Meet Me Where the Ocean Touches the Sky

Chapter 2: Rome, Dermot Kennedy

Charlotte goes quiet once I confess that my sister is dating the guy who saved her. But couldn't save her brother. I won't pretend that I know how she feels. And not just because I haven't seen her in so long. You'd have to have walked in her shoes to even begin to imagine what she's feeling right now.

I used to know all of her by heart. Her reactions, her feelings, what makes her soul sing and the things that break her sensitive heart. She's almost the same on the outside, and at the same time she isn't. I guess her heart is also different now. It is so evident that she's still scarred, still grieving. Tom and she were so close. It was the twin thing. But also, them two, their family and how they had to be each other's best friend growing up because their folks were just too busy to pay any attention to them.

Now I'm taking her to face exactly what she's been trying to avoid when she left. The question that I know is still unanswered: why did she get to live, and Tom didn't.

'He won't be home. He's working a late shift until the morning. By then I can drive you to the flat or to your mum's house. Mum and dad have also offered to have you.'

'Thank you, Danny.'

Her voice is even. If she's surprised or upset, she doesn't show it. I wish I could do more for her. Five years later and I still don't know where to start. I think I'm too scared to say or do the wrong thing and lose her forever. And yet I was a complete ass to her earlier. Taunting her about that time we kissed. As if it didn't mean anything to me.

I respect her need for silence for the rest of the drive. At some point I turn the radio on but keep the volume low. I catch a glimpse of her. She's on her phone, scrolling through Instagram. She works in marketing, so I tell myself that it's for work and not because she doesn't know what to say to me. The truth is, I don't know either. There's so much I need to say and at the same time so little. I already beat myself up for the long years where we've barely spoken; sometimes even forgetting each other's birthday or writing on Christmas and New Year. If I didn't know what to say then, what I am supposed to tell her now?

'Lisa says I make a terrible uncle.'

To my surprise, Charlotte laughs at my random admission. She puts her phone away and shifts in her seat to watch me. I feel her smile more than I see it. It sends ripples of her softness through the car. Almost like a warm hug.

'Tell me more.'

'Ugh... You'd have to ask her. She can go on about this for ages. I guess you could say that feeding Mila a bottle of squash once because she wouldn't take any milk other than her mum's didn't help.'

'Oh my god, Danny! How old was she?'

I hesitate, give her a quick glance, and says:

'Barely five months.'

'Oh. My god! Danny!'

'I know, I know... but do you see any boob producing milk on this body?' I joke as I gesture towards myself. 'I was desperate. Mila wouldn't stop crying and Lisa was out of town.'

And just like I felt her smile, I feel her sudden sadness. She doesn't move, but I know that she's no longer looking at me. She's closed her eyes. I have no doubt she's either trying to picture this in her mind or holding back the tears I know haven't been far since the moment she arrived.

'What else?' she whispers, and I wonder if she's actually got her eyes closed to somehow try and live these moments with us in some alternate reality. One where her brother didn't die, and she didn't have to leave to be able to keep breathing.

So I tell her about the kitten that Lisa adopted when Mila was baby. How these two have been growing up together like weird siblings. How Skye, the kitten, guarded Mila like her own offspring when she was a baby. How she attacked me once when I was babysitting, and how she now hisses every time she sees me getting too close to my niece in her presence. I tell Charlotte about the mess my sister would come home to every time I had to look after her kids. That Mila loves baking but doesn't want my help. She's learnt to scream from the top of her lungs without interruption if I try and assist. Now that there's Jacob too, the choice between a wailing new-born and a couple of broken eggs, some spilled milk and a dust of flour on the floor is an easy one to make.