Free The House of Memories by Monica McInerney

running free now. “I don’t care about that either! I don’t care about you or Walter or Jess. And I’ll never love her, no matter how much you try to make me!”
    Once I’d slammed my way into my bedroom, the fury turned into tears again. I was nearly twelve, old enough to know that Mum was right. I
was
jealous. I
should
love my baby sister. But at that moment, I couldn’t. It was too hard. For the second night in a row, I found myself under my bed. I cried myself to sleep.
    Charlie woke me up two hours later, using my hockey stick to poke me awake. “I come bearing food,” he hissed. He’d smuggled in some biscuits and chocolate (he always had a secret stash). He pushed them under the bed, reciting what was on offer as if he were a waiter, chatting to me in his usual conversational way, as if it weren’t a bit strange that I was lying in my dark bedroom, under my bed, cramming biscuits into my mouth.
    He waited until I’d eaten three biscuits and two chocolates before he spoke. “Are you okay?”
    “No,” I said, my voice muffled by the food.
    “You’re in the right, you know.”
    I swallowed. “About what?”
    “Jess,” he said. His voice was clear and firm in the darkness. “She is a complete nightmare. She has brought nothing but pain and suffering to this house. Not to mention a great deal of washing. She is nothing but a big, stupid, red-faced, bald crybaby. A midget, stupid, red-faced, bald crybaby.”
    I suddenly heard myself laugh.
    He continued. “She can’t feed herself, either. She dribbles. She’s also incontinent. You know what that word means, don’t you? Disgusting. She wears
nappies
, all day, every day. She can’t string two words together. She hasn’t got any teeth. Did I mention she was bald? Hairless and toothless. No wonder you hate her. She’s absolutely hateful. Hideous. A blight on society. She should be banished, not just from this house, but this city, this country, thrown to the wolves, eaten alive, torn from limb to limb—”
    He was going too far now. “She’s not that bad. And it’s not her fault she cries so much.”
    “It is,” he said, matter-of-factly. “She is evil and she must be destroyed.”
    “She’s not evil,” I said. “She’s just a little baby.”
    “Come out here and say that, if you’re so brave,” he said.
    I edged out, and sat up, pushing my hair out of my eyes, feeling the imprint of the carpet on my face.
    He handed me another biscuit.
    “Thanks, Charlie,” I said. I wasn’t just thanking him for the biscuit.
    “No need for thanks,” he said. “Anyway, maybe your mum is right. Maybe you’ll learn to love her. Like you’d learn, I don’t know, to live with a wart. Or a boil. Metaphorically speaking.”
    He gave me one more chocolate, told me it was my turn to load the dishwasher and left the room.
    I remember lying down on the carpet again for a few minutes to think his words over. Could I learn to love Jess? Like I’d learned to ride a bike, cook an omelet, climb a tree? With practice and repetition? Maybe I could at least try. I left my room, said sorry to Mum, to Walter, to Jess and to Charlie. And for the next few months, it was almost peaceful at home. If you ignored Jess’s constant crying. Which I tried to do.
    Life settled for all of us. I received the news about my dad’s death. I was sad at first, but I also found it confusing. I’d rarely heard from him and I realized I didn’t really remember him. He’d become a distant figure in my life. Mum had also made it clear she didn’t like him, that he had been an error of judgment in her life. And there was always so much going on at home to distract me from any thoughts of him. Jess was starting to crawl and talk a lot. No words, just babble, a nonstop stream of nonsense words, which even I had to admit were pretty funny. I began to feel happier most of the time. Mum had started noticing me again. I had friends at school and Charlie’s great company at home.