The Unexpected Visitor

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Here is a fictional short story about an unexpected visitor with a twist.

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My hands molded the dough. Flour seeped into my fingernails as I turned the dough over. I placed the soft succulent mixture into a tin and put it into the oven before rinsing my hands under warm running water, drying them quickly on a towel.

The doorbell chimed loudly during my Friday evening of baking. I drank the rest of the red wine from my glass and quickly wiped down the grey marble worktop cleaning the specs of flour off with a damp cloth. The trilling of the doorbell made me jump as my ginger head hit the saucepans hanging from the canopy.

When I opened the front door, I panicked. I saw a face I thought I would never see again. It was my older sister, Mary. I stumbled unexpectedly. The dyed blonde streaks of hair, podgy overweight shabby body wreaked. She stood there with a wide grin on her face as I covered my nose with my hand. I noticed her scruffy, torn, blue duffle coat and white dirty trainers. I was flabbergasted. The secret of my past had come flooding back.

"Mary, what are you doing here?"

"Is that all you can ask after 15 years, Lizzie? Aren't you glad to see me?" She replied as I felt the tension rise up within me.

"Why didn't you call first?"

Mary walked inside and pushed past me. Her rudeness was still the same.

"You know phones aren't my thing… and I thought it was time I saw my baby sister. Let's face it, you were never going to come back to Ireland after the stunt you pulled off," she said abruptly.

"Stop! Don't you ever say that out loud!" I said angrily and worried my kids would hear.

"I'm sorry."

She walked further into the hallway.

I watched her, stunned with dread. She looked down at the dark oak flooring and up at the mahogany banister. The back of her hair was tangled in knots.

She walked into the kitchen and I followed her.

"So, why are you here? How did you get here?"

Mary picked up the photo frame on the nearby teak shelf.

"By ferry. So, you've got kids and you're married. You've got a lovely place here in London. It must have cost a fortune. Look at ya… all dressed up in a red slinky satin top and flashy leggings… you look like a Queen," Mary announced.

"I'm supposed to be meeting a client," I said pausing to check my watch. "And the bank owns everything you see here. It's called a mortgage," I answered irritatedly.

Her shrieking laugh brought back hideous memories of that day by the lake.

"Cool. What does your husband do then?" Mary asked, interrupting my wild thoughts.

"Tom is a policeman."

"Ah, that's a fine line you've got yourself into. What were you thinking?"

I gave her a thunderous stare. She sat down by the oak dining table and reached into her bag, pulling out a cigarette.

"You can't smoke here. Outside please."

I fetched my black wool coat and she followed me outside. The icy windy evening breeze lashed my cheeks. Snowflakes fell onto my coat.

"Are you cooking? There's a sweetness in the air," she said as she lit her cigarette and puffed out a cloud of smoke.

"Yes, I'm baking for a client and she'll be here soon."

"Nice," Mary replied.

"So, what's going on, Mary. Why are you here?"

"I had to take a trip?"

"Why?"

"I stayed too long in one place," Mary said with a snigger as she walked onto the wet sludgy grass.

"Are you in trouble?"

"Always," she answered as she glanced upwards and whistled. "You've got a nice life, Lizzie. Do you ever think about mum?"

"No."

"I do. More as I get older."

"I'm not getting sentimental over this."

"She lived in a hospital for a while… she often remembered things," Mary stated as a shivering sharpness spooked me.

"I'm through with that, Mary."

"Don't tell me you don't think about it."

I remembered the steep cliff.

"Stop! You cannot come here and play happy families with me. I need you to leave. You can't be here," I whispered.

"I suppose you haven't told your husband then."

"Just leave, Mary, and don't come back. It's best that way."

She threw the cigarette on the wet grass. Inside, she grabbed her bag, walking to the front door.

"I'm sorry I intruded but before I go… I need to tell you that mum died a few days ago… she had a stroke so you don't need to worry anymore… she'll never tell anyone the truth now," she said gloomily. "The funeral is next week if you want to come."

I nodded at Mary.

I felt heartbroken at hearing about my mother's fate but relieved at the same time. I didn't cry. I felt the sadness surround me but I was bitter about my childhood days.

Mary gave me a hug. I heard her cry softly.

"I'm sorry, Mary," I said.

"I know," she answered.

She disappeared into the snow-filled misty night. I felt a numb ache in the pit of my stomach at the thought of not going to my mother's funeral. I didn't want to go back to Ireland.

A treacherous hatred swirled my insides as I remembered that terrible day in Ireland. Opening the oven, the sweet chocolate salted caramel wafted into my nostrils as I remembered my sister being pinned down by my mother's boyfriend.

The steepness of the cliff nearby was a stupendous rift. I could still hear the screams and I remembered reaching for the large, heavy rock on the ground. My small fingers touched its sharp edges as I held it. Tears fell as I remembered the thump of the rock on his head. With a jolt, he'd fallen off the cliff and tumbled all the way down to the bottom. I could still hear the thump onto the rocks below as I placed the baking tray onto the work surface.

I dipped my finger into the chocolate and popped it into my mouth. Would Mary tell Tom or would I learn to live with what I'd done all those years ago?

©️ Denise Larkin 2020. All Rights Reserved.

This fictional short story is also published on Medium.com