A pause, then, ‘Something very bad happened today, Emma,’ Mrs Churchill said and sat beside me, took hold of my hand, stroked skin until it became numb. The facts were kept brief, tumbled out of Mrs Churchill and the police officers as if they were one person:
‘Someone killed your father and mother.’
‘Happened this morning.’
‘We had believed that Mrs Borden was out visiting a relative, but . . .’
‘Your sister is in shock.’
‘Lizzie found him in the sitting room this morning.’
‘Your maid and Mrs Churchill discovered your mother in the guestroom.’
‘Lizzie had sent Bridget to get help.’
‘No sign of forced entry.’
I wanted something to make sense. How long had I been away?
‘Emma, hold me close again.’ Lizzie like a cat.
The noise of voices continued. Mrs Churchill spoke softly into my ear, ‘. . . I couldn’t believe it was happening . . . oh . . . I saw Lizzie by the door . . . there . . . I asked her . . . we made sure . . .’ I tried to shrug away sensations of pins and needles, forced voices out of my head. I caught Lizzie’s tongue peeking through, swirling over her teeth. The noise it made. I smiled at my sister, stroked her temples, tried to get her to calm. Lizzie’s heart beat through the sides of her head; rapid, mountainous, and cascaded into my fingers. I wanted the world to stop.
Dr Bowen handed me a cold, wet washcloth. ‘For her.’ His voice a slow train. I placed it on Lizzie’s forehead, applied pressure. Lizzie looked small. In that moment I wanted to carry her inside me, keep her safe and loved, the way I had promised Mother. Everyone stared at Lizzie with pathological sympathy, a curiosity. She kept her eyes on me, the way she used to after Mother died. I kissed her. Somewhere behind heated skin, the birth of tears.
I was surrounded by faces, identical horrors, and everything seemed smaller. Somewhere in the house there was a strange wailing sound, the way blood might sound as it rushed out of the body. I winced, glanced towards the sitting room, to Father and, beyond that, Abby, and prayed that nobody was going to make me walk through those rooms. I stared at my wrists; sun lines danced over veins, and for a moment I was back in the field at Fairhaven, pencil in hand, back on my own. I could hear Lizzie’s tongue swirl inside her mouth and I pulled my sleeve over my wrist and wiped my sister’s forehead.
‘We understand it’s a lot to take in,’ an officer said.
‘Yes.’ But there were so many questions I wanted to ask.
‘Emma, I feel faint.’
‘Perhaps you should take Lizzie upstairs to rest.’ The officer again.
Alice Russell bent over me and said, ‘Her room is out of sorts. Would you like me to fix it?’
‘No. I’ll do it.’ I was used to taking charge. I stood, I nodded. I would make Lizzie comfortable and prepare her room. ‘I’ll be back for you soon,’ I told her and kissed her forehead. I would save my questions for later.
I headed towards Lizzie’s room via the back stairs, knew I would have to go through Father and Abby’s room. As I rounded the stairs someone said, ‘Likely she was the first to go. Found a piece of skull by the radiator across the room.’ That made me pause, muscles tighten, and then it happened: my stomach pushed bile from my body, again, again. I wiped my mouth, continued up the stairs and entered Father and Abby’s bedroom. The room was quiet. A small clock on the dressing table had stopped ticking. There was the bed: fresh linen, careful tucking, ornate wooden bedhead; the dual spaces of marriage. I carefully touched the edges of the blanket, felt the thickness of loss. The smell of lavender and sage mixed with leather and dampened wool, soft against my hands. Abby had not long before been in here. I lifted hands to my face and gently wiped them over my skin. I knew from experience scent never lasts long.
There were traces of Father around the room: a small handful of nickels and dimes, copies of tax receipts, a crumpled piece of paper with instructions to purchase supplies for Swansea farm and Bridget to mend socks. On Father’s side of the dressing table I found a small photograph of Mother. Her wedding day, her young skin. I kissed the photograph. Did Abby have to look at Mother every day?
I sat on the side of the bed and closed my eyes, conjured images of Father. It was hard to think of him as being anything but an old man. Two weeks ago he was an old man on the sofa, tobacco pipe in hand; one year ago he was an old man struggling to lift farm equipment out of the barn; a decade ago, two decades, three: Father old all the way back to when he met Mother, told her he loved her and planted me inside her.
My stomach lurched, the air inside the room was honeyed. I stroked my head, arms, passed through nothingness like a dream. I shouldn’t have been in the room. Below, men crawled around the first floor, heaviness sang, and I stroked the bed: everything would be different. Mother, Father, Abby. All three of them had slept there, all three dead.
I crossed the room and rested at the far window, looked towards the barn. A place I hadn’t been for some time. Its doors were shut tight. A police officer appeared in the yard, fumbled with his notepad and pencil. He stood at the front of the barn, examined the small building before touching the doors. Fingers caressed knotted timber. He took notes then opened the barn doors, stepped inside and disappeared.
The barn had stored our discarded possessions for years: plates and teacups lay broken, hoping for second life. There were lengths of rope, a container full of lead fishing sinkers, old hammers and nails, a wrecked splitting axe, stockpiles of wood. Father threw nothing out. Now everything would remain there.
Through the window, I saw the officer step towards the barn’s upper level. He wiped his forehead with a flat hand before swiping a finger across the bottom of a windowpane. He studied the skin of his index finger, took notes. I pressed my forehead against the glass, made it rattle. I walked to the end of the room and opened the door to Lizzie’s bedroom, unlocking the boundary separating Borden and Borden. Inside: aggressive movement, a trace of strangers. Photo frames had been tilted, books removed from shelves and thrown on the floor. Did Lizzie know of this destruction?
I caught my reflection in the mirror: rounded chin; slow, weary eyes; slumped shoulders. I couldn’t bear to look anymore. I pulled Lizzie’s bedclothes back, made a small linen cocoon. There had been years of making nests for Lizzie. I had grown tired of it but there I was. Underneath Lizzie’s pillow was a small piece of damp white cloth. I lifted the cloth: a hint of metallic dressed in florals, those strange sister smells. I returned it to under the pillow.
A jug of light-brown water sat on the bedside table. I poured a glass for Lizzie, hands shook, heart leaped. I willed my body to be still, thought of the tone of the officer’s voice when he had said, ‘No sign of forced entry,’ the way the tongue seemed to click, the slight whistle echoing from his chipped front tooth. I invented possibilities: a stranger knocking at the door spruiking the wonders of indoor plumbing, lost his temper when Father told him, ‘A waste of money, you scoundrel,’ and ordered him to leave. But it was hard to believe that ‘no’ would carry such a harsh penalty.
There might have been a disgruntled tenant, furious that Father had raised rent without warning.
‘There’s another hole in the roof,’ he would have said. ‘Insects are coming through at night.’
‘The problem will be fixed when there’s an actual need.’ Father’s reply.
The tenant would shake his head, spit on the front steps next to Father’s feet.
‘Leave my property now!’
‘Not today, Mr Borden.’ And the tenant would push Father’s chest, push him back through the front door.
But none of this could be. It all required a witness and nobody saw a thing.
With each movement I took a deep breath, inhaled a heavy, hot stench. What was that smell? A tree branch tapped on the window, made a screech sound, made me open the window, feel the sun bruise my face. A pair of boots marched up the front staircase towards the guestroom. The
boots became louder and then I remembered: beyond the doors lay Abby’s body; Father’s dead flesh twin. I tried to get on with things.
I noticed torn pieces of paper under her bed. Lizzie could be so filthy. I got down on hands and knees, picked up the useless words, saw a used knife and fork caked with dried food, slivers of saliva becoming mould. There was a used handkerchief and dirty blouse. I gritted teeth, felt a nerve twinge along my gum.
It used to be my room, uncluttered, dust-free, worthy. I had kept my books alphabetically, covered the most precious in dustjackets. I had chosen white for decoration—coverings, paint, furniture—but the room had since become covered with reds and yellows, large parasols and gaudy artwork. Lizzie had grown gigantic. Every day I was surrounded by my sister: clumps of auburn hair found on the carpet and in the sink; fingerprints on mirrors and doors; the smell of musk hiding in drapes. I would wake with my sister in my mouth, hair strands, a taste of sour milk, like she was possessing me.
The year before, Lizzie had insisted that my bedroom door, the only partition to separate us, remain open. ‘To know that we are always there for each other.’
‘I doubt it’s good for adults to share space as much as we do. It makes me uncomfortable.’
‘It’s what I want, Emma.’ She tilted her head, widened those eyes.
Quarrelling continued for weeks. Lizzie won; it was easier to give in. I was forced to listen to her daydreams, boorish and pedantic.
‘One day I’m going to reinvent all of this,’ Lizzie had said pointing to herself.
‘What on earth are you talking about?’
‘I’m going to be a Grand Dame woman, the way I ought to be.’ She had gotten this idea from being in Europe.
‘Grand Dames don’t go around declaring childish wishes. Why can’t you just be yourself?’
Lizzie wistful. ‘I’m waiting for the best moment to be my true self. Everything will be different then, you’ll see.’ She stood from the bed and studied herself in the mirror. ‘Emma, what do you think we look like on the inside?’
The morbidity of curiosity. I watched her, followed the trace of her fingers as they smoothed over her chest above the heart. Lizzie touched her skin like it was night.
‘We could reinvent each other, Emma.’
‘Stop it! I’m sick of this ridiculous talk. Go daydream to yourself.’
Lizzie looked at me in the mirror, became serious. ‘You should consider the possibilities.’
And I had thought about it: an artist in Europe, speaker of ten languages, a monk on a vow of silence, a scientist aboard the Beagle. These things I would never become. These things Lizzie had more chance of being, simply because Father let her do anything she wanted. I knew deep down that I ought to abandon the fanciful and take what was real, that I lived with my father and stepmother, lived with a sibling who would never give me up. My time to be anything, anyone, had slipped. I had to live with that disappointment and I wished Lizzie would do the same.
I continued to clean, made my way to a second set of windows, pulled the curtains apart. There, small cracks in the windowpane, a dead fly on its back. I scooped the fly in my palm and put it in my skirt pocket. I got tired, sat on Lizzie’s bed and wiped my hands along the linen, thought about the speed of sound, how fast a call for help would take to be heard. How loud is death? Had Lizzie heard any of it, that sickening shock? I looked towards the guestroom, thought of Abby, the way her heavy body must have slumped to the floor. There were questions I wanted to ask her:
Were you here when Father was killed?
How far was escape?
Was Lizzie in any danger?
Did you see this coming?
What happened? Who did you anger?
How much pain did you feel?
I stood and rested my hands in my skirt pocket, felt the fly.
Everything was ready. I made my way through Father and Abby’s room, walked down the stairs and noticed for the first time just how steep they were, how angular and aged they had become, the way they made the body thick and dull. I looked out the window, noticed neighbours form parallel lines along the fence, their hands pawing at wood. What would they possibly want to see inside this house? My face soured and I hoped they saw me.
I was at the dining room door. ‘I’ll take you away now,’ I said.
Lizzie stared at the sitting room door, her eyes like weighted lead, her tongue flicking along lips. She might have even smiled.
I walked closer to my sister, tried to settle my heartbeat, feet whispers along floorboards, and held out my hand.
‘What do you think he looks like, Emma?’ Lizzie, matter-of-fact.
‘Lizzie . . .’
‘He’s all cut and red.’ She touched the side of her face, frightened me.
‘She’s in tremendous shock,’ Dr Bowen told me.
‘Come now, Lizzie. Don’t talk like that,’ I said.
‘But it’s true. That’s what I found.’
‘I’ve given her more sedative. She’ll sleep soon.’ Dr Bowen suddenly seemed old too.
‘Thank you.’ I wrapped my arm around Lizzie’s shoulders and pulled her onto her feet. She was heat and electricity.
‘I’ve made your bed,’ I told her. ‘Come with me.’
Lizzie sighed. Noise came from the sitting room: the sounds of men shifting dead weight. ‘Careful, the head.’
We lumbered up the back stairs to Lizzie’s room. In my right ear she hummed ‘The Song of Birds’, a song we composed years ago. The melody popped with each step, danced over Lizzie’s teeth.
‘Lizzie, enough,’ I whispered and she smiled. What was wrong with her? I thought of Helen, her offer to let me stay longer. How would I tell Lizzie that I was moving on without her?
In bed Lizzie asked, ‘Did you miss me while you were gone?’
‘Try to relax.’ I didn’t want to play games with her.
‘You never replied to my letters.’ Lizzie pouted.
‘I was busy.’
Lizzie poked my chest. ‘You should apologise.’
Spikes grew along the back of my ribcage, made me cough, and I took her hand. It was soft like mine. There we were, me and my sister, our bodies inseparable. There is nothing that escapes blood.
I looked into Lizzie’s rounded eyes: a pupil dilated, the corner of her right eye twitched.
‘What happened today, Lizzie?’ I needed to hear it all, did not want to hear it all.
‘Nobody would understand.’ Lizzie looked past my shoulder towards the guestroom.
I leaned closer. ‘What happened?’
‘I can’t be too sure.’ Lizzie’s breath was fire in my ear.
‘What did you see today?’
‘They asked me that too. Why are you treating me like this?’ Her voice on the edge of a song and scream. I did not want to be the one to push her over.
‘I’m sorry. The police haven’t told me anything. I just wanted to hear it from you.’
‘I found him on the sofa. Resting.’ She said it like she was solving a jigsaw.
‘And?’
‘I wasn’t really sure then.’
Lizzie’s hand grew heavier in mine. The room was silent. Outside, a bird warbled sunny times. I let go of Lizzie and thought about what was left unsaid. I wished to be inside her mind, see everything from underneath her bones, eyes, skin.
When Lizzie was younger, I prayed to be carried into her mind. I would whisper memories of Mother and life before all the changes, before Abby came. I wanted to explain how lonely it had been before Lizzie’s arrival, about the small ache that never seemed to disappear after baby Alice went to sleep with God. Nobody wanted to know how much a seven-year-old could cry. I learned to keep so many things to myself. Inside our house, the constant beat of adult rhythm, ageing breath, talk of melancholy and business, of Mother and Father not touching each other like they used to, Mother telling Grandmother that the pain of baby Alice was too much to bear. Sometimes Father and Mother forgot that I was in the
room, forgot that I was still alive. I started wishing myself a twin, wanted to be able to stand in front of myself and hold hands, to communicate telepathically, to no longer be lonely.
Then, one day, Mother touched Father’s hand, then touched his arms. I took to listening to my parents make love. I held my breath every night. For months I prayed, please, please, a new baby from Mama. Please, please, and I became the family anatomist, taking stock of any possible changes in Mother’s body:
Some weeks her stomach and hips looked wider.
Her hair seemed thicker.
She used the word ‘ravenous’.
She began to smell of musk and salt, an animal.
Her cheeks became flushed.
Eventually Mother said, ‘There will be a baby.’ Her body stretched and she complained about how she ached, how she could not wait for this part to be over. I helped her put shoes on when she could no longer bend over, rubbed her feet with lanolin and lavender so she could sleep better.
‘You’re a good girl, Emma,’ she said. ‘You’re going to be a wonderful big sister.’
I grinned at her but I knew all of this. I had heard it before, had been a big sister before. How could she have forgotten?
Time passed, Lizzie arrived, and I knew I had made it happen. I tried to find myself in this new sister. I would stand over Lizzie as she slept, watch her face for familiar expressions. I dressed Lizzie in my old clothes like a doll, carried her everywhere until my back gave way, told Lizzie my childhood memories in the hope that she would think of them as her own. Lizzie and I had the same shaped eyes, had the same way of opening a hungry mouth. I spent hours teaching baby Lizzie to talk like me, to say, ‘Emma, Emma,’ but the only word that came was ‘Dada’, over and over.
There were brief triumphs: baby Lizzie liking the same foods as me, loving the same pieces of music, of thinking a horse’s neigh and a rooster’s crow were worthy of applause. Lizzie climbed over my body each morning, her saliva-wet baby hands warm and sticky on my back and legs. I was so excited to see myself reflected in another’s face that I began to refer to me and Lizzie as I.
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