In My Sister's Shadow (Book 1)

1. The Midnight Call.

Day One.

It was 12.37 a.m when we got the phone call. In the pit of my stomach I knew something was wrong. There was something eerie about late night calls that snatched sleep from my eyes like a thief and jolted me up in my bed in dread. I held my breath waiting for a voice. A murmur. A voice. To my devastation I heard mum's wails.

That's when I knew something was terribly wrong.

It was the moment my life changed forever.

Quickly I pulled my beige shawl over my head and rushed to my parent's bedroom. The wailing grew louder increasing my heart rate. Was it granddad or grandma in Pakistan? Who could it be?

When I entered their bedroom, I found mum's figure perched on the end of the bed with her head in her hands. Dad pressed the corded phone against his ear dressed in a string vest. The corner lamp washed the figures in a dim and gloomy light and silhouetted their hunched crestfallen figures.

"What happened?" I pressed dad.

Mum's soul rendering sobs filled the room.

***
Without a second to think, I was in the back of my dad's Toyota Avensis speeding through the rain. The wipers swished hopelessly and I couldn't see past the mist. It was late December, Christmas decorations and lights coiled the lampposts in the streets of Birmingham. This year, there would be no reason to enjoy the holidays; devastation would grip our home. I leaned forward and tugged mum for answers, but she bowed her head in her hands and all she said was, "your sister. Zeenat. My Zeenat!"

Zeenat was younger sister by two years. She was the bright, funny, vivacious sister that spread laughter with her infectious snorting giggle. Everyone loved her. She was the life and joy of the party as everyone would always ask, "Where's Zeenat? How is she?" My younger sister was stunning and the apples of dad's eye.

However, dad hadn't seen her for the past five years. This was the first time he would meet her since she moved out in acrimony with her rebellious husband Zayn-ul-Abidin.

Sitting in the waiting with our eyes pinned on the door eyeing up every doctor or nurse desperate for news of our sister, my leg bounced nervously. I reached out and held mum's hands tight, both of us in desperate need of support.

When the Polish doctor arrived with a name without vowels that I couldn't pronounce, we jumped to our feet and accosted him. He led us to the relatives' room decorated with flowers and pretty pastel colours to make us feel better. But how could we? We were to learn of the devastation that lay in the hospital; my young baby sister.

"Your daughter has been involved in a serious road traffic collision. She has serious injuries and we have to operate on her ruptured spleen."

She was alive.

"Can we see her?" Instantly mum stepped forward.

The doctor shook his head, but mum began to cry. She implored the doctor in her broken Mirglish; English with Mirpuri.

"You no understanding me, dactar Saab."

Thankfully, the doctor caved.

Lying on the hospital bed wasn't my sister. The woman was half her weight. Her mouth swollen. Her face pale. She was a shadow of my sister Zeenat. Wired up to machines and monitors, the beeps recorded her heart beat. My stomach twisted with grief. I felt physically sick. Mum and dad stood by her bed and called out to her; there was no response.

"Her children are with the on call early years worker." The nurse approached me.

"Her children? They were involved in the accident?" I turned to my alarm. "Are they okay?"