In My Sister's Shoes by Sinéad Moriarty Read Free Book Online Page A

terms, as opposed to having the role foisted on her at twelve, was a completely different experience. She had found it a chore to bring up Derek and me but raising the twins was pure joy. She relished her role and, as usual with Fiona, she became the best she could be – cooking them home-made organic meals, reading to them every night, teaching them the piano and playing stimulating games with them when she was so tired she could barely keep her eyes open. She had the patience of a saint – a virtue that had passed me by. Clearly she had got my share too. But all this, plus looking after Mark, preparing and correcting class work had left little time for Fiona to look after herself. As a result she seemed tired and older than her thirty-four years.
    Mark had chosen a more ambitious route and gone on to become a college lecturer. He had spent nine years playing the political game like the chess master he was, which had led to his recent appointment as head of mathematics at Dublin University. At thirty-five, he was the youngest person ever to hold the post – which he wasn’t shy about telling you.
    It was all very well for him to focus on his career, but it left Fiona to do the lion’s share of parenting and home-making. No wonder she was tired: it was a one-woman show. Whenever I had raised this with her in the past, she had laughed and said marriage was about compromise and that Mark’s success provided them with a lifestyle they wouldn’t otherwise have had. Because of him, the boys would be going to the best private school in Dublin and would have all the extra-curricular lessons and tutoring they needed. When I said I thought they’d be better off going to the local national school she shook her head and said that gifted children needed special guidance. The twins seemed bright enough, but I wasn’t sure about gifted. High-spirited, maybe, but I didn’t see any signs of genius, but then, hey, what did I know? I was single and in a job that required little or no intellect.
    Once the twins had nodded off, I asked Fiona when Mark was due home. She looked at her watch. ‘Oh, probably not for another hour.’
    ‘How come he’s so late?’
    ‘He’s busy with the paper for the Goldwin Prize. He’s flat out, poor thing.’
    I resisted the urge to tell her that I thought it disgraceful that her husband was showing up at nine o’clock on the night before her lumpectomy. Surely his stupid paper could have waited until tomorrow. ‘Can I get you anything?’ I asked.
    ‘No, I’m fine. I’ll just clean up here and then we can go through the boys’ routine for tomorrow.’
    ‘I’ll do that. Go and sit down – you look exhausted.’
    ‘I’m fine, Kate. Leave it,’ she said, grabbing the plates from my hand.
    ‘Fiona!’ I said sharply. ‘Sit down and relax. I’ll clean this up. Stop trying to be Superwoman. Let me help.’
    She looked surprised at my outburst, but for once she did as she was told. She must be feeling rotten, I thought, as I stacked the dishwasher. She’d never normally let me boss her around.
    When I had finished clearing up, Fiona said, ‘I don’t want the boys’ lives to be interrupted by my being sick. It’s absolutely vital that they have a normal routine. It’ll make them feel secure.’
    She was right. It made sense. Suddenly I felt very grownup. I was about to be allowed to look after the twins – gifted and all as they were.
    ‘Should I be taking notes?’ I asked, fishing in my bag for a pen and paper and coming up with an eyeliner and the back of a cigarette pack.
    Fiona sighed and handed me a folder titled ‘Routine’. In it was a colour-coded timetable, covering every detail of the twins’ day, including what music to play in the car on the way to and from school.
    ‘Wow, that’s impressive. You’ll have to give me the CD,’ I said, looking down at the list: Beethoven, Symphony No. 5; Pachelbel, Canon in D; Mozart, Eine Kleine Nachtmusik ; Bach, Jesu, Joy of