Nostalgia Makes Us Hungry

It had been the four of us, it felt like, since the dawn of time. That was completely false, but sometimes, it was hard for me to remember a time before we had been a complete set, when it had been just two or three of us. It felt like it had always been four, and any less was wrong. In reality, we had come in an orderly and neat pattern, 4 girls in 8 years, easy as pie. Bridget was first, like Bridget was always first, laying claim to the oldest child title as happy as a clam. Elaine was second, not really an afterthought but one all the same, and took her place as the shadow child with perhaps a reluctance, but if there was; she refused to show it. I was third, not quite first nor second, a real afterthought this time, no matter what mother nor father said. Bridget and Elaine doted over me, I was a real life doll for them to dress, to clean, to cradle. Four years passed, as years tend to do, slow and yet fast, my childhood on fast forward, a blurred rush of nostalgic endorphins in my head, before our fourth, our final. Freya was last, the final puzzle piece sliding right in. I was four, and although I don’t remember meeting her for the first time, Bridget remembered for me. “You were 4 or 5 or whatever, and mother came back and handed her to you, and your eyes lit up. It was like you had seen an angel. Too bad it was just Freya!" she laughed after, slapping her knee and descending into silent guffaws. I never found Bridget's jokes at Freya's expense kind, but it had always been Bridget's way, even before Freya came. So I leave it. As children we were petty, stealing toys and the affections of mother and father. They grew quickly annoyed with us, and I knew deep down that they would've wanted some boys to even it out. Bridget and Elaine were smart and snarky, and Freya was free spirited and strange, and I was something different yet the same. She would make daisy chains and flower crowns, whilst Bridget and Elaine would play chess and checkers on park benches, screaming over who won and who cheated. Sometimes I read or attempted to join. Briget ignored me and Elaine made some nasty remarks, but Freya would leave me be, and ignore my attempted conversation. I made my own friends, my own way in the world, because while we were sisters, friendship was a stretch. As teenagers pettiness turned to petulance, and a gulf grew between us. Many mornings we would spend cramped in our only bathroom, hiking up skirts and curling eyelashes, then dabbing on $5 dollar blush from the chemist, sharing perfume and spraying it on wrists and necks, all while some angry girl sang about her boyfriend. Then, we would drive to school and go our separate ways, our separate cliques. Bridget was smart, Elaine was popular, I was somewhere in the middle, and Freya was an outcast, like always. We would barely talk, barely notice nor speak to one another until we got home, and then we were sisters again. Our invisible string stretched but never snapped, and extended. Boyfriends, both good and bad, floated through our brains. Elaine got them all in the end though, it took a bat of her lashes and a smile through her shiny teeth and they were done, no matter which sister they started with; they always ended with Elaine. She threw them out quickly, snapped them out like a fisherman and then threw them back out to sea after a kiss. I didn't blame her, I was the only one who didn't though. Bridget screamed at her and so did Freya, when she built up the courage and acted on it, which was rare. Seeing Freya, noticing her, understanding her was rare. We looked the same, like mother did, same blue eyes and brown hair. Elaine had fathers strong chin and sharp jaw, me mothers round cheeks and pink lips, Freya the curls of our Aunt Lucy, and Bridget was a bit of everything. When we were young, we used to all dress matching, but mother got sick of that and so did father, and eventually we were left to our own devices. I've forgotten how they met; something about a friend's party, and a spilled drink. Freya used to ask all the time, and they used to tell it the same, until father looked to long at his new assistant and it came out that mother was the second choice, and then it was late nights at the office and it turned out that there was no spilled drink, and then it wasn't anything at all. They didn't want four kids, nevertheless four girls, and sometimes I am scared we broke them. One night, they fought for ages, and Freya climbed into my bed, sweaty and eight.

"It is my fault. I am one too many."

I had rubbed her head and told her that she was not; she was perfect, and if it was one too many Elaine wouldn't be here, she would be in some fancy New York highrise, and Freya giggled and I felt like everything would be okay. It wouldn't, but it was nice to pretend. We were sisters for sure, but we were never close, always far.

The years have forgotten me, I think, as I drive to my childhood town. Has it really been this long, since i was a teenager out dancing, and i came back, street lights blurred and head pounding. The deja vu makes me sick; the nostalgia makes me hungry. I am the only one of us that will be alone; I know that already. Elaine had her husband and two kids, her perfect cookie cutter life she was always going to get, the life she had wanted since childhood. I hope her daughter, Georgia looks like her when she grows older, I miss the youth in my elder sister's face. I am still wearing black, even though the funeral was days ago, it feels like a skin I can't shed. Bridget might be alone, but she will probably bring one of her glamourous surgeon friends she seems to never run out of, with shiny teeth and perfect bodies. I grow tired of her ignorance of how her life has turned out; she wants to pretend it is perfect but we all see through the cracks in her smile. Well, Elaine doesn't because she doesn't care, but nobody expected that of Elaine, she is too casual, far too flippant to muster the courage to care. Freya has herself, her wildness and crazed self euphoria, and that has always been enough for her, but she also has Sage, her souvenir from backpacking around Asia aged 23. Sage is old now (I don't know how old) and goes to University (18? 19?) but I haven't seen her since she was little, playing in the dirt in the flower garden in Freya's outback house.

"Elaine is so uptight with Georgia and Jacob, seriously it drives me bonkers." Freya had said, eyes glassing with something, smock soaked in dirt and mud.

"Yeah, but she has always been like that."

"But does she have to be?"

I looked at Freya strangely after that, and she shrugged.

"You have to stop Claire. You can't keep us together when we are growing apart."

I haven't seen her since, unless grimy phone calls and half-hearted face timing in the middle of covid count. I am sure she is happy, Freya found happiness easy, or maybe it found her? Well, it didn't find me. I am tired in the car, driving to the house. I am scared as well. I wasn't alone, once. When my last love soured I knew that was it. My chance at love and life has soured, a lemon on a hot windowsill, juices falling down. When Elaine had her first child, I bought Seth, my then fiancee. We walked back to the car, balloons Elaine had refused deflating slowly. He grabbed my hand and kissed it, before saying 'I'm so excited for when we have our own.' I didn't have the heart to tell him that I didn't want that future. Perhaps that is why I am driving home alone, why he wasn't here to comfort me. It's my own fault, I know deep down it is, but does it hurt less?

The funeral was suffocating, all sweaty air and people I used to know. Elaine pretended to cry, Bridget did but ended up crying for real, and Freya actually cried. I wasn't sure what to do, so I just stood there, feeling the hot air sweep into my bones. Afterwards it was all fake smiles and laughs, none of it feeling real, not yet. When they said that somebody needed to put up the sign at the house; I put my hand up so quickly the sweat pooled down my arm. I saw Freya, Elaine and Bridget one last time before the invisible string snapped, in Elaine's perfect blue and white monster of a house, sitting on the floor in her freshly mowed garden. We had exchanged our goodbyes, our farewells before we went our separate ways, other paths. We are not children anymore; our lives are not as connected as they once were. The past is the past, and we still have our future to keep contained. We are not children anymore (I wish we were). Bridget left first, claiming a work meeting (nobody can bullshit like Bridget) and blew us all air kisses and ran out through the back fence. Then went Freya, who hugged us for real and promised to call. Then it was me and Elaine, just the two of us for the first time in forever. She looked at me and we talked for a bit, but I could tell she wanted me to leave so I did.

Now I am here, driving through the streets I used to know like the back of my hand, now a sea of suburbia. I stop in front of my old house, the owner of my childhood and memories, a past I can never recover. It smells like Bridget's favourite perfume from 14-17, smells of Elaine's curl cream from when she was convinced she had curls, sounds like Freya's sixties revival music blaring from speakers. In reality it just smells of air, and my own sweat. I'm not meant to do this alone, but I have nobody left to ask. Freya is already halfway to Brisbane, Elaine wouldn't pick up and Bridget would make excuses, like always. I lift the boot and grab it out, a huge imposing sign that looks too large. Yet I heave it out, drag it across the pavement, wincing as it scraps and scratches. I lift it and stand it up, grabbing the pathetic hammer he gave me, and beat it into the dying grass. I stand back and admire my handiwork, and I freeze. It is scary to see the world slipping through your fingers. 'FOR SALE', the sign says, screams at me. My past is for sale. My childhood is gone for real this time. I smile through my tears and bid farewell to myself, my past and the sisters I used to know. The sign does not lie; they never do. It is time, I think, to do something I've been so scared to do. I have made my bed for so long, perfected the pillows and folded the sheets and it is time, I think, to finally sleep in it, really mess up the perfection. I have made my choice, and I can regret it all I want, but it is done. I need to stop tugging that invisible string, and let it go. Maybe I need to live for myself, maybe I have always needed to. I blow a final kiss, and I climb in my car. The deja vu is a bit startling for a minute; aren't I meant to go inside and kiss father on the cheek? Wave hello to mother and snuggle next to Freya in bed? No, that was before. I take comfort knowing that the house is not completely empty; there are still those four ghosts in front of the cramped bathroom mirror, singing along with the music and doing each other's makeup. The future has not come for them yet.