The priest stepped away from the graves and a short broad-shouldered man with a shovel took his place and began locking Father into eternity: dirt bounced then thudded onto the coffins and I realised that I would never see Father again. There would be a day, when, when, when will that be? that I would forget what he looked like, would forget all the tiny murmurs he ever made. When Father brought us here to see Mother all those years ago, he told us that she wouldn’t leave our minds, that she would always be right here when we needed her. But he lied about that. The dead don’t come for you.
Dirt continued to fall into graves. Tree branches danced. Everything slowed and the faces surrounding us looked metallic. My hand rushed to my eye, I am still intact, and everything slowed and felt like a dream. Shovel lofted dirt and coffins continued to be covered. Emma kept squeezing my hand, twisted my skin like modelling clay, the pain taking me far away from words.
When dirt hits wood with force, there is no echo. Only blunt sounds, like an axe through tree stump, through bone. At least, that’s what I heard the police say. Breaking bone is a terrible sound, the way it shrieks through your teeth landing on tongue. I heard myself whisper, ‘Goodbye,’ and it seemed strange to know I wouldn’t say anything to Father again, that I wouldn’t say another word to Mrs Borden ever again.
Emma began to cry. I wrapped my arm around her shoulder, I could be an even better sister, heard a little voice inside my mind begin to say, ‘I have a secret but you have to promise not to tell like you always do . . .’
My spine hung like a beehive, a honey fizz pushing towards my head, and I felt ready to explode. Everything slowed. Uncle ran a finger over his lips, eyed the spot where Mother lay buried. I was ready to explode. Inside my ear I heard the clock on the mantel tick tick.
‘Emma,’ I wanted to say, ‘do you want to know my secret? I’ve remembered something about that day.’ I could see myself standing at the bottom of the front stairs, staring into the sitting room the morning Father died. I heard the three of them in the dining room at the table, Father, Uncle and Mrs Borden. They talked about agriculture and I thought some nasty things about you, Emma. ‘I hope she’s having a terrible time,’ I told the house. I wrapped my hand around the banister as tight as I could until my fingers turned white then blue. The house trembled and I did it again.
I went into the sitting room, opened the door to the dining room. Bridget walked around the table, poured Mrs Borden more tea, and I saw Uncle smile at Bridget, make her blush.
‘Why don’t you join us?’ Uncle said.
I moved towards them. ‘What are you all doing today?’ I said.
‘I’ll be leaving shortly. Think I’ll spend the day attending to business.’ Uncle chewed his middle fingernail.
‘I’ll be at the office.’ Father, busy not looking at me.
‘When will you be back, do you think?’
‘This afternoon.’ He looked up.
‘Oh,’ I said. I watched them eat johnnycakes and old mutton soup. Slurp, slurp, slurp. Something inside me wanted to laugh.
‘Why don’t you eat with us?’ Mrs Borden swivelled her tongue around, silver like a pig.
‘I’m not particularly hungry.’
‘You should eat, Lizzie,’ Father said. Slurp, slurp.
‘I said I’m not hungry.’ I saw a bird fly by the dining room window, shadow flight. ‘I’m going to feed my pigeons,’ I said and made my way to the side door.
Father called out, ‘Lizzie, wait.’
Emma, I wanted to say. The sun was sugar warm that morning. It dripped onto my fingers and neck and I felt like dancing, felt like everything in life was going to be all for me. Grass prickled my ankles and my skin jumped. I opened the barn door and went inside. A strange smell stung my nose, was sharp against lip and tooth. This smell of rotting flesh. I went to my pigeons.
Emma, I would tell her, I didn’t eat breakfast because I knew there was something bad about it. Please don’t tell anyone.
Okay, she would say. I won’t.
It’s just that I was so mad at everyone.
If only I’d been home.
I would tell Emma that I’d considered telling the police how very strange it had been when I found blood on my hands after I touched the banister on the front stairs landing. I put the blood on my tongue but couldn’t place the taste, and I had washed and washed my hands outside until blood disappeared, until I began to wonder if it had been there at all.
I would tell Emma that after the clock struck ten that day, I saw Father inching towards the house in his dark-grey suit, his boots dragging behind him. All morning I’d been thinking about him, had been thinking about every feeling I ever had, every thought I ever had. It was there on my tongue. There were parts of me that were angry about the pigeons and I couldn’t understand how Father could have been so cold and cruel, maybe he really hates me.
Father had knocked on the front door, the boom noise filling the house, and Bridget unlocked the bolt on the front door, let him inside. He came further inside the house, placed his hat on the coat rack then moved like old time into the sitting room. Seeing him like that made me giggle. I came down the front stairs, looked at the guestroom door.
I had so many things I needed to tell Father, I thought I might spark and burn away. I worried that he wouldn’t listen, the way he hadn’t listened to me for so long.
I shook my head and continued down the stairs, listened to Father grunt as he tried to lengthen his body along the sofa. His stomach sounded war; churn-churn fire pit, a small crying devil.
I surprised myself. When I saw Father resting on the sofa, I began mouthing my favourite prayer, ‘As the Lord liveth, there shall no punishment happen to thee for this thing.’ Father had taught me the prayer when I was tiny, had wrapped it tight around my brain and heart so that it would never leave me.
Father held his head in his hands. I wanted to be inside him, to see and hear all the thoughts that never came out to speak to me. I wanted him to hear me, to really know me.
Father opened his eyes and looked at me, his body hunching deep into the back of the sofa. ‘I feel so unwell, Lizzie.’ There was a buzzing coming through the floor into my feet and legs, travelling all the way to my head.
I smiled at him. ‘Let me look after you, Father.’
He watched me and I smiled again, felt my teeth raw on lips. A few weeks before, I had dreamed about him. Father was a tiny baby sent to me to be looked after. I bathed him and nursed him, both of us happy. He was a small puppet for me to play with, to make him do whatever I wanted. Baby Father was warm in my arms and when he looked at me, I saw myself and kissed his cheeks. The beginning of love.
The clock on the mantel ticked ticked. Father kept watching me and the dream feeling disappeared. When I looked at him on that sofa my arms and hands became heavy. I stepped towards him, hoping that being closer to him would release me, make me happy again, I want my daddy to love me, and I could see him stare, stare, stare. I wanted to tell him so many things. I walked closer to him, and I thought I heard him say, ‘Is it too late for me to be a good father?’
The conversation we could have.
‘What do you think a father does?’ I would ask sweetly.
His face would pucker like dried fruit. ‘I’d let you live the life you deserved. Everything for you and Emma.’
‘Would you marry Mrs Borden?’