‘Perhaps it could go in the coffin with her,’ she said, eyebrows raised, meeting thick in the middle.
How much room does a body take in a box? ‘Perhaps,’ I said.
She handed me the sash. It was cold, the ends a tickle on fingertips, this feeling from a time ago, and there was a tapping in the middle of my spine; fingers crawling over skin making patterns. I closed my eyes and fingers crawled and crawled: Mrs Borden, Abby, Abby! tracing love hearts over my five-year-old shoulders, her fingers warm, palms pudgy-soft. Her sister chases me around their house, taps me on the shoulder and says, ‘You’re it! I’ll let you be the queen of the castle.’ As queen I eat too much cake and my stomach balloons, aches. Abby sends me to her old bedroom to rest. Inside her room, Abby’s old dresses hang in the cupboard, all shades of blues and greens that smell like dreams, dreams I could have! There is a blue dress full of Abby’s happy dreams. I touch the fabric, and under my fingers I feel a little boat in the middle of the widest ocean, Abby at the helm. She moves the boat along a blue sash, and in the distance, around the collar, there is a little island. With all of her strength Abby paddles the boat towards the island using only her hands. She makes it to the shore and jumps out, digs her bare feet into the sand. I take the blue dress off the hanger and hug it, put it over my own dress and Abby comes into the bedroom and tells me, ‘You can keep that, little darling.’ She rubs my shoulders and it feels like love. When we go home Emma is waiting for me in my bedroom.
‘Look what I got, Emma.’
Emma looks. ‘Where is it from?’
‘Mother gave it to me. There’s even a dream stitched inside of it! It’s about boats and adventures.’
Emma folds her arms, pinches her elbows hard. ‘You should give it back to Abby.’
‘Why? She said I could have it. You can wear it too if you like.’ I turn in a little circle to show her how the dress swirls. ‘What’s the matter?’
‘Don’t take things from her.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I said so.’ Emma walks to her bedroom. ‘Why do you have to love her?’
‘I won’t if you don’t want me to,’ I whisper, I want to love everyone. I sprinkle my hands over the dress, let my fingers slide down the blue sash.
When Mrs Borden’s sister stepped inside the house she said, ‘There’s a passage I’d like the priest to say for Abby at the funeral.’
‘It’s all been taken care of. We can’t change a thing.’
She pressed her hand on the dining room door as if waiting for Mrs Borden to open it and then she cried.
‘It’s best not to go in there. It’s been awfully hot. We’ve done our best to block the door. I’ve hardly smelled a thing.’
She took her hand away. ‘Why would you say such a horrid thing?’
I considered answering when Uncle came down the stairs and said, ‘Can I escort you home?’
She nodded and they walked out of the room.
‘Don’t worry, it’ll all be over soon,’ Uncle said and they passed two police officers guarding the front of the house. Good riddance.
A thick haze passed through my body, made me lightheaded. I rubbed my forehead. Pressure built behind my eyes, tiny flecks of blood flicked and flicked until all I saw was red and flesh, the way Father had looked on the sofa, how a finger had twitched, nerve endings, nerve endings, the way Mrs Borden had been on the floor. I pressed hands into eyes. How do I know these things? A yelp crawled out of my throat, staggered. A hand on my shoulder. I opened my eyes.
‘Lizzie.’ Dr Bowen stood in front of me. ‘Let me help you relax.’
We sat on the sofa in the sitting room, Father, Father. I handed him the blue sash. ‘Could you get rid of this in the incinerator? I can’t have it in the house.’
‘Of course.’ Dr Bowen took the sash. ‘Memories can be painful.’ He took out his syringe and injected me. Sweet, sweet warmth. It had been like that for two days, this taking medicine. It made it easier to talk to police when they kept pestering me with questions.
‘I don’t know. I don’t know,’ I had said. ‘Can’t the others tell you what I saw?’
‘We need to hear it from you, Miss Borden . . .’
Then I would sleep and Dr Bowen and everyone would leave. When I woke, Emma would be there scratching at my memory like an old cat. ‘Tell me,’ she’d say or, ‘I don’t understand. I don’t understand . . .’ She was loud in my ear. It made me feel terrible and I’d get scared, begin to believe that she’d leave if I didn’t tell her something. I couldn’t stand that happening.
‘Come and cuddle me in bed,’ I’d say and she would. For a moment I’d feel safe, feel like I could tell Emma anything. ‘I had a bad dream the other night.’
‘When you woke up screaming?’
‘Yes. I dreamed a man was standing over me . . . I thought it was Father.’
Emma patted me on the back. ‘It was just a dream.’
‘But it was so real. What if it was Father coming to check on me?’
‘Everything must be very confusing for you.’
Emma pulled me onto my side and into her breast, her heart beating into my ear and temple. ‘Yes, it is. That’s why I can’t tell you anything more.’ I would say these things and Emma would cry and cry. It made me mad, why does she cry? She wasn’t even here when I needed her, and I wanted to crawl inside her and say a prayer so I could make her stop, as the Lord liveth, there shall no punishment happen to thee for this thing.
Before the guests came, Uncle gathered Emma and me together in the parlour. We sat and held hands and he said, ‘My poor girls, who would have imagined.’
‘I’m glad we have each other now,’ I said. I bent down, kissed Uncle’s hand, kissed Emma’s hand.
‘Not now,’ Emma whispered. Always telling me what to do.
We heard two police officers talk outside the front window. ‘I bet it is someone they know.’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘No one lets you get that close to whack them.’
They laughed.
I touched my forehead. Emma took a deep breath, covered her ears. Uncle patted her leg. She stiffened. ‘I think I’ll go out and get fresh air,’ he said.
I pulled the curtain open and looked outside, saw the priest walk towards the house, weave in and out of the large crowd that was gathering. I could see reporters slot themselves in between strangers. One of them saw me. I smiled, so polite I am.
‘Lizzie, pull the curtain back.’ Emma’s voice was hackled.
What else do I have to do to make her happy? I watched Emma, saw her hands and fingers fumble with thumbs. I looked down at my own: quiet, restful. Emma clicked her tongue, crossed and uncrossed her ankles then stared me down.
‘What are you looking at me for?’
She took a breath, squeezed her voice out. ‘Lizzie, I really need to ask you. Are you sure you didn’t see anyone around the house?’
‘I said I don’t know! I was too busy minding my own business to think about keeping an eye out for Father’s killer.’
‘I’m sorry, I’m just . . .’
‘You wouldn’t have to ask me these questions if you hadn’t gone away.’
‘What are you saying?’
‘Maybe no one would have died.’
‘Are you saying this is my fault?’ Emma high-pitched, a nasty.
Yes. No. I want everything to be gobbled up. ‘It’s just that maybe a monster wouldn’t have broken in if an extra person had been here to guard the house.’
‘Nothing makes sense anymore.’ Emma rubbed her eyes and face.
‘Do you think I’m making things up? That I’m lying to you all?’
She looked at me, opened her mouth to speak but nothing came out. I could see her teeth, a few crooked edges, her flat tongue sliding over them. For a moment she was repulsive. ‘You’re a terrible, terrible sister,’ I whispered.
Emma bowed her head, flipped her fingers in palms. A tiny breeze crawled over my ea
rs and onto my face. Everything still. There was a small creak-creak in the walls of the house and Emma shuddered. Somewhere in the bottom of my mind there was a voice, She will leave you if you keep secrets. Sweat ran down my temple, came to the corner of my mouth. I sipped it up. Nothing made sense anymore. I lunged for Emma and wrapped my arms around her, sat at her feet, waited for her heartbeat to sync with mine. I held her tight and I thought of her leaving. I cried.
‘Shhhh,’ she said. ‘Shhhhh.’
For a time everything was gold. My heart beat love, made me calm, and I cocooned myself against my sister.
Then, in a small voice, she said, ‘How could a weapon have disappeared?’
I pulled back from her. My hand slapped Emma across her cheek, slapped it again. ‘You ruin everything!’ I said. A small fire exploded at the back of my neck and under my arms. I got up from the floor, made it creak, and headed for the backyard, if she wants all this horror so much, I’ll show her.
I walked outside to the pear arbour and sat under leaves, let the fruit sweep my hair. I reached my hand up and pulled down on a pear, took a bite, let juice drip. Teeth ground teeth and my skin heated. Emma and her constant questions. Why do people care so much about what I did that day and what I saw?
I went to the barn, walked in. Pigeon feathers lay on the ground. I kicked them, made clouds. I climbed the ladder up to the loft and looked out the window onto the house. I hated everything I saw. I rushed over to the little box in the corner of the room, I’ll show her. I lifted the cover and looked inside. What I expected to see had become invisible. Panic in my heart. I looked again. I rubbed my forehead. From outside I heard my name being called and I climbed down the ladder, decided never to go back into the barn again.
After the final prayer, the coffins were taken out of the parlour and into the street, the sequoia cherry wood bright and sunny against dark-green tree leaves. We followed them to the hearse, hemmed in by the crowd that stretched six houses to the left and six houses to the right. Emma crossed her arm over mine and her body tilted, caught off balance by the small waves of sound. I held her tight, walking straighter than I ever had before. It was easy. Some of the neighbourhood women reached for us, said, ‘We are sorry for your loss,’ and ‘Is there anything we can do for you?’ I smiled at them, these people who will always love me. Two children from Sunday school pressed their sweat-sticky hands into the side of my dress and said, ‘We’ll pray for you, Miss Borden. May God protect their souls.’
‘Thank you, sweet ones. How thoughtful of you.’ There’s a certain love that comes in grief. Tastes sweet in the heart.
I looked up at the house towards the guestroom where Mrs Borden was found. The house caught a handful of sunlight and shone it in my eyes and there in the window I could see her looking down at me, her hair tangled, falling below her round shoulders. The house moved around her. She closed her eyes and as the house began to shut its curtains, shadows poured over her face, her cheeks swelled into mountains, growing past her head and body until they filled the room and made it a cave.
‘I don’t want to live in the house anymore,’ I said.
Emma pushed into my ribs. ‘But it’s home.’
It was difficult to breathe.
I wanted us to go to Europe then, sit in front of fireplaces and sip champagne. I’d make Emma my student, show her new ways of living, stop her from thinking that we belonged in this ugly house.
‘Tell us what you saw, Lizzie!’ women said.
‘Tell us so we can find them!’ men said.
These chalky voices in my ear, all these questions. I covered my face with my hand and Emma swept her arm over my back. Uncle helped us into the carriage, giving me a look, and I knew that I would be alright.
We followed Father and Mrs Borden down Second Street. Their coffins swayed slightly at the back of their carriage, a final waltz, right onto Rock Street where we walked once, all holding hands. The breeze picked up, cooling us, and letting out a sigh, I took Emma’s hand and stroked it, tried to put her sad and empty face to the back of my mind. I had seen this face only once before, when I had told her that I didn’t love her anymore. After she had made me promise never to say it again, she told me, ‘It’s important that we’re together, Lizzie.’
The coffins were taken to the undertaker’s quarters as our carriage continued down the path, through oak tree soldiers, towards the family plot where Mother and baby Alice were waiting. When Mrs Borden’s family had arrived and after the priest shook hands with the men, Father and Mrs Borden were brought to us.
‘This is it,’ Emma whispered to me.
There was no need to answer. I watched Father sink low into the ground and settle next to Mother while Mrs Borden came for both of them in her hard wooden cage. I rubbed my forehead.
The priest blessed the earth and held his cross over the grave, grinding prayers into the ground, his voice pleading with God to take care of this husband and wife in death as much as he had in life, ah, but here they are butchered and betrayed, and he prayed for Emma and me, their heaven-sent children.
I could feel Emma’s heavy heart pounding her into the dirt inch by inch, past the tree roots, burying her too early. We stood arm in arm on top of the earth that would one day be our own. The ground looked so small. I wondered how I would fit.
The priest stepped away from the graves and a short broad-shouldered man with a shovel took his place and began locking Father into eternity: dirt bounced then thudded onto the coffins and I realised that I would never see Father again. There would be a day, when, when, when will that be? that I would forget what he looked like, would forget all the tiny murmurs he ever made. When Father brought us here to see Mother all those years ago, he told us that she wouldn’t leave our minds, that she would always be right here when we needed her. But he lied about that. The dead don’t come for you.
Dirt continued to fall into graves. Tree branches danced. Everything slowed and the faces surrounding us looked metallic. My hand rushed to my eye, I am still intact, and everything slowed and felt like a dream. Shovel lofted dirt and coffins continued to be covered. Emma kept squeezing my hand, twisted my skin like modelling clay, the pain taking me far away from words.
When dirt hits wood with force, there is no echo. Only blunt sounds, like an axe through tree stump, through bone. At least, that’s what I heard the police say. Breaking bone is a terrible sound, the way it shrieks through your teeth landing on tongue. I heard myself whisper, ‘Goodbye,’ and it seemed strange to know I wouldn’t say anything to Father again, that I wouldn’t say another word to Mrs Borden ever again.
Emma began to cry. I wrapped my arm around her shoulder, I could be an even better sister, heard a little voice inside my mind begin to say, ‘I have a secret but you have to promise not to tell like you always do . . .’
My spine hung like a beehive, a honey fizz pushing towards my head, and I felt ready to explode. Everything slowed. Uncle ran a finger over his lips, eyed the spot where Mother lay buried. I was ready to explode. Inside my ear I heard the clock on the mantel tick tick.
‘Emma,’ I wanted to say, ‘do you want to know my secret? I’ve remembered something about that day.’ I could see myself standing at the bottom of the front stairs, staring into the sitting room the morning Father died. I heard the three of them in the dining room at the table, Father, Uncle and Mrs Borden. They talked about agriculture and I thought some nasty things about you, Emma. ‘I hope she’s having a terrible time,’ I told the house. I wrapped my hand around the banister as tight as I could until my fingers turned white then blue. The house trembled and I did it again.
I went into the sitting room, opened the door to the dining room. Bridget walked around the table, poured Mrs Borden more tea, and I saw Uncle smile at Bridget, make her blush.
‘Why don’t you join us?’ Uncle said.
I moved towards them. ‘What are you all doing today?’ I said.
‘I’ll be leaving shortly. Think I’ll spend the
day attending to business.’ Uncle chewed his middle fingernail.
‘I’ll be at the office.’ Father, busy not looking at me.
‘When will you be back, do you think?’
‘This afternoon.’ He looked up.
‘Oh,’ I said. I watched them eat johnnycakes and old mutton soup. Slurp, slurp, slurp. Something inside me wanted to laugh.
‘Why don’t you eat with us?’ Mrs Borden swivelled her tongue around, silver like a pig.
‘I’m not particularly hungry.’
‘You should eat, Lizzie,’ Father said. Slurp, slurp.
‘I said I’m not hungry.’ I saw a bird fly by the dining room window, shadow flight. ‘I’m going to feed my pigeons,’ I said and made my way to the side door.
Father called out, ‘Lizzie, wait.’
Emma, I wanted to say. The sun was sugar warm that morning. It dripped onto my fingers and neck and I felt like dancing, felt like everything in life was going to be all for me. Grass prickled my ankles and my skin jumped. I opened the barn door and went inside. A strange smell stung my nose, was sharp against lip and tooth. This smell of rotting flesh. I went to my pigeons.
Emma, I would tell her, I didn’t eat breakfast because I knew there was something bad about it. Please don’t tell anyone.
Okay, she would say. I won’t.
It’s just that I was so mad at everyone.
If only I’d been home.
I would tell Emma that I’d considered telling the police how very strange it had been when I found blood on my hands after I touched the banister on the front stairs landing. I put the blood on my tongue but couldn’t place the taste, and I had washed and washed my hands outside until blood disappeared, until I began to wonder if it had been there at all.
I would tell Emma that after the clock struck ten that day, I saw Father inching towards the house in his dark-grey suit, his boots dragging behind him. All morning I’d been thinking about him, had been thinking about every feeling I ever had, every thought I ever had. It was there on my tongue. There were parts of me that were angry about the pigeons and I couldn’t understand how Father could have been so cold and cruel, maybe he really hates me.
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