Maddison Scott

The Silver Child

Please, I beg, if you ever meet my sister, don’t ask what she does. I’m an entrepreneur, she’ll say, a small-business owner, a job creator. She’ll twist a remark about today’s weather into her daily production fables, interrupt whatever questions you haven’t thought to ask with imagined profit margins. Our little go-getter; Dad’s words. A bonafide girl boss; Mum’s words.

When I received my university acceptance letter, my parents made tea, sat me at the dining table and explained that my education fund no longer existed. We invested it in your sister’s business; Dad’s words. She’s got a genius idea! One day we’ll pay off all your debt, you’ll see; Mum’s words. Their hands were interlocked on the table: eyes googly for each other, for their eldest daughter’s giftedness, for a fortune cookie proclamation that weighed more than a second child’s existence. You’re the no-fuss one; Dad’s words. When other babies needed flashy toys, you were happy with an old tissue box; Mum’s words.

For clarity, here is a list of the entrepreneurial projects my sister has launched: dessert-flavored sunscreen (unknown SPF, company went bust in 2016), musical jewelry (lost interest, company went bust in 2017), online love consultancy (break-up lead to loss in romanticism, company went bust in 2020), edible nail kits (rotted on the warehouse shelves, company went bust in 2020), invisible ink coloring books (didn’t make it out of prototype, company went bust 2021), fortune-telling app (too many bugs, company went bust in 2023), weight loss bath salts (I’m horrified to even write those words, TBD).

First, it was my education fund. Then Dad’s boat. The gold necklace Mum swears she never wore. A remortgage on the house. Dad’s collection of scripts signed by famous directors. An everything-must-go garage sale. Rainy-day funds. A second remortgage on the house. Retirement funds.

I hate my sister. I downloaded a thesaurus app to try and find a better word–I wanted my therapist to see me as an intellectual, self-aware patient–but none felt right. Dislike was too bland. Loathe tasted too soft at the end of my tongue. Despise was better but still sounded like a perfumed laundry detergent. Do you really hate your sister or do you hate the way her treatment by your parents makes you feel; my therapist’s words. You don’t need to overcompensate and be perfect all the time–tell your family what you need in the relationship and let them work on achieving it.

I make four cups of tea, set the dining table, and invite my parents and sister over. The bank has no legs to stand on; my dad’s words. They don’t actually repossess houses; my mum’s words. The bath salts will start selling soon, I just know it; my sister’s words. I detest you all; my words (never spoken aloud.) We don’t get to the part where I share the eloquent speech I wrote during my $300 therapy session. I slowly sip tea, listening to a conversation I don’t need to be present for, and then I’m not at the table anymore. No one asks where I’m going. I stand in the kitchen, staring at the cutlery drawer, wondering what I would find if I took a butcher’s knife, sliced open my family’s chests, and examined what lay beneath. What a beautiful smooth cut; my dad’s imagined words. I’ll share my heart with you; my mother’s imagined words. Don’t worry, Mum and Dad will pay to stitch us all back up; my sister’s imagined words.

Squares and a Squiggly Line, 1993, Oil on Canvas

All I see are black and red squares and a squiggly blue line. Beside me, a man and a woman in their 70s stare up at the painting in rapt delight. Exquisite use of both cool and warm tones, says the man. Oh, I agree, the woman adds. He captured our most painful desires without devolving into grotesque accents or overused compositional effects. I listen, I look, I try to find the pain and desire, but all I see are squares and a squiggly line. My resting-art-face must give me away. What do you see? The woman asks and they both shift their peacock eyes as if I’m a canvas they intend on chewing up. I see some black squares, which could mean death, I guess? And maybe the blue squiggly line is the ocean? They pause their appraisal, clearly deciding I’m a dilettante, a non-believer, a left-brained bore. The black represents restraint, the man explains. Can you not see the artist holding back in those lines–in his choice of Chromatic Black–the veins of innocence trying to break through in the brush strokes? No, I don’t see that, but I don’t want to seem stupid. I see it, I reply, squinting up at the painting. He adds, The blue squiggly line is the messy path to wisdom we must all take. Notice how it intersects with the black restraint and the red block of desire? I feign a more hearty agreement and pretend to consider their remarks. My silence doesn’t send them away. How old are you? The woman asks. Twenty-three, I answer. She gives me a tender, less-distended look. Do me a favor, will you? Come back to this museum after your first heartbreak. Come back, stand before this painting and reevaluate its meaning then. Their feathers retract when they move to the next exhibit. I stay and try again to see it. I think about my first girlfriend, my dog dying in my arms, the day I decided to cut my parents from my life. Still, all I see are black and red squares and a squiggly blue line.

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Maddison Scott is a teacher, writer, and former film projectionist from Melbourne, Australia. Her short stories have appeared in, among others, Maudlin House, The Molotov Cocktail, Flash Fiction Magazine, Five on the Fifth and Stupefying Stories. You can find her online at maddisonscott.wordpress.com.