by Dawn Ius
I follow his gaze, preparing myself for the inevitable introduction to Bridget, already forming the excuses that will explain her presence, our relationship, my feelings. But as I turn, breath caught in my throat, I realize the seat she once occupied is empty.
Like a ninja, Bridget has slipped away, once again leaving behind only the faint trace of her cotton-candy scent, and an inexplicable hollowness in my chest.
CHAPTER
8
An ear-shattering electric shriek startles me awake. I bolt upright and stare wide-eyed into the darkness. The air is thick, like a steam room.
My father’s terror-stricken voice bellows through the hallway. “Lizbeth? Lizbeth!”
I scramble out from under the covers, tripping over cotton sheets that tangle at my feet. The faint scent of smoke drifts under my door. Fire. My house is on fire.
“Dad?”
Panic turns my voice to a tremble. I yell again, but the steady trill of the alarm drowns it out. Footsteps thunder in the hallway and my father starts banging on doors, shouting for people to “get up, get out! Quick!”
Bridget. I have to get to Bridget.
I throw an old cardigan over my pajamas and gather a few items into a small suitcase—a change of clothes, the Bible, my noteb—wait. Where is my notebook? My nerves knot in my chest.
My father continues to bellow down the hall.
“Daddy?” I shove my bare feet into a pair of winter boots, but they’re too big, and each step toward the door feels like I’m trudging through quicksand. I scan the room, fear and madness inside climbing across my bones in search of a way out. Swipe.
I will not succumb. But the incessant screech of the alarm grates under my skin, and my mind is numb with terror.
I press my hand against my bedroom door, checking for heat. With trembling fingers, I pry it open and peer into the hall, shielding my eyes from the billowing smoke I expect to find. The air is cool, clear. No stuffier than the ever-present musk that even repeated spritzes of Febreze can’t erase. Lord knows Bridget has tried.
My feet shuffle along the carpeted hallway as I make my way to the maid’s suite, my small suitcase trailing behind. I bang on the door. Bridget swings it open and her shoulders slump with obvious relief, her annoyance from our interaction at the church overshadowed by fresh fear. She’s wrapped in my great-grandmother’s patchwork quilt, shivering and tense.
She drops the blanket and gathers me in her arms, squeezing me tight enough to force out a gasp. I can feel her heartbeat against mine. Her lips skim my earlobe. “Thank you.”
My stomach flips.
“We have to leave,” I say, voice rising over the steady ring of the alarm. The fire seems contained so far—though I can’t pinpoint its exact location—but I’ve taken enough safety courses to know how quickly flames can spread.
I nudge my head toward the suitcase. “Follow me.”
For a split second I forget about the fire, the danger. Pretend it’s just me and Bridget making our escape. Me, saving her. Saving us. Sneaking off into the sunset. My voice drops to a whisper. “Don’t worry. I’ll keep you safe.”
I’ll always keep you safe.
Bridget’s eyes watch my lips like she’s trying to read them. She runs back to her bed and grabs her backpack off the mattress. Moonlight streams through the billowing lace curtains at the window, blanketing the room in a haunting bluish tinge.
I slip my hand in hers, and together we tiptoe down the hallway, eyes and ears and nose on alert for any signs of the fire. At the end of the hall I spot one of the guests on all fours, crawling toward the stairway. The white of his robe glows red under the dim EXIT sign hanging above the landing.
He turns and spots me. “Is it safe?”
My father grunts from the lobby below. I imagine him yanking the extinguisher from its case, trying to put out the flames while Abigail fans them with her fur-lined nightgown. Swipe. A mischievous grin curls up her lip. Swipe. Swipe. My mother’s face emerges from the smoke, her eyes wide with alarm. Swipe. Swipe. Swipe. Her mouth opens. Get out, Lizbeth. Run away. . . .
I blink hard, trying to ignore the visions, the sound of the alarm.
Bridget tugs on my sleeve. “Where do we go?”
Any second now the Fall River police and fire departments will be dispatched.
It’s going to be okay.
I keep telling myself that as we hurry to the staircase and join the other guests at the landing. Four of them, faces pale, concern and fear weathering their skin. We huddle together, peering into the darkness below.
“Dad?”
My small voice gets lost in the blare of the siren. I squint but there’s still no sign of flames. And now the faint smell of smoke I imagined earlier is replaced by the foul scent of someone’s BO. I cover my nose with my arm. “We need to get downstairs.”
The front door calls to us like a beacon, but there’s no sign of my father or Abigail. Terror rips through my core. If something has happened to them—
Swipe. Abigail’s skin bubbles, boils, drips from her charred skeleton. The stench of burnt hair makes me gag. Bile crawls up my throat. Across the room, my father’s body puddles on the floor, his flesh liquefying under the heat. Swipe. Swipe. He turns his face to me. I recoil. Swipeswipeswipe.
“Lizzie, we can’t stay here,” Bridget says, snapping me out of the horrifying vision. “Do something.”
I square my shoulders and take a deep breath. Bridget, the guests—their safety is my first priority, nothing else. Not in this moment. “Is everyone ready? We’re going to make a break for the door.”
I lead the group quickly down the stairs, glancing over my shoulder to make sure no one is left behind. I recite the emergency procedures in my head, again and again. A thump draws my attention and I turn just in time to see Bridget stumble. She hits the wall midway, regains her balance, and quickens her pace.
Be careful, I mouth.
I throw open the front door and a rush of fresh air swirls into the lobby. One of the guests shoves me aside to launch himself out the door, the others following him blindly into the dark. Their voices fade into the night. I focus on getting everyone safe, on keeping calm, when suddenly the alarm comes to an abrupt stop.
The ensuing silence sends a ripple of unease up and down my spine.
“Lizbeth.”
My father’s voice has a dangerous edge to it, and fresh terror stirs in my gut.
I pivot, heart racing, and his stern face emerges from the shadows. In his right hand he holds the fire extinguisher, in his left, the charred remains of what looks like a journal. He lifts it to eye level and his glare sharpens—he stares at me like I’m a black widow spider in need of extermination. “I believe this belongs to you.”
In the haze of my confusion, I feel Bridget’s presence, the weight of her questioning stare. “Your diary?” she says, so quiet it’s almost a whisper. “What happened?”
Swipe.
My stepmother steps out from behind my father and snatches the notebook from his hands, her thin lips twisted in disgust. “You burned your journal.”
My eyebrows knit together. “That’s not mine.” My journal is somewhere in my bedroom, hidden from these prying eyes. The messages and recipes, the observations and dreams, my prayers and confessions all stitched together in hurried penmanship, words meant only for me. That journal—my journal—is not in Abigail’s fist, and certainly wasn’t set on fire.
Was it?
Abigail thrusts her hand forward to reveal a single sheet of paper, ripped as though torn free from a binding. “It most certainly is.” She pushes it toward my chest. “Who else would write such vile, immature things?” My eyes skim over the words. Bitch. Slut. Guilt slides under my skin. I’ve never saide those words aloud, not even in a hushed whisper.
“For God’s sake, Lizbeth,” my father says, arms folded across his chest. “When will you stop behaving like a petulant little girl?” He grabs my wrist and whirls me toward him. His searing
eyes penetrate right through to my bones. “Start acting your age. And apologize to your mother—”
Step. Mother.
“—for your disrespect.” He presses the paper into my hand and scowls. “I thought you were better than this, Lizbeth.”
Better than what?
He sneers. “Your medications were supposed to curb this kind of impulsiveness.”
My eyes trail along each written sentence, processing, assessing. Memories begin to emerge, like snakes charmed from wicker baskets. Every name Abigail has called me. The insults, the put-downs. The lies. All cataloged.
I recognize the script, my penmanship. I’d know that anywhere. It’s the same lettering I’ve used to draw hearts next to Bridget’s name, looping it with swirls and swirls and— My throat tightens. Has Father seen those pages as well?
“Childish,” my father says again, tsking with disapproval. “You will apologize. Abigail deserves far more respect than this.”
She doesn’t, but I can’t say this to him. Can’t tell him that Abigail is cold and mean, not maternal in the least. She wears her armor like the scales of a lizard: patterned, impervious, perfect. Her smiles are tactical, and her voice is used only to get what she wants.
And what Abigail desires more than anything is to lock me up in a white-walled prison, for me to leave—but to also never be free. For Abigail, tears are nothing more than a sign of weakness, and for that reason, I have never cried in front of her. Not one tear.
But dang it if I’m not close now.
The dull wail of a fire-truck siren echoes in the background. Close, but not enough to release me from the thick weight of accusation. Everyone—even Bridget, so silent she’s almost invisible—waits for an explanation.
This is my journal, and I recall in vivid detail the arguments that led to me writing each horrible word, to capture Abigail’s disdain and cruelty. There can be no room for debate. No one lingers on details when it’s easier to move forward as if they’re the ramblings of a mad little girl, instead of memories and truths.
It’s just . . .
What I don’t understand, what doesn’t make sense, is how this diary—these confessions—went from my bedroom to burnt.
“I didn’t start a fire,” I say, my voice hesitant and quiet. “Why would I do such a thing?”
My anger, my hopes, my wishes and dreams—now all nothing more than a pile of ash. Even my near-perfect meat-loaf recipe is burned to a crisp. My head spins, reeling from the loss of what I can never get back, and I can feel the tentacles of madness slithering up my throat.
Snippets of déjà vu—or something close—cloud my vision.
Swipe. Me, hovering over the bathtub, tears streaming down my face, the questions asked by my students echoing in my subconscious. Swipe. Flames licking the side of the mint-green porcelain. The paper catching fire, smoke drifting to the stained ceiling, taking with it my guilt. Swipe. I catch my reflection in the mirror, broken and dark. Swipe. Swipe—
—I barely recognize myself—
Swipe.
My heart feels like it’s in my throat, beating a scream of denial from my mouth. “I didn’t do this.”
“Explain that to the fire department,” Abigail snaps. She closes her robe over her nightgown with a theatrical huff. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to put on something more appropriate. Andrew?”
My father nods, but he doesn’t look at me. That’s the thing about him these days. He never keeps eye contact for long. It’s as if looking at me too long hurts, or disgusts him in some way, a constant reminder that I’m a disappointment, an utter disgrace. He threads his arm through his wife’s and leads her away.
I stand, tears threatening to spill, and stare at the cruel words written by my hand. Humiliation washes over me.
“It’s okay,” Bridget whispers. She closes her hand over mine, and the paper crumples into a ball. Her thumb caresses my wrist. “We’ll sort it out, babe.”
“I didn’t start the fire,” I say again, louder.
But I know how things look. I want to blame Abigail, pretend she framed me for this. I convince myself to believe it, and ignore the inconsistencies in my theory, make excuses for the gaps in my memory, the insurmountable evidence.
A chill seeps into my bones. I wrap the cardigan tight around me and stuff my hands into the deep pockets.
Bridget pulls me close to her chest.
“I didn’t burn my journal,” I whisper.
But even as the words trickle from my lips, my trembling fingers dig deeper into my sweater and curl around the charred tip of a match. I pull it from my pocket and hold it up into the light. Ash smears across my fingertips.
Bridget tenses, and it’s like the air is sucked from my lungs. I don’t turn to look at her. I can’t. I’m terrified to see the disbelief that I’m sure now mars her angelic face.
CHAPTER
9
I push the meaty maggot onto the end of the hook with a soft pop. Guts squeeze onto my thumb. I smear them against my cargo shorts and finish tying the knot on my fishing line. In my peripheral vision, I catch Bridget’s expression—total disgust.
A shiver of revulsion makes her muscles tense. “Jesus, how do you even handle the stench?”
I glance over my shoulder, eyebrows narrowed. “Of what?” Bridget nudges her head toward my rod and I grin. “Aw, they’re not so bad.” I thrust the pole toward her face. “Here, smell.”
She sticks out her tongue and staggers backward, holding up her hand as though to ward off bad spirits. “Fuck that.” Her leg knocks against the tackle box. Hooks, bobbers, and fishing line spill onto the side of the muddy riverbank.
Bridget crouches to gather the items, her bare feet precariously close to one of the hooks. “Careful. You don’t want to accidentally stab yourself,” I say, trying not to panic. “I can do that if you want to take over here.”
She makes a face. “I’d rather jab myself in the eye.”
“And ruin such perfection?”
She allows a grin. “True. I’d miss seeing your beautiful face every day.”
A ridiculous blush creeps up the side of my neck.
The maggot squirms on the end of my hook and Bridget’s skin goes a little green. I bite my tongue to stop the knee-jerk teasing that always comes when we hang out, the back-and-forth bantering that stuffs the madness deep down under my bones. Being with Bridget makes me forget all the things I can’t be, the things I can’t tell her. I forget everything and just let myself . . . be.
“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” she mutters, pinching some of the tackle between her fingertips before dropping it into the box.
She perches on the balls of her feet, keeping her balance. Her shorts are so short the insides of the pockets flap against her smooth thighs. The pads of my hands itch and I look away in an attempt to curb the longing. Spring has barely sprung and Bridget’s already dressed for the beach—not that I’m complaining.
She holds up an oversize hook. “What’s this for? Megalodon?”
I feel my eyebrow rise. “Isn’t that a shark?”
“A big shark,” Bridget says. “Possibly extinct, but that’s what they said about the Loch Ness Monster.”
I finish securing my bait, reel up the line, and grin. “Let me guess, you saw Nessie in the flesh when you were in Ireland?”
“Scotland,” she says, deadpan, and I think she might be teasing me. Bridget is a fast study of one of fishing’s cardinal rules—the ability to tell white lies. “Anyway, that’s what keeps me from swimming in oceans and lakes. Sea monsters, giant sharks.”
I turn toward the water. “There’s nothing like that in Cook Pond. I promise. Some bass, perch. Maybe a few tigers.”
Bridget’s eyes go wide.
“Tiger muskies,” I say, and wink. Goodness, she’s so easy to make squirm. “They can get pretty big—”
She holds up the oversize hook again. “This big?”
“That’s for pike.” I pull my arm back a
nd cast. The lure drops with a light splash in the middle of the pond. “Didn’t your dad ever take you fishing?”
“You’ve seen pictures of my parents,” Bridget scoffs. “Do they look like they fish?”
“One picture,” I say, and then shrug. “You said yourself they’re free spirits. Nature types.”
Like my mother. Ems says our parents didn’t like the outdoors much, but when she was at school and Father was at work, Mom took me fishing. Mostly at the reservoir, and occasionally in this very spot. I still try to feel her presence, but any lingering aura from her time here was stripped the second Abigail discovered this place. I breathe out a sigh. Far too many of my sanctuaries are graffitied by my stepmother’s presence.
Maybe that’s why I resent her. She never let me heal. The black hole of grief that should have bloomed when my mother died was overshadowed by a more ominous sense of dread, the crushing weight of entrapment the second Abigail entered my life. While my mother tried to help me work through my condition—cradling me after my first blackout and ever after until the last smiled faded from her face—my father never believed in the diagnosis. “Ridiculous woman problems,” he’d say, though over the years his voice grew harsher, thicker with disgust.
And Abigail took his side, abandoning feminism in exchange for my father’s adoration, however dubious.
Father wasted no time bringing Abigail into our lives either, as if she could somehow replace Mom. Or as if we could pretend she never existed.
Maybe it’s for the best, because Mom would have hated this, the dysfunction that our family has become. What happened to us? What made my father so bitter? A wave of sorrow sweeps across my chest, leaving me breathless with yearning. If only I could travel to the past.
I still come to this fishing hole once or twice a year in search of answers, but it’s getting hard to even find the good memories, any semblance of life before the abuse, the sadness, before . . . Abigail.
Bridget coughs out a laugh.
I push the lip of my hat farther up onto my forehead to scratch at an itch. “What’s so funny?”