The last time I had chosen Father’s clothes was the day he married Abby. I had carefully picked the necktie and cufflinks, Lizzie chose the brown leather shoes. Before the ceremony we stood in Father’s bedroom doorway in awe of our creation. He had looked understated, the way a father should.
Now I had to choose for an ending. Common sense told me that couples should dress in marital cloth, eternity vows going deeper and deeper into the earth. But I decided against common sense. I opened Abby’s wardrobe, fingered the drab clothing that had been worn day in and day out. In the back of the wardrobe were silks, blue, red and orange, velveteen capes. Abby had the habit of holding on to past glory: the dresses that once fit her pre-marital body now hid underneath protective covers. She must have believed she would fit them once again.
Abby’s wedding dress was there, also under a cloth cover. I paused; weddings, funerals, the same gathering of family. I left the wedding dress where it was, pulled out a simple house dress. I lifted the dress from the hanger and caught the smell of sweat and faded lavender water. How many times had Abby worn it? Had she caught the scent of herself ripening? Had she wondered, ‘Am I rotting from the inside?’ Now the old woman would be buried in the stink. I knew I should find her something else. I was surprised by the detailing on dresses that I had ignored each day: lace rosettes, fine needlepoint cross-stitch, an owl. I couldn’t help but hold the garments close to my body and imagine myself in them, how they would scratch at skin or gather around hips. In the end I chose the blue house dress and a pink silk scarf to drape over Abby’s dead shoulders.
It was easier to choose Father’s burial clothes: his Sunday best. Black wool and a white cotton shirt. Uniform. I went downstairs and when the undertaker arrived, handed him the clothing. ‘Dress them gently,’ I said. The undertaker nodded.
I went to Lizzie’s bedroom, knocked on the door before entering. Inside Lizzie sat on her bed, overdressed in mourning: head-to-toe jet black, a crepe dress, long, fat, silk bows around her neck and on her back, a mid-chin-length veil. Over her heart Lizzie wore two thin ribbons of royal blue and ivy green, one for Abby, one for Father.
Lizzie stroked an ostrich feather. ‘You took your time coming to get me.’
Heat crept along my spine, hammered my cheeks. ‘Everyone will be here soon.’
‘I’m not quite ready.’ The feather was twisted around and around, was let go.
‘Get up, Lizzie!’ I shouted, made my throat strain.
Lizzie slammed her fist into her mattress. ‘You’re mean! I’m doing the best I can.’
Doing her best. Not good enough. I strode to her, shoved my arm underneath Lizzie’s shoulders, tried to lift her up.
‘Let me go!’ she screamed, thrashed, and I lifted her a little more, her heaviness, and she said again, ‘Let me go!’
All the things that could have been said.
Mourners began to arrive, told me, ‘The floral arrangements are lovely.’ I smiled politely, relieved that someone noticed the finer details of my grief.
Bridget arrived at the front door, wore an ill-fitting, new-looking black silk and cotton dress, gave me a bouquet of violets tied together with a royal blue ribbon. ‘Could ya put these on for Mrs Borden?’ She’d been crying.
‘You’re not staying?’ I wanted to touch her, to see if she would reveal anything more about what she saw that day.
‘No, miss. I’m not family.’
‘I know, but I thought . . .’
‘I’d like to just give ya these flowers. She would’ve liked ’em.’ Bridget forced the flowers into my hand, a petal fell onto the carpet.
‘That’s very decent of you, Bridget.’
She looked over my shoulder into the sitting room. ‘Is Miss Lizzie in there? Is she alright?’
‘She’s talking to family. Lizzie’s been up and down since it happened. Do you want to speak to her?’ I should have pulled her inside.
Bridget shook her head, made her cheeks squelch. ‘No doubt I’ll be seein’ her around.’ We looked at each other, Bridget whitening like a spectre. ‘I’ll be off now, Miss Emma.’
Bridget backed away from the door, backed out into the heat of Second Street. I stuck my head through the door, leaned into a small breeze, watched Bridget girdle down the street, hold her head high as if trying to look into neighbours’ houses to see how they lived. I almost called out, wanted to ask if I could go with her.
There was a tug at my hip. I turned. It was Mrs Churchill, black-veiled, rouged cheeks. ‘Emma, are you alright?’
‘I needed some air. Bridget was here.’
Mrs Churchill lifted her veil, tried to push past me and look outside. ‘Oh? Is she coming back? She could be serving everyone tea.’
I gently pulled her inside and shut the front door. ‘I don’t think so.’
We returned to the small crowd gathering in the sitting room, and I went to the parlour, placed the flowers on Abby’s coffin. My knuckles grazed smooth wood. I had been afraid to touch it, afraid that it might tip over, open up, pour her body onto the carpet.
I paced a path from kitchen to sitting room until the service began, made clumsy pots of tea. On each trip, I watched Lizzie, sitting on a black chair, take hands of condolence and say, ‘Thank you for coming,’ and ‘You’ve no idea of the horror.’ Lizzie the consummate griever, Lizzie outdoing me once again.
When the service began we sat in front of Father’s and Abby’s coffins. My legs knocked together, collisions of hard stone knees, and nerves churned through my body, made me want to pass out. I stared at Father’s coffin. How was it possible that he could be reduced to hard wood and brass? I quickly glanced around the room: one day this small gathering of friends and family would assemble for me. Lizzie grabbed my hand, trembled, and I squeezed tight until she relaxed.
The priest held his hands in front of his stomach: short-fingered, well-practised gestures of Father, Son and Holy Spirit. He began summarising Father’s life and I expected an historic account of true love between Mother and Father, but all he gave was, ‘Beloved husband of first wife Sarah, who passed some years before he met Abby. Many here would agree that marriage to his dear Abby healed the hole in his heart left by Sarah . . .’
This could not be all that Mother was reduced to. I tightened my grip on Lizzie and considered for the first time the possibility that Father had stopped loving Mother, had truly moved on with his life without telling us that we should have done the same.
It had rained the day Father brought Abby home to us. I was thirteen-and-a-half years old and they were not yet married. It was cold, fingers prickled from pins and needles. Mother had once told me that the prickling sensation meant that fingers needed to tickle someone. So I went to find Lizzie, pounced on her, drew her close and hunkered my fingers into her ribs, waited for blood to return sensation. Lizzie’s mouth opened wide; my triumph of joy.