Anastasia's House

1. The Narrow House With The Yellow Door 

When I was 15 and in boarding school, I would take an hour-long train and a 25-minute bus on the weekends from the North Shore to Paddington, where my sister lived alone. 

I had my own room, but I liked hers better. It was a mess of clothes that I wanted to have as my own. Her walls were covered in tarot cards, pages torn from photo zines, and her own drawings. She had no bed frame, just a mattress on the floor. I thought this was brilliant and wanted the same (unfortunately, my dorm furniture was ugly and built-in). Light filled the room in a perfect, Saturday morning way. When my sister went to a party or her boyfriend Olly’s house down the road, I lay on the unmade mattress for hours and wished I didn’t have to go back to school. 

We campaigned to live together when I was a teenager and our mum moved back to Queensland. Mum was against it, saying that Stasia, at 20, was too young to look after me. But she did, anyway. She taught me how to cook – things like dahl and shakshuka. She taught me how to layer my clothes and how to protect myself against our dad’s volatile personality. She taught me about plants, of which she had an impressive collection: sprawling elephant ear leaves that glittered in the sun and lime green-yellow vines that draped over the sides of kitchen cupboards. How to find good stuff at the markets, how to deal with depression. How to care for an animal – although, I don’t know that I will ever be able to do it as well as she did with Coconut, our family cat that she took on as her own. She even looked after me when she got sick. Even when she never recovered.

2. Rose Street 

In my final year of high school, I spent my winter holiday staying on the couch of the sharehouse Anastasia lived in with Olly, three of their friends and Coconut. I was boarding and my sister was renting again – living situations neither of us had wanted but which were ultimately better than living with our dad, which we had barely coped doing the year before.

The house at Rose Street was mouldy, uninsulated, and far too small for 6 people and a cat, but I loved it ferociously and considered it my home too. That holiday, my sister showed me how to make laksa which warmed my body from the inside out. We sat on her bed and cried together as we recounted the nightmares we had where our dad killed us with various weapons (in hers it was a gun; in mine, a machete). I went on my first-ever date with a girl, wearing one of Olly’s shirts. Sometimes, he would sleep on the couch so I could sleep in their bed next to my sister. I always slept well in that bed. The bedroom had a single but generously sized window that Coco would sit at to watch passers-by. I loved hanging out with my sister’s roommates, whom I considered my own twenty-something friends because they always included me in their jokes. Despite everything my sister went through that year, seeing her carve out a new life for herself made me hopeful that one day I could do the same. 

I have that neighbourhood memorised from the hours I spent in Stas’ passenger seat, circling cramped back alleys and side streets for an all-day parking spot. When I graduated, I moved into student accommodation down the street and it became my neighbourhood. Even after my sister moved out, I knew that if I was ever in search of comfort, that house was where I would go knocking. The mould got so bad eventually that they all left, but even still I wouldn’t be surprised if I found myself on the doorstep by instinct. 

3. The Attic Bedroom 

I was thrilled when my friends and I managed to get a rental in the same suburb where my sister lived with hers. Her house was only a 15-minute walk away. I had my own key. 

Whenever Stas was bored or depressed or particularly sick, she would call me and I would trot over and let myself in. I prided myself on my ability to support her, to be a good sister. I liked to cook for her and do tasks around the place: water the plants, vacuum the floor, take out the trash. It was around this time that I started getting sick a lot too, and each time I recovered a little less. But I relished my relative strength and any chance to make myself helpful.

Stasia and I watched reality television or played video games. Days spent doing nothing this way suited us both, as she was exhausted and I started having pain in my face so intense that I couldn’t think about much. 

In the last year that she lived in that house, Coconut started to die. He was a Devon Rex: chubby, wrinkly and semi-hairless. He felt like a hot water bottle when he sat on your lap, and we adored him like a deity. Towards the end, we were swaddling him in blankets like a newborn and keeping him by an electric heater so he’d stay warm. Anastasia, Olly, and I sat on the floor of her bedroom and held his limp body for a long time before the euthanasia vet took him away. After that, it felt right for Stas to move. Even though I didn’t live there, it was hard to leave that house behind, because I had to leave him behind too. 

4. The Grown-Up Apartment 

My sister is 25 now, and she and Olly have their own place. They call me at random and ask if I want to be picked up in 15 minutes. The answer is always yes. 

I still go to my sister’s house whenever my heart gets broken. When my girlfriend and I separated, I cried in fear at the hole in my life that she would leave behind while Stas and Olly listened. They said that they would fill it. It’s funny talking about my relationships with them – Olly and Stas don’t even know if they believe in marriage, but when I think of what I would want for a lifetime, I don’t think of my mum and dad. I think of them. 

Nowadays I am sick too, and I have to let my sister care for me the same way that I wanted to care for her. I never wanted her to return the favour. 

My sister and Olly have taught me the value of owning things you like. Their apartment is full of plants and gorgeous mid-century furniture they’ve collected over the years. They have a bookshelf dominated by fantasy novels and cookbooks because annoyingly, Anastasia has only gotten better at cooking. They have an impressive collection of records and they eat out of ceramic bowls that feel gritty and crystalline in your hands. My sister has a family of stuffed animals that each have a name and fill me with overwhelming childish bliss. When Coco died, I gripped onto one for comfort. When she knows I am sad, she gives one to me to take home for a little while. There are sweets in the cupboard and it doesn’t matter if you eat them. 

Home is a tricky concept for me. So is love. So is family. But going over to my sister and Olly’s apartment makes me feel better about all three. The older I get, the more I want simple things. More than anything, I want my own grown-up apartment, filled with nice furniture and lamplight. I crave the music of my favourite albums playing through speakers and a good window that lets in the sunlight. I want Coconut back, sitting on the windowsill like a nosy gargoyle. I want to remember to water my plants and I want to be good at caring for things. I want to cook comforting food and spoon it onto handmade crockery. I want clean and I want safe. I want to finally have my driver's licence and know how to stand up to my dad. I want someone who loves me forever and wants to watch movies together every night. 

And maybe most of all, I want my sister to know that she taught me what it means to belong somewhere.