See What I Have Done

by Sarah Schmidt

  ‘No,’ I had said. Everything I dreamed of was wrapped in that small word: I was going to be taking a private art class, my clandestine rebellion against Father.

  She had looked at me, glass eyes. ‘You’re making a terrible mistake going away.’ Lizzie, a locomotive, tried to push me into guilt. I raised my hand, had thought of slapping her, but instead I left my sister in her room calling out. I ignored her, let her cry.

  Two days after I arrived in Fairhaven, Lizzie began sending letters:

  Well, I’m not having a good time of it, I’ll tell you that much, Emma. You wouldn’t believe the things I’ve had to listen to at the dining table. Father is an absolute bore. Have you ever noticed how his lips tighten when he says ‘today’?

  I had not. At first Lizzie’s letters amused me. I read them out loud to Helen over dinner, and we roared laughter. Then Lizzie started writing about Abby:

  I overheard Mrs Borden telling her ridiculous sister about how ‘secure’ she felt now that she was going to own all of Father’s properties when he dies and that he wasn’t going to leave us anything. Emma! What a scampy liar. Imagine the nerve. What are we going to do about it?

  I could hear their voices in my head, old headache, heard them yelling across the parlour to each other, across the kitchen, the front stairs, through the walls of bedrooms. Sixteen miles away and I was still at home. I folded Lizzie into small pieces.

  But the letters did not stop.

  I’m having those strange dreams again, Emma. I thought they had really happened. You must come home.

  Going home. I thought of Lizzie in her sheet-white bedroom, lying on her bed twisting ostrich feathers between her fork-long fingers, the feathers hanging from the headboard like overripe fruit. She would be clicking her tongue and sucking her cheeks, the way she did, and I clenched my fist, thought of beating my thighs, that old frustration, my patchwork of bruised skin. Instead, I kept burning letters.

  I was slow to adjust to living away from the family. In those first days, I looked over my shoulder, prepared for confrontation anytime Helen and I happened to knock elbows or spoke at the same time. Staying at Helen’s house had been a release. I forgot the awkwardness of Abby lumbering through our house, Father’s curled arthritic fingers on his left hand, the constant thud of the fall and rise of foot traffic out the front of the house, the putrid smell of trapped breath each morning before the house was aired, Lizzie’s night-time sighing.

  To ease the way into accepting a life without my family, I went into town and sketched scruffy cats, floral arrangements on restaurant tables, mothers and their children, those pleasant things. The way fingers knitted around fingers. I buried myself in strangers. On the way back to Helen’s I would stop to pick purple and yellow wildflowers. The smell of them: afternoon sun on petals, tall grass that had rubbed against stems, dried dirt. The things that came to me:

  Raspberry jelly only needs a hint of sugar if you use apple juice.

  Leaning over Mother in bed. ‘I promise to always look after Lizzie.’ A kiss on her cracked lips.

  Mother handing me baby Alice to hold for the first time. ‘She smells like icky icky poo.’ Then when Mother gave me baby Alice to hold for the last time after she had convulsed herself to death, Alice didn’t smell like anything at all.

  The time I was meant to be watching Lizzie and locked myself in my room instead, drew geometric shapes until my wrist ached. Lizzie broke her arm sliding down the front stairs banister. Father broke my pencils.

  One day I will see Jacob’s coat of many colours at the Ashmolean Museum.

  I wish Father had died instead of Mother.

  Lizzie clinging to Abby’s legs. How could she love her so easily?

  How quickly does the body forget its history?

  The sun settled on my fingers. I was reminded of the last time I saw Father cry. Mother had died. He covered all the forgotten places of her body, the inside of an ankle, the underside of an eyebrow, the spaces in between fingers, with kisses. It had frightened me to watch.

  One afternoon when I came back from town, I opened Helen’s front door, went to the sitting room, filled a vase with the flowers. Helen came behind me, said, ‘Were you expecting a visitor?’

  ‘No.’ Please do not say that Lizzie had visited.

  ‘A man came looking for you. He claimed he was your uncle.’

  My jaw tightened. ‘Did he have slightly enlarged front teeth?’

  Helen nodded. ‘That’s him. Your favourite is he?’ She smiled.

  ‘No. That’s John. He’s my mother’s brother. Why in the world would he be coming here to see me?’ I pulled at my throat. How had he known I was here? Lizzie? Surely she would not send him to make me come home? She knew I wouldn’t listen to him, that I had come to hate his visits: hated the way John spoke to Father, like he wanted things; the way Lizzie fawned then asked for pocket money and got it; the way he seemed to always be up to something; how he kept telling me I looked like Mother, made me miss her all the more.

  ‘Did he say whether he was coming back?’

  ‘I didn’t get a chance to ask. He looked angry, almost slammed my own front door on me. He really wanted to talk to you.’

  I shook my head. ‘I’m sorry he did that.’ Always apologising for family.

  ‘You know you can stay for as long as you like.’ Helen came close, took my hand. The warmth. Helen, the good friend. I held tight. The possibility of not going home. I would take that. What a new life would mean.

  ‘Would that be a burden for you?’ I said.

  Helen shooed her free hand towards me. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. You could live here a hundred years as long as Lizzie doesn’t move in.’

  A century of me. Finally doing what I wanted. I could not wait to tell Lizzie I was staying longer.

  I wrote my own letter to Lizzie. Then I took a long route to the post office, walked until paved streets became dirt roads, houses turned into fields. I held wildflowers and leaves to my lips before pulling them apart and studying the structure of nature. Rebirth. Trees welcomed me with birdsong, encouraged me to keep walking, not to turn back. My ankles loosened. The sun hit grass, warmed the dirt underneath and I sat, ran my fingers over blades of green and yellow.

  I pushed away from the windowpane, slowly began to dress, rubbed my hand over my body to loosen muscle. It was as if I was home alone at Second Street, as if I were reliving a morning from over twenty years ago, as if Father was out on business, as if Abby had taken a chattering Lizzie out for ice-cream sodas. Abby had asked me if I would like to join them.

  ‘No.’ I was blunt, had already made plans for myself.

  ‘You’re being rude! You shouldn’t talk to Mother like that,’ Lizzie said, waggled her ink-stained finger.

  ‘Again, no, thank you.’ Then I was left alone in the house. I waited a few moments before shrieking, before filling the house with my voice and body until the glass tumblers chinked inside the dining room cabinet. Father would have severely disapproved of this childish outburst. But there was no one to tell me to act my age and so I did what felt best. I stood in the sitting room and listened to the house, to the way it swayed ever so slightly with the wind, made cooing noises in the walls. The house made me feel as if I were standing inside a giant, inside a pyramid, inside an ocean-deep well: like I would be swallowed up. I smiled. What a thing to want.

  I walked around the house as if I owned it. I went to my bedroom, stood in the little doorway that led to Lizzie’s nun-sized room. If things were fair in life, I would make Lizzie move to the guestroom, make the tiny space my studio. I would not have to worry about Lizzie running off to Father and telling him everything I said or did. Father could never understand the problem with sisters living on top of each other.

  ‘It’s a room within a room. Doesn’t it make you feel like you’ve always got her near?’ Father and his salt-and-pepper chin-length hair, the way it moved when he was trying to be helpful.

  ‘That room is supposed to be
a closet!’

  ‘Rooms are rooms.’

  ‘And she talks in her sleep. It’s distracting.’

  He had clicked his fingers, made my eardrum itch. ‘There’s a door. Shut it and you’ve got a separate space.’

  At twenty-one, I knew my room was still decorated in fantasy. On a dark-wood desk: a world globe, a photograph of me sitting on Mother’s knee, a postcard of the Paris opera house (found in my aunt’s travel case), a set of charcoals. On a shelf: encyclopaedias, a collection of sheet music, a small leather-bound Bible given to me by John. After Mother died, he had hoped I would use it to find a way to God, to find peace and acceptance. I did not want to accept. For a time, I had blamed Lizzie. If she had been more of a loving child, Mother would have had more reason to stay by our sides. The dust that Bible has collected.

  Right there in the silent house, all alone, I lifted my skirt above my ankles and removed my stockings, was shocked at how pale I was. Then I took my skirt off. How I could move. I went down to the sitting room, sat on Father’s sofa, rested my head on the backboard and widened my legs, a mimic of manhood. I had invaded my father’s space. I had thoughts of how I would run the household if I were in charge. If this could be a future, I had much to look forward to. I smiled.

  A small pigeon flew into the closed window, its breast bone slamming hard before its beak tapped on the glass. I pulled my legs together, sat up straight, calmed my heart. I looked down at my half-nakedness. Should I be ashamed? The day for being myself was over.

  Helen called out again. ‘Emma, tea is ready.’

  I made my way to the kitchen. Helen had made banana pancakes, had set a pot of apple marmalade on the table. ‘How did you sleep?’ she asked.

  ‘I am afraid to say that I was a bit too excited about the class to sleep properly.’

  ‘Are you sure you’re not ten?’ Helen poured tea, poured milk, dolloped cream, blew brown hair out of her eyes.

  ‘Not cute, Helen.’ Laughter.

  We buttered pancakes. Helen looked at me, said, ‘Are you alright? You look like you’ve got a plague of hives.’

  ‘I’m fine.’ But I knew this feeling. It was happening again. Years before I had heard Abby complain to Dr Bowen of rising temperatures, of volcanic anger. He had said nothing and Abby continued to live with her moods and weeping eyes. Then I started to feel it too, like a strange hereditary gift, this thing that was traded from woman to woman, whether it was wanted or not. It was the same when I first menstruated. For a long time, I thought I was defective, broken inside. I was late to it all; seventeen. The last of my friendship circle to be seen as a woman. My friends made fun of me but Abby had been kind about it. ‘I was late too. Once we get this, it’s there for years.’ The way she insisted on ‘we’, like she and I were from the same seed.

  ‘Look on the bright side,’ she said, stroked my shoulder. ‘You’ll be able to be a mother now.’ I considered what growing a baby might be like, the expectation of children. Once, after baby Alice died, I foolishly prayed to God that she would be returned to me, come live in my body. I would do what mothers did and push out screaming skin, and together we would pick up our sisterhood where it had left off and live happily ever after. Then Lizzie came along. Would I be disappointed if my daughter was not like Alice, turned out like Lizzie instead: one part love, one part brilliance, one part mystery?

  ‘If it’s so good, why don’t you have children?’ I did not mean it the way it came out; unkind.

  Abby shrugged. ‘Sadly, that’s how life goes sometimes. We don’t get everything we want when we want. You’ll learn that eventually.’ Something about what she said felt instantly true, made me hate her.

  We heard carts roll down the street, heavy wood grinding into stone at the mill. Helen yawned, made me do it too. Funny how doing so little makes you tired. ‘I guess I should start my day properly,’ Helen said.

  ‘Or not. You should relax.’ I caught myself in my ear. I almost sounded like Lizzie.

  ‘If I don’t get this baking done, there won’t be anything for the Woman’s Temperance Union to sell on Saturday.’

  ‘That’s why you need a maid. Lizzie usually gets Bridget to bake for her chapter.’

  ‘I wouldn’t expect anything less,’ Helen said.

  ‘Still. Bridget’s soda bread raises a lot of money.’

  We sipped our tea. Then Helen said, ‘You should probably get yourself ready for your big afternoon.’

  I looked at the little gold watch hanging from my chest. Ten o’clock. The day was slipping. I let it go, and it swung a pendulum. ‘I think I’ll go outside, let the day inspire me.’

  Helen clapped. ‘Marvellous.’

  I dug out a notebook and pencil and headed for the empty lot behind Helen’s house. I sat in direct sunlight. Everything around me glowed and for a moment I understood how it was possible for Lizzie to believe in God as strongly as she did. The leaves on trees; slow movements of branches; the way the wind blew wheat grass; patterns that were made then erased: this was what I sketched. When I was still at school, I used to draw pictures for Father. I gave my best drawing—‘Landscape with horse’—to him as a gift. I went to Father while he was in his bedroom, took a gamble that I would be allowed in. I had wanted a private moment between us, and I anticipated his compliments. ‘Emma, so beautiful.’

  And he would kiss me on the forehead.

  But when I gave it to him he said nothing more than, ‘Oh.’ He cleared his throat. He put the drawing on the ground. ‘Go find out what your sister is up to.’

  Out I went, shut the door. My fingers curled into small deflated balls.

  I found myself drawing a small child who was playing in the nearby creek. I made it plump, like Lizzie had been. I drew the baby’s head large, gave it a mass of curls, a butterfly wing mouth, soft blubber cheeks. This cherub of a being.

  There have been times when Lizzie was away from home that I nursed absence. Always two ways of feeling: relief and loneliness. The longest absence between us was when Lizzie took her grand European tour. Only thirty and seeing the world. I cried foul: as the eldest, I had been denied my chance, more than once, was told that I had far greater responsibility at home, that the family, one of Fall River’s richest, couldn’t afford it. I suspected that the real reason Father didn’t want me to go to Europe was because he knew I would never come back, would encourage Lizzie to move out of the house too. And if I wasn’t housebound, I wasn’t Borden-bound. And he would be right.

  When Lizzie had asked Father over dinner if she could travel with our cousins, he said, ‘Yes, of course.’ He sounded almost joyous.

  Lizzie had not mentioned any plans to me. That sneak.

  Abby wiped a napkin over her mouth and smiled, showed her greying teeth. ‘We know how much this means to you, Lizzie. You’re going to have a wonderful time.’

  Lizzie grinned triumph. ‘Emma, isn’t this so marvellous and unexpected?’

  I was furious, lost my appetite. ‘Very.’

  Father pointed a finger at me. ‘You be happy for your sister.’

  I loosened my necktie. ‘May I be excused?’ I pushed away from the dining table, left them behind, took off to the backyard, and tried to calm myself. How long had Lizzie been cooking up this plan? I wanted to scream but thought better of it. I did nothing, let crickets surround me. Later, Father came outside, kept his reason for letting Lizzie go simple: ‘For once you need to put Lizzie’s needs before your own. You’re the mature one. Let her see the world and become a woman.’

  It took all I had to say nothing.

  In the months leading up to the trip, Lizzie held court in her little nun room, packed and unpacked her travelling trunk for days on end. ‘I just can’t decide what to bring.’ Lizzie knew nothing about practicality. I knew what I would take: a few dresses, notebooks and pencils, a book, Mother’s fur coat. I thought about all the time I would have away from Abby, away from Lizzie. Things unlikely. There would be an upside to her leaving.

&nb
sp; As the departure drew near, Lizzie buried herself at Father’s side, spoke softly and followed him to church. Father’s little girl returned. I often overheard Lizzie tell Abby, ‘I’m already beginning to miss you.’ All that love she pretended they shared.

  Afterwards Lizzie would tell me, ‘I hate her, Emma. Father’s just as bad.’

  And then Lizzie was gone. The morning she left, a white coach pulled up at the house, the white draught horse’s bridle decorated with vermilion rosettes and ribbons. ‘Do you like it?’ Lizzie asked me before stepping out the front door. ‘I made them dress her up. It adds a certain touch, doesn’t it?’

  Half the street had come to see Lizzie off and she waved to them. ‘Don’t go changing Fall River on me while I’m away.’ Some laughed, others glared. Mrs Churchill gave Lizzie a piece of cherry pie to take with her for the journey. ‘Don’t you forget what home tastes like.’ Lizzie kissed her on the cheeks, sniffed the pie, licked it, placed it on the coach seat. I wanted the street to open up, swallow them all.

  The driver lumbered Lizzie’s trunk onto the coach and Lizzie came to me, a bear hug, whispered, ‘I’ll miss you, Em Em.’

  Childhood names. I wasn’t that cold-hearted. ‘You too, Swizzy.’

  Lizzie kissed me dead on the lips. We were warm. The driver said, ‘It’s time to go.’ We separated. Lizzie said last goodbyes to Father and Abby and before we knew it the horse was clopping down Second Street, and the crowd went back to their own lives.

  The house was quiet. Sometimes I would open the bedroom door that separated us and stand in the middle. I raised my arms above my head, a lack of knowing what to do with myself. I had that feeling: happiness and loss hitched together. It felt like I was missing a limb.

  I became more attuned to Father’s and Abby’s presence, their winter-years bodies, the way they slurped their food, the way Father held his breath when he snored, Abby’s too-round face that made the dimple in her cheek look like a crescent moon. They were always there.

  Occasionally Lizzie would send me a postcard: ‘Small walks taken through Rome’, ‘Endless Spanish steps’, ‘The food, Emma! The glorious food.’ I swallowed Lizzie’s words. Some of that should have been mine. I took countless walks through Fall River, tried to take my mind off things. But it was hard to take the summer heat on my back without her.