Honey Daiquiri
Is there such thing as a resting B voice? Because, ‘Omigod, I have that’ #TheSwitch
by Miniq Brown
Honey Due
Daiquiri… There are no words to describe the relationship I have with my younger sister. Four years my junior, like most younger sisters she has the act of mimicking me down to a fine art. She has for her passions everything I have as mine and it’s difficult to separate one person from the other, one dream from another.
When I was three years old I went into my parents bedroom with a list of demands.
‘I want a sister,’ I told them directly. I stood my ground practicing that art of stubbornness my father had inadvertently taught me. ‘It’s not fair. Bentley is so much older than me and he has Roman who is like his brother and I want a sister so I can have a friend.’ Ever the literate me. Only at that time I had no idea the consequences of my actions because a year later I sat on a hospital bed in a red and green chequered dress and held, assisted by Bentley, a newborn in my arms.
‘Mom I don’t understand,’ I said. She had a goofy smile plastered to her face and barely realised I’d spoken.
‘Don’t understand what Honey?’ my father answered me.
‘Why is she so small?’
‘She’s a baby.’
I am perplexed. ‘But I wanted a sister. I wanted a friend.’
‘She is your sister. She will be your friend one day.’ He looked at the disappointment on my face and sat beside me, taking the baby from Bentley who was mainly holding her at that point. ‘Did you think she was going to be your age?’ A tear escaped down my cheek and I nodded. My father laughed and with his free arm pulled me towards him. ‘Silly Honey.’
Seventeen years later and Daiquiri is the most confusing being I have ever met. There was a time when I was sure that she thought the entire universe, all the stars, planets, galaxies and as of yet undiscovered life forms, revolved around her. I cherish the memories of the two of us watching movies and eating junk food- which doesn’t affect her but I know I’ll be burning off later on my Pilates ball. Back in the days when Whit was just a suggestion of a romance and for the most part my sister and I shared the same bed. And then I remember her tantrums and her intangible desire to be so attached to me that she was inside my body. And in her early teenage years her desperation to be better than me at everything- the constant comparison sisters face on a daily basis is enough to scare me out of having children at all, the competition so destructive I don’t know how anyone survives it.
And so, as we await the new addition to the fruit cocktail that is the Saks family, I am so excited to see how Daiquiri handles being the big sister…
*
‘It’s a boy, I already know it’s a boy, I don’t know why I need to bother with a scan,’ Mom says as she counts out prenatal vitamins into a pill divider box. ‘They already measure me every four weeks at my midwife appointments, it all seems a little excessive.’
‘Why are you so surprised, have you not done this three times before?’ I ask, fiddling with the zip on my hoodie.
‘Things have changed so much since I had Daiquiri. The only thing that’s the same about bringing a baby into the world is putting it in there! Am I right?!’ Mom grins cheekily as if I’m going to give her a high five. I blink unresponsively and try desperately not to picture my parents putting it in there.
‘Any way,’ she continues, ‘Alli should be here soon, we’re going to be each other’s birthing partners.’ Which is perfect, because you already know so much about her vagina.
I’ve told you about Alli, a.k.a. Alliance, a.k.a. my older brother’s fiancé of three months who shares way too much and also, joy of joys, happens to be four months pregnant? I know I have, a hatred like mine cannot be kept secret.
‘She’s coming to the scan, she’s going to hold my hand,’ she finishes dreamily.
‘Shouldn’t dad be doing that?’
‘He’s seen it all before Honey. For Alli it’s like looking a six weeks into the future. And it’s so nice to share this with someone. Just think, if you and Whit got your acts together sooner this could’ve been me and you!’
I can’t help it, I shudder and say a silent prayer of gratitude to the heavens who have made me, temporarily at least, barren.
Call it serendipity, but there has not been a single moment in my life that I haven’t shared with my mother. It seems like everything I do is overshadowed by something that happens to come along in her life: The day of my engagement, she cut the tip of her finger off and we all had to rush her to A&E for four hours while they reattached it. Last year, my wedding, she had back surgery, so instead of everyone fawning over me, the one-time bride, everyone was doting on her. Our birthdays are only days apart, so every year we have that awkward moment when we run out of money when mine rolls around. I don’t resent her, I don’t. But I don’t need to share anything else with her either.
‘Oh, that’s the door,’ she says in her sing-song voice.
‘I didn’t hear anything.’ Ding Dong. Mom smiles.
‘Pregnancy Psychic, I told you.’ She skips off toward the door, her swelling stomach no hindrance to her glee and I shake my head.
I’d like to say I’ve come to terms with my mom’s pregnancy and the sudden onset of baby fever that has swept everyone in my immediate vicinity. There’s nothing like watching a pregnant woman pee and cry and crave and ache and swell to put the off the idea of motherhood. But I won’t say I’m not as petty as to wear the tightest clothes and highest swollen-feet-shaming heels when I visit; What do you mean, this is what I always look like?
‘Oh my arse, my entire arse hurts. Like on both cheeks, inside and out.’ Yep, it’s Alli. ‘Oh, hey Honey,’ she finishes as she rounds the corner into the living room. ‘You look fancy. You going out?’
‘Nope,’ I answer briefly. Don’t want to go into the fact that I’ve just got in, because, in fact, the other reason that I am dressed a little more than a nine right now is because of… Sasha… waits for the bogeyman to jump through the mirror and steal her soul… nope, okay, Sasha.
*
I need your help… I’m pregnant- SA Babe.
Several versions of huh rushed through my mind including a few, I’m ashamed to say Lord, that were less than PG.
I read the email around four times and then put my phone back in my pocket. The last time Sasha told me she was pregnant it was, how do you say, a big fat lie, so I wasn’t sure exactly how seriously to take this. But the email… it felt real, it felt scared, and I felt obligated. I e-mailed her back.
Flash forward to earlier today, sliding in alongside her in a Yates bar, taking down the sticky lunch menu from between us so I could look into her dark, drawn, ridiculously anorexic face.
‘So how are you?’ she asked. I turned my head to the side and leaned my cheek toward her.
‘Fine…’ I said carefully, hoping she could hear how insane she sounded.
‘And the family? Are Daiquiri’s boobs still bigger than mine?’
‘Well, they didn’t shrink.’
Sasha smiled faintly, and then traced a tea ring on the table. ‘What about the rest of the family?’
‘What about your pregnancy?’ I cut to the chase.
‘Oh that.’ She waved her hand in the air dismissively, her voice dripped with a fake American accent, the ever present smirk snuck around her lips. I’ve never wanted to punch someone so much.
‘What happened?’ I asked with my strongest measure of patience.
‘You know I was modelling? And it was going really well? And I was booking so many gigs because agents just kept booking me and I was doing so well on my agency- different to that agency that we did together, remember, when we modelled together, but you got fat and now I’m a famous model?’ … Okay, so she didn’t say exactly that, but she might as well have.
‘Well anyway,’ she continued, ‘I decided to move to LA and while I was there, I met this guy…’
‘The father?’
‘Well, sort of?’ She smirked.
‘What do you mean sort of?’
‘He raped me.’ She hid a smile. ‘Didn’t you get attacked once?’
I didn’t respond straight away, I was too overcome with rage. Only Sasha could take a deep personal trauma and use it as ammunition to make me jealous?
‘Did you report it?’ I asked, although my faith in her story was absolutely none. Who says something like that while smiling, in a fake American accent, while comparing it to something you went through?
‘No, it wasn’t like that,’ she answered with a smile.
‘Okay,’ I said. Limited myself to small words, the only right thing to say in this situation is nothing.
‘So andyvorkianismist, I’m keeping it. My mom is so angry, says it was my fault, I should never have got high at that party.’
‘It’s never the victim’s fault,’ I replied on autopilot. ‘So what did you need me for? — the email I mean,’ I corrected.
‘Just, you know… support,’ she finished as she wiped gunk from her hands. ‘I love your shoes. Didn’t you hair used to be longer?’ She picked up a menu and started looking for something to eat.
*
‘…Would you please just reach down there and scratch it?’ Alli says as I caterpault back into the room. ‘Honey?’ She looks at me expectantly.
‘I have no idea what you just said but I’m pretty sure the answer is no,’ I reply.
Mom frowns. ‘You know you really should be nicer to pregnant people.’
*
