by Dawn Ius
We tiptoe down the hall to the back staircase that leads to the master suite. I’ve not been in Abigail and my father’s bedroom since Abigail moved in. My stepmother doesn’t trust me with her things. As though she thinks I might steal her silk lingerie and gaudy pearl necklaces. What use would I have for them?
The wooden staircase creaks under our footsteps. I hold on to the banister with one hand, keeping my eyes straight ahead so I can navigate the gentle curve. Slow and steady.
Turn around.
If my parents come home early, we’ll be trapped with no logical explanation for this. Bridget will be fired and forced to leave.
Everyone leaves.
Shrugging off the voice of reason, I slip the key in the lock and turn the handle. The door opens with a soft click. My pulse ratchets up.
“Lizzie . . .” Bridget’s hushed voice cracks a little. “What are you doing?”
I peer inside the room, deflecting the paranoia in Bridget’s tone with my own curiosity. A puff of cheap perfume hits me square in the face. I cover my nose with my palm and cough.
“Shit, that’s like stepping into Macy’s,” Bridget says with a small giggle.
My heart is pounding like a kick drum. “Do you have anything I can cover my hands with?”
Bridget lifts an eyebrow. She reaches into her pocket and withdraws a pair of latex gloves, the kind she uses when washing the toilets. “Something like this?” I nod eagerly and her eyes darken. “Bit creepy, Lizzie.”
“We can’t leave fingerprints,” I say, stepping across the threshold. The room’s smaller than I remember. It’s all wood—cherry armoire, oak headboard, an empty bookshelf that might be walnut. Any traces of my mother have been stripped clean, except the floral wallpaper Mom wanted to replace. I trail my fingertips along the wall, looping around the swirls in the pattern.
“How about we just leave?” Bridget says. She shudders. “This place gives me the creeps.”
My voice drops to a whisper. “Just a minute more.”
Something doesn’t feel right, like I’m missing something, some kind of leverage Abigail must be hiding. My eyes fall on the dresser. The second drawer is slightly open, begging to be explored. My pulse stutters. I kneel on the floor and push aside Abigail’s underwear.
Bridget’s breath whispers along my shoulder blades. “What are you doing? You’re invading Abigail’s privacy.”
Annoyance chips away at me. It’s not like Abigail hasn’t been encroaching on my life since the minute she came to Fall River. Pushing herself on my father to take his money, his spirit, his life. Abigail no more belongs in this house than I do in her dresser drawer—but there is nothing either of us can do about it.
My fingers deftly explore the back of the drawer. I lift out a small cardboard box and give it a little shake. Something rattles, like jewelry. Or bones. Tiny baby bones. Swipe.
Inside there’s fifty bucks, a gold watch, two pairs of earrings, and a necklace that sparkles with red jewels. Rubies? Maybe. The color looks right. I slide the watch over my wrist. It’s heavy, ugly and old, totally not my style. But I know how much it means to Abigail—and that’s enough.
The clock across the room click, clacks.
“Come on, Lizzie, we should go.” Bridget tugs on my sleeve. When she sees the item in my hand, she frowns. “Put that back. It’s not worth the consequences if you’re caught.”
“So then we won’t get caught,” I say.
Bridget’s back goes rigid. “Stay if you want, but I’m leaving.”
Everyone leaves.
“Fine, we’ll go.” The gray shadow of paranoia begins to fade from Bridget’s eyes. I go to stand, but something else catches my eye. I reach farther into the drawer and pull out the items stuffed at the back—a pearl necklace, a rare gold coin, a lace doily that was crocheted by my grandmother. Items and their memories, stolen from my mother and tucked away with Abigail’s things.
“Lizzie, they’re coming home.”
I shove everything back into place, and then tiptoe into the hall. We creep down the stairs, my hand in my pocket, tap, tap, tapping against the antique watch.
If Abigail can steal my mother’s things, I have no problem stealing hers.
CHAPTER
24
I coil my fingers around the small bottle, thumb brushing against the rough edges of the faded label, tracing the letters C and Y.
My mind fills in the blanks. C—raz—y.
No, not my mind. Dr. Driscoll’s. Father’s. Abigail’s. It’s what they all think. Pieces of conversation flit around in my brain. Abigail and Father were on the phone with the doctor. Carefully, I picked up the second receiver, cupped my hand over the speaker, and listened.
“If she isn’t taking her medication, wouldn’t her symptoms get worse?” my father said.
Dr. Driscoll paused, cleared his throat. “Sometimes it takes a while for the medication to leave the system.” Another pause, and then, “The patient”—my stomach twisted at such an impersonal label—“may experience moments of euphoria, a kind of calmness before the storm.”
I imagined my father licking his lips, processing, rationalizing.
“I saw the pill in the toilet, Andrew,” Abigail said. “She hasn’t been taking them.”
“That is a concern,” Dr. Driscoll said.
“Are you suggesting that my daughter is crazy?”
I hung up before hearing the diagnosis, foolishly thinking that if I didn’t listen, I could pretend the conversation hadn’t happened at all.
The end result is that Abigail is back to feeding me the pills again—waiting until I swallow, forcing me to stick out my tongue to prove that they’re gone. The alternative is a mental hospital, where I may never see Bridget again. And I will do anything—anything—not to let that happen.
I hold the bottle of poison up to the light and tilt it on its side. Clear elixir slides up the side of the glass. I twist, twist, twist off the cap and draw the bottle close to my nose. Sniff. The slight scent of bitter almonds trails under my nostrils.
Hydrogen cyanide.
Poison for rats, spiders, livestock, for—
Abigail?
I touch my cheek, tracing the outline of a fresh bruise, the result of Abigail’s accusations about pawing through her things. I neither confirmed nor denied it, but Father made up his own mind about my guilt.
Just once I’d like him to give me the benefit of the doubt.
I set the bottle on the kitchen counter and crouch low so I can read the words, the ingredients. Fingernails chipped, I scratch, scratch, scratch, scraaape at the label, tearing, ripping, bunching paper and ink under my nails.
They’re dark. Black as a raven’s wings. Black as pitch.
As black as Abigail’s cold heart.
Swipe. I picture her in the garden, bending over her rose garden, skirt rising up, up, up the back of her thighs. Swipe. She cranes her neck and stares at me. At me and Bridget. Swipe. She points a bony finger. Come. We don’t. Can’t. The windshield wipers swipe, swipe, swipe the image clear.
A swarm of wings flutter up along my rib cage.
I tear the last of the label off the poison bottle in one long strip and crumple it into a ball, squishing it into a tight mound of paper wet with sweat. Squish, squish, squish. I imagine crushing Abigail’s skull with my thumb, twisting and turning.
Madness presses against my chest, eager for release. Some of it begins to seep out. I push harder on the counter and the paper, ink, bones flatten and tear. Fragments pepper the granite like snowflakes, each itty-bitty bit so different and unique. I gather them into my palm and fold over my fingers, pressing, rebuilding—
The skull.
The label.
I open my palm and stare at it before blowing the pieces into the sink. They are everywhere. I crank the tap—
Leave no evidence.
Water swirls down the drain, taking with it the bits and pieces of my stepmother’s paper skull. I watch until it is goin
g, going
Gone.
I move the bottle to the back of the counter, holding it open over raw hamburger, eggs, a pile of saltine crackers. The liquid heats in my palm. The acid inside hisses and snaps.
One drop.
Two.
My knuckles knead into the meat, threading the herbs and spices, the salt and poison through my fingers, squishing against the metal bowl and up over the lip. A clump rolls onto the counter. I scoop it up and lob it into the sink.
I lean toward the bowl and sniff. The scent of almond mixes in with rosemary and garlic, egg yolk and cow’s blood. I wipe my hands on my apron and add two more drops of cyanide.
BAM! Meat loaf to die for.
I am totally kicking it up a notch.
I snap my head back and cackle. Softly at first, and then louder as the madness takes over my body, my mind. I screw on the cap, wipe off the bottle, dry, polish, and buff the glass until my distorted reflection ripples back at me.
Erase the evidence.
I hold the bottle over the garbage bin, but something pulls me back. A whisper of warning creeps along the back of my neck. I root through the junk drawer, gathering pens, markers, two very sharp pencils.
With the Sharpie, I trace the outline of a skull. An evil skull with bulging eyes and giant angry teeth. I draw an upside-down heart for a nose. Color the eyes in black. The tip of the marker squeaks, squeaks, squeaks across the glass.
Shadows.
Bones.
The details swirl to life with each pass of the pen. My outline gets darker, bolder, a thick, black warning to stay back, KEEP AWAY.
My fingers unfurl and the Sharpie falls to the ground, rolling under the fridge. I get on my hands and knees and peer into the darkness. A spider skitters inches from my face, taunting. It is unfazed by me, and me by it. We stare at each other, eight beady pupils against my wide snake eyes.
I sit up on my knees and reach behind me to grasp the poison. Carefully, I twist off the cap.
The spider doesn’t move.
Not a single millimeter.
I am the spider; it is the fly.
I grip the bottle in my hand and tip it toward the floor. A drop of liquid rolls off the lip. “Come closer,” I whisper. The insect raises a leg, and I grin. “Yes. Come closer, my friend.”
Pressing my nose to the ground, I inhale the elixir. I touch the liquid, just barely a dot, and my skin tingles, goes instantly hot. Dot and hot. Hot and dot. The rhyming words go back and forth across my tongue like a device used for hypnosis.
The spider turns away, unharmed, and scampers deeper into the dark. I press my face to the floor and wait for my eyes to adjust. There’s an apple core, dust, years and years of neglect. I don’t remember when anyone last cleaned under the fridge.
Isla.
My eyebrows arch with confusion. Not Isla. Bridget. Abigail sent Isla away, fired her without notice. She left.
Everyone leaves.
Panic grips my heart like a fist and squeezes tight. I won’t let her take Bridget from me too.
Swipe.
I push Abigail’s face down into the floor. The weight of my boot digs into the back of her skull. Sw— I shake my head and step down harder. Abigail’s mouth hovers over the poison. Her lips touch down. An animal cry belts from somewhere in her chest. Swi— No! I watch as her skin bubbles, boils, burns. And I laugh.
I laugh so hard my stomach shakes with it.
My throat goes raw and dry.
I keep laughing until every last drop of poison is gone. Until Abigail lies lifeless, limp, on the kitchen floor. Her body shrivels, shrinking into the liquid. The bubbles turn black as ash and lift off the floor. They float up, up, up toward the ceiling. Float until they—
POP!
Dark residue rains down all around me. I sweep, sweep, sweep it into a pile and then under the fridge, pushing it to the back. It coats the apple core, the dust, the spider with its eight beady eyes.
A thump at the front door causes me to startle.
Swipeswipeswipe.
My heart slams against my rib cage.
Father is home.
CHAPTER
25
Bridget’s low moan floats through the kitchen and buries itself deep under my skin. “Jesus, Lizzie. This just keeps getting better and better.”
Cooked meat maggots hang from the corner of her mouth. She licks it clean and closes her eyes, as though savoring each and every bite. Her lips form a crooked smile. “Seriously. You could sell this stuff.” She stabs another forkful and holds it up by her mouth. “I mean not just at the B and B. Like maybe the farmers’ markets or whatever.”
My mind wanders back to Boston, where street vendors hawked hot dogs and burgers, kettle corn by the paper cone. “I can’t see people lining up for meat loaf.” My face goes warm. “It’s nothing special, really.”
“Bullshit.” Bridget hops up on the counter and dangles her feet over the edge. No socks—even though the air conditioner has thrummed steadily for two solid days. She nudges her head toward the window. “What time are you expecting Dr. Jekyll and Mistress Hyde?”
I wring my hands together. “Any minute now.”
Bridget stuffs what’s left of the meat loaf in her mouth and chews. “Did you add a new ingredient?”
“I’m not sure.” My favorite recipe was burned, the contents of my journal now fertilizer for Abigail’s rose garden. Sometimes I look out my bedroom window and dream of her flowers wilting, their leaves going dry and brittle, the petals turning black.
But they remain a deep crimson, the stubborn color of dried blood.
Bridget wags a shaky finger at me. “You need to write this shit down again.” She swallows. “Have you heard from Le Cordon Bleu?”
I busy myself with tidying to mask my unease. Bridget asks the same question every day, sometimes following me to the mailbox like a puppy without a home. We walk with light feet, optimism guiding each step, and back—empty-handed—our shoes like bricks.
“It’s still early,” Bridget always says, but I’m starting to think it’s actually too late. Is it possible my interview didn’t go nearly as well as I’d planned?
I lop off another chunk of meat loaf to put in a Tupperware container. The scent of burnt almonds curls under my nose. Odd. I don’t keep nuts at the B and B—too many people have allergies.
Bridget eyes the meat loaf with suspicion. “You shouldn’t give me seconds. They’ll notice it’s gone.”
“I made two batches. Trust me, it’s fine.”
“I do,” Bridget says softly. “Trust you.”
I pretend like there’s something stuck in my throat as relief seeps through me. Bridget is like a drug and I’m holding on like a dog with its jaws clamped around a bone. But lately it feels like she’s pulling away.
The seed of doubt in the pit of my stomach grows and spreads like cancer.
Bridget hops off the counter and peers through the kitchen blinds. Her voce goes leaden with disappointment. “They’re home.” Her shoulders drop a little, so subtle I almost miss it. “I guess I’ll get to . . . cleaning.”
Abigail hasn’t complained, so I guess she must be impressed—and she should be. Bridget scrubs, dusts, washes the floors, and pulls the sheets so tight you could bounce a quarter off them. In fact, sometimes that’s our game, as pathetic as it may seem.
Often I watch her—dancing, singing, twirling through the rooms with the lightness of a ballerina. I guess I don’t really know what she has to be happy about. I just know that I’m happy she’s here.
Still here.
Bridget rubs her belly. “Maybe I’ll just go to bed. My stomach is feeling a bit queasy.”
My own guts twist into knots. “Nerves?”
“Flu, maybe,” she says, though I’m not entirely convinced. Something niggles at the back of my mind, an ominous cloud of impending dread. I glance at the second batch of meat loaf cooling on the stove. The hair on the back of my neck stands upright.
Bridget pulls me in for a quick hug and brushes her lips against mine. “Thanks for the contraband.”
My laugh is dead-ended by the sound of the front door opening. Abigail’s Jimmy Choos click across the foyer and down the hall.
“Love you,” Bridget whispers, and then slips out the back, just as Abigail and my father enter the kitchen.
My father’s suit is impeccable as always, the cuff links silver today, his hair combed to the side with a swath of the same brand of gel he’s used for ten years or more. The intensity of his stare turns my legs to Jell-O.
“Meat loaf?” he says.
I listen for disapproval, but his voice is light, almost teasing. I inch forward, training my nose to pick up the scent of alcohol—there’s none. “A new recipe,” I say, folding my hands together and holding them at my churning stomach.
In my peripheral vision, I catch Abigail rolling her eyes and my spine stiffens.
My father twirls the end of his new mustache around his finger, a smirk playing on his mouth. It’s more trimmed than the kind he wore when Mom was alive, back in the days it tickled my cheek when he used to kiss me good night.
“Tonight, we’ll eat together at the table.”
I don’t know what’s put him in such a good mood, but I won’t risk upsetting him now, not when relief flows freely through my veins, making me light-headed. A low whistle vibrates from between my lips as I gather plates, cutlery, three wineglasses, and linen napkins. I move quickly through the kitchen to set our places at the dining table, and then carefully carry the fresh meat loaf to the table.
Steam rises up from the pan, bringing with it the scents that soothe, even when I am at my darkest. My father leans over the pan and breathes deep. “Rosemary?”
A genuine smile creases my cheeks, as I dish up everyone’s plate. “And garlic.”
Abigail stabs at her meat loaf and shoves the whole fork into her mouth. For a split second, I imagine the tines lodging in her esophagus, blood trickling from her lips. Swipe.
“Lizbeth, this is delicious,” my father says, funneling more and more into his mouth. I must be dreaming, because I could swear I hear pride. “Don’t you agree, Abigail?”