by Dawn Ius
Emma leans back in her chair. “Where do I even begin?” She leans forward and steeples her hands on the table. “You spent the night in a hotel?”
My teeth scrape against the inside of my cheek. “I’m eighteen, Ems.” Why is she focused on this when all I want is to tell her about my interview?
She rubs the back of her neck. “You could have called me. Stayed with me.”
“The hotel was close to the school, and it was even paid for by Le Cordon Bleu,” I say, trying to steer the conversation back to my interview. The chef was intrigued with my meat-loaf recipe—“such a unique take on a classic dish”—and inspired by the way I described each of the herbs in my kitchen. “Your culinary descriptions make me salivate,” he’d said, and I repeated those words the whole way back to the hotel, skipping along the sidewalk holding Bridget’s hand.
I release a slow, nervous breath. “What is it, Emma?” A dull ache pounds at the back of my skull. Obviously I won’t be sharing any of that until we deal with the issue that’s pecking at her. “Are you upset because I didn’t tell you about Bridget? Or that I’m dating a girl? Or—”
“Don’t be silly,” she says. “Of course I’m not upset you’re with . . . Bridget.”
I hate how she keeps stumbling on her name, like she can’t quite remember the most important person in my life.
“It’s just that the church—”
“Fuck the church,” I spit out. Emma gasps and I cup my hand to my mouth, shocked at what I’ve said. New guilt begins to swirl. I’m not sorry I said it, but the anger I feel has tainted the excitement I should be sharing. Sisters share stuff, right?
“Izzy, you’re acting so strange,” Emma says. She closes her hand over mine. “You’re talking about going to cooking school, and leaving Fall River, and dating a girl. . . .” She gulps. “And you’re swearing! Do you even hear yourself?”
I do hear myself. And it’s the sound of my mind struggling against everything I’m supposed to feel. My bottom lip quivers. “How am I any different from you?” I press my palms tight against the table, steadying myself. Trying to keep calm. “You left Fall River. Went to college. Fell in love.”
“It’s not the same. . . .”
“That’s not true.” My anger gives way to tears. “I’m sorry that I’m not who you think I am, or that you’re disappointed. I’m sorry that I’ll never be enough. For you, for Father. I’m just sor—”
Stop saying sorry.
Bridget’s voice feathers against the back of my neck. I spin around, but she isn’t there.
The concern in Emma’s eyes deepens. “That isn’t what I meant. No one is good enough for our father.” She pushes her coffee aside and sneers. “I hate that man, and I’ll never forgive him for how he treated me or Jesse. I wish he was dead.”
My throat clogs up. “You don’t mean that.”
Emma leans back in her chair. “I do, and don’t tell me you haven’t considered it.” I blink, as if to reset this conversation. This isn’t going at all how I thought. Thick cords of tension tighten across my sister’s neck, and in her expression I see darkness, not a reflection of mine, but the outline of something living inside Emma, too. “I’d kill him myself if I could. So would you—”
I can’t take it anymore. “Stop it!” I drop my gaze, working through my emotions. Today isn’t supposed to be about Father, but her words bring back nightmares and memories, a sense of déjà vu. Is it possible she’s right? That I have those feelings too?
I shake my head. “I came to tell you about cooking school. And about Bridget.”
Emma sighs. “Does Bridget know about your episodes?”
My spine stiffens. “She accepts me. All of me.”
Emma says nothing for a long while. Her eyes search mine, and I look away. I’m always the one to look away. “You haven’t answered me. Does she know that you’re . . . not well?”
The question is like a slap across the face. I recoil from the unexpected sharp stab of pain that jab, jab, jabs at my chest.
“Our father has beat me for the last five years.” My voice is dangerously calm. “Did you know that?” My mouth turns down in a sneer. “Five. Years. And not once have you offered to help me.”
Emma starts to cry. Mascara trails down her cheeks. “Because I was afraid they’d take you away.”
I stand and push my chair back. “That excuse isn’t good enough.”
“Izzy, please.” She grabs my wrist and hangs on tight. Her voice is embarrassingly loud. “Have you taken your medications?”
I consider lying, but for some reason the truth seems to cut deeper. The weight of a thousand stares land on my back, at us, and I don’t even care. My limbs go numb, my mouth feels like cotton. “No, and you know what? I’ve never been happier.” I pirouette, almost stumbling after the spin, and Emma’s eyes grow wider. I throw my head back and laugh. “You think I’m crazy, don’t you? That I’m unstable?” I lean in close. “Unhinged.”
“You’re scaring me,” she whispers. “Let me take you home. I know you hate them, Izzy, but you need Father and Abigail.”
I grit my teeth and seethe. “You’re wrong, Emma. I don’t need them anymore. If anything, this trip has proved that I can do just fine on my own.”
The truth of my words hits me and I almost smile. Like a baby pigeon, I was no longer content to open my mouth and have my parents fill it—I was ready to feed myself.
CHAPTER
22
Prussic acid.
“I haven’t heard it called that in years,” Mr. Bentz says. He shifts his thick-rimmed glasses onto the bridge of his nose. “Do you mean hydrogen cyanide?” At my nod, he raises his voice. “That’s poison, Lizbeth.”
The words echo off the empty shelves in the storage room. My shoulders tighten and I glance over my shoulder, half expecting Sheriff Dunby to be lurking in the shadows, handcuffs dangling from his pudgy fingers.
Mr. Bentz uses a razor knife to slice open one of the boxes on a pallet stacked four deep. He unfolds the flaps and starts putting the cans of vegetables on the table. I pick up the pricing gun and adjust the sticker tape to read $0.89. That’s standard for corn, peas, and carrots. When he gets to the asparagus, I’ll raise the cost fifty cents.
I don’t work for Mr. Bentz, but I’ve been coming here for years. Helping out today will soften him up for the favor I’m about to ask—plus it keeps me out of the house, away from Abigail’s hawk eyes. Ever since Bridget and I returned from Boston a few days ago, Abigail is everywhere—in the bathroom mirror when I brush my hair, in the after-fog of a deep sleep, the aftertaste lingering under my tongue. It’s as though she can sense something in me has changed.
She’s not wrong.
I’ve been flushing my medication down the toilet to make it look like I’m taking the appropriate dosage. It’s been days since I’ve even thought about the pills at all, as though my resolution in Boston, coupled with Bridget’s support, has freed me to do whatever, whenever I want. I feel lighter, happier. Cautiously convinced that freedom is within my grasp.
I price a can of asparagus and set it on the shelf. “So, do you have any?”
Mr. Bentz wipes the sweat off his forehead with the side of his hand. “If I did, I couldn’t sell it to you.” At the sound of a noise out front, he stills. “Did you hear the bell?”
I shake my head. He shrugs and keeps pulling out cans of corn. Creamed. Sweet. Mixed with carrots. He should charge extra for those, but what he prices things at is none of my business.
He stands and puts his hands on his hips. “What on earth would you need poison for anyway?”
The forced smirk doesn’t quite mask the unease in his voice.
I pull the trigger on three more cans of corn—click, click, click—and set the gun down. “Have you ever eaten corn out of a container? I mean, like by itself?” I pick up a can of creamed and curl my lip. “This stuff is pretty much one step away from baby food.” I make a gagging noise. “Emma made me eat it on
a dare once.”
My jaw twitches as I say my sister’s name aloud, but I doubt Mr. Bentz is paying attention. By now, I’m certain he’s tuned out my voice, which is how I know it’s safe to ask again about the poison.
“Is hydrogen cyanide something you’d keep behind the counter?”
Mr. Bentz snorts. “Well I certainly wouldn’t leave it out in the open.”
I hand him the last of the canned corn and wait as he slits open another box. Tomatoes. Crushed, diced, halved. Is it a fruit or a vegetable? The debate continues. Me and tomatoes have a lot in common.
“I wouldn’t need a whole lot of it,” I say.
Mr. Bentz doesn’t bother pricing the tomatoes. The smaller ones are $1.50, but the bigger containers—the kind I use for making chili and lasagna—are almost three. Unless you get them on sale, two for five bucks.
Five bucks, five bucks, five bucks.
It makes me giggle a little when Mr. Bentz says it. His voice drops and he rattles off the price like an auctioneer. Except there’s no haggling with Mr. Bentz. Not even for my father, who’s been buying his cigars here for more than fifteen years.
Mr. Bentz lifts another box onto the table. This time, I slice it open. The knife slides along the crease and shoots off the cardboard, narrowly missing Mr. Bentz’s meaty hand. He pulls away with a curse. “And that is why I can’t sell you hydrogen cyanide.”
“Because I’m terrible at box cutting?”
His eyes dart to my bruised cheek, the result of another of my father’s rampages. “You’re clumsy.”
“I’d be more careful with the poison,” I say with an innocent grin, ignoring the reference to my repeated stories about falling down the stairs. He doesn’t believe me—though it’s not enough to prompt some kind of action. Call the police, child services, Father Buck. Is the price of my father’s business worth the guilt of turning a blind eye?
The truth is, I’m being evasive on purpose about why I want the stuff. I’ve decided to turn the barn into a darkroom for Bridget—a place she can develop the images from our trip or our photo shoots without worrying that someone will rat us out to my father.
And actually, it’s the rats I’m worried about.
I wasn’t completely honest with Bridget when I told her about the mice in the barn. Oh, they’re there too, but the rats are bigger. Not quite Rodents of Unusual Size big. Just big enough.
“You haven’t even told me what it’s for.” Mr. Bentz glances at his watch. “Never mind. Go on, get out of here. I promised my wife I’d be home for dinner on time for once.”
“Just one bottle,” I say, my voice straining a little under the desperation. I’ve tried distraction, being helpful, stooped to near begging. If Mr. Bentz doesn’t cave this time, I’ll be forced to take alternative action.
He waves me off with a flick of his hand. “Forget it, Lizbeth,” he says. “I’m not selling poison to a minor.”
I’m not actually sure there’s an age restriction on prussic acid, but arguing that won’t help my case. It’s my father he’s afraid of. I chew on my lower lip, contemplating my next step. The problem is, I’m not sure where Mr. Bentz would keep something like that.
“Okay, maybe I’ll just take a look and see if there’s something else that might work.”
Mr. Bentz scans the packing order, concentration making everything else around him fade to dark. I take advantage of the distraction to slip into the front of the store. I’m careful to avoid mirrors and cameras, weaving through the aisles in a strategic pattern that ensures there’s no proof I’m anywhere near the cash register.
Ducking behind the counter, I crouch in front of the cabi-
net and carefully open it. A familiar thrill makes my skin
pimple like sandpaper—I know it’s a sin, but stealing stuff gives me an adrenaline rush. Maybe it’s because I can control it, make conscious decisions, without the influence of my madness or putting the blame on my blackouts.
I shuffle around the items in the cupboard, pushing the fireworks and gun ammo to the back for a closer look at the labels on the bottles.
A noise behind me makes my stomach flip, but when I glance over my shoulder, there’s no one there. The first pinpricks of unease ripple along my spine. Resuming my search, I locate the hydrogen cyanide and hold the bottle up toward the light. There’s maybe a quarter cup, but that’s enough.
I’m sure a couple of drops will take care of the rats.
Take the bottle and go.
With a racing heart, I tuck the poison into the waistband of my shorts, adjust my oversize T-shirt to hide the bulge, and creep from behind the cash counter. A wooden clock over the ice cream freezer tells me Mr. Bentz will close up shop in two minutes. It’s now or never.
Go!
I go back to the storage room and poke my head inside the door. “No luck,” I say. Mr. Bentz looks up, eyes glassy with confusion, and I keep talking. “I guess I’ll need to figure out another way to deal with the rodents.”
Mr. Bentz nods. “Traps,” he mumbles. “They’re in aisle four. Across from the kitchen gadgets.”
CHAPTER
23
Bridget wields her Swiffer like a glowing lightsaber, holding it at arm’s length to swat at the cobwebs and dust bunnies gathering in the corners of the sitting room. Her lips purse and a noise vibrates from between them.
“Zzzt. Zzzt. Zzzt. Take that!” she shouts, thrusting the handle at the bookcase. She spins, twirls the Swiffer, and jabs it at the ceiling. “And that!” Sweat glistens on her forehead and neck, but still she quickens her pace. Ducking, thrusting, manhandling the duster like it’s a weapon of mass destruction. Dust particles swirl like tiny stars in the sunbeams that stream through the windows.
My pulse quickens. Bridget likes to think she’s from Star Wars, but she’s more like a fairy, sprinkling magic throughout the room, this place, inside my heart.
“Whoa there, young Skywalker,” I say, reluctantly emerging from the shadows. I tuck my hands behind my back and rock on my heels, amused by her wide-eyed expression of shock. “I’m sure those spiders have turned to ash,” I say, grinning.
Bridget recovers quickly, flicking her shoulder with a wink. “The Force is strong with me today.” Her head tilts. “Hey, I thought you had a church function.”
My stomach twists. I’ve managed to avoid Father Buck for more than a week, faking the flu to get out of teaching Sunday school, and extending my illness by two days to skip youth group. I’m unprepared for his questions about my absence, scared he’ll also ask about Bridget. I shrug with as much nonchalance as possible. “Didn’t feel like it.”
I finger the cross around my neck and silently pray for forgiveness. Not long ago, missing a church function would have caused me to break out in hives, but I just keep thinking about the life I could have with Bridget. If I’m forced to choose, God won’t win the battle for my heart. “Do you want to hang out?”
Bridget blows out a breath, curling the ends of her hair upward with the air. “Can’t. The entire inn needs a dusting. I should do that before your father and Abigail get home—I don’t want them to fire me.”
A cloud of disappointment hovers over me. Now would be the perfect time to sneak to the barn and finish the surprise darkroom, but the thought of being away from Bridget leaves a gaping hole in my chest. The project can wait. “I’m not bad with a Swiffer.”
Bridget hands one to me. “I think you mean lightsaber.” She grabs a wet rag from a bucket on the floor and wrings it out. Water drip, drip, drips. “You swiff, I’ll wash.”
We work our way to the bookshelf, where I lightly run my finger along the spines of the classics: Dante’s Inferno, Romeo and Juliet, a slew of Jack Kerouac. My father’s private collection. There’s a weathered copy of Stephen King’s It tucked between Shakespeare’s Macbeth and Hamlet that gives me a little thrill. Commercial fiction is forbidden in this house, but hiding that novel in plain sight was my first act of rebellion, however wasted. I dou
bt Father knows it’s there.
“Who even reads these books?” Bridget says, wiping a shelf with the damp rag. “I mean, besides Romeo and Juliet?” She grins. “I’m a sucker for a love story.” A pause, and then, “No matter how tragic.”
My stomach does a slow roll.
At the fireplace, I dust the cobwebs from the rusty gate, skimming the Swiffer over the fire poker. Swipe. The pointed tip glistens, razor sharp. Swipe, swipe. I hold it over my head, staring down at Abigail’s crown of graying hair.
“Lizzie?”
Swipeswipeswipe.
Bridget’s stare is frank, concerned. “I asked if anyone had ever been stabbed with that thing.” She points to the sharp utensil and grimaces. “You could skewer someone with it.”
Swipe.
“I’m sixty percent sure it’s been used only for firewood,” I say, and then smile at my joke.
Bridget scrunches her nose. “Pity the other forty.”
She stands on her tiptoes to wipe the mantel, swooping all the dust balls onto the carpet. Something gold glints from the pile of dirt. A key? I crouch down to pick it up and hold it at eye level, twisting the jagged edges between my fingertips.
Bridget’s eyes glisten with mischief. “Maybe it unlocks some kind of treasure.”
“Not in this place.” My father collects nothing of true value, and even Abigail’s meager jewelry is kept behind closed doors. She demands diamonds, and Father often complies, but it’s his family heirlooms that she covets. “It’s probably the key to Abigail’s soul.”
At this, Bridget laughs. The sweet melody cuts through the tension of my guilt, that persistent black aura that seems to follow me everywhere that Bridget isn’t. She is the reason I don’t succumb to its powerful pull, I know that now.
After a quick glance over my shoulder, I pocket the key and continue to clean. Bridget hums or dances. I’m trying to lighten up, but our discovery weighs heavy in my cardigan, piquing my curiosity. “Come,” I whisper, and Bridget follows, though not without notable hesitation.