I Love I Hate I Miss My Sister (12 page)

“You know, I didn’t appreciate what you did the other day,” Djelila goes on. “Not at all, in fact. Slapping me like I’m a kid! And I always repay my debts!”

Time seems to have stopped. Majid doesn’t have time to raise his arm to protect his face before Djelila raises her hand and deals him a massive slap. A humiliating slap. I start running over to them even before Djelila finishes talking. I am close to her. I grab her arm.

“Run, Dje! Run!”

She follows me. We run across the parking lot and the lawn that stands between us and the blacktop alley. We jump to the sidewalk and I drag her toward the door of our building. I don’t dare look back. I pull her into the stairs. We run up the steps. Out of breath, I get the key out of my jacket, put it in the lock, and open the door. The hallway is silent. They didn’t follow us.

I push Djelila in front of me and close the door.

She sits down on the floor and makes a funny sound in her throat.

I turn around. The idiot is laughing.

“Be quiet! You’re going to wake up Dad and Mom,” I warn her.

Djelila straightens, stretches her neck, and makes a ridiculous grimace.

“Yes, chief,” she mumbles, before bursting into laughter again.

I feel like slapping her to bring her back to reality. Instead, I extend a hand. She looks at it a few seconds before grabbing it. I pull her up, ready to catch her if she’s wobbly. But it’s fine; she’s steady.

“Thank you, Sohane,” she whispers.

Her breath stinks of alcohol. I do not let go of her hand.

“Come.”

“Girls?”

It’s Mom.

“Is that you?”

“Yes, Mom, Djelila and I are back. She won her game.”

“That’s very good.”

Our parents probably went to bed only a short while ago. I can see a ray of light under the door to their room.

“We’re turning in, Mom. Djelila is dog-tired.”

“Good. See you tomorrow.”

If only Mom knew how tired Djelila is! If only Dad could see what his precious gazelle looks like tonight! Her hair tousled, her eyes vacant, a stupid smile on her lips.

In our room, Djelila falls onto her bed.

“Did you see how I laid into Majid! Did you see!” she says. “He didn’t even have time to react.”

I look at myself in the mirror and see that my head scarf is askew. A few pins must have fallen out. I begin to readjust it and then yank it off, angrily.

“You’re crazy, Djelila, totally nuts!” I say.

Djelila sits up straight. “No, I’m not crazy. Majid deserved to be slapped, and twice more, if you ask me.”

“Shut up, Djelila, you’re getting on my nerves.”

Djelila lies down again. “Oh, the ceiling is starting to spin,” she says.

“Where were you tonight?”

“With Alice.”

“Where?”

“Well, we didn’t have any place to go, so we found a stairwell.”

“A stairwell?”

I can’t believe what I’m hearing. My sister behaved like a hobo!

“We didn’t do anything wrong! We just wanted to have some fun. Did you see how well I played tonight?”

“What did you do in the stairwell?”

“Alice brought a bottle of whiskey.”

“Do you drink like this often?” I ask, my voice sharper than a razor’s edge.

“No, it’s the first time.”

“And why should I believe you?”

“Because it’s the truth!”

“How many times have you drunk alcohol, Djelila?”

She doesn’t answer right away. She looks for her pillow, props it up against the wall, and leans on it.

“Well?”

“I don’t know. A few. I’ve had a drink with friends sometimes.… But I’ve never gotten drunk.”

I feel exhausted, suddenly. I sit at my desk.

“You shouldn’t drink, Djelila. You know that. You shouldn’t. It’s not a matter of religion or belief in God. It’s bad. Anything could happen to you.”

I look at her. Djelila shrugs.

“Promise me you won’t do it again?”

“I don’t know. I like to drink a little now and then, and I like to smoke a cigarette with my friends.”

I hold back a sigh. “What did you drink tonight?” I finally ask.

“I told you. Whiskey.”

“The whole bottle?”

Djelila nods.

“The whole bottle!”

“Alice drank more than I did,” Djelila whispers. “Then she didn’t feel well and it was getting late, so we decided to head home.”

As if I hadn’t noticed that Alice didn’t feel well.

“Promise me you won’t get drunk ever again, Djelila.”

I’m not asking her never to drink alcohol, only not to drink too much. Djelila seems to understand the nuance. Right away she nods in agreement. At the same time I tell
myself that I won’t abandon her as I did. I won’t abandon her again. I won’t ditch you ever, Djelila.

“I was scared tonight,” I say. “They could have—”

“If you’re talking about Majid,” Djelila interrupts me, folding her arms like a sulking child, “I don’t regret anything. He got what he deserved!”

“But there were five of them and you were alone! They could have … I don’t know.… You were at their mercy.”

Djelila takes a deep breath before lifting her comforter. She removes her shoes with her feet and slips into the warmth of her bed.

“Aren’t you getting undressed?” I ask.

“No, can’t be bothered. Can you turn off the big light, please?”

Djelila turns over and brings the comforter up to her shoulders.

I turn on the bedside lamp, shut off the ceiling light, and start taking off my shoes. My sister is still.

“You OK, Djelila?”

“Hmm.”

I take off my socks, jeans, and sweater, put on a large T-shirt, and remove my bra from under the T-shirt. My anger is gone. All I can see is the top of Djelila’s head. I feel like going over to stroke her hair. I feel like taking her in my arms and rocking her like a baby. I close my eyes instead.

“Sohane …”

I open my eyes. My sister has not moved. Her voice is muffled through the thickness of the down comforter.

“You’re wrong, Sohane,” Djelila says.

“Wrong about what?”

“I don’t want to be afraid of Majid or anyone else. I don’t want to live in fear. I don’t want my choices to be dictated by fear. I don’t want to be what others have decided I should be. I want to be myself. Do you understand, Sohane?”

I come up with only one answer. “It’s not a reason to drink,” I say.

Djelila shrugs slightly under the covers.

“Sleep well, Djelila.”

“Thanks. You too, Sohane.”

Djelila doesn’t utter a word to me all Sunday. She does her best to stay far away from me. She gets up late and takes a long shower. She hardly touches her breakfast, and then she helps Mom prepare lunch. She has brushed her hair, and it shines in the sunlight that floods the kitchen. She doesn’t seem particularly tired, and she welcomes Dad’s congratulations with a smile.

“So you beat them, you won your game? Brava, Djelila, brava!”

“Thanks, Dad.”

She brings him his coffee, and he’s happy to have his darling daughter take such good care of him. She takes Taïeb and Idriss for a walk, helps them finish their homework, and gives them a bath.

She seems to be elsewhere.

She goes to bed early. When I come in, she pretends to be asleep.

Monday morning, she leaves for school without even saying goodbye, and when she comes home, she dives into her homework.

The phone rings and Mom calls her. I’ll bet anything it’s Alice. Djelila stays on the phone a long while without talking much. Eventually I walk out to the corridor as if I’m going to the bathroom. Djelila quickly turns to face the wall.

She hangs up and tells Mom that the next day’s basketball practice is canceled. “Abdellatif is sick,” she says.

Tuesday, she leaves without talking to me.

I keep thinking about her all day—which explains why I don’t finish the outline of my economics essay on the euro.

It’s a nice day. The sun shines on the square, almost giving it an air of cheerfulness in spite of the dog poop and dirty papers littering it. I look at the books that are open on my desk. Suddenly I’m tired of constantly studying. I need some fresh air. I look at my watch. Djelila should be back soon. I put my head scarf on, adjust it with pins, and slip my jacket on.

“Mom, I’m going out for a walk,” I say. “Do you need anything?”

“No, dear,” Mom answers from the kitchen, where she’s giving Taïeb and Idriss their afternoon snack.

I open the front door and shut it behind me.

I hear a dog barking. A dog howling.

But it is not a dog.

I run down the stairs. All the way down.

The howling is coming from the basement. I push open the door and rush in. All I can see are flames—flames and your body twisting. I hear your screams and see your body collapse. I see Majid and your burnt body. Everything else I register without really seeing—the matches, the dirty green can. I am on top of Majid and I hit him. I hit him with all my might. My fists clenched, I hit his face, his eyes, his mouth, and I howl. I howl too.

Howling. This need to howl is still in the pit of my stomach. To howl with fury and pain.

I’m glancing at an article about my sister’s death. I couldn’t bring myself to read any of them, but I bought all the newspapers. I kept them without ever looking at them. I’ve taken this one out of the drawer almost involuntarily. On one side is a picture of Djelila, the familiar school ID picture; on the other side is a picture of Majid at the time of his arrest. I do not remember any of it. The picture is blurry, the frame small. His hoodie covers his head, so it’s difficult to make out his face. He is handcuffed. A man, a police officer probably, is holding his arm.

The article mentions a phrase that the police—without any doubt—fed to the journalists following the murderer’s
first questioning:
“I swear on my mother’s head, I wanted to teach her a lesson, so I had to do something big.”

My eyes scan the first lines of the article.

A sixteen-year-old girl died yesterday, burnt alive in the basement of the Lilac housing projects
.

The alleged murderer, a minor who knew the victim and lived a few buildings away from her, offered no resistance and has been arrested. Paramedics and emergency room doctors could do nothing to save the victim
.

Everyone in the Lilac projects demands justice
.… 

“Dead.” “Burnt alive.” “The victim.”

All these words are about my sister, Djelila.

For nearly a year now, I have retreated to my room. I come out only to eat and run some errands at hours when the projects are empty. For nearly a year I have created this jail to punish myself for not saving you. I have created this refuge so I won’t have to think that you are no longer here—and that you will never be coming back. Never. I thought about running away. I wanted to forget you, to stop the pain. But it isn’t that easy. Wherever I go, whatever I do, your memory haunts me. Djelila.

Today a ray of sunshine comes through my bedroom window,
our
bedroom window, and floods your comforter. Just like on the day you died. Yes, there was a day when you died. That day exists. You are dead. I close my eyes, trying to forget, but I cannot.

This morning a letter came for me in the mail. I put it on my desk without paying attention to it. Now I push the
newspaper back and open the envelope. It is a letter to all seniors enrolled in correspondence courses, reminding us to register for the final-year exam. The exam I was unable to face after your death and put off for a year.

No use trying to work any more today. I am in no mood to understand what I’m reading; my mind is simmering with fears, doubts, and anger. I grab my head scarf from the back of my chair and adjust it on my head with motions that have become familiar to me. I put my jacket on, take my bag, and go out without a glance at my work.

At the foot of our tower, I stop for the first time in front of the stone slab embedded in the ground. My sister’s name is engraved on it. I’ve always refused to stop and look at it. I know that it had to be cleaned two or three times, when red spray paint was used to sully it with slurs like
BITCH
and
WHORE
. I don’t know who took care of the cleanup. Djelila’s friends, maybe. That’s definitely possible.

This slab is only a slab. Djelila’s body is at the cemetery. Buried with an unmarked headstone. And Dad pretends your soul is in Algeria. You, who were so French. Maybe he’s right.

The tags that drip down the facade of Tower 38 have not been painted over, but since Majid’s arrest, neither Brahim nor Youssef, nor anyone else, hangs out there.

Today is Wednesday. Children are playing in the square. I can hear their shouts and their laughter. I imagine mothers seated on the benches, watching them. Taïeb and Idriss are at an after-school program.

I walk across the projects. I have not boarded a bus for ages.

I walk slowly, letting the sun warm my cheeks. It’s a pleasant feeling. Do I have the right to enjoy this warmth knowing you are dead and will never feel anything again? I inhale deeply. The air smells of dust and exhaust fumes. Just like always.