often became the one to pair up with after such arguments. They always made up though, and we would be back to square one, me desperately trying to join in with their whispered giggling and jokes I did not quite get.
Natasha was the eldest, and she seemed to get the better deal. If there were toys or sweets to be shared, she always got to do the dealing out sixty-forty. She made all the important decisions, like who would be the princess and who the servant, who got to play with Malibu Barbie and which of us was left with a bereft-looking Sindy (usually me).
Of course, with my parents waiting for my answer, these musings flashed by me in a heartbeat. When you are so young, you don’t agonize over decisions, you decide instinctively. The dissecting of every single detail comes much later in life – along with the paranoid fear of making the wrong choices that have often led me to a sleepless night.
‘Will I be the oldest one?’
‘Well, yes, darling, you were born first so you’ll be four years older. You’ll be able to help look after her.’
‘Then yes,’ I decided firmly. ‘We’ll call her Tulip as well.’ My only experience thus far of taking care of something was the tender love and care I proffered to my darling dwarf rabbit, Tulip. She lived contentedly in our garden shed, with an outdoor run when the weather was good.