This post was originally published on read.cash, in two parts, but I received no tips for them (as with most of the content I post there). I'm hoping I'll have better luck here, as I have before.

Authors and aspiring writers are often advised to write what they know. I know this story well, because it happens to be true (or, at least, real). These events happened, although not exactly as related. Names and particulars have been changed to protect the guilty. (We’re all guilty of something; the question is, “What is it?”) The people on whom it is based are either dead or might as well be, having refused to have further contact with the author’s side of the family. In retrospect, it’s no great loss.

Prologue

"Recall the deeds as if they're all
Someone else's atrocious stories.
Now you stand reborn before us all.
So glad to see you well.

And not to pull your halo down,
Around your neck and tug you to the ground ..."
 — A Perfect Circle; The Noose

I am not good at sleeping. I no longer fall asleep and remain oblivious until dawn. I lost the ability; it slipped away with my early youth and childhood happiness, what little of that I once had. Being woken in the darkest hollow of the night by intense pain was an unwelcome change. “Pain” is such a small, ordinary word. It does not begin to describe the torment that raged under my ribs. In the half world between sleep and waking, my dream was of a parasitic vine growing into and through my body, wrapping its hard, thorny tendrils around my organs. Curling on my side, drawing up my knees protectively, had no effect. Sitting up quietly and carefully did nothing to ease my agony. The digital clock showed it was 01:18. I lay down again and breathed in and out, willing the pain away. The pain demon would not be discouraged by a few breaths. It was not going to be exhaled. Pete, his back to me, grey hair fluffed by the pillow, was breathing rhythmically. His lips made a soft popping sound. Sometimes at night, I put my ear close to his nostrils to check he is still breathing. Other nights, I tap or nudge him to stop his snoring. I shifted my position, not so quietly. The clock showed that ten slow minutes had passed. I wanted to groan; I wanted my sleeping husband to be aware of my suffering so I could tell him I was dying slowly. Pete was keeping me company as he has done for nearly forty years. I did not want to lift my head again to see the clock over the mound of his sleeping body. Looking at the time during my insomniac hours stresses me and makes it more difficult to fall asleep, but I wanted to see how much longer I needed to survive until daylight. Some mornings, Pete will let me know that he woke up at two twenty seven and then fell asleep again at four nineteen, a habit I find inexplicably annoying, like his tendency to give the exact time (to the minute) when asked for it. What purpose does this serve?

There is a special solitude felt at night when I imagine I am the only being alive. When insomnia haunts and I am alone in my head, I think of my two children, grown up and tucked up in their beds far away. It’s not that they are vast distances from me, but they are no longer here under the same roof as I. I picture their faces. I feel grateful for my comfortable home, my warm bed and that I am safe. It is my soothing night-time mantra. Focusing on this was helpful, I needed to keep reeling in my mind and pulling it away from the ball of pain in my abdomen. I did not let my mind delve into the dark side; that is where the real pain lies. If I let my thoughts wander there in the night, then I know no rest.

Unable to suffer on my own any longer, I roused Pete from his sleep by patting his shoulder.

“I have a terrible pain in my stomach. I can hardly move.”

Pete mumbled something inaudible, rolled over and groaned his way out of bed. He shuffled off to the bathroom, rummaged in the medicine cabinet and, when returning, handed me a box of paracetamol and a glass of water, like that was going to do the trick. This will require something stronger. As if it had never happened, he put his head down and fell straight back to sleep. I lay awake. The demon squeezed all thoughts from my brain until it was all of me. The hours were distorted by the darkness. I lay unmoving until I heard the first raucous squawks of the Hadeda ibises roosting in the yellow-wood tree. They shout and argue and bicker like an old married couple. I usually dread their morning clamour at first light. It is usually unwelcome, but I was relieved. There was little more than a suggestion of sunrise, but I shook Pete awake.

Before his eyes opened, I blurted out, “The pills didn’t help at all. My pain is worse.”

He is a good man and calm in a crisis, but his sleep fog has not cleared and he stifled a yawn.

“I will phone Dr. Dodd and make an appointment for you.”

“No, no, I can’t wait, I have been in agony since about one o’clock. I won’t be able to drive.”

I saw his brain click on.

“Okay we need to get you to the hospital”, he said, quickly pulling on some clothes and running a comb through his hair.

The short drive through the early mist was punctuated by my gasps and groans. I slumped in my seat, still dressed in my pyjamas. The touch of the seat belt across my belly was unbearable. Speed bumps and potholes have no respect for pain. I glanced at Sandy’s house as we passed, the curtains closed against the morning light. She is my ever-cheerful and dearest friend.

We live in a small African town in a country on the southern tip of Africa. The image that phrase conjures in the American mind is inaccurate: There are no grass huts and roaming wild animals. The houses we pass are secure dwellings for the middle-class residents of Hill’s End. Large tree-filled gardens, sprawling residences and a multitude of indigenous wild life populates our little town. High walls bristling with spikes, fences with razor wire and intimidating gates abound; necessary barricades against criminals. However, none were to be seen at this time. All was peaceful in the soft dawn light. Pete drove both as if he was in a tearing hurry and as if he was driving on eggshells. My silence, punctuated only by groans, is rare. I chat. I am a chatter. I chat to friends and strangers alike. Pete drives sometimes for hours at a time without saying a word (other than to give directions) and the narrative is provided by me. My stories habitually begin in the middle and then I go back and try to explain. As you shall soon find out, this one is no different …

The hospital staff welcomed my bent figure with bustling efficiency, even though it was at the end of a long night shift.

“On a scale of one to ten how bad is your pain?”

“Fifteen” I croak.

My eyes would not stay open, as if there would be less pain in the darkness.

I heard Pete’s voice: “If she says she is in pain, it must be serious. She doesn’t usually seem to feel pain.”

A jumble of bright light, muted voices and warm hands and then the welcome prick of a sedative-containing needle.

“Hello, Mrs Morris. Please open your eyes. You are in the recovery room and you are doing well.”

My tongue was dry and the weight of my eyelids immense. The ceiling was blank and unfamiliar, as was the kind face hovering above me. I experimented with turning my head, but I seemed to have no bones in my neck.

“I am Sister Ndlovu. I want you to take deep breaths, Mrs Morris.”

I woke again, as if dragging myself from a pool of quicksand. I was warm, cocooned in a soft blanket. Anxiety clutched my chest. I had never had surgery before. I had only ever been in hospital to have my babies. Being so far out of my comfort zone pushed me into the pit of my own thoughts. Years ago, menopause had brought me the unwelcome gift of anxiety.

The place to which anxiety sends me is What-If. What if I had followed my gut and stayed out of everything? What if I had insisted that Jenny and Sara sorted out their own disagreement? I know that I would be in a better place if I had. I fretted at trying to make sense of it all and I could not leave it alone. Little did I know that there was much worse to come. Where did this story start? Where will it end? I was ensnared in the middle of it, but maybe it all happened because Sara could never stick to anything and Jenny would never admit her wrong-doings. Our parents insisted that we all do some sort of higher education after we had finished school. As she was the youngest, there were different rules for little freckle-faced, red-haired Sara. Maybe Mum and Dad were tired from years of parenting. Hell, Jenny and Tessa gave them cause enough to be, before she was on the scene.

Having left for university when I was eighteen, I am unsure of the details of my younger sister’s instability as a young adult. I do know that at junior school, Sara was unhappy because she didn’t like the other children in her class (or they didn’t like her; probably both). Mum moved her to the junior section of the school where I was in high school. Sara again found herself in a ‘horrible’ class, but I was there; the pupils were not horrible, they were just an average group of girls. She never fitted in nor forged any real friendships. It should have been no surprise then, that when she left school and went to art school she was unhappy and was allowed to drop out and go home. For six months she just stayed at home and then started a teaching course. Eighteen months into this, although she was doing well academically, she was asked to leave. The official version, according to Sara, was that she was told she was not cut out to be a teacher. Dad and Mum were sympathetic and took her story at face value. I still do not know the reason why she was expelled, but I do know she always wanted to go home and stay with our ageing parents. I never understood the reason for this. For my part, as much as I loved my parents and their home, I was thrilled to be making my own way out in the world. I was independent and I was happy.

That is the introduction to Sara. Jenny’s story is different. Her mother, my aunt Molly, was diagnosed as schizophrenic when Jenny was about six years old. Jenny came to live with us because her mother was in and out of hospitals and institutions and was seldom stable enough to take care of her only daughter. Jenny’s father had long since emigrated, never to be seen again. So Jenny became like an older sister to us and, being eight years older than Sara, the two of them were never close and they were too far apart in age to ever fight as sisters do. Sara was only nine when Jenny left home to go to university. There was a lot of big sister/little sister affection between them, though. Jenny is a very complex person; smart, successful and very private. Not only is her mother’s mental illness a source of sadness for her, but she keeps other secrets too. She is a perfectionist, but she is not the good hardworking-to-achieve type of perfectionist. She is the put-up-a-smoke-screen-of-how-perfect-my-life-is-so-you-won’t-see-the-cracks type. It is a shield, but she also uses it to beat herself up and not allow herself to rest. Between her and the rest of the world is a very well constructed wall of defence. It is not obvious to the casual observer because she is so glossy and gracious and has a wicked sense of humour.

So we have Sara and Jenny, the not-quite sisters. Because of dropping out of college, Sara has a low paying, part-time job as a school secretary and her husband Thomas is in and out of work, mainly because he lacks staying power.

Jenny has a good, steady job as a librarian. Her husband, Melvin, dragged himself up from nothing. Through hard work, cheating the system and scheming (mainly cheating and scheming), he became a wealthy man. They live in a sprawling, tastefully decorated house in the suburbs and they bought a fixer-upper on the coast as a future retirement home. While Melvin was renovating the beach house, they offered to rent it to Sara and her husband at a nominal rent because Thomas was unemployed once again. At first, this seemed to work well. Melvin gutted the kitchen and bathrooms first and rebuilt them to make the house more comfortable. From the elevated position on the hill, the spacious home has a wide view over verdant coastal bush and out to sea.

A small drama began to unfold, as often does when deals are made between family members. The noise and the dirt of the ongoing building annoyed Sara and she started to complain to Melvin. The complaints escalated and she would email or phone him several times a week about the inconvenience of having building supplies delivered or of noise while she had a headache. She bombarded him with requests and complaints when he was working at the house. Melvin is a highly affable man and a people-pleaser. His favourite responses are “no problem” and “I will sort that out”, so when he became frustrated enough to mention to Pete what was happening, I realised that Sara’s moaning was a problem. Little did I know that Sara was to up her usual “poor me” game. One Saturday morning, Melvin and Jenny travelled down with a few of the labourers to level a veranda that was to be extended. This was to everyone’s advantage because of the pleasant coastal climate and the restful view; an outside living area was definitely a plus. Much to their surprise when they arrived and started to offload the truck, Sara came flying out of the house in her dressing gown and tore into Melvin.

“Get out of my fucking house”, she screamed. “It is my weekend and I am not having it disrupted again. I am sick of the noise and the dust. Just get out!”

Jenny, in her usual non-confrontational way, walked away and got back into the vehicle. She sat there, embarrassed and humiliated in front of the labourers. Melvin struggled to find words to stem the flow of anger from Sara, but soon gave up and packed up his workers and drove the two hour trip home. Thomas was seen in the house, but he turned on his heel and disappeared when the shouting started.

The verbal abuse continued. Sara started making demands – she wanted a wall built between her and her neighbour because her dog and the dog next door kept fighting. She allowed the hand basin to overflow, which caused water damage to the newly-installed bathroom cupboard. The swimming pool was allowed to turn green, weeds grew in the paving and her emails became more frequent and more abusive. Melvin chatted to Pete and both men were at a loss as to what to do in the face of this woman’s rage. I suggested she was having a bad menopause and should be evicted.

Jenny phoned me and asked if I had spoken to Sara and if Sara had said anything about her. I told her no, even though Sara had phoned me and asked if Jenny had said anything to me. Several more tearful phone calls ensued and I kept urging the two of them to talk to each other. I suggested the four of them get together and chat to each other face to face to resolve the issues. I was not going to play go-between like we were still children. Melvin stopped all building on the site. If he had to go down and sort out a blocked drain or broken pool pump, he did it reluctantly. For someone with a passion for renovation and house-flipping, this was unusual. Sara and Thomas would stay in the house and not greet him, let alone offer him a cup of tea or a friendly word. It was awkward and unnecessary. They are family and they all used to be friends.

One day, my phone rang. It was Sara and she started with her usual complaints.

“I don’t know what to do any more”, she said. “What do you think I should do?”

My inner voice whispered, “She has asked your opinion, tell her.”

I didn’t say anything then. I mulled it over. I decided that if I sent her an email, I could be careful about what I wrote and how I worded it. I worked on the message for three days: I deleted words and selected others; I slept on it; I reread it; I pondered and I sent it anyway.

Hi Sara,

I have been reluctant to interfere in this issue between you and the Watsons, but since you have repeatedly asked for my opinion, I am going to give it to you. I think you are behaving very badly. Your methods of dealing with conflict are to collapse and let others pick up the pieces or to shout and scream and bully people into submission, and it is not okay. You are at best the tenant in Melvin’s house. You know that your rent is low because there would be the inconvenience of the ongoing building. I still think the best option is for you to talk (nicely) to Melvin and Jenny or, if you are not prepared to do this, move out of their house. Melvin is a good man and I think you owe him an apology.

Love,
Josie

Within five minutes of my hitting the send button, an email was flung back. Sara was furious; she reacted, as always, with a knee-jerk response: Whatever came into her head was spewed out through her typing. She could not see anything wrong with how she behaved and did not feel anyone deserved an apology. She said she wanted nothing further to do with me and she would block my phone number and unfriend me on FB. I was surprised in a way, but it was also what I thought might happen. I had done it anyway. So, what if I hadn’t? What if I had let the non-confrontational Jenny sort out her own battle with the permanently angry Sara? That is what a wise woman would have done, but by this stage I was annoyed with both of them and wanted to have my say. Besides, the petty conflict bored me. I had no wish to continue being a witness to it.

Sara has always played a little game where she tries to be our mum’s favourite. It has never worked, because Mum doesn’t play it too. The rest of us try to not involve our aged mother in family problems and petty squabbles, as it upsets her. As soon as Sara had emailed me, she phoned Mum and told her a version of the story. Obviously, it was a very slanted account, including that I kept emailing really nasty things that make her cry when she reads them. I only know this because some weeks later, Mum asked me about all the emails I had been sending and I told her I had sent one email about the argument with the Watsons (of which Mum was unaware) and then another when I received my invitation to Charmaine’s wedding. Charmaine is Sara’s twenty year old daughter. The entirety of her ambitions seem to be to look good in a bikini, to get married to someone wealthy and to make her mother happy. In the second letter, I had asked why I was invited. I said I only wanted to go to the wedding if I went as Sara’s sister and friend and not as an enemy. The invitation should be sincere and not an obligation. Mum laughed.

“I thought it strange when she said you demanded to know why you are invited. I really think she could grow up”.

“You and me both, Mum.”

The next day, Mum phoned (showing her ignorance of technology is voluntary and put on when it suits her).

“I’ve been thinking about all this stuff that is happening. Is it possible that someone else could be sending emails to Sara and is pretending to be you?”

“No, I don’t think so and why would they?”, I asked, failing to keep the surprise out of my voice.

“Sara is adamant that you sent so many horrible messages that she had to block you.”

“No, Mum. It is not possible to pretend to be me, unless you are a clever hacker, but it is possible that Sara is not being totally honest.”

I patted myself on the back for my tact but my inner voice wanted to say more:

“She is a crazy woman and a liar. She always thinks she is 100% right and will never apologise.”

Even then, I thought things would blow over as they had done many times before. It wasn’t much of a story. It was the kind of mundane tale of petty conflict with which I would tire half-way through and lose interest in the telling. However, I am telling it because it was the beginning of something far more interesting.

I was a little sad about it, but Pete and I went on living our lives, running his business, keeping our home functioning and, when we had the energy, we hiked or dined out and rested.

To be continued, if there's sufficient interest that I earn at lest $1.00 in tips for this.

Lead image: Image generated by This Person Does Not Exist and edited with FaceApp