‘We’ll make sure she’s taken care of,’ the officer said.
I imagined Dr Bowen by her side, checking her pulse, rubbing her shoulders as comfort. The kitchen walls popped, echoed, pushed a wave of nausea over my head. She was being cared for. But what about me?
The house filled with talk, one voice after another on top of each other until voices sounded like a wasp swarm. The way it hurt the ear. On one side of the room, Mrs Churchill and Bridget, these banshees, as they told officers: ‘I didn’t notice anything else in the room.’
‘No, there was linen on the bed . . .’
‘I only noticed her body . . . do I call her a body? . . . on the floor when I closed the cupboard in the guestroom and I turned around.’
‘I touched her back ta see if she might move.’
‘We were inside and didn’t hear anythin’.’
‘I feel sick. I feel sick.’
Everything they said made my head numb, a drum full of echoes, coming back to me slow and vinegared. Through the other side of the wall, someone, a man, said, ‘And this here is where I suspect the last blow landed. My guess is this was the blow that cut the eye out.’ I thought of Father. A few weeks before, he’d complained to Emma that the world wasn’t looking the way it ought. She’d patted him on the back, she’s trying to be the favourite, said, ‘You should see someone about that.’
Father shrugged. ‘They’ll charge me an arm and a leg to fix my eyes.’
‘Some things are worth the money, Father.’ Emma shouldn’t have spoken to Father that way. I should’ve been good and told her to watch her caustic tongue, remind her what he could be like.
But Father shook his head, laughed like a good time. ‘I suppose you might be right.’
‘Mrs Borden would agree with me, I’m sure,’ Emma said, seemed pleased with herself.
‘Yes, well. I’ll have Abby take me one of these days.’
‘Very well, Father.’ Emma patted Father on the back again. I thought of her touching my shoulders now, the way I would want her to make me feel comforted. She’d warm my blood, erase numb feelings. She’d never leave me alone in a house again, Emma makes everything better.
The men continued to speak. I hoped one of them was massaging Father’s shoulders the way Emma would, the way I might have done.
There were voices in the sitting room, voices in the kitchen, voices above me a muffle-muffle and dragging feet. Everything louder than it should.
A hand grabbed my wrist. The officer stared. ‘Miss, are you alright? You were talking to yourself. Should I summon the doctor again?’
I looked around the dining room: a face, then a face, then a face, all in my direction. One of the officers had a crooked mouth, the kind that ran through Mrs Borden’s family. The officer blank-smiled at me, a grim tooth shooting over his lip. Mrs Borden had smiled at me like this before. My head ached. I rubbed my forehead.
The tip of my tongue shivered, I want Emma. ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Yes, you had better fetch him,’ and the officer went to Dr Bowen.
I thought about Mrs Borden upstairs. The clock on the mantel ticked ticked. Everyone around me slowed, limbs saltwater taffy. From the top of the stairs I heard her voice, ‘Lizzie, dear Lizzie. Come and help me.’ My heart rumpled, my toes electric. ‘Quickly, Lizzie.’ I stood from my chair, said, ‘Mrs Borden?’ and two long lines of sweat worked my spine. ‘Lizzie, I’ve fallen,’ Mrs Borden said.
I walked towards the sitting room. Then someone took my hand.
‘Miss Borden, where are you going?’ An officer stood in front of me.
‘I’m going upstairs.’
‘You can’t.’ He showed his teeth, a dog, sounded almost furious.
‘Why not?’ My stomach tightened, pigeons walking through me. I was going to help Mrs Borden. I was going to be helpful.
Mrs Churchill stood by my side. ‘Dear,’ she said, her voice salty-sweet. ‘Your mother is up there . . .’ Not my mother but Mrs Borden!
‘It’s best you stay downstairs with us, miss,’ the officer said, gobble, gobble, gobble.
I was led back to my chair and told to wait. The clock on the mantel ticked ticked. Dr Bowen slumped into the room. ‘The officer tells me you’re in pain, Lizzie.’
I nodded. ‘The very worst kind.’
He looked at me, tired eyes hazed, and I could feel him walk into my body, survey my insides and see all the things I was made of, jolly good things. I smiled. Dr Bowen burrowed into his medical bag like a scavenger and took out the syringe, filled it with my favour. Into my arm it went. ‘There now, Lizzie. This will make it better for you.’
I started thinking all manner of ways. I wondered if Mrs Borden was hurt like Father, would we still be able to have an open-coffin funeral? These are bad things to think. I knew Father would need some healing, but I wanted everyone who would come to the funeral to be able to see them one last time, get their lasting memories. I would have to ask Emma what she thought was the best way to present Father and Mrs Borden in the coffin. We would both agree that Father deserved the very best.
‘We will place them in the parlour,’ Emma would say.
‘With the sunlight behind them like they’re glowing,’ I’d tell her.
‘There will be wreaths.’
‘And I will have one of the children from church play a hymn on the piano,’ I’d say.
‘Uncle should give the eulogy for Father so that he can talk about his life with Mother.’
But I’d tell Emma it should be me that gives the eulogy. I’m used to writing little sermons for my Sunday school pupils. I know how to deliver the word of God in bite-sized pieces.
‘Just think, Father and Mrs Borden will be there the whole time, so peaceful and resting,’ I’d say.
‘Yes.’
‘Emma, what do you think will happen once they are in the ground?’
‘To us?’
‘Yes, to us.’
A heavy hand hooked onto my shoulder, meaty fingers digging into my skin. ‘Miss Borden,’ an officer said.
‘What is it you want?’
‘If you’re able, we would like to ask you some more questions.’ Sweat poured down the side of his face into his thick moustache.
‘Hmmm-hmmm.’ My tongue fat in my mouth.
‘Officer, perhaps it’s best we leave Lizzie to rest,’ Dr Bowen said. ‘She’s experiencing trauma.’
‘We understand, but there have been two deaths in the house.’
Dr Bowen paced the room, his face pale sick. ‘Poor Andrew would be outraged,’ he whispered. The way he said Father’s name made it seem he was still alive. It made me want to curl into a small ball on the ground.
‘You know the family well, Doctor?’ The question sounded like an accusation.
‘I’ve been treating them for years.’ Dr Bowen dug his fingers into hips, claws.
You get a boiled sweet if you’ve been good.
‘Dr Bowen last came to the house when everyone was feeling unwell,’ I said.
‘When was this?’ A notebook was flipped open to a new page.
‘A few weeks ago. Mrs Borden said she was so ill she felt like dying,’ I told him, hoped he captured my words perfectly.
‘It seemed a simple case of food poisoning,’ Dr Bowen said. ‘It was lucky Lizzie and Emma didn’t fall ill to it.’