“We’re just sick of you. We think you are going to tell on us—”
“And we’ve never tried it on a person before.”
Then she saw the glint. The knife was in Paul’s pocket.
“You’re fucked! You are both so fucked!”
Their faces broke open at that, and they started giggling in the way she always loved.
“You’re naughty, Becky. You’re not meant to use that word.”
Something inside her broke. She pushed Paul over, using all her strength. He yelped as his side hit the ground. She grabbed the knife out of his pocket and held it above her head. Andrew grabbed at her, clawing at her arms and back, trying to climb up her body. She pushed him off, sending him flying across the room. She didn’t realize he would be so light. A moment of shocked silence and then Andrew sniffed, tears welling up in his eyes.
“You hurt me, Becky.”
Her mind was all muddled up. Every part of her wanted to go over to him, to make sure he was okay.
Paul looked over at Andrew and Bec saw something pass between them.
“We’re sorry, too,” said Paul, his eyes filling with tears, as well. “We were only fooling around. We love you.”
They pulled themselves up and came up to her, putting their arms around her gently. She still held the knife up high.
“We just want you to spend more time with us, okay?” Paul looked up at her.
“Okay,” she said. Her voice was hoarse.
Later, when she goes into the kitchen, the sky has turned red.
23
2014
The house is quiet. There is no sound from the parents’ bedroom. I hear the mom pottering around softly in the kitchen. The acrid smell of smoke still lingers in the air, though I can’t tell where it is coming from. It was faint to begin with, like a burnt dinner. But now I can feel my eyes begin to sting from the thin haze.
I am Bec. I am living her final hours.
I sit on the sofa, waiting. Waiting to die like she did. It makes sense this way, I realize. I was living her life, so I should die her death. There is no way out. I run my hands over the cotton dress, soothing myself, waiting for something to happen. I wonder what Bec had thought about before she died. Had she remembered her brothers or thought about the career she would never have, the husband she would never meet? Had she been angry with her parents for this ultimate betrayal, or, when the time came, did she still love them? Accept that this was her fate?
I keep running my hands down the sides of the dress. My mother used to rub my back like this when I cried. I thought I had no memories of her, but this one comes back full force. I rub my knees, too. They jut out of the grey cotton, cold and covered in goose bumps. I hadn’t had time to put stockings on. A thin white scar runs the curve of my knee. I touch it with my fingertip and a sudden hysterical giggle escapes me. When I was eight, I’d tried to do a trick on the skate ramp with my bike. My mom had just died and I had felt reckless and desperate to prove myself. I still remember the laughs of the teenagers, the world tipping upside down and realizing I was going to hurt myself the moment before the impact. The smell of hot concrete and steel.
And with that everything comes into sharp focus.
I am not Bec. I had my own life before this, my own identity, and I could have it back.
I have to call for help. It’s a risk. If they hear me then it’s over, but I’ve got to try. I have got to at least try to survive this. I take a deep breath and walk quietly into the kitchen. The mom is at the sink. She has taken all the crockery out of the cupboards and is hand washing it again, scrubbing at the squeaky-clean porcelain.
I move slowly and quietly, taking the cordless phone from its stand on the bench. The phone beeps as it’s released. I wince.
“Do you like it?” the mom says.
“What?”
“The haircut?”
“Oh. Yes, I do.”
“Good. I’m glad. I think your brothers like it better this way.”
“They’ve gone home. Remember?”
“They’ll be happy to see I’ve neatened you up.”
“I guess.”
She hasn’t turned to look at me yet. She keeps doing the dishes, methodically cleaning each one.
“Good idea to call Vince, honey,” she said. “Find out what’s keeping him.”
Was that a threat? Was she trying to tell me she was on to me, trying to call my bluff? I back out of the kitchen. She still doesn’t turn her head, doesn’t slow down or speed up.
I dial the police and hold the phone to my ear, ready to whisper. But there’s no sound of ringing. Instead I hear the thick silence of another room. The other phone, it must be off the hook. The one in the parents’ room. I don’t let myself hesitate; I don’t let myself imagine the father sitting on the bed waiting for me.
Their door is open an inch but I can’t see inside. I put out my hand to push it all the way but I can’t bring myself to do it. I’m too scared. My heart is hammering and my whole body is shaking. The doorknob is cold under the pads of my fingers. I have to do it.
My mouth opens to scream as the image opens up in front of me. But no sound comes out. The white sheets are red. Sopping with congealing blood. The father lies in the red pool. I know it’s the father only from his clothes. He’s propped up in the bed, his hands around a sawn-off shotgun. His face and brain are all over the white wall behind him. Next to him is an empty bottle of whisky. On the pillow next to him is a roughly scrawled note.
I’m sorry, I couldn’t keep pretending.
Lying on the floor is the phone, knocked off its hook. I notice a gory piece of skull on the cream carpet near my feet. The mom will hate that; it will definitely leave a stain.
My vision starts to dim. Everything feels cold. I turn away, leaning against the wall. My muscles tingle and I realize I’m sliding down the wall to the floor, but I can’t help it. I just let myself fall. I hear the soft thud as my head hits the floorboards but I don’t feel it. I see my stepmom in front of me, the way she looked the night I left. Her face creased up with anger, sweat dripping down her temple from the force of it. Spit flew from her mouth as she yelled.
She wanted me to go to jail. She was happy I wouldn’t be part of her new family. I hadn’t meant to push her. But all of a sudden she was by my feet. The dishwasher had been open and she’d fallen sideways, protruding belly clipping the corner. It made a shockingly loud crashing noise. She rolled over onto her back. Red blossomed at the crotch of her beige maternity pants.
I focus on breathing. In, out. Don’t stop. In, out. Just keep breathing and everything will be okay. My vision begins to get brighter. My head begins to feel cold where it touches the floor. I can smell the lemon bleach on the wood and the smoke; the smoke smells stronger now. Thin vapor skirts across the floorboards in front of me.
I force myself to get up, pushing the image of what I’ve just seen out of my head. I just focus on breathing. In, out. The smoke is coming from the laundry. I press my weight against the wall and stagger toward the doorway. Going toward the sound of the washing machine, spinning my dressing gown around in circles. I can’t see anything in there at first. Then thin fingers of smoke creep through the crack underneath the door connecting to the garage.
Through the silence, I hear the mother’s voice. She speaks and then pauses, and then continues. Like there is someone else there, but I hear no other voice. I bite down on my lip as hard as I can. The pain cuts through my nausea. I stare at my feet as I walk toward the father. I don’t look at his face; I don’t let myself hesitate. I pull the gun out of his grip. His blood is hot against my hand. A sob comes out of my mouth before I can stop it, but I force the feelings back down and look at the gun. I’ve never touched one before. The end of it has been sawn off jaggedly; he must have done it himself. I imagine him for a moment, sawing off a shotgun in his grey work suit.
I walk toward the kitchen, listening. Breathing softly.
“It’s okay, honey. Don
’t worry.”
Then a pause.
“Yes, I’ll just stay here.”
A pause. I almost hear something in it, something so low it is barely audible.
“Yes. Of course.”
I get closer. I do hear something else. Another voice. A man’s voice, talking in a soft deep whisper.
My footstep creaks. The voices stop. I take another step into the kitchen. The mother is standing there alone, her hands in the sink.
“Mom?”
She turns and smiles. She doesn’t even look at the gun under my arm.
“Yes, sweetheart?”
“Who else is here?”
“When?”
“Just then. I heard another voice. There’s someone else here.”
“Don’t be silly, honey. They’re always here.”
“Who?”
“Your brothers.”
Something hard smashes into the back of my head. Blinded by pain, I crumple to the floor.
“Hey, it was my turn!”
“I wanted to make up for last time.”
“Yeah, only took you ten years.”
The brothers’ voices waft around me. I can’t tell them apart. They sound the same, like one person speaking to themselves. When I try to open my eyes, they’re already open. But I can’t see. There’re only vague shapes moving in whiteness.
“Shut up!”
“No, you shut up!”
“Don’t argue, boys.” The mother’s voice is quiet.
“Where’s Dad?”
“He’s sleeping.”
“Pissed again, is he?”
More shuffling of feet. My throat is burning, but I can’t cough. I feel the gun being kicked out from under my arm.
“Becky, Becky, how did you get this?”
“We’re not complaining, Becky. We’re impressed. Little Becky leaves a girl and comes back GI Jane.”
They both laugh. Then one gets closer, his heat right against me.
“Oh, I’ve missed Molly so much,” says one of the twins—Andrew, I think—in a high-pitched girlie voice. He’s close now, right next to me. “Why’d you have to threaten us, Bec?”
“Have you told Vince anything?”
“If you have we’ll kill you!”
“Aren’t we going to kill her anyway?”
“Shut up! She doesn’t need to know that.”
I feel a foot under my head, pulling my chin up.
“So what did you tell him?”
I can’t speak. I want to, but I can’t.
“Tell us!” Another deep, thick pain as a shoe collides with my side.
“Oh, please, boys. Please leave her alone!” says the mother.
Silence.
“What did we tell you, Mom?”
Silence.
“What’s the rule?”
“No talking back,” she says.
“That’s right.” I can hear him snicker.
“Now, what do you say when someone asks?”
“It had nothing to do with the boys.” Her voice is deeper, filled with pain as she recites, “They already checked onto their flights. It must have been my daughter. She’s disturbed.”
“Good Mommy.”
“Let’s get out of here.” One of them is coughing.
“You stay there,” the other says to me, a smirk in his voice. Then I hear the back door unlock and open and the sound of them jumping over the fence. And then silence. Thick, deep silence. The white gets thicker and I can feel myself slipping again.
When the white starts dimming, I don’t fight the darkness. I ride it into oblivion.
24
2014
I’m in the snow with my dad. We’re sitting on the chairlift, floating through white. I’m scared. He puts a soft arm around me and I snuggle into his parka. If I’m with him, I’ll be safe. Soon we’ll be back in our cabin drinking hot chocolate. My eyes and nose sting, but not from the biting cold. No. They burn. The white moves and shifts around me; billowing clouds of snow. There is a shadow moving in the white. Something cold touches my face. The chairlift pulls me forward and I slide through the white.
My throat and nose are filled with burning smoke. I cough, trying to get the ash out of me. The cough turns to dry retching.
“Don’t even think about puking.”
I look around. I’m in the back seat of a moving car. I try to lift my head to see who is driving but it pounds violently.
“Feeling okay?” It’s Lizzie’s voice.
“No. What happened?” I croak, bringing on another painful coughing fit.
She waits for me to stop before answering.
“I figured out something was wrong from your text. I called but then your phone went dead and I wanted to know what the hell was going on. Me and Jack came over but we got stuck at the gates arguing with the cop. He wouldn’t let us through. So Jack got out and started screaming his head off, telling the cop he wasn’t the boss of him. He was just distracting them, pretending to be some meathead. It would have been funny if I wasn’t so scared.” She laughs, a dull empty laugh. “Anyway, while they were trying to figure out what he was on about, I drove straight through that damn barrier. There was smoke coming out of the house. Idiot was so focused on keeping people out he didn’t even notice.”
“The mother?” I whisper.
“I tried.” Lizzie pauses. “It was the scariest thing I’d ever seen. She wouldn’t move. She just stood there, doing the dishes, with the room full of smoke. But the journalists and Jack came in as I pulled you out. I’m sure they got her.”
“Jack?”
“Do you really want to know?”
I don’t. I want to ask her where we’re going but it hurts too much to speak. So I just lie still, watching the roof of the car as we drive. After a while she pulls into a parking space and turns off the car. She turns around to look at me.
“Okay, here’s the deal. We’re at Goulburn hospital. It’s far enough out of Canberra that they won’t recognize you. I want you to give them your real name, and when you get back to wherever you came from, I want you to call the cops and tell them everything that went on today. Okay?”
I nod.
“Good. Now get out of my car. I’m not carrying you again. You’re heavier than you look.”
I pull myself out slowly, every movement ripping pain through my broken body. I open the car door, wondering for a second if I should tell her that I found Bec’s body. We lock eyes and I can see the pain already bubbling behind her steely resolve.
25
Bec, 18 January 2003
The world didn’t make sense. The sky was turning red and it was getting dark in the kitchen, even though it was just past noon. Her brothers had tried to kill her.
Bec sat down at the kitchen table and carefully put the knife down in front of her. Really, she should put it back in the drawer, but she didn’t want to let it out of her sight. She envisioned it sliding into her side while she slept. Imagined how it would feel to have that cold silver slice through her skin and muscle.
Quietly, she walked back up the stairs to her bedroom. She could hear the whispering in the boys’ room stop abruptly as she reached the top stair.
In the back of her closet was a large gym bag she’d stolen from Myer last year. It was back when she still got a thrill from shoplifting. She knew she’d never use the thing, but she just wanted to see if she could walk out of the store with something so conspicuous and get away with it. Turned out she could.
Bec paused for a moment, trying to remember if she’d ever shown it to her mom. She was fairly sure she hadn’t. It wouldn’t be missed.
She was halfway through packing when her arm started to hurt. Really deeply hurt. There was a graze where the brick hit and she’d been hoping that was it, but the dull pulsing felt like it was getting stronger and stronger. Tentatively she pressed her finger into her flesh. The pain was sharp; it made tears instantly spring to her eyes. Quickly, she blinked them away.
She
chose things her mom wouldn’t notice were gone. A thick jacket at the back of her closet that she’d never really worn. It always seemed too practical. Last year’s jeans. A few old T-shirts. After a moment’s hesitation, she picked up her McDonald’s clothes from the floor and put them in her bag and then made her bed.
She’d have to leave her makeup behind. It would be too obvious. The photos would have to stay where they were on the walls, too. She took one, though; she had to take one. A picture of her and Lizzie, smiling, cheeks pressed together.
Her reflection frightened her. The makeup smudged around her eyes, both knees scabby. Dirt on her face and scratches up her arms from Andrew’s fingernails. She used makeup wipes to clean herself up as best she could, too afraid to have a shower. Then she opened the back of the doll and started pulling out the money and stuffing it into a pocket of the bag. Part of her must have known this was going to happen; she had been preparing for a long time.
Her heart didn’t pound as she walked out her front door and down the hill. She didn’t even look back. The sky had gone a dark red and the air made her eyes water. The red fog even covered the sun, so it glowed vibrant crimson.
For a moment she thought of Lizzie, and the first real pain hit her. She tried to push it away. She had to do it. She knew she’d always love them no matter what. If she stayed they’d get her eventually. In her sleep perhaps, or maybe they’d wait until they were big enough to overpower her. She could tell her parents, but in her heart she knew there was nothing they could do. In fact, if she really thought about it, they probably already knew. If she removed herself then she removed the problem. They wouldn’t have to pick. It was better this way.
As she walked toward the city, the streets became darker and darker. The traffic lights flashed orange. The heat was overwhelming, her body was slick with sweat and her skin burnt. She wondered if she’d even make it to the bus depot, if they’d let her on a bus to Sydney. Perhaps Matty was right about the day of reckoning. Black ash had begun to fall from the sky around her like snow. But she kept going. Kept blindly walking, knowing she would never go back.
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