How much room does a body take in a box? ‘Perhaps,’ I said.
She handed me the sash. It was cold, the ends a tickle on fingertips, this feeling from a time ago, and there was a tapping in the middle of my spine; fingers crawling over skin making patterns. I closed my eyes and fingers crawled and crawled: Mrs Borden, Abby, Abby! tracing love hearts over my five-year-old shoulders, her fingers warm, palms pudgy-soft. Her sister chases me around their house, taps me on the shoulder and says, ‘You’re it! I’ll let you be the queen of the castle.’ As queen I eat too much cake and my stomach balloons, aches. Abby sends me to her old bedroom to rest. Inside her room, Abby’s old dresses hang in the cupboard, all shades of blues and greens that smell like dreams, dreams I could have! There is a blue dress full of Abby’s happy dreams. I touch the fabric, and under my fingers I feel a little boat in the middle of the widest ocean, Abby at the helm. She moves the boat along a blue sash, and in the distance, around the collar, there is a little island. With all of her strength Abby paddles the boat towards the island using only her hands. She makes it to the shore and jumps out, digs her bare feet into the sand. I take the blue dress off the hanger and hug it, put it over my own dress and Abby comes into the bedroom and tells me, ‘You can keep that, little darling.’ She rubs my shoulders and it feels like love. When we go home Emma is waiting for me in my bedroom.
‘Look what I got, Emma.’
Emma looks. ‘Where is it from?’
‘Mother gave it to me. There’s even a dream stitched inside of it! It’s about boats and adventures.’
Emma folds her arms, pinches her elbows hard. ‘You should give it back to Abby.’
‘Why? She said I could have it. You can wear it too if you like.’ I turn in a little circle to show her how the dress swirls. ‘What’s the matter?’
‘Don’t take things from her.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I said so.’ Emma walks to her bedroom. ‘Why do you have to love her?’
‘I won’t if you don’t want me to,’ I whisper, I want to love everyone. I sprinkle my hands over the dress, let my fingers slide down the blue sash.
When Mrs Borden’s sister stepped inside the house she said, ‘There’s a passage I’d like the priest to say for Abby at the funeral.’
‘It’s all been taken care of. We can’t change a thing.’
She pressed her hand on the dining room door as if waiting for Mrs Borden to open it and then she cried.
‘It’s best not to go in there. It’s been awfully hot. We’ve done our best to block the door. I’ve hardly smelled a thing.’
She took her hand away. ‘Why would you say such a horrid thing?’
I considered answering when Uncle came down the stairs and said, ‘Can I escort you home?’
She nodded and they walked out of the room.
‘Don’t worry, it’ll all be over soon,’ Uncle said and they passed two police officers guarding the front of the house. Good riddance.
A thick haze passed through my body, made me lightheaded. I rubbed my forehead. Pressure built behind my eyes, tiny flecks of blood flicked and flicked until all I saw was red and flesh, the way Father had looked on the sofa, how a finger had twitched, nerve endings, nerve endings, the way Mrs Borden had been on the floor. I pressed hands into eyes. How do I know these things? A yelp crawled out of my throat, staggered. A hand on my shoulder. I opened my eyes.
‘Lizzie.’ Dr Bowen stood in front of me. ‘Let me help you relax.’
We sat on the sofa in the sitting room, Father, Father. I handed him the blue sash. ‘Could you get rid of this in the incinerator? I can’t have it in the house.’
‘Of course.’ Dr Bowen took the sash. ‘Memories can be painful.’ He took out his syringe and injected me. Sweet, sweet warmth. It had been like that for two days, this taking medicine. It made it easier to talk to police when they kept pestering me with questions.
‘I don’t know. I don’t know,’ I had said. ‘Can’t the others tell you what I saw?’
‘We need to hear it from you, Miss Borden . . .’
Then I would sleep and Dr Bowen and everyone would leave. When I woke, Emma would be there scratching at my memory like an old cat. ‘Tell me,’ she’d say or, ‘I don’t understand. I don’t understand . . .’ She was loud in my ear. It made me feel terrible and I’d get scared, begin to believe that she’d leave if I didn’t tell her something. I couldn’t stand that happening.
‘Come and cuddle me in bed,’ I’d say and she would. For a moment I’d feel safe, feel like I could tell Emma anything. ‘I had a bad dream the other night.’
‘When you woke up screaming?’
‘Yes. I dreamed a man was standing over me . . . I thought it was Father.’
Emma patted me on the back. ‘It was just a dream.’
‘But it was so real. What if it was Father coming to check on me?’
‘Everything must be very confusing for you.’
Emma pulled me onto my side and into her breast, her heart beating into my ear and temple. ‘Yes, it is. That’s why I can’t tell you anything more.’ I would say these things and Emma would cry and cry. It made me mad, why does she cry? She wasn’t even here when I needed her, and I wanted to crawl inside her and say a prayer so I could make her stop, as the Lord liveth, there shall no punishment happen to thee for this thing.
Before the guests came, Uncle gathered Emma and me together in the parlour. We sat and held hands and he said, ‘My poor girls, who would have imagined.’
‘I’m glad we have each other now,’ I said. I bent down, kissed Uncle’s hand, kissed Emma’s hand.
‘Not now,’ Emma whispered. Always telling me what to do.
We heard two police officers talk outside the front window. ‘I bet it is someone they know.’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘No one lets you get that close to whack them.’
They laughed.
I touched my forehead. Emma took a deep breath, covered her ears. Uncle patted her leg. She stiffened. ‘I think I’ll go out and get fresh air,’ he said.
I pulled the curtain open and looked outside, saw the priest walk towards the house, weave in and out of the large crowd that was gathering. I could see reporters slot themselves in between strangers. One of them saw me. I smiled, so polite I am.
‘Lizzie, pull the curtain back.’ Emma’s voice was hackled.
What else do I have to do to make her happy? I watched Emma, saw her hands and fingers fumble with thumbs. I looked down at my own: quiet, restful. Emma clicked her tongue, crossed and uncrossed her ankles then stared me down.
‘What are you looking at me for?’
She took a breath, squeezed her voice out. ‘Lizzie, I really need to ask you. Are you sure you didn’t see anyone around the house?’
‘I said I don’t know! I was too busy minding my own business to think about keeping an eye out for Father’s killer.’
‘I’m sorry, I’m just . . .’
‘You wouldn’t have to ask me these questions if you hadn’t gone away.’
‘What are you saying?’
‘Maybe no one would have died.’