The Good Sister(41)

My period is two days late.





According to Google, a period that is up to five days late is normal and a typical part of a healthy cycle. What’s more, cycles can be influenced by a great many things – changes to routine, excessive exercise and travel. This information is a great comfort to me. While I haven’t travelled in recent weeks, I’ve certainly had my fair share of exercise (yoga, karate, sex) and changes to my routine (Wally), so those things combined would certainly explain my late period. And, so, I spend the next few days carrying out my daily routine with almost painful precision, hoping this will rectify things.

Before I know it, my period is six days late.

‘Fern? Come and look at this,’ Rose says. Rose is in the corner of IKEA, hovering by a white BILLY bookcase, inspecting it with what feels like an inordinate level of scrutiny. ‘This will work, don’t you think?’

Rose continues to say something, but I can’t hear very well because I have my earplugs in. I still am not quite sure how Rose managed to convince me to come to IKEA. She knows I don’t like shopping – and IKEA, let’s face it, is the mother of all shops. I do almost all of my own shopping online and, frankly, I don’t understand why anyone would do anything else. Virtually everything, including IKEA, is available online, and pretty much all of the larger department stores offer free delivery and returns. And if there is an item I desperately want but can only get in a big shopping centre, I ask Rose to get it for me.

Ironically, it is exactly this logic that Rose used when convincing me to come.

‘I don’t like shopping!’ I had whined when she asked me.

‘Fern.’ She put her hands on her hips. ‘You know when sometimes you ask me to go to the store to get you something?’

‘Yes.’

‘Do I go?’

I roll my eyes.

‘Do I go?’ Rose repeats.

‘Yes.’

‘I’m not asking you to understand why this is important to me. I’m only asking if you can do it.’

And, so, here I am, at IKEA. It smells like cinnamon rolls and meatballs, an eye-wateringly disgusting combination, and it’s as bright as a summer’s day. I’d wanted to wear my swimming goggles, but that would have meant a detour to my flat, so I’d settled for sunglasses.

‘What do you think?’ Rose asks and I lip-read, gesturing to the generic-looking bookcase.

I think I’d like to get out of here before I get a migraine. But I give the bookcase a cursory glance. ‘It’s not very big,’ I say.

Rose frowns. ‘I’m sure they sell bigger ones–’

I curse silently. If I’d only said ‘I love it’, we could be writing the number down and heading to the warehouse area (the one area of IKEA that I, if not enjoy, appreciate for its resourceful organisation). Instead, Rose is wandering distractedly to another section of the store, looking for someone to point her in the direction of bigger bookcases.

‘Fern?’ she calls. ‘Come and look at this!’

The store is uncomfortably full, and I have to push past several people to follow Rose. Everyone is saying excuse me and sorry and smiling at each other, but my head is starting to spin. How can so many people be buying bookshelves?

‘Let’s just choose one and go home,’ I call after her. She says something in reply, and I have to remove my earplugs to hear her. ‘What did you say?’

‘I want to make sure I find the right one,’ she says. ‘I don’t want to rush into it.’

We emerge from the crowd of people and I make a beeline for a little wedge of space I spot next to a toddler bed and wrap my arms around myself. Even with my sunglasses on, the lights are making me woozy.

‘I was thinking white, but what do you think of this natural timber?’ Rose says, gesturing at the wooden frame of another set of shelves. ‘And look, it comes with a matching lamp!’ She lifts the timber lamp and it flashes directly into my eyes. If I didn’t know better, I’d think my sister was deliberately trying to set off a sensory attack.

‘Rose,’ I say, ‘I have to go outside.’

‘Just one more minute! I want to look at the bedside tables. Then we’ll go.’

She takes my hand and pulls me back through the crowd. We pass several young couples, arguing. A pair of twin toddlers bounce on a bed in frenzied joy as their heavily pregnant mother screams at her husband to control them. Rose continues to pull me but when we come to a clear space, I plant my feet.

Rose looks back over her shoulder. ‘Fern? What are you doing?’

Nausea overwhelms me. I sink into an armchair and drop my head into my hands. Rose’s nude ballet flats appear in my small field of vision.

‘Fern!’ I hear her exclaim. ‘For goodness sake. I just want to show you one more–’

I vomit on her shoes.


‘Here,’ Rose says, holding out a plastic cup of water. ‘Drink this.’

We are in the parents’ room, on a chair designated for nursing mothers, which strikes me as ironic, all things considered. Rose is rubbing my back in rhythmic circles, saying ‘Shhh’ and ‘Everything is going to be all right’. From the moment I vomited, she’s taken care of everything, collecting a roll of paper towels from a sales assistant, cleaning everything up, waving away offers of help. She found me water, and told everyone it was fine, her sister just wasn’t feeling well. She seems so serene, so in control. It reminds me why I need her so much.