My Secret Sister: A gripping and emotional novel of family secrets and lies Read online

  My Secret Sister

  Lauren Westwood

  Copyright © 2021 by Lauren Westwood

  Lauren Westwood has asserted her right to be identified as the author of this work. All rights reserved.

  eBook ASIN: B09CS2SJ92

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, business, organizations, places and events other than those clearly in the public domain, are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Author’s note

  I began this book prior to the world-altering events of the Covid-19 pandemic, and have chosen not to address the issues it would have raised in connection with the events of this novel. Covid-19 has had a significant negative impact on many people who were receiving treatment for serious illnesses, and increased the physical risks for vulnerable people.

  I would like to dedicate this book to the healthcare workers who put themselves on the front line so that people with serious illnesses could continue to receive treatment, as well as to all of the blood and organ donors who continue to give the gift of life.

  I would also like to dedicate this book to anyone who is dealing with any of the real-life issues it presents. I may never meet you or learn your story, but please know that I am sending you my best wishes.

  Finally, I would also like to dedicate the book to my family. You make my life worthwhile.

  Contents

  Prologue

  I. March

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  II. April

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  III. May

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  IV. June

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Epilogue

  Marianne

  Claire

  A Letter from Lauren

  Books by Lauren Westwood

  Acknowledgments

  Prologue

  As I speed off in the ambulance holding my daughter’s hand, I wonder how I could have been so stupid. I should have made the bargain, paid the price – anything to avoid being right here, right now.

  “Her blood pressure’s dropping; we’re losing her.” One paramedic pushes past me to adjust the fluid drip as the other scrambles to get out the defibrillator. Everyone seems to be moving in slow motion, backward almost. If only they could turn back the clock; they’re trained professionals – why can’t they turn back time so that this never happened?

  But it’s too late for bargains. Much, much too late. The grip on my hand loosens, then goes limp. I want to scream, but my throat is dry.

  The paddles are placed on my daughter’s chest. Her body jerks as the current racks through. Once, twice. I can’t hear what they’re saying. Black spots appear before my eyes – a flood of love, a torrent of regret. A voice whispers in my head that I can’t silence. This is all your fault. You killed her. It’s her voice, the one I hear in my nightmares. The woman who stole my memories, the woman who stole my life. And this time, I know she’s right.

  Part I

  March

  2018

  1

  Claire

  I tack the letter to the fridge with a magnet. A plain white piece of paper, a few paragraphs of black print. I stare at it as the coffee burbles, and it seems to glow with an almost translucent hope. My daughter’s hopes – her dreams – embodied in a few lines, a date, and a time.

  Three months. The letter makes clear that no alternative date will be available. Such a short time for Jess to prepare everything that will be required: scales, syllabus piece, sight-reading. Such a short time to stay healthy and well, like she’s been for the past few months. A short time… and yet, living day-to-day as we do, three months seems like forever.

  As I read the words again, my mind leaps to the logistics. We live an hour north of the city, and even getting there for the audition will mean either Steve or me taking off work, which we can’t afford. Then what happens if Jess gets in and has rehearsals, and…? I push all the doubts away. I picture the look on her face the day the letter arrived. Remember the way she smiled and hugged me and looked so happy. “Please, Mom! Please say I can do it! This is my big chance!” I hugged her back and whispered in her ear, “I’m so proud of you.” Proud of what she’s achieved. Proud of what she’s survived.

  I don’t care if the audition is on the moon, the rehearsals on Mars; I will do anything to make sure Jess can fulfill her dreams. Anything…

  The doorbell rings; my stomach clenches in a knot.

  Even this.

  I go to the door fingering the charms on my bracelet. I grip the Golden Gate Bridge and take a deep breath, steeling myself. This is just a test and an interview – no big deal. The fact that I’m going to be filmed for potentially thousands of people to see shouldn’t make a difference. I glance through the peephole.

  A tall blonde woman is standing outside. Despite the heat, she looks cool and collected. I visualize my house through her eyes: a typical eighties two-story box with a thirsty brown lawn, wheelie bins by the garage, a dead geranium by the door, and Becky’s bike half-blocking the path. Dave Steiner, the CEO of MyStory, told me that they want “suburban”; they want ordinary people whose lives can be transformed by their services. They chose me for the program because they want normal. I pointed out that having one daughter who’s sick, one who’s practically a delinquent, and a marriage that can only optimistically be described as “failing” doesn’t exactly qualify as normal in my book. Dave laughed at that and said, “Claire, you’re perfect.” No one else had said anyth
ing like that to me, even joking, in a very long time. How could I say no?

  I arrange my face into a smile and open the door. “Hi!” I say, “I’m Claire. Come inside. It’s a little cooler.”

  The woman introduces herself as Ashley, the producer. She looks down at my bracelet as it jingles against my wrist as we shake hands. I usher her into the kitchen and offer her a cup of fresh coffee. “Do you have any green tea?” she asks.

  That throws me. She sits serenely at my kitchen table as I ransack cupboards, finally drawing out a squashed box of green tea that’s a remnant of one of Becky’s phases. I take out a desiccated tea bag, wondering if green tea goes off and, if so, whether it might cause Ashley any lasting damage. I decide probably not, so I heat some water in the microwave. By the time I set the cup in front of her, my heart is racing, and I don’t know why.

  “Thanks.” Ashley’s smile looks forced, and I wonder if she’s thinking that my home is a little too suburban and ordinary, not to mention tired and cluttered, to be part of the program. And never mind the house – what about me? Forty years old. Ten pounds overweight (on a good day). My face prematurely lined, a few streaks of gray in my hair. Suddenly, I feel a crushing weight upon me. I really don’t want to do this.

  “I… um…”

  The audition… Jess…

  “Yes?” Ashley doesn’t look at me. She opens her purse and takes out a thin white box. Inside are two swabs and a tube.

  “Nothing,” I say.

  She takes out a pair of blue rubber gloves and puts them on slowly, finger by finger. The gloves match her light-blue top, and I wonder if that was deliberate.

  “Open your mouth,” Ashley says. “I’m going to swab both cheeks.”

  I open my mouth; she swabs. As the cotton bud makes contact with the inside of my cheek, I think how easy it is – how mundane. The building blocks of who I am, who my children are, and who my ancestors were – all in one little sample of saliva and skin cells.

  “This is an exciting moment, isn’t it?” She withdraws the swab and places it in the tube.

  “Yes.” My voice sounds small. I feel like I’ve survived a particularly painful dental procedure. “Very exciting.”

  She hands me a form, and I sign my name. With my DNA in that tube, I’ve officially embarked on my “Genetic Journey”, as Dave calls it. I am now adrift on a vast ocean of possibilities and connections. One person in thousands – maybe even millions – who have taken the test. MyStory is the third-largest home DNA testing company in the state, and it’s gaining market share all the time. Dave has grand ideas: he plans to build a global database that’s bigger than Facebook. It is exciting, I guess. But there’s also something daunting about being a tiny drop in that unknown sea.

  “Now,” Ashley says, “I’ll take your sample to the lab for V.I.P. analysis. But first, I’ll talk you through the rest of the schedule. The crew will move their equipment in today. We’ll start filming tomorrow.”

  She talks. I stare down at the cup of green tea that she hasn’t touched. It’s getting cold, the snake of steam growing thin. Should I offer to heat it up? I don’t know. Why don’t I know?

  Ashley stands up. I have no idea what she’s just said. Have I missed something important? Why didn’t she drink the tea?

  Suddenly from upstairs, there’s a flurry of musical notes. Each one is bright and pure, like a butterfly spreading its wings and taking flight. I feel a visceral sensation of pride and a momentary loosening of the tension in my neck. Jess… my lovely, talented daughter. Most people go on a Genetic Journey to find out about their past. For me, this is all about her future.

  Ashley looks at me with something like admiration. “Good luck,” she says. “I hope we can help.”

  “Thanks,” I say. “Me too.”

  I walk her to the door and close it behind her. I sink against it, the lightness of the music in counterpoint to the heavy weight of fear in my heart.

  2

  The first time I saw the bruises, I thought the worst. I mean, who wouldn’t? Jess was eight and a half, and she’d started complaining of being tired at school. Sometimes when she came home, she’d fall asleep during her DVD, which was unheard of. She seemed listless, lacking sparkle, not at all like her usual self. I asked her what was wrong, and she said, “nothing.” A niggle began to form in my mind. Was she being bullied? Did she not like her teacher? Was it something I was or wasn’t doing?

  Steve said it was nothing. School was important; Jess had to learn to toughen up. Steve had recently been promoted to health and safety manager out at the power plant, but there’d been a few lost-time accidents on his watch, and the job was stressing him out. I knew he was struggling, and yet his attitude towards the problem with Jess made me angry. We got in a couple of shouting matches at dinner, which made it worse. Once, when Jess got upset and ran off to her room in tears, I went in a few minutes later and found her sound asleep on her bed.

  I took matters into my own hands and called the school. Made an appointment with the teacher, the principal, the assistant principal. They were patient and calm in the face of my concern. No, Jess wasn’t having any problems that they were aware of. Yes, she seemed tired and withdrawn. Was she eating well at home? Taking vitamins? It might just be a phase.

  I left that meeting feeling frustrated and relieved in equal measure. I so wanted to believe that they were right. That Steve was right. That Jess herself was right. And then, one day, Steve was working late, Becky was out with her friends, and it was just Jess and me at dinner. I made her favorite macaroni and cheese and watched as she pushed it around on her plate. “What’s wrong?” I asked her, frantic underneath.

  “I’m just not hungry,” she said. “Can I go do my homework?”

  It was the end of my rope. I wanted to shout at her, shake her, hug and kiss her, and tell her that whatever was wrong, we could fix it. Instead, I sat back and stared her down. “Jess…” I kept my voice as level as a minefield. “Something is wrong. I want you to tell me what it is.”

  She gave me a huffy sigh and a well-practiced hair flick learned from her older sister. That was when I saw it. An ugly, purple-gray smudge on the side of her neck.

  I jumped up. Swept her hair aside. She tried to stand up and duck away, but I was too quick. I got hold of her arm, and it was only then that I noticed the bruises there too, like an even line of malevolent fingerprints. My world began to swim with darkness. “Who’s hurting you?” I whispered. “Is it someone at school? Or… Becky?” I hated myself even for having the thought. “Or…” Any other worse accusations died in my throat. Her dad? No – absolutely not. I could barely hold back the storm of tears and emotions. But this was not about me. I had to be the strong one: the one who could protect her. The one who should have protected her.

  “God, Mom. Becky would never do that. Jeez.” Jess turned away, but I couldn’t let it go.

  “Then who, sweetheart?” I moved in front of her and took her hands, forcing myself to look at the awful dark splotches on her wrists, each one surrounded by a pattern of tiny red dots.

  “No one, OK?” She jumped up and ran out of the kitchen.

  I felt like I was starring in a horror movie as I followed her upstairs. Her door slammed shut, the sign on it – “A Princess Lives Here” – juddering from the force. Her door didn’t lock, but I didn’t barge in. Someone had betrayed her trust very badly, and I needed to coax her back to me.

  “Please, honey,” I said through the door, “you have to talk about what’s happening. That’s the only way we can make it stop. It’s not… your fault. None of it is your fault.”

  There was no answer. My heart was beating so hard that I was sure she could hear it. That she could feel the love I was sending her through the door that separated us – through whatever terrible truth separated us. I had to bridge the gap. I opened the door a crack.

  Jess was lying in bed on top of the covers. Her eyes were wide open as she stared up at the ceiling. For an awful sec
ond, I thought she was dissociating, like victims of childhood trauma learn to do. She was so pale, her skin almost blue except for the dark smudges. When did she get like that? How could I not have noticed?

  “Jess?” I said in a hoarse whisper.

  “Leave me alone, Mom,” she said. A tear rolled down her cheek. That tear was a lifeline. I knew then that I could break through.

  “I know you’re scared, Jess. But can you tell me what’s been happening? I promise I won’t be mad. And that I won’t do… anything—” I sucked in a breath “—without your permission.”

  “Nothing’s ‘happening’!” She sat up and crossed her arms protectively across her chest. “No one’s doing anything to me, if that’s what you’re worried about.”