The Secret Sister Read Online Free Page A

yourself in that damaged face. Sweet­heart, you have nothing of hers; it’s all yours, the eyes, the smell, your skin; you have nothing of hers.
    â€œ
Her voice, Jonathan, is the same as mine.
It’s been years. She was in her room and I heard her humming a song. The door was ajar. I slipped inside. She didn’t notice. ‘The south wind came, the north wind came, the waves they came to take you / My love, you flew away from me / Because you were the sky.’ I got goose bumps. ‘Mama, what a beautiful song! Mama, sing some more!’ She stopped suddenly. ‘Don’t come in like that, without knocking, into someone else’s room.’ I don’t want to be like her, Jonathan.
”
 
    She was born in Astoria, Queens. We were born in Manhattan. Years went by. Grandpa died. Grandma moved to an old folks’ home. It was her own decision. You would never do something so heartless. Nor would you ever let Anthoula leave the house and disappear into the crowds of Manhattan. And if it were up to you, you would never let me travel alone, especially now, to that country that’s sinking. How can I get rid of dreams and age-old darknesses, how can I turn myself into something I have not yet become, in order to make room enough inside me for this unknown land?
    Should I think of the other Frosso, with her twenty-year-old body, before history broke her in pieces? Should I think of her vegetable garden in Podarades, her garden, the pit that’s only for flowers and not for the buried bodies of friends, relatives who once came together and are now like strangers and like hate? Should I conjure up before me a girl who didn’t want to leave that place which later everyone would want to leave? Shall I meet Little Frosso of New Ionia and Cappadocia? Should I listen to her song? The color of her voice? And then should I not be afraid, should I hear the sound her body made as it dove into the deep?
    The iron bird lurched as if rudderless. The sign just went on: “Fasten seat belt.”
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    â€œDon’t be afraid of anyone,” Grandma Erasmia used to tell us when bedtime came around. Then we’d say our prayers. They were made of two parts. Two halves. Half English, half Greek. “Dear God, please take good care of our family,
Iesous Christos nikai ke ola ta kaka skorpai
, and there is no evil on earth.”
    It was the winter of 1995, Sunday lunchtime. Grandpa was ill in the hospital. That day, Grandma left him for a little and came home. Mama was out. “I want to talk to you,” she said. “There’s a story I want you to hear.” Do you remember, Amalia? We were unprepared. What we saw, that was all we knew, and the things that couldn’t be seen were as if nonexistent. “I had a sister,” said Grandma. We gave each other a puzzled look. She had a sister, and why did she only tell us now, why did she let all these years go by? “Here she is,” she said, “I have her right here,” and she took the picture out of her bosom. “She was your Grandpa’s first wife,” she said, “
my little sister
.” Her little sister looked at us with bleary, timeworn eyes, her hair wavy, her beautiful hair, her nose, her cheeks, the line of her chin, her dimple, deeper on the right, and the suspicion of a smile. “
This is my sister.
”
 
Here, I carry that little photo with me now. Here, I have it. That tired photo. So Grandma had a sister and this sister whom she was revealing to us now for the first time was Grandpa’s first wife? You had Bellino in your arms. You put him down and went to her side.
    â€œ
Bellino was in no mood for petting that day.
”
    You sat next to her. You loved her, I knew it from the beginning, more than you did our mother or me; it was her, Erasmia, whom you loved. Did you know the story? Did you pity her situation? How safe an indicator of love is pity?