The Sisters

Susan E. Rogers

She 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.”

The little girl looked up at her. “Don’t cry, Nana. I’ll find them for you. When I grow up, I’ll go to Australia and find them for you. I promise, okay?”

The woman gathered her in her arms. When she finally released her embrace, she held the child at arm’s length to gaze in her eyes.

“I know you will, love,” Nana’s voice was raspy with emotion. “Yes, I know you will. You’ll be the one to find them.”

That’s why she had made this journey half way around the world, for Nana. She had promised her again as she lay dying in that big bed. She looked so frail on that day five years ago, as the old woman reminded Annie of her long-ago pledge.

“I will, Nana. I will,” Annie had vowed.

She had flown to Sydney, had toured the Opera House and Botanical Gardens and took the ferry to Manley. She haunted the genealogy section of the library every afternoon for two weeks. She found the passenger list for the ship the sisters had sailed on from Cobh to Brisbane in 1885. Delia and Lizzie were listed as arrivals. A note next to Mary’s name said she was buried at sea. She found Lizzie’s death notice in the Brisbane Courier. She died in hospital in 1886 of typhoid fever at age nineteen. Only Delia survived to marry and have a family of seven children, yet two babies died and three sons were lost in war. She found their story, but she still needed to find them.

Now in Brisbane, Annie searched the city for clues. She found an address listed in the old city directory, and she walked by the house on Montague Road. Someone else’s family lived there now; no essence of Delia left behind. At last, she found the deaths of Delia and her husband in the city records, giving their burial place.

She took the bus to Toowong Cemetery the next morning. She entered through tall thick stone pillars bound with heavy iron gates, wondering who or what they were meant to keep out, or in. She bypassed the guided tour and headed toward the office. She walked the paths, passing by carved stones and looming crypts under the guardianship of silent stone angels and time-blackened crosses. This was Brisbane’s oldest burial ground, a memorial to those who had braved the wilderness, by choice or by court decree.

The charming brick building was surrounded by gardens. The door was unlocked, but the office was empty. She walked around back where she spied two men tinkering with a backhoe in front of a cluttered garage. One spotted her as he reached for a tool nearby.

“You want something?” he asked impatiently.

“I’m looking for my aunt’s grave,” Annie answered, trying to make it sound important enough to interrupt his duties.

“We’re busy now, Miss,” he huffed. “Come back later.”

“Um, no. I really can’t.” She took another step toward the men. “I’ve just come all the way from America.”

“I’ll help her quick,” the other man said. “You keep at it, mate.” He waved Annie toward the office. “Come on along with me.”

Annie walked toward the building and he was right behind, holding the door open for her to enter.

“Do you know what year your aunt died?” he asked as he headed over to a shelf holding a number of large cloth-bound books. “1904,” she answered quickly. He reached for one of the volumes and started flipping through the pages. “What was her name then?”

“Delia Dempsey.” She stood patiently.

He found the entry. “Looks like there’s some others in there too. I’ll make a copy for you.”

He handed her the paper and she thanked him. He went back to work as she compared the section number with the map. She found the site of the grave and circled it with a pen from her purse. The page he had copied listed Lizzie buried with her sister. Delia’s husband and the two babies were next to them. Annie started walking; she had a long way to go. Her Aunties were here somewhere in these 109 acres and she was determined to find them.

The paths looped and twisted through the old part of the cemetery and none of the sections were marked. Annie became lost. She felt she had walked for hours, and couldn’t find her place on the map. There were no landmarks for orientation. She couldn’t even see the office in the distance any more. She turned in a circle, trying to decide which path to take next.

Caw-caw demanded her attention from overhead. She looked up, squinting in the sun. A large crow was perched at the top of a tall eucalyptus in the next lot. She was sure it was looking down at her. It called again and within moments a second flew over, landing on a branch just below. A third coasted in to join them. They all peered down, greeting her with a chorus of raucous cries.

The first to arrive was the first to dart off, followed closely by the second. The last one waited, jumping down to a branch nearer to her. The bird cocked her head and cast a look at Annie, punctuated by another caw. An echoing call came from a tree several sections away, where the other two waited. Annie started walking as her guides led her through the maze of trails and graves. They swooped from branch to branch, tree to tree, waiting for Annie to catch up, until the three sat together overhead.

Beneath their perch, Annie kneeled down at the two markers side by side, worn and barely legible. She ran her fingertips lovingly over the carving and felt their spirits sweep through her — in memory of Delia, Lizzie and Mary.

“I’ve found them for you, Nana,” she whispered through tears as she looked up at the three sisters in the tree. Within moments, a fourth was gliding in to join them. They didn’t flinch as she slid her camera from her purse and took the photograph.

Susan E. Rogers lives in St. Pete Beach, Florida, retired from a Social Work career in Massachusetts. Retirement was a catalyst for beginning her life-long ambition to write. Her other interests include genealogy and psychic spirituality, often twisting these into her writing. She has published and collaborated on numerous genealogical articles. She self-published her first book in 2018 about her own psychic experiences. Her work has been accepted in anthologies that are in the publication process.

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