I didn’t want any of that. I just wanted to explain how I was making things right. But instead I had to run. I took in the house a last time, hoped that one day when she realised what I had done for her, she would love me like before. I ran then, into the woods, ran, thinking of how one day I’d return to Mama, ran, until I was deep into trees.
John was searching for safety at home. I knew this want. I could give it to him. I moved my tongue over my teeth. ‘Do your nieces know you’re helping them?’
John shrugged, smiled. ‘Who could say? I like the idea that I’m simply helping them out before they realise themselves that they need it.’
‘What are their names?’
He waggled his finger at me, said it wasn’t important, and I huffed from my nose, gave him a hard stare. John said, ‘Have it your way. Emma is the eldest, Lizzie the youngest. But only Lizzie will be home. You’re not to go near her.’
I nodded. The less people involved the better. ‘What does she look like?’
‘Why do you need to know?’
‘If I’m not to go near her . . .’
He was tight-jawed. ‘Lizzie is the young woman in the house, a little shorter than average height. Then there’s Bridget. There’s nothing much to say about her other than she looks like a maid, will have a uniform on.’ He smiled, bared his teeth.
I nodded.
He told me that all he needed from me was one night, that he would get me out of Fall River, that things would be easy. Fine things, but I wanted more. I had my own problems to take care of. So I asked John about payment.
He looked me over. ‘You’ll get your leg fixed.’
I laughed. ‘My leg isn’t payment. I want money.’
John rubbed his beard. ‘How about a thousand dollars, if it goes well?’
More than I expected. He really did have a big problem to solve. The things I could do. I thought of Papa, how I could finish his punishment. What a gold visit that would be. I nodded my head and nodded my head.
‘And their father. What’s his name?’
‘Andrew Borden. His wife is Abby. She’s rather heavy-set, if you know what I mean. I doubt you’ll have to talk to her.’
I churned everything through my mind, started thinking of the talk I’d have with Andrew. ‘Let’s go to Fall River.’
We made our way from the public bar into the light. The town clock chimed ten o’clock. We wound in and out of people all the way to the train station without saying a word. After John bought tickets he said, ‘Don’t forget it’s Fall River.’
‘I know where we’re going. You and I are going to have an interesting train ride together.’
He patted me on the back like I was his young pup. ‘I didn’t mean to confuse you.’ He gave me my ticket and pointed to the end of the train. ‘You’ll be down there.’
I didn’t like the way he said it. He left me then, went to the front carriages. There’s always someone thinking they’re better than me. I had second thoughts about helping him. I started walking to the end of the train. My leg ached, started to bleed like a little creek. I thought about payment. The train whistle blew. I thought about fathers, the problems caused. I would have to keep my eye on John. I hopped on the train. And the train slowly rolled forwards.
PART II
FIVE
LIZZIE
4 August 1892
I WAS ALMOST five when Father and Mrs Borden got married. Emma and I watched them like tiny gods from the doorway, watched Mrs Borden plait then pin her hair into fibrous loops by her temples. Father had looked on, his teeth sucking in air, a tin whistle. ‘Do you need help? I can ask Emma . . .’
‘No,’ Mrs Borden said. ‘A bride needs to do these things on her own.’
The church was full of flowers, white and crimson, and bells filled the air then my ears; tiny angel wings. As Emma and I walked down the aisle, dropping rose petals at our feet, I could smell the dresses of the women, violet-honey and camphor. I sneezed and there was laughter. Emma squeezed my hand tight, tugged my wrist to her belly, and we walked towards Father, organ music pumping blood. We stood and waited for Mrs Borden to walk the aisle. I swayed to the music, my feet jumping, small click beetles, and tried to make Emma dance with me. She was still, marble-limbed, looked like she might cry, so I huddled into her side, wrapped my arms around her legs, watched Father and Mrs Borden give each other silver-moon rings then kiss.
After, I heard people say, ‘He’ll completely dominate that woman.’ Others said it would mend his broken heart after Mother had died, what about our hearts? ‘Abby will have the children she has always wanted.’ These things people said.
These memories that came to me as I thought about Mrs Borden’s body on the floor, the way red and purple carpet flowers would be pressed against her teeth and eyes, let’s make flower presses, Emma, and it made me feel like there were tiny pebbles tumbling through my stomach, a skippy-skippy-do-da rhythm.
Two officers ran from the dining room, ran up the stairs, ran until their feet stopped above my head, sank into the floor. A pause. ‘Good Lord. Get the doctor right now,’ a voice bellowed. The house popped, sent cracks along windows and doorframes. Dr Bowen turned to me, his mouth a tinge of purple, said, ‘Lizzie, you must stay here.’ I nodded. A fog settled in my mind and everything slowed.
When Bridget and Mrs Churchill came back into the dining room, they came to me, sat at my feet, looked half dead. I sat straight, tall.
‘Miss Lizzie, it’s awful. It’s all bloody up there.’ Bridget’s eyes glassed, were wet.
‘What?’ I asked.
‘We found her, Lizzie. Abby is up there.’ Mrs Churchill seesawed her head to the ceiling, made all kinds of cracking sounds.
The back stairs were a thunder of boots. Another police officer came into the dining room, blue cap in hand. ‘Miss Lizzie,’ he said, ‘I’m afraid to say there’s been another death. Mrs Borden . . .’
‘Oh, did she finally come home?’ I asked. I’d been waiting to hear.
The officer stared blank. ‘No. She’s killed.’
I thought of Father. Then I thought of Mrs Borden. ‘Did someone cut her too?’ I said.
The officer stared blank, then looked towards the ceiling where Mrs Borden was lying face down in a swelling pool of dark red, her arms by her side, her feet crumpled in her soft leather boots. Her hair, plaited then rolled tightly around the crown of her head, hacked off and tossed aside onto the bed. What a horrid thing.
Mrs Borden’s hair used to taste like lavender. When I was seven, she would swoosh it around my face, all those thick strands tickling my cheeks. But then her hair grew grey and began falling out into bowls of food. She never noticed how she ate a piece of herself each night.
More police officers came into the dining room, formed a semicircle around me, let’s find out how many more people we can fit.
It made me hotter, feel like I needed to vomit. ‘What’s going on?’ I asked.
‘Miss Borden, under no circumstances are you to leave this room,’ an officer said.
‘Should I be very frightened?’ My hand moved across my stomach.
Bridget cried. Mrs Churchill cried. Those high-pitched wails.
‘We have reason to believe that the killer is still in the house.’
‘Good heavens,’ I said. My stomach tightened. ‘I need my sister. I really need my sister.’
An officer sat across from me, said, ‘What’s the matter, Miss Borden?’
‘Pardon me?’ I said.
‘You keep rubbing your head.’ He leaned closer, made the wooden dining chair creak, sinking wood logs in a river.
Fingers caught at the top of my forehead, a widow’s peak, a widow’s peak, and I pulled them away, placed them in my lap. ‘My head is feeling rather strange, Officer.’
‘It must be the commotion.’
‘Yes. That would be it,’ I said.
The pebbles tumbled. In the corners of my eyes, Mrs Borden lay like a giant stone crypt, waiting fo
r me to come in. My body jumped, surprised me.
‘What is it?’ the officer said.
‘I’ve had the most hideous thought. Mrs Borden is up there all alone, all hurt like Father.’
‘We’ll make sure she’s taken care of,’ the officer said.
I imagined Dr Bowen by her side, checking her pulse, rubbing her shoulders as comfort. The kitchen walls popped, echoed, pushed a wave of nausea over my head. She was being cared for. But what about me?
The house filled with talk, one voice after another on top of each other until voices sounded like a wasp swarm. The way it hurt the ear. On one side of the room, Mrs Churchill and Bridget, these banshees, as they told officers:
‘I didn’t notice anything else in the room.’
‘No, there was linen on the bed . . .’
‘I only noticed her body . . . do I call her a body? . . . on the floor when I closed the cupboard in the guestroom and I turned around.’
‘I touched her back ta see if she might move.’
‘We were inside and didn’t hear anythin’.’
‘I feel sick. I feel sick.’
Everything they said made my head numb, a drum full of echoes, coming back to me slow and vinegared. Through the other side of the wall, someone, a man, said, ‘And this here is where I suspect the last blow landed. My guess is this was the blow that cut the eye out.’ I thought of Father. A few weeks before, he’d complained to Emma that the world wasn’t looking the way it ought. She’d patted him on the back, she’s trying to be the favourite, said, ‘You should see someone about that.’
Father shrugged. ‘They’ll charge me an arm and a leg to fix my eyes.’
‘Some things are worth the money, Father.’ Emma shouldn’t have spoken to Father that way. I should’ve been good and told her to watch her caustic tongue, remind her what he could be like.
But Father shook his head, laughed like a good time. ‘I suppose you might be right.’
‘Mrs Borden would agree with me, I’m sure,’ Emma said, seemed pleased with herself.
‘Yes, well. I’ll have Abby take me one of these days.’
‘Very well, Father.’ Emma patted Father on the back again. I thought of her touching my shoulders now, the way I would want her to make me feel comforted. She’d warm my blood, erase numb feelings. She’d never leave me alone in a house again, Emma makes everything better.
The men continued to speak. I hoped one of them was massaging Father’s shoulders the way Emma would, the way I might have done.
There were voices in the sitting room, voices in the kitchen, voices above me a muffle-muffle and dragging feet. Everything louder than it should.
A hand grabbed my wrist. The officer stared. ‘Miss, are you alright? You were talking to yourself. Should I summon the doctor again?’
I looked around the dining room: a face, then a face, then a face, all in my direction. One of the officers had a crooked mouth, the kind that ran through Mrs Borden’s family. The officer blank-smiled at me, a grim tooth shooting over his lip. Mrs Borden had smiled at me like this before. My head ached. I rubbed my forehead.
The tip of my tongue shivered, I want Emma. ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Yes, you had better fetch him,’ and the officer went to Dr Bowen.
I thought about Mrs Borden upstairs. The clock on the mantel ticked ticked. Everyone around me slowed, limbs saltwater taffy. From the top of the stairs I heard her voice, ‘Lizzie, dear Lizzie. Come and help me.’ My heart rumpled, my toes electric. ‘Quickly, Lizzie.’ I stood from my chair, said, ‘Mrs Borden?’ and two long lines of sweat worked my spine. ‘Lizzie, I’ve fallen,’ Mrs Borden said.
I walked towards the sitting room. Then someone took my hand.
‘Miss Borden, where are you going?’ An officer stood in front of me.
‘I’m going upstairs.’
‘You can’t.’ He showed his teeth, a dog, sounded almost furious.
‘Why not?’ My stomach tightened, pigeons walking through me. I was going to help Mrs Borden. I was going to be helpful.
Mrs Churchill stood by my side. ‘Dear,’ she said, her voice salty-sweet. ‘Your mother is up there . . .’ Not my mother but Mrs Borden!
‘It’s best you stay downstairs with us, miss,’ the officer said, gobble, gobble, gobble.
I was led back to my chair and told to wait. The clock on the mantel ticked ticked. Dr Bowen slumped into the room. ‘The officer tells me you’re in pain, Lizzie.’
I nodded. ‘The very worst kind.’
He looked at me, tired eyes hazed, and I could feel him walk into my body, survey my insides and see all the things I was made of, jolly good things. I smiled. Dr Bowen burrowed into his medical bag like a scavenger and took out the syringe, filled it with my favour. Into my arm it went. ‘There now, Lizzie. This will make it better for you.’
I started thinking all manner of ways. I wondered if Mrs Borden was hurt like Father, would we still be able to have an open-coffin funeral? These are bad things to think. I knew Father would need some healing, but I wanted everyone who would come to the funeral to be able to see them one last time, get their lasting memories. I would have to ask Emma what she thought was the best way to present Father and Mrs Borden in the coffin. We would both agree that Father deserved the very best.
‘We will place them in the parlour,’ Emma would say.
‘With the sunlight behind them like they’re glowing,’ I’d tell her.
‘There will be wreaths.’
‘And I will have one of the children from church play a hymn on the piano,’ I’d say.
‘Uncle should give the eulogy for Father so that he can talk about his life with Mother.’
But I’d tell Emma it should be me that gives the eulogy. I’m used to writing little sermons for my Sunday school pupils. I know how to deliver the word of God in bite-sized pieces.
‘Just think, Father and Mrs Borden will be there the whole time, so peaceful and resting,’ I’d say.
‘Yes.’
‘Emma, what do you think will happen once they are in the ground?’
‘To us?’
‘Yes, to us.’
A heavy hand hooked onto my shoulder, meaty fingers digging into my skin. ‘Miss Borden,’ an officer said.
‘What is it you want?’
‘If you’re able, we would like to ask you some more questions.’ Sweat poured down the side of his face into his thick moustache.
‘Hmmm-hmmm.’ My tongue fat in my mouth.
‘Officer, perhaps it’s best we leave Lizzie to rest,’ Dr Bowen said. ‘She’s experiencing trauma.’
‘We understand, but there have been two deaths in the house.’
Dr Bowen paced the room, his face pale sick. ‘Poor Andrew would be outraged,’ he whispered. The way he said Father’s name made it seem he was still alive. It made me want to curl into a small ball on the ground.
‘You know the family well, Doctor?’ The question sounded like an accusation.
‘I’ve been treating them for years.’ Dr Bowen dug his fingers into hips, claws.
You get a boiled sweet if you’ve been good.
‘Dr Bowen last came to the house when everyone was feeling unwell,’ I said.
‘When was this?’ A notebook was flipped open to a new page.
‘A few weeks ago. Mrs Borden said she was so ill she felt like dying,’ I told him, hoped he captured my words perfectly.
‘It seemed a simple case of food poisoning,’ Dr Bowen said. ‘It was lucky Lizzie and Emma didn’t fall ill to it.’
Yes, it was lucky.
The officer took notes. The clock on the mantel ticked ticked. I thought about that morning, how I had told Emma, ‘Don’t eat breakfast today.’
‘Why not?’
‘I just heard Mrs Borden and Bridget vomiting.’
‘Oh.’ Emma stroked her throat. ‘I’ve already eaten some porridge with Father.’
Later in the room, I heard Emma moan, her body shifting, shifting in the bed
. But she didn’t call for help and so I didn’t tell Dr Bowen when he came to the house for the rest of them. It took them days to fully recover. I allowed myself to eat pears in the sitting room when I wasn’t supposed to, I got those sticky fingers.
‘How has everyone’s health been recently?’ The officer was a stickybeak.
‘I think they were all sick again, Officer,’ I said.
‘When?’
‘This morning. That’s why Father came home early from work.’
‘What did he tell you, miss?’
I tried to conjure Father’s words in my mind but there was nothing but blood and his open head. My forehead throbbed and I rubbed. ‘I don’t know.’
‘I’m sure you will remember in good time.’ Dr Bowen was calming, soothed me.
‘I hope so. I want to remember as much as I can to help the police.’
‘Rest assured you’re doing a good job, Miss Borden.’ The officer smiled crooked, tooth over lip.
My stomach hardened, rock intestine, and the more I saw the tooth the more I wanted to reach up and rip it out, watch the gum bleed, but what to do with a tooth? I snaked my tongue over my teeth, years ago now, felt the little hole at the back of my mouth. It was Emma who had decided that my tooth should be pulled when I was seven. ‘If you do it, you’ll get money,’ she said. I liked the sound of that. We sat on her bed, our legs dangling over the side like we were riverside.
I pinched my molar between fingers and wriggled. ‘It’s like a little trapdoor!’
‘Maybe you could put Abby in there,’ Emma said. We laughed, filled the house with cracking.
I reached for my tooth again, made it wiggle. ‘I’m too scared to do it, Emma.’
‘Don’t worry. I’ve had lots of experience.’ She stood in front of me and squinted. ‘Open wide.’ I opened wide and her fingers rushed in. The taste of salt, of honey. She pinched my tooth and pulled. Inside I was the sound of weeds uprooted from a garden.
‘Karoo! I got it,’ Emma said as if she’d found gold.
I screamed. Blood danced on my tongue. I spat onto my skirt.
Emma studied the tooth. ‘It’s huge, Lizzie.’
See What I Have Done Page 8
