The Secret Sister. Karen Clarke

the truth was, I felt elated. Feelings that had been lying dormant since Mum’s funeral were flowing back to life. I could feel the blood fizzing through my veins, like champagne. I wanted to know … everything.

      Scrambling up, I rummaged past the detritus on the bed for my bag and yanked out my phone. After switching it on, I drummed my fingers while it connected to the inefficient Wi-Fi, then signed in to my Facebook account.

      I tapped in Colleen Brody Ireland knowing it was silly – pointless, in fact. It was an Irish name, there were bound to be hundreds and I remembered Greg’s comment about her maybe having a different name altogether.

      A whole list of Colleens sprang up and my breathing grew shallow as I scrolled through them, hands shaking. There was a learning consultant, a teacher, an artist and a lifeguard. One was even a man, and several of them were too old. A couple had no identity at all – no photos, no details, just a blank avatar.

      I mainly used social media for keeping up with old friends and for networking in my job as a food photographer, but I hadn’t posted anything for a while. My profile picture was a professional shot that deepened my eyes to a smoky grey and made the most of my cheekbones. My hair looked sleek and shiny and my smile mysterious; not like my usual sunny self – ‘sunny’ being the word most often used to describe me.

      I wondered what Colleen did for a living. The possibilities seemed endless.

      Reluctant to log off, I scrolled up and down the list again more slowly, examining each face. One in particular leapt out. I hadn’t looked properly the first time, but now I felt a flash of recognition.

       It’s her.

      She was gazing directly at the camera with a serious expression, and something about her reminded me of Mum – the same long straight nose and curve of her upper lip. Her hair was the same pale honey-blonde shade as mine, but wavy where mine was straight. She looked about the right age too and although it could have been an old photo, I felt a deep connection in the pit of my stomach that was almost chemical.

       This is my sister.

      My fingers felt fat and clumsy as I tried to access her page, but it was set to private.

      Downstairs, Maisie was calling. ‘Mummy, Mummy, I want you!’

      ‘Coming, darling!’ I was rigid with excitement and couldn’t stop looking at the picture, searching for clues to her personality. Who had taken the picture? A husband, a relative, or had she taken it herself?

      I clicked on the message box and quickly typed: You don’t know me, but I need to talk to you. I think we might be related. I hesitated. What if she didn’t know she was adopted? It might come as a massive shock for her and her family. I didn’t want to be responsible for dropping such a bombshell, but what else could I do?

      Go through the proper channels, I imagined Greg saying.

      ‘Mummeeee!’ Footsteps pattered up the stairs.

      ‘Won’t be a minute!’ I chewed my knuckle then typed Please, please reply to this. I have reason to believe you’re my sister. Oh God, what if it was the wrong Colleen?

      But somehow, I knew that it wasn’t.

      I pressed Send, and was almost sent flying as Maisie charged in and flung herself at me.

      ‘Mummy, I missed you,’ she said, winding her arms around my neck as I fell back and I held her close, breathing in her smell of sunshine and innocence, wondering for the first time how Mum could have given up a child, whatever the circumstances.

      ‘I missed you too,’ I said, nuzzling her neck until she giggled, quelling a surge of apprehension when Greg appeared with more coffee. He wouldn’t approve of what I’d done. The thought of keeping something from him was a new one and not entirely unpleasant.

      ‘Still not finished?’ he said, eyeing the clothes-strewn room.

      I settled for widening my eyes in a way that made him smile.

      ‘Don’t worry, I’ll give you a hand,’ he said, ruffling Maisie’s hair. It was almost as if our previous conversation hadn’t happened. ‘We’ll be finished in an hour.’

      ‘Grandpa’s making a peanut butter sambich,’ Maisie said, leaping up and throwing herself at her grandfather as he appeared in the doorway.

      ‘It’s ready,’ he said, smiling thinly as she let go of his legs and ran along the landing. He looked tired, deep lines bracketing his mouth. ‘I don’t know where she gets her energy.’

      ‘From Greg,’ I said lightly, as he put the coffee on the bedside table.

      Dad avoided looking at the paraphernalia on the bed and floor and it hit me afresh how sad it was that he wanted to get rid of Mum’s things. He’d loved her so deeply, almost painfully. I’d sometimes felt left out when I was younger. Though he’d been affectionate enough with me, Mum had been his world in the same way I’d been hers.

      ‘What’s that?’ he said, spotting the open shoebox.

      I caught Greg’s horrified stare and looked away.

      ‘Just some of Mum’s bits and bobs,’ I improvised, smiling. ‘Hair slides and … jewellery – costume stuff, not the nice bits.’ I snatched up the lid and placed it back on the box. My heart was banging my chest hard enough to leap out. ‘Nothing important.’

      His gaze landed on the letter, which I’d forgotten to put back.

      ‘That’s mine,’ I said, slipping it in my bag.

      He was clutching the doorframe, the tendons in his hands standing out, but he didn’t respond.

      ‘Let’s get that sandwich,’ Greg said, moving onto the landing and scooping Maisie up as she passed.

      ‘What’s wrong, Dad?’ I said, when they’d gone downstairs.

      ‘Why do you keep asking me that?’ The edge in his voice made me flinch. Mum’s death had roughened his boundaries. He never used to speak to me like that. He glanced at my phone, where my Facebook page was displayed, and I had to resist the urge to switch it off.

      ‘I was just checking my messages.’

      He hesitated. ‘I’m going out for a bit. Lock up when you leave, Ellie.’ He spoke more gently, reverting to my childhood name. ‘Thanks for doing this, I know it can’t be easy.’

      ‘It’s OK,’ I said, but we both knew it wasn’t.

      I sat on the edge of the bed when he’d gone, sipping my lukewarm coffee, feeling adrift in the sea of my mother’s belongings.

      Slowly, the elation I’d felt ebbed away and I had the feeling my life was about to slide out of control.