I studied her fingers, saw a tiny bauble of bone. ‘No.’ I said, no, no, no, we were quiet.
Emma looked me over then around the room. She wiped at her eyes, strained her neck towards the ceiling. Mrs Borden’s blood is still up there! The clock on the mantel ticked ticked. I watched Emma’s ribcage expand and deflate. I wondered what it would be like if she were to die right then. Emma stared at me once more and after a time said, ‘Do you think you might have hurt yourself?’
My heart skipped a beat. I touched the spot where she had been, couldn’t feel blood. I thought very hard. It was all very confusing. ‘Yes.’ I touched my forehead and rubbed. ‘I’ve been sore all day, come to think of it.’ I rubbed my forehead again. ‘I hurt myself a lot when you were away.’
When Emma was in Fairhaven I sat in my room and picked at my skin. First I picked at the dried skin on my feet, let it fall onto my red wool rug next to my bed, then I picked at skin around my elbows and knees, made myself bleed a little, drip drip onto my white sheets. If she had answered my letters, I wouldn’t have felt so empty and lonely, wouldn’t have had to force myself to play niceties with Father and Mrs Borden, to talk to them. Many things wouldn’t have happened. I wouldn’t have had to sit with them in the evenings. I’d often find them in the sitting room, Father with a book on the sofa, Mrs Borden with her too-ornate embroidery, knotted colour thread lying with each stitch: Home Sweet Home, My Heart Rests Here. One night I prayed for her to prick her fingers with the needle, to sew skin into skin.
‘Hello, Lizzie.’
‘Good evening.’ I sat in the chair nearest the parlour room and watched them, kerosene lamps burning off that devil-sulphur smell, shading their faces with half-shadows. Father looked up from his book at me, then at Mrs Borden before returning to the page. Mrs Borden embroidered, hand up, fingers tight and angular, pull through cloth, repeat, repeat. The clock on the mantel ticked ticked, its tick-tick climbing down over the ledge along the carpet into my feet; little cannons. I thought of jumping up and down, a giant stomp of ‘Here I am! Here I am!’ Instead I coughed. They both said nothing. I coughed again and listened to their breathing, that dragging of air up through aged lung, out of dry mouth and cracked lip.
Mrs Borden said, ‘Andrew, did I tell you? Bridget seems to think the upstairs space is attracting a particular smell.’
‘Is that right?’ Father said. ‘What does she think it might be?’ who cares what she thinks.
‘Perhaps an animal?’ said Mrs Borden.
‘Rodent?’ Father stroked his short beard.
‘Could be.’ Mrs Borden embroidered.
‘It’s the weather that makes it worse,’ Father said.
‘I told her to open the windows.’ Mrs Borden embroidered.
‘I dare say it’ll be trapped in the walls. The damage to the house and the cost to fix it will be enormous,’ Father said.
‘Yes, quite expensive.’ Mrs Borden, her fingers around the needle, going in and out, in and out of fabric. She changed the colour of the thread from red to purple, in and out. ‘Suppose we’ll have to wait until the end of summer.’
‘Yes, the animal will have well and truly disintegrated by then and the problem will have sorted itself out.’ Father smiled, proud of his solution. He returned to his book.
Their conversation made me want to hit walls. They knew nothing. I cleared my throat. ‘Maybe Bridget is storing food up there and it’s become rancid.’
‘Why would she do that?’ Mrs Borden stopped embroidering.
‘How am I supposed to know? Maids do take things. I wouldn’t be surprised . . .’
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ Father put the book down. ‘We all know Bridget isn’t the one who takes things in this house, is she?’ We locked eyes. His mouth opened. I saw grey tongue poke over gum.
‘Unfortunately, Father, there is crime in our beloved Fall River. Many people do many things.’
‘Yes, they do, Lizzie. They do.’ Father stroked his short beard. Mrs Borden put her embroidery on her lap. The clock on the mantel whirled, skipped time. We all turned to look at it. The clock whirled again then stopped. A silence.
‘That hasn’t happened in a long time,’ Mrs Borden said.
We were quiet.
Then Father said, ‘I’ll take it into town tomorrow and have it repaired.’
I stretched my legs until my stockinged ankle showed from underneath my skirt, my, what strong legs you have, and I clicked my jaw and sighed. Father turned and faced me. We watched each other and in that moment I was small again. I wanted to pounce on him like a kitten and dig my claws into his legs, swipe a paw into his cheek and watch the blood-letting, make him forget about the conversation we’d just had. ‘Cheeky child,’ he’d say, ‘but that is why I love you. What a wonder you are.’ I AM the great wonder, and I’d lick my kitten tongue over blood and cheek, clean him with my fur and preen.
Father and I watched each other. He’d never let me grow, like he didn’t trust me. This thing we did night after night after night and I ended up picking at skin because Emma wasn’t home. So many times I thought about walking to Fairhaven, thought of stalking into Emma’s bed like the moon and lying by her side, growing tentacles and wrapping them around her until our breathing matched.
A week after Emma left for Fairhaven, I had taken to watching Mrs Borden trounce around the house, heavy iron-feet walking stairs and floorboards, her puff-puff breath curling around my neck and lips like an infection each time she walked by me.
‘Lizzie, you look lost,’ Mrs Borden said.
‘I’m not that lost. I know that I’m stuck here in this hellhole.’
She laughed. ‘You know that’s not what I meant.’
My lips gave way to a smile and I tried to suck it in.
‘Emma will be back soon enough.’ Sing-song, sing-song.
‘I don’t care,’ I said.
‘Oh . . .’
‘Actually, I was just thinking that sometimes it’s better to stay at home from time to time.’ I heard myself in the ease of the conversation, the way my voice spread like sweet butter. I knew if Emma had been there she would’ve said to me, ‘So what are you trying to get out of them this time?’
‘None of your business,’ I would’ve answered. Then after a time I’d tell Emma, ‘I want them to pay for me to go back to Europe.’
‘You’re quite right,’ Mrs Borden said. I let myself smile at her, what is wrong with me?
The side door had opened and Father came in, stood rigid in front of us. ‘You two are speaking, I see.’
Mrs Borden raised her eyebrows. ‘Lizzie and I were discussing the merits of staying home.’
‘From time to time,’ I added.
Father looked at me. ‘As long as one makes oneself useful.’
‘Don’t I always, Father?’ Lips gave way to a grin. I wanted to yell out, Give me what I deserve! But I kept quiet.
‘Have you heard from your sister?’ he said.
‘Yes. She’s fine.’