‘Emma, don’t cry,’ Lizzie cooed, took a step closer.
I pulled back. Lizzie looked at the dining room door. Her fingers twitched, mouth opened and she stared at the mess in front of us. The bucket of blood-water hummed. Watching Lizzie, my strange, strange sister, she became a shadow. I could smell the secrets on her, that mushroom scent. Eyes on each other, Lizzie’s hand licked the dining room door handle.
‘Lizzie, don’t open that door.’ I wiped my eyes, caught sulphur swim from my fingers.
She looked down at the bucket of bloodied water, her hand across her stomach. ‘Did all of that come from him?’ Like a child in wonder.
‘Yes.’
‘It doesn’t seem real,’ Lizzie whispered.
I wanted to ask her, ‘How much blood did you think there was going to be?’ but thought better. A suspicion shouldn’t be acted upon. Lizzie came to me, kneeled beside: her, me, us, like children looking at caught tadpoles. Lizzie stuck her hand in the water and closed her eyes. ‘Why is it so cold?’
I took her hand out and held it in mine.
‘Emma, I think I told a lie. The house wasn’t locked all day. The basement doors were open.’ Lizzie was monotone, a hint of defeat.
I knew there had to be something. ‘When?’
‘I left them open this morning.’ Lizzie in a tiny whisper.
‘Have you told anyone?’
Lizzie was pale. ‘No. Should I?’
The clock went six. ‘No. Doors can be opened, doors can be closed.’
Lizzie’s cheeks flushed colour. ‘Yes, they can.’ She squeezed my hand. ‘I’m frightened I might have done the wrong thing.’
I stroked her skin, stroked away the blood-water. ‘It’s okay. I’m here.’
Lizzie tucked her chin, couldn’t quite look me in the eye. ‘Do you still love me?’
I hardened: ribs ached, fingers tired, shrivelled. It always came down to love. I wanted to say, ‘No.’ Then, ‘Not always,’ then, ‘Sometimes I wish you were dead.’
‘Yes,’ I told her. ‘I do.’
Lizzie stared at the dining room door, hooked and unhooked the corners of her mouth. She looked as if she wanted to cry but couldn’t remember how. When I was in Fairhaven I had thought about the existence of the past, how it hid underneath the skin. At the time it had been difficult to acknowledge that the past was gnawing inside me, that everything—Father, Mother, dreams, baby Alice, a walk along the river, a failed attempt at love, Lizzie, a groaning moon, the death of things, Abby—was stitching together to make a covering, a second skin. It had been uncomfortable. I had even hated it. But now there wasn’t much left. The life I’d had was disappearing. Every adult who had ever held me as a baby was dead and no one would ever carry me again. I looked at my sister, looked at blood. That grief inside the heart.
I kept myself busy for days, made arrangements for the funerals, made cups of tea for anyone who stopped by the house. They all asked about Lizzie, how she was coping, if there was anything they could do for her. ‘It must be so hard on the poor thing.’ This neighbourhood chorus that never sang for me. I wanted them gone, to be left alone so I could gather my thoughts. I kept moving and before I knew it, it was the morning of the funerals.
Just after dawn, I went to the basement to wash myself, listened to morning birds fly in and out of nests, the quietness of the house. There was a dull ache, deep and sharp inside, a small death.
I filled a metal tub with water, the sound of rain on roofs, sat on a stool, placed my hands in the water, warm. I washed my body, washed my feet, remembered Father washing Mother the night she died, how he hadn’t wanted to look at her face and had, instead, studied the length of her limbs, the width of her heart. When Father had reached Mother’s hands, I waited for him to kiss them. Instead he meticulously cleaned underneath her fingernails before gently crossing them over her chest. I had asked if I could help but he had said, ‘Death is not meant for children,’ and he made me wait outside his bedroom in case baby Lizzie woke wanting her mother. I went to Lizzie and watched her like a night-soldier.
While I washed, I tried to concentrate on the tasks at hand: family configurations to sort out, the placement of coffins, but all I could think about was everything I still wanted to ask Father and tell him:
Why did you ignore me so much after Mother died?
Why did you have to marry Abby?
Why did you forgive Lizzie for every little thing?
It was Lizzie who broke into your bedroom and stole Abby’s belongings.
I had planned a whole life and you ruined it.
Tell me again about the day I was born.
There’s something you should know about me and Samuel Miller.
I remember how your mouth creased when you smiled.
Sometimes you are a vile man.
I caught Abby praying for a child of her own.
Tell me again what my first words were.
Did you see who did this to you?
I forgive you, I forgive you.
The tub water went cold. The sound of movement upstairs. I dressed in my black mourning silks, patted them hard onto my body until they felt like second skin, placed an oval-shaped silver and turquoise enamel locket around my neck. Inside was a photograph of Mother and Father, finally together after decades between deaths. I emptied the bath water into the sink, looked around the basement: shadows against the walls. Was this where the weapon was hidden? I surveyed the foundations, looked for markings in wood, blood riddles. On the wall by the basement door: a rust-brown handprint. I aligned my hand against the dried print. It was smaller than mine. My hand shook. It’s my experience that a man’s hand is always big. But this. I didn’t want to think about who it could belong to. I noticed a basket full of Lizzie’s washing in the corner. I picked through her dirty clothes, days of Lizzie sitting stagnant, that heavy smell, sifted through dresses. I found a slightly hardened white apron, sniffed. Putrid. There was a faded red stain near the bottom of the apron, close to where a groin would be. Someone’s time. I felt guilty for looking. I hid the apron at the bottom of the basket, layered Lizzie’s dresses on top. The air in the basement was dark and muted and I remembered Lizzie telling me, ‘The police haven’t found a weapon! Imagine not being able to find one!’ She had made it seem like a joke.
The house was put in order for the funeral and I waited for the undertaker to arrive while Alice Russell made tea. ‘It’s the least I can do,’ she said. Alice looked at me, saw my armful of Father’s and Abby’s clothes. ‘Are they special outfits, Emma?’
‘They’re clothes they wore,’ I said. The idea of special things, it hadn’t occurred to me. A careless daughter: what would people think? I went upstairs to Father and Abby’s bedroom to find them something else to wear.