ANDREA LEIGH BATES

Rachael is my step-sister. She is sixteen; a year older than me. Unlike Rachael and her father, who have spent their entire life in London, Momma and I are natively Americans; from Stillwater, Oklahoma. We moved here after my parents' divorce.

Rae says I look like the stereotypical bony blonde-bimbo dunderhead. I'm not a bimbo. Whatever that means.

I still remember when I had moved in with Momma to live with Rachael and her father. I was nine. I never lifted my gaze off the China carpet in their living room and would clutch onto Momma's jacket all the time.

I was scared.

Rachael – she really scared me. I was excited to move in with a girl almost my age but the moment I saw her, I knew something was wrong with her. I think it was her eyes – they were deep, dark and piercing – every time I'd look at them, I'd feel the fury radiating off them; as if a war was going on inside that little head.

She was usually quiet around me and Momma. I understood why, when I saw a family photograph of Rachael, her father and of another woman on the mantelpiece. The woman was smiling a large happy smile with wonderful dimples on her cheeks and I couldn't help but be amazed at how similar it was to Rachael's.

She had wispy auburn hair and mesmerising sea-green eyes. Rachael had her mother's hair and her father's deep brown eyes.

All I know is that one morning they found Mrs. Hills dead in the garden shed. No one in the household ever really talked about it.

Rachael recovered with time. I knew it would be long before she actually got over her mother's death, but she was trying her best. She was funny, kind and sweet – over the years we became inseparable. Some people just need to be understood.

We used to share a room back then. Our beds were a few feet apart, separated by a small streaked wooden bedside table with a vermillion draped night lamp over it.

"How many stars can you count tonight?" I would ask her, after we'd been tucked in bed. She would look out the window with tired eyes. "Four...no, five."

"You think your Mom's one of them?"

"No, Ann. My Mom doesn't have anything to do with balls of plasma in space. She's dead."

"Well, Momma says-"

"I don't care what your Mom says, okay?"

A few moments of oppressive silence.

"You know, Momma's your Mom too now." I'd say. Silence again.

"Rae?"

"What?"

"Why do you hate her so much?"

"I don't hate her," she'd lie, "I just need time. To adjust."

She'd turn away and pretend to be asleep to avoid further conversation. Some nights, I'd see her shoulders tremble with quiet sobs and other nights, she'd just be staring up at the ceiling, her chest falling up and down in a quiet rhythm.

I tried to make her see that Momma was a wonderful woman. She could be a little vulgar when she'd overdosed herself on parties, men and all the alcohol; and her club night codes could be a little revolting; but she was a great woman otherwise. She was a singer – a very good one.

She had met Mr. Hills in a bar downtown, a few months after his wife's death. He called her in for dinner at his house that night. Momma had had many dates after she had divorced Daddy years ago, but I don't think any of them had lasted for more than a night. I was happy Momma had finally found someone to move in with. She and I used to move around the country all the time. She'd perform in a local bar or restaurant wherever we stayed. When she and Mr. Hills announced that they were getting married, I was elated; but Rachael was absolutely outraged. She didn't say a word; but her eyes were burning. She simply got up and left.

But Rachael accepted it after all. She started calling Momma "Mother"; but never really 'Mom', what she used to call Mrs. Hills. She said it felt like a betrayal. I guess I understood.

Rachael wasn't close to her father. I don't know why, she never talked about these things. But there was always this thick impenetrable haze between her and Mr. Hills. Maybe the only person she truly and deeply did love was her dead mother.

I remember, once when we were sitting out by the garden one afternoon, and I asked her why she seemed so distant to her Dad.

"That's not my Dad, Ann," she said, looking up at the sky with a forlorn yearning in her eyes, "He died with my mother last autumn."