Killer's Cousin

by Nancy Werlin

  Nothing.

  Lily was downstairs. At that very moment she was lounging on the sofa in the Shaughnessy living room, watching an old movie. I knew she knew I’d ripped the place apart myself, searching for nothing. I knew she knew she’d pushed me almost to the edge.

  I knew it.

  The bile rose again in my throat and threatened to choke me. In my mind, perfect as a photocopy, I conjured up the page of insanity symptoms from Abnormal Psychology. I read them again, and this time … this time I thought, Yeah. Maybe.

  Yes. Finally crazy.

  And I found myself sitting on the floor, the floor I’d swept maybe twice in all the months I’d lived there. My chest was heaving, and my breath pumped too quickly in and out of my lungs. And before me, suddenly, I could see Greg and Emily, just as they had been that afternoon, alone in their parents’ living room, red-faced, screaming at each other.

  It was mine, Greg, my money. How could you—

  It was mine too. Grandma put the account in both our names—

  For school, for my medical school. And now it’s all gone—a hundred thousand dollars up your nose—

  I don’t care, it was mine too—

  I won’t keep quiet anymore, Greg. I’ve had it; you’ll pay this time—

  Emily didn’t even see me; she was crying, crying and screaming and shoving Greg, shoving, and Greg was so much bigger than her, and high and angry and I was afraid he would hurt her, because she wouldn’t stop, this was Emily and she wouldn’t stop, and he wouldn’t either …

  I just meant to stop it. I just meant to punch Greg.

  I could hardly see the attic around me. I had to put my head down between my knees. I tried to breathe slowly and I heard the air wheeze and rattle in my chest. My ears were blocked. I knew too late that I should have gone running; I could have pounded it all out on the pavement. I shouldn’t have been there in that cold room, with sweat pouring off me. Remembering was not a good idea. Letting go in any sense was not a good idea.

  Did you feel powerful? Did you—

  No! I had to deal with the present. With Lily. With Vic and Julia. How could I forget that? How could I lose sight of that?

  After a few minutes, somehow I managed to get up off the floor. I held myself upright with one hand on a chair back. I wiped at my face, and my hand came away damp and dirty. My legs steadied. I looked around the room at the havoc I had created.

  This could not go on. Lily wanted to play, but I didn’t have to. I could deal myself out of the game. I could get some peace and quiet.

  Why didn’t I leave? Why couldn’t I just leave?

  Wearily, I reached out with my mind for Lily—Lily who I did not need in my life, Lily who would not go away—and I found her. I’m leaving, I told her. I’ll find a way to leave, and you can have this place to yourself. If that’s what you want, you can have it.

  Lily didn’t reply, even though she was there, even though she heard me. She didn’t reply.

  And then she did. I heard a loud knocking on the downstairs door, immediately followed by Vic’s voice. “David? Lily says you want to see us? What’s going on?”

  “What is it now?” said Julia.

  I didn’t answer. I didn’t have the breath for it. I remembered that I hadn’t fastened the new chain lock. And so, inevitably, I heard the door open. Determined footsteps came up the stairs. A staccato tread, different from Lily’s or Vic’s. I had time to wonder if Julia had ever been up to the attic since I’d come. I didn’t think so.

  Julia stopped dead just inside the doorway, staring at me. First Vic and then Lily came up the stairs in her wake. I heard Vic gasp as he saw me in the middle of the torn-up room. The only other sound was the ticking of the kitchen clock as they stared at me.

  I knew what I looked like. I knew what the apartment looked like.

  Finally Julia said, “You won’t be claiming that Lily is responsible for this mess, will you?” Her voice was not unkind. But her glance took in everything I’d done in my mad search for Lily’s prank of the day.

  Involuntarily my eyes sought Lily. She too was taking in the wreck. Her mouth was ajar. She looked … awed.

  Yeah, I thought at her sourly. When I want to be, I’m better at wrecking a place than you are. Her eyes snapped to mine and for an instant she smiled. Her head made the tiniest of nods.

  I said aloud to Julia, “I did this.”

  I didn’t look at Vic because for some reason I couldn’t bear to. I didn’t look at him even when he spoke. “I’m going to call Eileen.”

  “No,” I said reflexively. “Call my father. I’ll give you his pager number, and he’ll call back. Don’t call my mother.”

  “But—” I knew Vic had always had trouble talking with my father. So did I. But still, he was the one I wanted.

  Julia cut in. “Do it, Victor. Eileen will be no use at all.”

  I moved slightly then, and Julia flinched. “Don’t worry,” I told her. I was unable to keep the edge of sarcasm out of my voice. “I’m just going to sit down.”

  I did that. I sat on the sofa, and told Vic the pager number, and Vic dialed my father. My father called back quickly. I didn’t listen to what Vic said to him. It’s possible to block things out when you truly need to. Somewhere deep inside I even found room for a little sick humor: At least nobody was telephoning for the men in the white coats to come with a straightjacket.

  Yet.

  Vic hung up. “Stuart’s catching the next shuttle out of National.”

  “That’s that, then,” I said aloud. And I looked right at Lily, ready, waiting for her reaction. I said to her, “I’m leaving. It’s what you wanted.”

  I expected her to smile, however covertly. After all, I had conceded completely—and at terrible cost. I couldn’t even begin to imagine what would happen to me next. Banishment to Baltimore with the parents that didn’t want me? The loony bin? Anything was possible. Lily had more than won. She had destroyed me.

  I expected to feel a heavy wave of satisfaction from her. But I stared at her, and she stared back at me, and I could feel what she was feeling, and it was not satisfaction. No. It was something quite different. A mix of things. Surprise. Terror. Panic. Fear. I picked them up loud and clear. I kept staring, confused. She didn’t want me to leave?

  Well, too bad. This was not about her. It was about me. And I wanted to leave; I wanted to get as far away from Lily as possible. From Lily, and from Kathy. From every Shaughnessy on every plane of existence.

  I shut Lily right out of my head.

  CHAPTER 31

  Before my father arrived I set the attic to rights again. When I began by shoving a bookcase back against the wall, Julia made a little noise and I thought that she was going to stop me; force me to face my father while surrounded by the chaos I’d produced. With complete clarity I knew I couldn’t bear that. But just then Lily got up abruptly and started to help me.

  At that moment I’d have taken help from the devil. Lily threw some clothing back in a drawer and pushed it closed, and after that I could almost feel Julia cautiously settle down. Following a few silent minutes of Lily and me working together, Vic too began to sort and fold and pick up and restore.

  It didn’t take very long to put things back. After all, I hadn’t damaged anything. Once we finished, there was an uneasy, waiting feeling in the room. I stood numbly against one wall; Vic and Julia sat side by side; Lily wandered. I supposed, largely uncaring, that Julia and Vic didn’t want to leave me alone. No telling what else I might do.

  “Do we need to go to the airport to get Stuart?” asked Julia eventually.

  Vic shook his head. “He said he’d take a taxi.”

  “Wasteful,” commented Julia. And then suddenly, in a sharply different key: “Lilian! What do you have there?”

  Julia’s tone penetrated my numbness.

  Lily was kneeling on the floor by one of the bookcases, quite near me. She had Kathy’s scrapbook in her lap, and she was flipping through the pages ra
pidly, avidly. At her mother’s words, she hunched more closely over the scrapbook, but it was her only reaction. She didn’t look up.

  “Lilian!” Julia said again as she approached.

  Lily’s hands tightened on the scrapbook. She had stopped at the page with the picture of Kathy grown-up, beautiful, laughing and toasting the camera. Lily stared at it and stared at it. Julia came up beside her and looked down as well, momentarily silent.

  “I thought maybe I’d forgotten what she looked like,” Lily said finally. It was almost a whisper, and I had the eerie feeling that she wasn’t talking to any of us, but to herself.

  “Lily …” Julia’s voice broke. Her eyes met Vic’s in a silent plea, and he came over as well. He was a little bit behind Julia in comprehension; he didn’t seem to recognize the scrapbook.

  “What’s that you have?” He reached out. “Lily, can I see what—”

  Lily slammed the scrapbook shut and clasped it to her chest. “It’s mine!” She glared at Vic, then at Julia. “You can’t have it!” She looked a bit demented, face pale and hair mussed, clutching the scrapbook, eyes darting from one parent to the other. “No!” she shouted at Vic, at Julia as they leaned in. “No! Get away!”

  “But Lily,” said Vic. “What—”

  Julia was clearly still incapable of speaking. I said, “It’s a scrapbook about Kathy.” They all looked at me. “I found it up here. I hadn’t had a chance to give it to you yet.”

  “You looked at it!” Lily snapped, oddly.

  “Yes,” I said to her. She was very upset; I could almost see the fear and panic pulsing beneath the surface of her skin. Or maybe I thought so only because I could feel it, pushing, pushing at the barrier I’d set up in my mind between her and me. “I was curious about Kathy,” I said flatly. “I remember her too, you know. Of course I looked.” And I know, I thought at her. I know.

  There was a choked little noise from Julia. “We don’t speak about her!” she said fiercely to me. “We don’t talk about her, we don’t … don’t you …” She put one hand briefly to her eyes. She whirled abruptly. Her heels clattered frantically down the wooden staircase.

  Vic cast one swift glance at Lily, then at me, and then, making his decision, ran after his wife. “Julia, are you okay? Sweetheart …” His footsteps raced into silence.

  Alone with me, Lily wrapped her arms even more tightly around the scrapbook, and she rocked slightly with it. Seconds ticked past; a minute. Two. I watched her, and despite myself, despite my numbness, something in me stirred.

  My father was on his way. I was in terrible trouble; maybe headed for the psychiatric ward. I had nothing to lose any longer. “Lily,” I said, “I know. I know about you.”

  Lily stilled. Her eyes slitted, ferocious. She said scornfully, “What do you know? You don’t know anything!” But I could feel her fear. She couldn’t fool me—not anymore.

  Maybe, deep inside, she had never wanted to fool me.

  I said it gently. “I know you killed Kathy.”

  My words hung in the attic air like dust.

  It felt different saying it aloud to her. The words made it real. And as I watched Lily’s face and felt her reaction, I knew for certain—really for certain—that Lily believed it was true.

  I wasn’t crazy. Or, at least, no crazier than Lily.

  I said to her, “Tell me how. Tell me why.”

  Lily’s chest rose and fell. For a moment I actually thought she would burst out with it. But then she caught herself, and the old Lily—distrustful; my enemy—was back, her emotions forced under by sheer willpower. She raised her chin in a Julia-like move. “I’ll tell you about me if you tell me about you.”

  I stared at her. “You already know about me,” I said. “Everybody knows.”

  “But I don’t know what you felt,” Lily said. Whispered. “Tell me what you felt after you killed her. And how you feel now. What you feel every day …”

  Powerful … “No,” I said, almost before she finished speaking. No.

  Silence again. Lily bent over the scrapbook, her hair in limp strands over her face so that I couldn’t see her expression. Then, softly, she asked, “Why not?” And when I didn’t reply, she added, so quietly that it was barely audible, “We’re alike, aren’t we? You and me?”

  If it had been anyone other than Lily, I would have thought she wanted reassurance. Comfort. If it had been anyone other than Lily, I might have found it in me to give those things. But this was Lily—Lily who had ruthlessly destroyed what remained of my life, and who might even now be pursuing her own peculiar and particular agenda. I didn’t have anything for Lily even if I had wanted to give it.

  “Won’t you tell me?” she persisted. She looked up at me, her face very pale. “Don’t you want to know, David?” She hesitated again. “I’ll tell if you will; I really will. And … you did ask.”

  She watched me like a starving mouse.

  “You first,” I said finally.

  She swallowed.

  “Go on,” I said. “You owe me.” And when she still didn’t respond, I prompted: “You wanted your sister dead.”

  Lily’s eyes begged me for something, but I didn’t know what it was. She looked down. She said, all in a rush, “Everything was always about her. I hated her. Every night, I prayed for her to go away. To die. And then … then—it just happened. It was like an experiment …” She stopped.

  I needed to know. I burned to know. I said, “She was taking a bath.”

  “She knew I was here,” said Lily. “She asked me to get her a glass of water.”

  I have never stood as still in my life as I did at that moment.

  “I put some ammonia in the water,” said Lily. “I thought she’d smell it. I didn’t really think she’d drink it. But she did. She did just exactly what I wanted.” Her fist clenched.

  Powerful, I thought, watching her, fascinated, horrified. Repelled. Understanding. Powerful.

  “She had a cold,” said Lily. “She had a bad cold. She just … she just—” Lily raised her head, and her irises were impossibly huge, liquid with fear and memory. “She just started drinking. I couldn’t believe it. I didn’t think she really would … and then she dropped it. The glass. It broke. It broke all over the floor.”

  Lily looked at me in wonder, then. “There were so many pieces of glass,” she said. “So many.”

  CHAPTER 32

  Acid filled my mouth. I ran for the bathroom, remembered, and diverted to the kitchen sink. I made it only just in time. My forehead, my armpits, exploded with sweat. I emptied my stomach and just kept on retching.

  The bathtub. The glass. Lily’s knees. My fist. My own fist, aimed at Greg. Aimed at Greg, and hitting Emily.

  What was Emily doing there? How had she stepped in the way?

  I felt Lily’s eyes on me. “Go away,” I said. If it hadn’t been Emily, would it have been Greg? Would Greg have died, too? Was that what I’d wanted?

  “But you promised you’d tell me—”

  “Get the hell away from me,” I said to Lily. I wasn’t watching, but I felt her leave.

  Some time after that, my father came. By then I could stand upright. I had just managed to rinse out my mouth and wash my face when I heard the doorbell ring. I heard his voice below. And then—too soon, I was not ready after all—I heard his tread on the stairs. For a moment, I thought my chest would explode.

  He stopped in the doorway. We looked at each other.

  He was wearing one of his expensive courtroom suits and I wondered fleetingly what he had been doing that day, before receiving Vic’s call on his pager. He looked tired.

  He came a little farther into the room, closer to me. “David,” he said. His arms twitched slightly, as if he’d been about to reach out, but then did not.

  I couldn’t help it. I practically lunged at him.

  I was no longer a child. He wasn’t any taller than me. But he closed his arms tightly around me, and said my name again. And I felt then as if I were once
more small, and he were a giant. As if in some miraculous way my father could still make everything come right.

  Later on he said, “Don’t try to talk now. We’ll sort it all out later.” He picked up the phone and booked a room at a hotel. He packed a few things for me: jeans, sweatpants, T-shirts. He said, “Let’s go.”

  My relief was overwhelming. I didn’t care if maybe we were leaving immediately because Vic and Julia had said, Get him out of our house. I wanted nothing more than to leave. I walked away from the attic without looking back.

  There were a few awkward minutes to endure downstairs. Vic said inane things to which my father variously replied, “I’ll be in touch tomorrow. We’ll talk tomorrow. I’ll call you tomorrow.” Julia was nowhere to be seen, which felt fitting. She hadn’t been around when I first came to Cambridge, either.

  Lily stood apart from Vic. She looked whitened, shrunken. She said nothing to me, nor I to her. For a moment I felt that awareness between us, like a tug on my mind, but then it shut off. Lily shut it off. I was glad.

  Good-bye, I said silently as we left the house. Good-bye, Vic, good-bye, Julia. Good-bye, Lily. I didn’t know what would happen next, but I knew I didn’t want to enter that house, or see any Shaughnessy, ever again. Particularly Lily.

  I prayed I wouldn’t have to.

  We’re alike, aren’t we? she had said. It was true—of course it was true—but I could not live with Lily’s intimate knowledge of who and what I had become. Could not bear to look at her and see myself reflected back. Did not want to know that she was there, with me, on the far side of the abyss …

  Ten minutes later, my father and I checked into the Hyatt Regency on Memorial Drive. Our room was quiet and impersonal; it overlooked the river. I had a long, hot shower. Then I came back out into the bedroom, and looked at my father as he sat on his bed.