Deviant by Helen Fitzgerald Page B

waiter left with their order.
    Dunoon. Our shared past!
She was about to ask him about it when he looked over his shoulder and announced: “And here she is.”
    Abigail did not believe in ghosts. Many dark, boring hours had been filled playing with Ouija boards in shelters and foster homes. While she’d screamed a couple of times at the movingletters that spelled things like “death to Colin” (one of the social workers), she never really bought any of it. But when she turned and saw her sister for the first time, Abigail found herself staring at the undead. It was Sophie Thom with twenty years sucked out and fresh life blown in. This girl—this young Winona Ryder with short cropped dark hair, with a petite silver nose and belly button ring (visible under the crop top)—was the spitting image of Mum.
    “Oh my God,” Abigail whispered out loud, accidentally.
    “You must be my little sister,” her dead mother said.
    “I …” She couldn’t string a sentence together
    “Are you okay?” Grahame asked. “This must be a lot to take in.”
    Abigail took a deep breath, tried to shake off the shock, and stood up to face her sister. There was an aura, an energy, about this girl. Her eyes buzzed. “I’m sorry, it’s just you look—”
    “Identical to Sophie,” Becky interrupted lightly. “So I hear.”
    “Freakishly so.” Abigail swallowed. Her eyes began to sting. The exhaustion was finally catching up with her. Here she was with a father who looked like her and a sister who looked like her mother.
This must be what a “family” is
, she thought to herself. A group of people who have indisputable, physical proof that they belong together.
    Becky held out her hand to shake Abigail’s. “I’m so pleased to meet you.”
    Abigail took her sister’s hand for a trembling shake. Before she knew what was happening, Becky had hauled her in for a hug.
    “I’m so, so glad you’re here,” Becky whispered in her ear. “I mean it, Abigail.” Her voice quavered. “You have no idea.”
    A BIGAIL YEARNED FOR A moment alone, to take it all in. She sat crumpled in her chair, unable to speak. All she could think was that if she’d lived a privileged life, she’d probably be even
more
like her father. She’d have done physics and chemistry, for a start. She’d have had a room of her own, a desk to study on, and would have topped all her classes. Right now, she’d be getting ready for the next step, university. Hell, she’d probably be wearing slacks and a cardigan.
    These thoughts suddenly made her aware of her STUFF THE MONARCHY T-shirt. Her father seemed to notice her attempt to zip up her jacket.
    “So, you don’t like Kate Middleton?”
    “Oh, well, I’ve never met her … of course. I’m sorry. I suppose it’s a little—”
    “The Scots hate the English, Dad,” Becky said. “You should know that.”
    He blinked and tried to smile. “Sorry. I’m nervous, making small talk. Do you think Scotland will be independent one day, Abigail?”
    “Maybe, I don’t know.” She finally managed to close the zipper even though she had never been so hot in her life (and it was still morning!). She thought the Royals were a bunch of tosspots, but not because of Scottish nationalism. Just as nicknames were for people who were loved, nationalism was for people who belonged.
    “I
love
your accent! Say ‘Ach aye the noo’!” Becky demanded.
    “Sorry?”
    “ ‘Ach aye the noo!’ You know, Scottish for ‘Oh yes, right now’!”
    “Ach aye the noo?” Abigail was confused. She’d never heard or said anything of the sort.
    Becky clapped her hands and laughed. “I hate my accent. You are so lucky. So, Dad phoned and told me what was happening at the airport. I was very impressed! I take it the makeup was part of the disguise?”
    Abigail had forgotten about the green eye shadow and inch-thick foundation. She touched her cheek, embarrassed.
    “Here, use one of these to get it off.” Becky grabbed a