The Sisters Antipodes

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Overview

A gorgeous and deeply intimate memoir about families breaking apart

When Jane Alison was a child, her family met another that seemed like its mirror: a father in the Foreign Service, a beautiful mother, and two little girls, the younger two (one of them Jane) sharing a birthday. The families became inseparable almost instantly. Within months, however, affairs ignited between the adults, and before long the parents exchanged partners, then divorced, remarried, and moved on. Two pairs of girls were left in shock, a “silent, numb shock, like a crack inside stone, not enough to split it but inside, silently fissuring” that would prove tragic.

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More About This Book

Overview

A gorgeous and deeply intimate memoir about families breaking apart

When Jane Alison was a child, her family met another that seemed like its mirror: a father in the Foreign Service, a beautiful mother, and two little girls, the younger two (one of them Jane) sharing a birthday. The families became inseparable almost instantly. Within months, however, affairs ignited between the adults, and before long the parents exchanged partners, then divorced, remarried, and moved on. Two pairs of girls were left in shock, a “silent, numb shock, like a crack inside stone, not enough to split it but inside, silently fissuring” that would prove tragic.

Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9780151012800
  • Publisher: Houghton Mifflin Harcourt
  • Publication date: 3/16/2009
  • Pages: 288
  • Sales rank: 757,306
  • Product dimensions: 5.74 (w) x 8.42 (h) x 0.89 (d)

Meet the Author

JANE ALISON is the author of three novels: The Love-Artist , The Marriage of the S ea, and Natives and Exotics . She teaches in the MFA programs at the University of Miami and Queens University in Charlotte.

Read an Excerpt

In 1965, when I was four, my parents met another couple, got along well, and within a few months traded partners. This was in Canberra, where my father, an Australian diplomat, had just brought us home from a posting in Washington. The other couple were American but diplomats, too, finishing a post in Canberra before returning to the United States. Both men were in their early thirties, tall, slim, and ambitious; both women were smart and good-looking. Both couples had two little girls the same ages, and the younger girls shared a birthday and almost the same name. This was my counterpart, Jenny, and me. The two families had so much in common, people said: They must meet.
     The couples fascinated each other at once, I am told, and for the next months we were together constantly for picnics, outings, dinners. My father’s and Paul’s cars raced from Canberra, and we’d park in glades of eucalypts and spread out big plaid blankets. After lunch my sister and I and the other two girls would be sent to play, to find a koala or kangaroo, and we’d wander into the heat and buzzing stillness with sticks, hitting peeled trunks, prodding for snakes, as our parents murmured and laughed and lounged on blankets and clinked their beers or glasses of wine.
     Later, I’d be put in a bath with Jenny. We had the same birthday, but she was a year older, and we looked alike enough to be sisters — little girls with wavy hair and bright staring eyes, although mine were blue and hers were brown. I see us in the bath gazing at each other over sudsy water, our wrinkled pink feet pressed together and pushing, as music and smoke drift under the door. We don’t know that soon she’ll live with my father and I’ll live with hers, that for seven years we’ll shadow each other around the globe, that the split will form everything about us: that we will grow up as each other’s antipode.
     The literal meaning of antipodes: two bodies pressed together, foot to foot.
     In less than a year it was done. My mother, sister, and I would follow Paul to Washington, and my father would soon resume his diplomatic path with Helen and her girls: like continents splitting and sliding apart, each with its own living creatures. Pictures show the last hours Maggy and I spent with our father. The three of us pose by Lake Burley Griffin, where he kneels like a suitor and clasps one of us in each arm, earnest hope straining his thin face, while I cover my mouth and giggle. Then we left and flew to Washington. We didn’t see or speak to him for seven years. Letters traveled over the oceans.
In 1973, we all landed on the same continent for the first time since the split. We were back in Washington, and the other family had been posted to New York, so Maggy and I could take the Amtrak north to see our father, and Patricia and Jenny could take it south to see theirs. Most often we went to my father’s Upper East Side apartment when the girls were there. Jenny and I slept in twin beds in her pink room; Maggy and Patricia, in her yellow room beside us. Daddy and Helen slept at the other end of the apartment in the master bedroom, which was silken and civilized and looked over Fifth Avenue with its leashed poodles and gated trees. Between that master bedroom and us ran a very long, narrow carpeted hallway through which you could pace silently, stealthy. Photos show its wallpaper patterned like a garden trellis, but I remember it as bamboo, a jungle, and am sure that outside the photos’ frames the wallpaper twines and transforms.
One of the first nights at our deep end of the hall, Jenny and I lay side by side in the dark, hot after handstands and wrestling. Her window opened onto a sooty space between buildings, and faint sounds of cars and distant voices floated in, her radio playing between us. She was twelve, I was eleven.
     When you were young and your heart was an open book . . .
     She sighed and stretched her arms, lifted a leg free of the sheets, and pointed her toes into the darkness. Then she turned to me and whispered, "So, who do you think did it first?"
     Because this was the point. The split could not have been simultaneous and fair; things like that can’t happen. One of our fathers had been ready to leave his own girls if he had to, and the other must have had less choice. One of our mothers had chosen a new man and won him, and the other woman must have lost. And whoever had won, whoever had lost, whoever had been easily left: That would determine who Jenny and I were, what each of us was worth.

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Sort by: Showing 1 – 7 of 8 Customer Reviews

  • Posted March 29, 2009

    This was excrutiating

    I thought this book would never end. I am furious with myself for not closing the book at page 40. I kept thinking something exciting would happen. Really, all this was, was somone's trip to the therapist. It is self-indulgent and truly boring. People from all walks of life have unusual and unfortunate events that occur in their lives. They move on. Jane Alison needs to move on. So many times I wanted to shout, "Enough already!" Apparently, her husband, who was hardly mentioned, was not worth writing about. He must not have looked like her father. There is no ending to this story. You don't feel closure of any kind. You just see Jane Alison moving along through the rest of her life feeling sorry for herself and over analyzing EVERYTHING. Absolutely pathetic. I know there are authors out there who would have taken this unusual experience and at the very least make you chuckle a bit.

    2 out of 2 people found this review helpful.

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  • Posted May 9, 2009

    more from this reviewer

    An unusual bond

    A haunting story of non-sisters and a path set from childhood from which the author cannot seem to divert. It reads like the best fiction with the provacative twist that it's all true. A fine read.

    0 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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