Fiction
The Sisters Susan E. Rogers
S
he looked silly, a grown woman chasing a plastic bag as it skipped across the sand. She finally plucked it, dripping, from the waves and held it up for the water to empty. Annie had been walking along the beach when she spotted them. The three huddled together like sisters chattering family gossip, jetblack feathers iridescent in the morning sunshine. Polished bead eyes reflected the glint of the sand. Intuitively, she felt she needed to take a photo. She stepped in slow motion trying not to frighten them. They were watching her as she reached into that bag she was carrying for shell-collecting. She felt around for the camera she had put in there earlier. It was stuck and a tug started the absurd chain of events. As she yanked out the camera, the bag’s handle slipped out of her grasp and the slight breeze puffed it up like a balloon to send it skittling down the beach. Chasing it, she bobbed up and down with her shoulder-length auburn hair whipping in her eyes and mouth as the bag jumped away every time she came within reach. She caught up as it hit the waves. She turned around to see those three crows, black beaks open in laughter, take off in synchronized flight. She had come a long way to walk this beach, over 16,000 miles. A trip she had to make because of a photograph that had already been very old when she saw it thirty-two years ago. Creased and worn with handling, the edges were tattered and one upper corner was missing. The girl in the photo was her great-grandmother, the one she was named for and had loved so dearly. Her memory of that week was surreally sharp. She was out of school because half her class had chicken pox and the principal decreed that every first-grader should stay home until the miniepidemic was over. Her mother and aunts had to work and the only one who could watch her was Nana, her great-grandmother. Annie was delighted. She loved spending time with Nana. She told the best stories and Annie loved curling up in the chair with her, listening to tales of long ago and faraway places. The grown-ups had agreed that Annie should sleep at Nana’s for the week since it would be much less bother. When Annie arrived on Sunday night, she saw the scuffed brown box on the dining room table immediately. Nana said it was a special surprise and she had a lot of good stories to go with it. Annie wanted to open the box right away but Nana said no, not until the next day. She kept her word. As soon as the breakfast dishes were done and the kitchen put to rights, they were dressed and Nana’s big bed where they slept together was made, they settled in front of the box. Annie watched Nana untie the string and open the flaps to reveal the treasure within. Pictures! “Nana, the pictures don’t have any colors,” the surprised six-yearold exclaimed.
There were nine of them, and Nana took each one carefully out of the box. “This is our family,” Nana told her, as she laid them out on the table in a particular order while Annie looked on in silence. “I know them too, don’t I, Nana?” the little girl asked when her grandmother was done. She was cross-legged up on the table top, bending her head close to each one to study it. “You have stories about them?” “Yes, love, I’ll tell you the stories.” Nana gave her a hug. “Then you’ll really know them.” The little girl sat quietly as she surveyed the pictures again. “That’s good because I think they are already inside me.” Annie kissed Nana’s cheek, then climbed down to settle into the chair with the two thick pillows on top. “You do have the gift,” Nana whispered as she watched, “just like I did at your age.” Each day Nana told her about two pictures, their names and life in the village in Ireland where Nana grew up. The little girl listened carefully as she stowed it all in her memory. Even at her young age, Annie sensed the energy, the shared soul, of family. By Friday afternoon, Nana had told her the story of every picture except one. “This is the special one,” Nana said, “and I saved it for last.” It was in a narrow, gilded frame under clouded glass. There were four girls in the picture. Three stood together in the back, tall young women with flowing hair tamed under hats. The three had their hands on the shoulders of the little girl who was Annie’s age. Annie could see they all looked alike. “My sisters and me,” Nana had said quietly as she carefully removed the old photo from the frame. “That’s you, Nana?” Annie had pointed her chubby finger at the little girl. “Yes, love, that’s me,” Nana had told her. Then she pointed at each of the women in turn. “This is Bridget, but everybody called her Delia. She was oldest, going to join her husband-to-be. This one in the middle is Mary, who always dreamed of places far away. And this is Lizzie. She wasn’t supposed to go, but she begged until they gave in.” She ran her fingertips lightly across the three, caressing their memory. “Can I hold it, Nana?” she asked in a whisper, little palms turned up side by side forming a cradle. Nana placed the photograph in her hands. “That was the day they left,” said Nana with a soft sigh. “The three of them together. Off they went to Australia. I never saw them again, never knew what happened to my three sisters. I lost them all that day.”
NEW READER MAGAZINE
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95
