The Death of Bees

by Lisa O'Donnell

  I had a vague memory of this photo being in Izzy’s hand, I remember Izzy drinking tea over it and looking sad, as if she didn’t want to see it, but couldn’t help looking at it. There was something about that picture and when I came into the room she hid it.

  Their room was freezing. We had kept their bedroom window open to rid ourselves of Gene’s smell and never closed it. Once inside I hugged myself, it was Baltic. In my head I kept seeing them, I could almost feel them, and I knew they weren’t there, but I couldn’t help thinking of them in the room. I remembered Gene sitting up in bed smoking a fag and holding a paper. He was watching Izzy from the corner of his eye changing out of jeans and into skirts, out of trainers and into shoes, attaching bobbles to her hair and spraying perfume on her wrists. And Nelly, next to Gene, a father and daughter side by side reading and that’s all. Gene reaching for a mug of tea and slurping it dry. Nelly nibbling at a biscuit and letting the crumbs fall between the pages of her book. I’m at the end of the bed, picking at a scab formed after a fall. Izzy gives me shit for it, but I tell her to fuck off, it’s just a knee. It feels like a loving time, a better time and it should comfort me, but it doesn’t, it makes me ill inside and queasy. I pull back to the chill of the room and to their cast-iron frame, a rusting skeleton where they’d once slept, their mattress gone and dumped in the nighttime, a festering stain inking its fabric. We burned it a few days later in a nearby alleyway.

  Izzy’s photo album is by the bed and it makes me wonder if she’d fallen asleep with it in her hands and let it slip to the floor while looking at baby pictures of her children and photos of her mother or maybe the picture of Nelly and me playing in the grass in matching raincoats. I wonder if the album made her mostly happy or mostly sad, pictures are like that and will say anything you want them to, no one keeps the ones that don’t.

  The photo album is black and Izzy has written all of our names and birthdays on the inside, she’s written her mother’s name and her mother’s birthday, her mother’s death. She leaned heavy on the pen and didn’t want to make a mistake. She didn’t want to scribble, she wanted to be neat, as if her ink had a higher purpose.

  The first few pictures in the album are of Izzy as a baby, impossible to imagine, but there she is in faded colors, a bonnet on her head, sitting upright in a Silver Cross pram. I find another, Izzy’s two years old perhaps and in the arms of her mother, my grandmother, a petite brunette with poker-straight hair. She has the greenest eyes you’ve ever seen, like my eyes, only brighter. She dusts them in lavender and lines them in black. She’s wearing a green miniskirt and an orange polo neck, a pair of platform shoes so thick and chunky they make her ankles look like little marbles.

  Izzy’s entire childhood is chronicled in just eight photographs, but there must have been others. Pictures of her father perhaps, but they’re gone. Binned. Burned. Banished.

  The last picture I come across was taken days before her mother died. Izzy sits by her mother, whose face is drawn and yellow, thinned by cancer and narrowed by a grin forced upon her by the camera. Izzy is also smiling, her long arm reaching across her mother’s bed, holding her hand. It’s a gentle pose, a farewell, the kind people take at train stations and airports, except it’s not, Izzy’s mother is dying and has days to live, and they will never see each other again. The next snap is Izzy several months later, heavily pregnant with me and committed to Eugene Doyle, he has a tin of beer in one of his hands and Izzy in the other.

  It’s in the middle of the album I find the picture I’m looking for. I can see boats in the background and a field surrounded by a stone wall. I know it’s a park because there’s a moss-colored climbing frame behind us. It’s a bright day, a good day and the sun is shining and the weather is pure. I have no memory of it, all I have is this picture, a picture of happiness, and yet Izzy was frowning when she looked upon it. Was it regret? Hate? Did Izzy hate us I wondered?

  I don’t know why I vomited and why I felt warm and sticky with fear. Why I drank vodka with chocolate milk and crackers. Why I feel ashamed all the time. Why I miss them, the foulest of demons, my parents unkind and selfish. I don’t even know why I’m sad or why I take the photo from the album and fold it into my back pocket or why my heart feels broken for an absent mother and an absent father. That’s when I get it, I’m crying for what should have been. It’s not a picture of a family in my back pocket, it’s a picture of something she never really wanted. We were something that happened to her and though she held our hands and kissed our foreheads and sometimes tucked us into our beds, there was always a beat in her eyes as if she was thinking What am I doing here? and I know this because of the things she let happen to us.

  I was alone in the house and could hear Nelly playing the violin, the same piece of music over and over again, it’s crazy how quick she is to possess the things she’s drawn to, how she absorbs her fascinations and wrings them dry. I love the violin, honestly I do, the way it dances with her entire being, but not on this day, on this day I want to burst through the wall and grab her by her scrawny neck, to choke her, anything to end the incessant playing of Bach and his dreary sonatas, to cease the sound of her bow buzzing like a wasp at my ear.

  It was murder having to show her how to use a tampon. She was terrified and didn’t understand. I say, “Do you want me to show you?” She nods. I lift my leg onto the toilet and tell her to “glide it into the vaginal canal.” She totally freaks out, calls me a disgusting pig, starts hitting her head and the next thing she’s pulling at the toilet roll on the wall and wrapping it around her hand until it forms a sort of tissue snowball. She stuffs it inside her pants and pulls up her knickers. She could hardly walk. I hate it when she’s like this. I told her, “It won’t stay like that. It will fall out.” She kept shaking her head. There’s no talking to her when she’s like this. I bought her pads in the end. She took them and sulked of course, like it’s my fault Izzy isn’t here to show her.

  Nelly

  A white syringe. The coarsest cotton. It’s abominable. I am bleeding a warmth so tight I feel hardened in my stomach. Every month they say. Every blasted month. Let the blood melt and be done with it I say. Marnie says it’s unhygienic.

  They talked of such ugly things and I am quite ill about it all. Boys and babies, they said, things our mother fell foul to, they said.

  I must wear grown-up things now, says Marnie, all the while using words like responsibility and maturity. I am responsible. I am mature.

  “Are they sensitive?” she asks.

  “Whatever are you blabbing about?” I exclaim.

  “Your breasts. That’s how you’ll know next month. Mine are always sensitive. Fucking agony sometimes,” she tells me.

  I can hardly find the words. What a thing to say and to her own sister. She says a great many things on this day, so does Lennie, but I am deaf to them both. I am deaf to it all.

  It is disgusting to me.

  Marnie

  Kimbo’s gay and proud these days and getting all this special treatment from everyone, especially at school, even Lennie lent an ear. Everyone is totally out to support her, except her mum, who’s having a freak-out. Apparently she was upset she’d never have grandchildren until Kimbo reminded her she still has a womb. It’s been hard for Kimbo. Her mum and dad are so embarrassed. Recently she accused them of ignoring her since she was born. Her mum went nuts at that, I mean Kimbo’s parents let her do whatever she wants, but Kimbo says they only let her do what she wants because it’s easier than not letting her do what she wants. I suppose she’s right. They let her smoke at eleven and stay out past ten most weekends. She accused them of not being cool. They were gutted. She told them they exploited the idea of hip parenting to disguise neglect. Truth is her mum and dad are the only species on the planet surprised by Kimbo’s sexual revelation. She’s always been a butch girl and very aggressive, a bit of a bully to be honest. She says she beat women to hide her attraction to them. Now she’s all sorry about it and apologizing to people
like Sarah Pitt, a midget with bad hair. Anyway Kimbo kicked the crap out of her last year and got suspended for a week. Recently they had this mediation thing, organized by Mrs. MacLeod, who else. Anyway Kimbo asked Sarah to forgive her and Sarah complied, no one is going to debate with a sixteen-stone psychotic teenager. Now Kimbo’s turning into a mediation addict and she’s thumped a lot of people in her time, that’s a lot of talking and a lot of hugging. Mrs. MacLeod is all over it.

  Kimbo’s so raw with emotion right now and likes to show her flesh, but only to draw attention to her piercings and of course the new tattoo, which I totally hate. It’s her name. In Chinese. She doesn’t even know anyone Chinese. And that’s another thing, she doesn’t want to be called Kimbo anymore. She said it’s a name we gave to her because we needed to define the masculine in her without dealing with what the masculine in her actually meant, in other words her being a lemon. She said Kim is a woman who loves women and Kimbo was a woman who hated herself, so now we call her Kim. She said we’re not to stereotype her. It’s her favorite word these days. She also likes the word cliché.

  It’s been such a long week and I’m exhausted. Kim keeps going on about me getting a tattoo, but I don’t want one. For a start it looks sore. Susie got one, of course she did. No willpower that one. A ring of ivy around her ankle for her mum. I just don’t get why anyone would want to ink their name or their secrets on the surface of their skin, why can’t they just keep them inside like I do? I saw this girl at the Barras last summer. Tall. Blond. Dreadlocks, about thirty years old and she was like a human drawing. Not kidding. Head to toe in tattoos, it felt like her entire body was screaming at me.

  I’m never getting a tattoo. My secrets are etched safely on the inside and I intend to keep them there.

  Nelly

  They laughed at me and then they were angry.

  “You can’t wear your used PE things under your school uniform,” Sharon growled. “It’s disgusting. Unhygienic. You need to take them off and have a shower like a normal person.”

  “I will do as I jolly well please,” I retorted.

  She grabbed me by the lapels.

  “Take off your fucking clothes or I’ll take them off for you,” she spat.

  “No,” I whispered.

  And so she grabbed me. Attempted to undress me and so I punched the air and twisted and turned. I would not make it easy for her.

  “She’s like a fucking fish.” Sharon laughed. They all laughed.

  “Someone hold her down!” she yelled.

  They stripped me to the bone and before I could say Jiminy Cricket I was under the shower and soaped to the core.

  “Someone get her a towel!” yelled Sharon.

  I was still screaming, or was I crying? It’s all a blur now.

  “Dry yourself,” commanded Sharon.

  I knew better than to disobey and so I dried myself.

  “If you ever come to this changing room after PE and not shower before you leave or wear your clothes under your uniform again I will fucking have you. Understand? Dirty cow.”

  I nodded and from that day forward I made sure I was only wearing my vest and my knickers beneath my uniform and when I left I was sure to shower. Everything was tickety boo after that, though I was advised to wear a bra by Marnie.

  “I’ll do no such thing,” I told her.

  “Fine. Don’t wear a bra. Get your head kicked in by Sharon and don’t wear a bra. I don’t care,” Marnie says.

  “Talk to her, Marnie. She’ll listen to you.”

  “I don’t want her to listen to me. I want you to listen to her and I want you to listen to me. Wear a fucking bra. Take one of mine.”

  I went to Marnie’s drawers. She had all kinds of paraphernalia in there, laces and satins. Reds and blues, pinks and yellows. I chose a white one and a black.

  “That’s great, Nelly,” said Marnie and in an approving tone.

  She fitted them to my body and I wanted to cry.

  “I can’t,” I said, trying to struggle out of them.

  “They’ll sag if you don’t,” she said. “It’ll stop them jumping about, it’ll stop the boys staring at them if you wear the right one.” I eventually found the right one.

  “That’s good, Nelly. You look good.”

  The following week when I go to gym wearing my bra Sharon whistles at me, my face reddens and I want to get dressed again.

  “Suits you,” says Sharon. “You’ve a nice wee bod.” The girls in the changing room agree and we go to PE. My body feels comfortable in the bra and I find it easier to jump at the basketball hoops. It hurts less.

  Afterward I take a shower. Sharon nods in approval.

  She was being nice to me in the changing room, but still, I made sure to keep all contact with Sharon Henry to an absolute minimum after that, she is a rough girl devoid of manners and always giggling with the boys. I don’t know how they stand her.

  Marnie

  I got there late. I had to walk and didn’t have the fare for the bus, also I wanted Kirkland to think I wasn’t coming. I don’t want to lead him on. He’s an all-right guy, I suppose, but I don’t fancy him and he needs to know that so I don’t exactly burst my hole trying to get there, also I got lost and couldn’t find his house. I had to walk up every set of stairs I passed along the street, looking at names on doors. One tenement had twelve names on the buzzer. Eventually I find the name Milligan engraved on an ornate gold plate and I’m about to rap the door when I see this giant fuck-off door knocker. Honest to God, I could hardly lift the thing, so I try knocking with my knuckles but the door’s solid and it hurts. I was getting totally fed up hanging around in the freezing cold and that’s when I decide to give it a kick and get myself heard and I did it a couple of times until the door swings opens and there’s Kirkland totally delighted to see me, but then he’s looking right past me and saying, “Where have you been?” Behind me a woman’s voice says, “Supermarket.” I turn round to see who he’s talking to and there’s this thirtysomething couple getting out of a Volkswagen Beetle. I could have died.

  “Want a hand?” says Kirkland to Mummy.

  “Sure,” says Mummy to Kirkland.

  I follow suit.

  “Can I help?” says Marnie to Daddy.

  “I think we’ve got it,” says Daddy to Marnie.

  Their car had been sitting there the whole time and they’d seen me kicking the arse out of their front door.

  Within a few minutes it’s clear they think I’m Kirkland’s girlfriend and even clearer they’re not happy about it. I want to correct them and make them feel better by telling them I wouldn’t touch Kirkland with a shitty stick, but I feel so bad about kicking in the door I don’t say anything.

  They’re a good-looking couple and quite young. His mum tells me to call her Fiona and his dad says his name is Gus. She’s posh and he’s not, but they obviously have money. Turns out she’s a journalist and he writes crap television.

  They stay frosty for a while, but they know they need to melt for Kirkland’s sake and of course they have a million questions to ask.

  First question.

  “So, what school do you go to, Marnie?”

  The rudest question you’ll ever be asked in Glasgow, along with “Where do you live?” ’cause saying Maryhill is way too vague. Believe it or not there are nice parts of Maryhill, but I don’t live in those parts. Should be enough to just say Maryhill but it won’t be, my answer will permit or negate the judgment they’ve already bestowed upon me. I decide to get my own back, let them sweat it.

  I move closer to Kirkland and decide to act like I am his girlfriend and put my hand next to his hand, touching him barely but enough to get the effect I need from Mr. and Mrs. Not so Liberal as They Like to Think. Then I go in for the kill.

  “I live in Sighthill, Gus, but I’m currently attending Maryhill Academy.”

  “That’s quite a trek,” he says.

  “It’s a good school,” I say. “That’s important, no?”


  Obviously I don’t live in Sighthill, I just want to rattle his cage a wee bit and as expected something flickers across both their faces.

  Now for a question he won’t ask.

  How the fuck did my son meet a slag from Sighthill?

  Some questions she won’t ask.

  Are you a drug addict? A whore?

  The tension in the room is well tasty unlike the green tea they’re serving in this tiny wee teapot with matching egg cups. They’re dying for me to ask about it so they can babble about their halcyon days living in Tibet. Five minutes in the room and these people are seriously giving me the dry boke; so is their fucking tea.

  To ease the atmosphere Kirkland tells them I go to school with Lorna. Fiona likes Lorna. Feels safe with her name in the room, even calls her talented. Apparently Lorna plays guitar. They love that shit, and we start talking about the enrichment programs at Maryhill. Susie’s doing that program, the drama one. Then they bitch about Lorna’s Conservative parents but only to illuminate how right on they think they are. Next thing they’re on at Kirkland about being a doctor and going to Africa and that throws me ’cause I didn’t know he wanted to go into medicine or go to Africa. Then Kirkland goes, “I told you, I don’t want to be a doctor.”

  Fiona says, “Course you do.”

  Kirkland says, “Naw I don’t.”

  “Don’t say naw to your maw, it’s no,” says Gus.

  “I’m just saying I’m not going to be a doctor.”

  “You used to want to be a doctor,” says Fiona.