‘Anton,’ I say. ‘Don’t you dare!’
‘Aunty, no!’
The sting on my hand reverberates up to my wrist. My stomach twists into a knot. The red blush on his cheek brightens, I did not mean to strike him so hard.
Tears form in his eyes, his bottom lip quivers but he holds strong. Changing schools has toughened him.
‘What the hell is going on here?’
I take a step back from my sister’s child. Ilaria’s scowl sends a shiver rippling over me.
‘Why are you yelling at him?’
He flicks a sideways glance at me and brushes past his mother. Now, it is just Ilaria and me.
The yellow afternoon sun is fading over the field, casting shadows from the olive trees, prickly pears, and stone borders of Father’s farm. The white light above Mother’s patio competes with the last of the evening daylight to paint its own soft shadows.
I gulp, the anxiety floods me. Is this the moment?
I can’t lie to my sister, can I? After Father’s death, this could finally tear us apart. I need her more than ever.
‘Anton upset me. Talking nonsense and lying that he has a secret to tell everyone.’ I avoid her gaze. ‘You said yourself he was having trouble settling into the new school and has been talking nonsense.’
‘What was he lying about? I will discipline him – I have had enough of his behaviour.’
‘What would you do to him?’ I ask.
Ilaria describes the punishment, I’m shocked. The bile rises to the back of my throat.
Memories surge; the disgust floods me. I was Anton’s age when father would inflict that punishment for lying. I know Ilaria had also suffered that fate. But I never imagined she would resort to such ancient tactics.
She will ask him what is his secret and I’m encouraging him to lie to his mother. I can’t subject Anton to that fate.
The evening silence is only broken by the grunt and squeal of the hungry pigs.
Ilaria rocks back on her heels. ‘Marica, are you ok? You look a ghostly white.’
‘I feel terrible for yelling at Anton. I will talk to him, and apologise.’
She sips from her glass of white wine. I glance at it, the light glints off the rim, almost as if it’s winking at me to tell her the truth. Except the truth could shred the last threads binding us.
‘And?’
‘There is so much going on. Tomorrow, I could lose my job. And this fight with Father’s bank – how will we care for Mother?’
‘We all have our challenges. That anonymous complaint from the old school is creating havoc with my law practice. That will set me back years. And forcing us to move the children, the poor dears are struggling to settle into the new school. But we will survive.’
The school complaint was raised because of me. She still does not know. I’m surprised Anton hasn’t told her what he saw.
That day, it wasn’t her nanny who picked up the children – it was Kallista. She marched towards me, furious.
‘I know what you’ve done,’ she spat, in front of the other parents.
I had manipulated her nanny to learn details about Kallista’s family business. I never planned to involve Ilaria’s children but when I realised they went to the same school, I saw an opportunity to prove that family were criminals. I had been pursuing her husband’s business for two years, but having failed to make the allegations of money laundering indisputable, I was desperate to save my career.
The favour, to pickup Ilaria’s children each Thursday, presented an opening. I hadn’t meant to manipulate things this far, but it was the last chance to save my job as a financial investigator. Three months have passed but it is still crystal clear in my mind.
Anton came through the gate as Kallista exploded, she hurled threats to destroy me. I snapped at her, and she turned to Anton snarling, ‘Your aunty is the devil!’ I told Anton not to tell his mother and that I would protect them. Now he says he can’t keep the secret. The summer evening closes in, sweat forms on my forehead.
‘Are you alright?’ Ilaria watches me. ‘Do you want to talk?’
I lick my lips. She was always Father’s favourite. After his death, we fought and bickered – reopening old wounds. We needed professional help to reconcile us and save the family farm.
The children appear at the door, asking can they have ice-cream – Nanna said they could. I look at Anton and Sara and see the pain of being bullied at the new school.
We follow them into the kitchen. I spot the set of horns above the doorway, meant to ward off evil spirits – a silly old Maltese tradition. But what if the evil spirit is already within your home?
Ilaria scoops generous amounts of ice-cream into their bowls, sending them on their way. She looks at me.
‘Could cheer you up, a good spot of sugar?’
She holds out the ice cream container towards me. I glance away. My stomach churns with the thought of ice cream mixing with anxiety – or guilt – I’m not sure which.
‘Ilaria?’ I take a deep breath. She turns to me, licking the spoon, a white spot of ice cream dabbed on her nose. My God, for a moment we are children again. But the warmth can’t melt the cold dread in my stomach.
She stands staring at me. She trusted me with her children.
I search for the right words but the secret presses down. Unusually, I am lost for words.
‘I must tell you about what I did.’ The words catch in my throat. ‘I didn’t mean for it to happen – but I spied on Kallista Farrugia, using a relationship I formed with her nanny.’
I watch her face, searching for a flicker of understanding.
The spoon clatters into the metal sink. Time freezes.
‘What were you thinking?’ Her eyes narrow. Her voice is sharp, ‘My children, your niece and nephew – and you could not stop yourself!’
She steps closer, but I feel our sisterly threads snapping.
She locks the door, separating us from the rest of the family, and unleashes on me. Her words slice deep. I have no response. I wait for her to exhaust herself but her fiery invective is relentless.
‘It doesn’t change what you did. Now, I have to clean up the mess.’
‘But please, understand,’ I beg.
She laughs bitterly. ‘You understand – you betrayed my trust.’ Her face softens slightly, a flicker of pain and knowing. ‘But I know you. When you are on a mission, your judgement blurs. It damages your life, and those around you.’
She downs the rest of her wine and wipes a rare tear from her cheek.
‘But I want to fix this. Before it is too late, for us both.’
Relief rushes through me, mingling with guilt, at her offer.
‘No more secrets, understand?’ Her voice is firm but calm. ‘I must tell you something about Father’s death.’
What could she tell me? I found him that day on the floor.
‘Father! Help, Help! Someone!’ My scream still rings in my ears.
His chest, sliced open. His white singlet, soaked in blood. He gurgled on the floor as the machine next to him rattled, with its blades whirring, indifferent to what they’d done. Her voice brings me back to the present.
‘He had made a scene about going to evening Mass. Mother was in tears. He refused to go – to thank a God, whom he believed, was stealing his mind. He said he had work to do in the shed.’
Ilaria had called me, telling me she had reached the end of her patience and was taking Mother to Mass. I needed to come and talk some sense into Father. I was busy and had arrived later than I said I would.
‘He said his body ached. You know how he can be,’ she says.
He can turn on the charm to get his way, he could persuade Ilaria more easily than he could me.
‘I let him have a drink. I know you said he was not to drink because of his dementia medication. But you were always too controlling. I realise now, it was for the right reasons.’
Now, I understand. He started the machine to chop the food for the animals. He had forgotten we had prepared food the day before.
‘In the commotion he caused, I forgot to lock away the whiskey after pouring a drink for Mother, and he must have helped himself.’ She looks down before returning her gaze to me. ‘If it’s a second chance you’re after, then I need one too. I have nightmares, and I didn’t find Father – you did.’
I reach for her hand and whisper, ‘We both have secrets we can no longer keep.’
Author’s Note
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organisations, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
This short story was first published in Short Fiction Break
