See What I Have Done

by Sarah Schmidt

  All around me crickets thrumped their little throats and the moon started to show, covered grass with a balmy sheen. There was a barn to the left of the yard and a large rug hanging over the clothesline. My leg began to itch and I scratched, enjoyed the way my skin came under my fingernails, the way I piled myself up. I watched the back of the house, watched windows light and dim with kerosene lamps, watched Bridget move from room to room. When she was upstairs in the attic she removed her bonnet, pressed herself against a window, looked out into the early night. I wondered if I waved my hands, would she see me out here in the shadows? I bet she knew about Emma’s and Lizzie’s father problems. I had a mind to ask her about them. The conversations we could have. How easy my task would be then. Bridget stood up there in the window and I moved towards the house. I tried to lift the windows on the first floor, all locked, and then I tried the basement double doors, twisted the handle back and forth. Locked. I twisted the handle again and felt resistance. I let go and the handle rattled. Someone behind the door. There was a key in the lock, some grunting, and I ran to the pear arbour, flattened myself along the ground. The basement door opened like an earthquake and there was a kerosene glow. A woman stood there. She held the lamp high, watched a moth swarm the light before sweeping it away with the back of her hand.

  The woman came outside, came right into the yard, and I could hear her breath, shallow and nervous, something bubbling inside her. She wiped her fingers across her eyes, like she’d been crying, and she put the lamp on the ground, let out a deep belly-sound of anger.

  I lifted my head a little, hungry for her noise. This was a feeling I knew. The things you could do with it. She did it again and said, ‘As the Lord liveth, there shall no punishment happen to thee for this thing.’ I lifted my head higher, started to raise my chest off the ground. I realised then that this was Lizzie. She had problems indeed. Somewhere around us I heard, ‘What on God’s earth was that noise?’ and Lizzie covered her mouth with her hand and scanned the yard, made me bury myself back into the ground. Crickets hammered, Lizzie shined the light on the rug, went close to it, picked up a wicker slapper that was leaning against the house. Lizzie, with her back turned to me, started beating the rug with the slapper, over and over, grunting from effort, her shoulders round and fierce.

  ‘I am not those things. I am not those things,’ she spat out, a freight train across country, no slowing it down.

  I pulled myself onto my hands and knees, slowly began to crawl towards her, wanted to get close to her to smell anger, find out just how much problem-solving I would have to do. Lizzie cried out, made the rug swing like a dead man. I was halfway to her when John appeared in the basement doorway. He lifted his lamp high, caught me on all fours. He sneered, shook his head and I stopped still.

  ‘Lizzie, what’s going on?’ he said.

  ‘I can’t do this anymore.’ She beat the rug.

  John walked to her, put his lamp on the ground then took Lizzie by the shoulders. ‘Now, now,’ he cooed. ‘You can do anything.’

  ‘Why does he always have to put me down?’

  ‘Why does anyone do anything? Don’t listen to him.’ John looked over towards me and I slowly crawled back to where I’d come from. I flattened into grass. He armed her tight, hushed her, told her, ‘I’m going to help you feel better. Do you like the sound of that?’ John held her tighter, nuzzled into her, made Lizzie narrow into him like a cat. ‘Yes.’

  They stood for a time and then Lizzie asked, ‘Am I a good daughter?’

  ‘The very best, I’m sure.’

  ‘What do I have to do to get Father to see that?’ The strain in her voice.

  ‘Just continue to be yourself. He’ll learn his mistakes soon enough.’

  ‘Maybe he will,’ Lizzie said. Crickets hammered the yard. ‘I’m surprised to see you today.’

  ‘I told you I’d be coming.’

  ‘I thought you were arriving tomorrow.’

  ‘I had a change of plans, had things to attend to. I thought I’d come earlier, perhaps see Emma in Fairhaven.’

  ‘Did you?’

  ‘No. She wasn’t where you said she would be. She’d gone out.’

  Lizzie wrenched her head up. ‘Where was she?’

  ‘Her friend didn’t say. I got the feeling she didn’t trust me.’ John palmed Lizzie’s forehead, a soothing.

  ‘Helen’s always overcautious. She’s no fun,’ Lizzie said.

  They sat on the step of the basement door and John swung his arm around her.

  ‘Everything alright around here? Abby seems stranger than usual. She’s a bit too quick in wanting to leave rooms.’ John whistled the words out.

  ‘Is she? I haven’t cared to notice.’

  ‘Has she been causing you heartache?’

  ‘Mrs Borden is as bad as Father. Sometimes I think she deliberately sets Father against me.’

  John shook his head and rocked Lizzie back and forth. ‘Fancy pitting a parent against a child.’ John had a strange way with his niece, all that holding and stroking. I didn’t like the look of it.

  ‘She always has. And now she’s gone and got Father to deed a house to her and her sister.’

  ‘I can’t fathom why he would agree to such a thing.’

  ‘It should be for me and Emma to have. It’s our money too.’

  I imagined Abby whispering into Andrew’s ear, like Angela into Papa, whispering how he should leave his children. I’d have to speak to Andrew about women like that.

  ‘What would you say if I told you there would be no more problems?’ John said.

  Lizzie looked at him. ‘In what way?’

  ‘I’m going to arrange a man-to-man talk with your father, remind him to treat you and your sister properly.’

  ‘That could work.’ Lizzie brightened.

  ‘I suspect it will, Lizzie.’

  ‘When will you speak to him?’

  ‘How about tomorrow?’

  Lizzie dug her fingernail under fingernail, wiped the debris on her skirt. ‘When?’

  ‘How about when he comes home from work to have lunch? I’d make it discreet so as not to embarrass him in his own home. Perhaps you could persuade Bridget and Abby out of the house?’ John was making it easier for me.

  Lizzie rubbed her temples, closed her eyes. ‘That could work. That could work,’ she said quietly.

  John smiled. ‘Well, it’s settled.’

  ‘It’s settled.’

  He tightened himself around Lizzie, kissed her on the forehead. ‘You try to relax tonight.’

  ‘You know, I’m thinking I’ll go see my friend Alice.’

  ‘Splendid idea.’

  Lizzie stood, said goodbye and went into the basement, left her lamp behind. The door closed.

  Time passed. John raised his voice. ‘Did you catch that?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, remained in the shadows.

  ‘You can see how distressing this is for her.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Please do your best.’

  ‘Yes.’

  John stood, dusted himself. ‘I’ll be off now.’

  ‘Will you let me in the house tonight?’

  ‘No. It’s too risky.’

  ‘Where will I go?’

  He pointed. ‘The barn’s over there.’

  I was no animal. I pulled myself up, stood tall and meat-cleaved towards him. Noses almost touched. ‘I don’t like how you’re speaking to me.’

  ‘That’s not my concern.’

  ‘I could easily make it so.’ I wanted to put him in his place.

  He pulled away, patted me on the back. ‘That’s the way. Be just like that.’ He laughed, opened the basement and went inside. Crickets hammered the yard. There was no point staying outside getting bit by insects, those hate-filled things. I picked up Lizzie’s kerosene lamp, turned it to half-light and went to the barn. There were stacked wooden boxes, wooden crates of broken plates, odds and ends of discarded household items, an empty bird aviary. I m
ade my way up the barn stairs to a small loft, got myself settled under the window. I turned off the lamp, looked out at the house, watched the comings and goings of shadows. I would become one of them.

  NINE

  LIZZIE

  4 August 1892

  IN THE DINING room, Father and Mrs Borden, stiff and straight on undertaker’s boards, were waiting for the coroner, waiting to tell them what it was to be dead.

  The police had gone out for a moment, had left the inside of the house unguarded. Neighbours retreated back to their homes. Emma was somewhere. At the tip of my mind I heard Mrs Borden call to me, ‘Come and see us, Lizzie. Come see a secret.’ I didn’t want to let them down. I crept the stairs towards the dining room. I made sure I was alone. I opened the dining room door and lifted an eye into the room. I held my breath. There under white sheets, frightened and silent, their bodies held each other like first-time lovers. I closed my eyes while Father reached his arm around his wife and told her, ‘It will all be over soon.’

  I walked into the room. A thick stain of heat and blood, of broken muscle and bone, dug under my nose, critter critter. I walked slowly to the dining table and stood at the end. I touched the edge of a crisp sheet. I lifted my head towards the ceiling. Underneath the light fixture, paint crumbled into tiny flakes of yellowing white, summer snow falling on top of the sheets covering Father and Mrs Borden. Father would hate such a mess.

  I hid a smile underneath my palm and tasted salt. On my wrists there was a spatter of blood, tiny droplets that were still finding their way under my skin. I licked my finger and wiped at it, erasing Father, erasing Mrs Borden from my body. I lifted the sheets. Underneath, like an echo, I could feel Mrs Borden hum, her vibrations jumping through my body, humming the songs she sang when I was young and couldn’t sleep. I wanted to shout at her, ‘Stop it! You are not that person anymore,’ but instead I thought about what she was now: the beginning of carrion. Soft skin opened like a rock; hard underneath hard underneath cold. I lifted the sheets higher. They weren’t wearing any clothing. I poked Mrs Borden’s thigh, so cold, quickly pulled the sheet down.

  I thought about Father, stretched out like a bone xylophone, one arm stuck to his torso while the other reached towards mercy, towards Mrs Borden. I went to Father’s side of the table, lifted the sheet again. His hair was matt and thin. He looked like he was in pain. I leaned in, just a bit, and kissed him on the side of his face where there had been a cut. The clock on the mantel ticked ticked.

  ‘Poor Father,’ I said. ‘Can I get you anything to make you more comfortable?’ The walls around me hissed. They weren’t wearing any clothes. I wondered if I would miss him. I pulled the sheet down and I saw them wriggle closer to each other, hands caressing each other.

  I gritted my teeth, No more touching! No more make-believe love! and I stepped back from the table towards the door. In the corner of the doorjamb a flower petal clung to the wood. Three days before, the dining room was covered in violet bloom, Mrs Borden having filled vase and vase and vase with those sickly flowers she liked having around so much. I watched her breathe in those small petals, watched her smile and sway her hips. When she exited, I walked in and ripped off the petals until there was nothing but stem and glass. I did it to all of them. For a moment, my small violent impulse had felt restful. And then, after a time, it didn’t. I felt just as I had before. I picked up as many petals as I could and left the room. I said nothing.

  I took the petal from the doorjamb and stuck it into my pocket. I walked out of the dining room into the sitting room and left Father and Mrs Borden behind. Outside someone yelled, ‘I can see her,’ as I passed the parlour window towards the front stairs. I smoothed my hands over my hair. I walked up the stairs, made the wood yell.

  I ran my hand across the hot banister and it melted into my palm like taffy. Everything slowed and the walls pulled themselves away from their foundations. There was no more silence. Everything was loud and thunderous the closer I got to the top of the stairs. On the landing, the heat was a tyrant of rage and pushed my mouth open, forcing my breath to be shallow then big. I heard myself scream then laugh.

  I walked into the guestroom where they found Mrs Borden and saw that the police had opened all the drawers and cupboards, spreading our life across the floor until it was dirty and soiled. Father would be angry at the mess. I thought of how he would demand I clean it and how I would turn to him and refuse. There would be a moment when his eyes would snap, his neck becoming thick and superior. He would knot his fingers together and shout, ‘You will do as I say,’ and I would smile at him sweetly and press my palms over my ears. I would watch his mouth open open shut, open open shut and pretend he was saying, ‘I am wrong, Lizzie, and you are right.’

  On the floor the police had laid out an old towel. It was covered in bloodied boot prints, invisible soldiers, and I thought of the time when I was eight, when Emma and I became ghosts leaving flour footprints all over the kitchen, I was so small, small, small. So long ago.

  I had tiptoed around Emma’s bed and whispered, ‘Make me laugh, Missus Chatter!’

  Emma rolled over, wiped dribble from her mouth and asked, ‘What do you want to do?’ and I told her, ‘Let’s be naughty,’ and we walked downstairs, me a jumping jack and Emma a mouse, into the cold kitchen, waiting for the sun to warm us. We went through the cupboards telling each other:

  ‘We could eat sugar!’

  ‘We could hide one of the knives.’

  ‘We could hide in here until someone opens it and we jump out.’

  ‘Let’s eat all the food except for the horrible stuff.’

  And then Emma spotted the flour tin and asked me, ‘Lizzie, would you like to be invisible?’

  ‘A ghostie?’

  She nodded, like a jump. ‘Yes.’

  I said I would if it really meant no one would ever see the naughty things I would do, and Emma told me, ‘No one will ever, ever see you, not even when you’re old and spotty.’

  We stood in the middle of the kitchen with the flour tin between our feet and took off our nighties, bent over the tin and dove our hands into the flour, made fistfuls of clouds onto our bodies.

  ‘Make sure you cover my face,’ Emma said, and I threw another handful at her, into her eye. She yelled at me in the voice she knew scared me, yelled and yelled until she heard Father walk down the back stairs and unbuckle his belt. We listened to the leather slither its way through loops of material, his boots whipped into the staircase. Then it became quiet. We closed our eyes and became invisible.

  I opened my eyes. My shoes were drifting along the bloodstained carpet, the last pieces of Mrs Borden’s life licking at my heels like an ocean. I’m in the sea. At the bottom of the ocean, I saw fine strands of grey seaweed, saw little fish swimming through it, hoping to hide from sharks. I crouched into the water and let the blood sea salt cleanse my face. I waded across a wave. I fancied myself an explorer, a deep-sea diver. Floating in the water I found a hair comb, a cameo necklace, a piece of lace from a pillow sham, a little scrap of bone. Signs of sunken treasure, a bounty stolen from pirates. I tried to put treasure into my skirt pocket, careful not to let it sink me. I let out a deep breath. Something made me feel like crying. I left the ocean, left the room, felt fresh air sweep my face.

  Downstairs a thud sounded and echoed through the house. The heavy boots of a police officer thumped up the stairs. I quickened across the landing into my bedroom and locked the door.

  My room was tight with heat. I looked at the silver crucifix above my bed, reminded myself that He had suffered too. My body ached and all the blood rushed to my ears then forehead making everything black and solid. I stood in front of my mirror and pulled at my clothes, when did they become so tight? peeled away the layers until I was naked. My skin was pale and opaque, this is not what thirty-two should look like. Everything hurt. I wanted to feel better. I forced my fingers onto my arms and ordered them to march like ants. They trounced over hills and mountains, digging t
renches under my arms and breasts, I’m beginning to feel better, and the army advanced down my rounded stomach to view my groin and thigh. I filled with tingles, good things. My skin cooled and the house dimmed its heat. With a one two left right, the army continued towards my toes, taking with them my webby skin until it became liquid, beautiful. I pressed myself against the mirror.

  I layered my clothes back onto my body and straightened my hair, perfect. I peeked out my bedroom window at Second Street, took in the bright whites and purples of front yard glory, took in the dank layers of grit and rot that clung to houses. Below me was Irish Mary hanging out clothes. She scratched her head, that lopsided thing, and then she looked at the basement for a time. I knew what she was thinking. Bad things do happen.

  I wanted Emma to come up, but I was afraid she was angry with me for letting Father die. There were many things I needed to explain to Emma but I didn’t know the words. I thought of her coming upstairs, running for me. I would open my door and she would pick me up from the floor and cradle me in her lap and I would tell her, ‘It was so terrible, Emma, so terrible. I thought they would never stop with their questions,’ and then she would look at me with those loving eyes and kiss me on the forehead and tell me, ‘I will take over from here now, Lizzie, you go away and disappear and leave this behind you.’

  I wanted to tell Emma something. I sat on the floor by my bed and thought about things I’d never told her. There had been the times Mrs Borden had told me I was a disappointment to Father, of her slapping my face and me laughing back at her; of the time I saw Mrs Borden through the keyhole, naked and shivering. I thought about the night after Emma had gone to Fairhaven. The shameful thing I did.

  Nightmares had grabbed me in my sleep, bruised me to screaming. The things I had dreamed. I woke to a morning that was half awake. I looked around my room, had that feeling that someone had reached inside my body and pulled me out backwards, had left me with nothing but animal noises dripping from behind my ears, loud then louder until I couldn’t hear myself think. Sweat broke me, made me flood salt into my bedclothes, the day is already too long, and I got up, stripped the bed, stripped myself, made heavy cotton piled in the corner of my room for Bridget to clean. My heart beat and beat, galloped into my throat and exploded. I couldn’t help but shake. I needed Emma, needed something like comfort. I put a dress on, tried to calm myself, but every time I blinked, closed my eyes longer than I should, the flash of night was there. Behind the wall, I heard one of them—Father or Mrs Borden—toss and writhe in bed, I have been in there before, and I wanted to feel safe, wanted to feel small again. I went to Father and Mrs Borden’s room, let myself right in.