‘No. I’ll do it.’ I was used to taking charge. I stood, I nodded. I would make Lizzie comfortable and prepare her room. ‘I’ll be back for you soon,’ I told her and kissed her forehead. I would save my questions for later.
I headed towards Lizzie’s room via the back stairs, knew I would have to go through Father and Abby’s room. As I rounded the stairs someone said, ‘Likely she was the first to go. Found a piece of skull by the radiator across the room.’ That made me pause, muscles tighten, and then it happened: my stomach pushed bile from my body, again, again. I wiped my mouth, continued up the stairs and entered Father and Abby’s bedroom. The room was quiet. A small clock on the dressing table had stopped ticking. There was the bed: fresh linen, careful tucking, ornate wooden bedhead; the dual spaces of marriage. I carefully touched the edges of the blanket, felt the thickness of loss. The smell of lavender and sage mixed with leather and dampened wool, soft against my hands. Abby had not long before been in here. I lifted hands to my face and gently wiped them over my skin. I knew from experience scent never lasts long.
There were traces of Father around the room: a small handful of nickels and dimes, copies of tax receipts, a crumpled piece of paper with instructions to purchase supplies for Swansea farm and Bridget to mend socks. On Father’s side of the dressing table I found a small photograph of Mother. Her wedding day, her young skin. I kissed the photograph. Did Abby have to look at Mother every day?
I sat on the side of the bed and closed my eyes, conjured images of Father. It was hard to think of him as being anything but an old man. Two weeks ago he was an old man on the sofa, tobacco pipe in hand; one year ago he was an old man struggling to lift farm equipment out of the barn; a decade ago, two decades, three: Father old all the way back to when he met Mother, told her he loved her and planted me inside her.
My stomach lurched, the air inside the room was honeyed. I stroked my head, arms, passed through nothingness like a dream. I shouldn’t have been in the room. Below, men crawled around the first floor, heaviness sang, and I stroked the bed: everything would be different. Mother, Father, Abby. All three of them had slept there, all three dead.
I crossed the room and rested at the far window, looked towards the barn. A place I hadn’t been for some time. Its doors were shut tight. A police officer appeared in the yard, fumbled with his notepad and pencil. He stood at the front of the barn, examined the small building before touching the doors. Fingers caressed knotted timber. He took notes then opened the barn doors, stepped inside and disappeared.
The barn had stored our discarded possessions for years: plates and teacups lay broken, hoping for second life. There were lengths of rope, a container full of lead fishing sinkers, old hammers and nails, a wrecked splitting axe, stockpiles of wood. Father threw nothing out. Now everything would remain there.
Through the window, I saw the officer step towards the barn’s upper level. He wiped his forehead with a flat hand before swiping a finger across the bottom of a windowpane. He studied the skin of his index finger, took notes. I pressed my forehead against the glass, made it rattle. I walked to the end of the room and opened the door to Lizzie’s bedroom, unlocking the boundary separating Borden and Borden. Inside: aggressive movement, a trace of strangers. Photo frames had been tilted, books removed from shelves and thrown on the floor. Did Lizzie know of this destruction?
I caught my reflection in the mirror: rounded chin; slow, weary eyes; slumped shoulders. I couldn’t bear to look anymore. I pulled Lizzie’s bedclothes back, made a small linen cocoon. There had been years of making nests for Lizzie. I had grown tired of it but there I was. Underneath Lizzie’s pillow was a small piece of damp white cloth. I lifted the cloth: a hint of metallic dressed in florals, those strange sister smells. I returned it to under the pillow.
A jug of light-brown water sat on the bedside table. I poured a glass for Lizzie, hands shook, heart leaped. I willed my body to be still, thought of the tone of the officer’s voice when he had said, ‘No sign of forced entry,’ the way the tongue seemed to click, the slight whistle echoing from his chipped front tooth. I invented possibilities: a stranger knocking at the door spruiking the wonders of indoor plumbing, lost his temper when Father told him, ‘A waste of money, you scoundrel,’ and ordered him to leave. But it was hard to believe that ‘no’ would carry such a harsh penalty.
There might have been a disgruntled tenant, furious that Father had raised rent without warning.
‘There’s another hole in the roof,’ he would have said. ‘Insects are coming through at night.’
‘The problem will be fixed when there’s an actual need.’ Father’s reply.
The tenant would shake his head, spit on the front steps next to Father’s feet.
‘Leave my property now!’
‘Not today, Mr Borden.’ And the tenant would push Father’s chest, push him back through the front door.
But none of this could be. It all required a witness and nobody saw a thing.
With each movement I took a deep breath, inhaled a heavy, hot stench. What was that smell? A tree branch tapped on the window, made a screech sound, made me open the window, feel the sun bruise my face. A pair of boots marched up the front staircase towards the guestroom. The boots became louder and then I remembered: beyond the doors lay Abby’s body; Father’s dead flesh twin. I tried to get on with things.
I noticed torn pieces of paper under her bed. Lizzie could be so filthy. I got down on hands and knees, picked up the useless words, saw a used knife and fork caked with dried food, slivers of saliva becoming mould. There was a used handkerchief and dirty blouse. I gritted teeth, felt a nerve twinge along my gum.
It used to be my room, uncluttered, dust-free, worthy. I had kept my books alphabetically, covered the most precious in dustjackets. I had chosen white for decoration—coverings, paint, furniture—but the room had since become covered with reds and yellows, large parasols and gaudy artwork. Lizzie had grown gigantic. Every day I was surrounded by my sister: clumps of auburn hair found on the carpet and in the sink; fingerprints on mirrors and doors; the smell of musk hiding in drapes. I would wake with my sister in my mouth, hair strands, a taste of sour milk, like she was possessing me.
The year before, Lizzie had insisted that my bedroom door, the only partition to separate us, remain open. ‘To know that we are always there for each other.’
‘I doubt it’s good for adults to share space as much as we do. It makes me uncomfortable.’
‘It’s what I want, Emma.’ She tilted her head, widened those eyes.
Quarrelling continued for weeks. Lizzie won; it was easier to give in. I was forced to listen to her daydreams, boorish and pedantic.
‘One day I’m going to reinvent all of this,’ Lizzie had said pointing to herself.
‘What on earth are you talking about?’