Abby held Father’s hand when she came into the sitting room. She smiled, cheeks pulled tight into soft balls, little cakes. The rain fell. The thick blue vein along the side of Abby’s neck pulsated and galloped, linked panic and excitement of impending motherhood together.
As Father spoke, I noticed Abby’s hand squeeze tight around his wedding hand.
‘Abby is happy to meet you.’ Father brought her slightly forwards towards us.
Lizzie leaped from my lap and stood next to Abby. Lizzie smiled; disconnected pebbled teeth. Abby’s fingers swirled across Lizzie’s hair, untangled knots.
‘How are you, Lizzie?’
How could she know about us already?
‘Goody good.’
‘Emma, say hello to Abby.’ Father was forceful, opened his palm wide by his side.
‘Hello.’ It was hard to say.
Abby’s lips formed a relaxed smile, the kind that inspired painters. I smiled back involuntarily.
Father told me, ‘Find your sister’s coat so we can all take a walk.’
‘But it’s raining.’ I was a whinge.
‘It’s only light rain.’ Father stroked his dark beard, was struggling to keep himself light-hearted.
‘Do you need help?’ Abby asked.
‘I know where they are.’
I went to the cupboard underneath the stairs, my hands fell across lengths of wool and broadcloth: Father’s coat, my coat, Lizzie’s coat. I let my hands drift further to the back of the cupboard. Wool and fur. Mother’s coat. Every now and then, when nobody was looking, I put on her coat and stood in front of the mirror. The coat hit my ankles; sleeves stopped just before fingernails. How many years does it take to grow into someone? If I tried hard enough, I could find Mother on the inside of the coat’s neck, underneath two large buttons. Oil of Rose, a sweetness. I would pull the coat tighter around my body and thought of myself inside Mother: how warm it must have been underneath all her skin.
Now the coat waited in the back of the cupboard. I rubbed the neck and closed my eyes. ‘Today would be a wonderful day to wear you,’ but thought better: I didn’t want to give away this secret in case Abby, this stranger, wanted to wear it. Some things needed protection. I pulled Lizzie’s coat down with my own and shut the cupboard. When I turned around, Abby was standing at the doorway and she said, ‘We thought we’d lost you.’
When the rain stopped the four of us walked down Second Street, me and Lizzie leading the way. Behind us: Father and Abby, unified strides. I watched over my shoulder, saw Father look love at Abby. I had seen this type of behaviour before—newlyweds at Sunday services.
Lizzie pulled on my hand and we skipped ahead. I was happy to put a little distance between me and the paternal mutiny that was taking place behind us.
‘Not so far, chickens,’ Father called out.
Abby giggled, mistaking his unease for happiness.
There was laughter and small words, little secrets to be kept from daughters.
‘I can see the resemblance in their faces.’ Abby was kind-voiced.
‘Sometimes she comes through in their personalities and I don’t know what to do.’
‘Just embrace it,’ she said.
‘I don’t want them to be exactly like Sarah. There were problems between us.’ Father said it serious.
‘But she loved them.’
‘My word she did.’
‘And I will love them too.’
‘Good.’
I placed my hand over my heart, my breath strangled. What problems? I thought about Father praying over Mother’s body the day she died, the way he held her hand. There had been a strange smell in the bedroom that day; it stuck to me. It travelled with me for days afterwards. It had slowly crept into the house a few days before Mother had died; sour and aged, bitter on the tongue. It had stained Mother’s hair, made me too afraid to touch. At night the smell took the form of molasses, a hint of sulphur slurping under doors and through keyholes. I had accepted it. A dutiful daughter, I made a hole in my lung and let the smell fill it completely. Then, a week after Mother died, the smell disappeared, leaving the house feeling completely empty.
SEVENTEEN
LIZZIE
6 August 1892
ON THE MORNING of the funerals, an officer told us that an old man had handed himself over to the police the day before, had told them to hang him for the murders. He had brought his own noose. Where would you even buy one of those? The officer described him: sixty-two, thin hair, beard cut short and ragged. ‘We offered him breakfast but he refused. Said he didn’t want to add to his weight and run the risk of breaking the rope.’ Swing, swing, swing. The idea of it made me shiver. The old man’s confession took an hour and in the end, the police called for his son to take him home to bed.
‘Why did he confess?’ I asked.
‘Beats me. But, then, we get all kinds confessing to things they didn’t do. Maybe he was hoping we would hang him so he could be done with his life?’
I wondered if Father had ever confessed to anything. What would it feel like to do that?
In the dining room where Father and Mrs Borden had spent two days hidden in the heat, the undertaker placed them in their coffins and opened the door wide, presented them like two debutantes. The smell from their temporary tomb raced through the house, rubbing up against the drapes as it made its way up the stairs towards our bedrooms. Emma opened one of the windows and took a deep breath. ‘At least this will all be over soon.’
For two days every conversation ended with the same wish: at least this will be over soon. When Mrs Borden’s sister came by the house the day before the funeral and asked to see Abby, I told her, She’s dead! She’s dead! ‘It’s best not to go inside the room.’
She pouted like a stupid baby. ‘I wanted to put this on Abby.’ She held a royal blue silk sash that was frayed at the ends. She paused. ‘Goodness, I don’t even know how I came to have this back in my possession.’
‘We’re deciding what Father and Mrs Borden will wear.’ I folded my hands across my chest and she hung her head, looked at her feet. From this angle I could see that Mrs Borden and her sister had the same hairline, the same bone pattern at the back of the head. I smiled.
‘Lizzie, she’s my sister. Can’t you be kind, just this once?’
I didn’t like what she was accusing me of. I gave her a look, made her step back from me.
‘Perhaps it could go in the coffin with her,’ she said, eyebrows raised, meeting thick in the middle.