Read Online The Secret Sister by Fotini Tsalikoglou, Mary Kritoeff - Free Book Online

despite the unbearable winter cold and the stifling summer heat, the crowd was unfailingly there. Noisy and detached from our story, the crowd flooded our city, which could never embrace us in its silence. We were growing up with this unchanged crowd. It was in its company that we ushered in the new millennium. At Times Square, the universe was ablaze, thousands of fireworks embroidering the sky, “Happy New Millennium,” “Happy 2000.” We put on paper hats, we blew on party horns and waved American flags, we burrowed into the pandemonium. The sky was turning red. I saw you with Michael, he had his arm around you.
    â€œ
He was just a friend, Jonathan, nothing more, you glared at him like he was a thief.
”
 
    No stranger could ever make you happy, Amalia.
    â€œ
You needn’t have worried. Happiness and I never got along that well, Jonathan.
”
 
    My head grew heavy. I couldn’t take any more celebrations. I went home hoping no one was there. But she was there. Alone. Drinking. She offered me a glass of champagne.
    â€œHappy New Year, son!” she said.
    â€œHappy New Year, Miss Andersen!” I downed the drink with one gulp and went to bed.
    It was January 1st, 2000. I went to visit Grandma.
    In a clean room, a TV set, a table, an armchair, soon she’d turn eighty-five, there was no room or need for anything more. Every two hours a nurse made a cursory check—blood pressure cuff, oxygen tank, serum IV at the ready, urine sample cups. The dining room was on the lower floor, there was a young volunteer who’d wheel her down there, “She’s absolutely fine,” the head nurse assured me. In a corner on the windowsill, among the skyscrapers, a little plastic plant pot with a flower that looked like a cyclamen stood out like a sore thumb, no doubt a gift from Anthoula, no one else came to see her. “She’s almost completely silent all day long,” the volunteer said, and when I asked him, “And how about at night?” he didn’t reply. I stroked her hair like you would have. She was sitting in the armchair, I couldn’t tell if she was sleeping. I adjusted a lock of her white hair which fell limply to the side. She half opened her eyes and gave a faint smile.
    â€œAmalia, is that you?” she said.
    â€œIt’s not Amalia, it’s Jonathan, Grandma.”
    â€œFrosso?”
    â€œIt’s Jonathan, Grandma.”
    I didn’t stay. Next day, the exact same thing. As soon as she saw me, she sat up in bed, and when I touched her hair, with lifeless eyes and an almost nonexistent voice, she said:
    â€œAmalia, is that you?”
    â€œYes, Grandma, it’s Amalia, didn’t you recognize me?”
    With something that looked like a smile on her lips, she whispered:
    â€œBut of course I recognize you, what a thing to ask, come and sit next to me,
canım
.” 10  
    â€œI put on your eyes and I caressed her, Amalia.”
    â€œ
But, Jonathan, you told the truth.
”
    The turbulence persists, growing heavier. The flight attendant takes the glass of red wine that has just spilled over the white napkin that was spread on my lap. When Grandpa ate, he would always tie a white napkin around his neck. Do you remember, Amalia? Grandma also had a white napkin tied around her neck, the volunteer had just finished feeding her.
    â€œShe didn’t make a mess at all,” he said to me. “We did really well.”
    A few days went by and I went back to see her. It was as if there was someone else in her place. The young volunteer was waiting for me.
    â€œShe’s restless,” he said, “very restless.” And then added: “She’s been waiting for you.”
    â€œWhom?” I asked anxiously. “Whom has she been waiting for?”
    â€œYou, of course. Aren’t you her grandson?”
    â€œYes, I am,” and I asked him to step outside for a bit.
    Grandma Erasmia lay there