See What I Have Done

by Sarah Schmidt

  ‘Yes,’ I told her. ‘I do.’

  Lizzie stared at the dining room door, hooked and unhooked the corners of her mouth. She looked as if she wanted to cry but couldn’t remember how. When I was in Fairhaven I had thought about the existence of the past, how it hid underneath the skin. At the time it had been difficult to acknowledge that the past was gnawing inside me, that everything—Father, Mother, dreams, baby Alice, a walk along the river, a failed attempt at love, Lizzie, a groaning moon, the death of things, Abby—was stitching together to make a covering, a second skin. It had been uncomfortable. I had even hated it. But now there wasn’t much left. The life I’d had was disappearing. Every adult who had ever held me as a baby was dead and no one would ever carry me again. I looked at my sister, looked at blood. That grief inside the heart.

  I kept myself busy for days, made arrangements for the funerals, made cups of tea for anyone who stopped by the house. They all asked about Lizzie, how she was coping, if there was anything they could do for her. ‘It must be so hard on the poor thing.’ This neighbourhood chorus that never sang for me. I wanted them gone, to be left alone so I could gather my thoughts. I kept moving and before I knew it, it was the morning of the funerals.

  Just after dawn, I went to the basement to wash myself, listened to morning birds fly in and out of nests, the quietness of the house. There was a dull ache, deep and sharp inside, a small death.

  I filled a metal tub with water, the sound of rain on roofs, sat on a stool, placed my hands in the water, warm. I washed my body, washed my feet, remembered Father washing Mother the night she died, how he hadn’t wanted to look at her face and had, instead, studied the length of her limbs, the width of her heart. When Father had reached Mother’s hands, I waited for him to kiss them. Instead he meticulously cleaned underneath her fingernails before gently crossing them over her chest. I had asked if I could help but he had said, ‘Death is not meant for children,’ and he made me wait outside his bedroom in case baby Lizzie woke wanting her mother. I went to Lizzie and watched her like a night-soldier.

  While I washed, I tried to concentrate on the tasks at hand: family configurations to sort out, the placement of coffins, but all I could think about was everything I still wanted to ask Father and tell him:

  Why did you ignore me so much after Mother died?

  Why did you have to marry Abby?

  Why did you forgive Lizzie for every little thing?

  It was Lizzie who broke into your bedroom and stole Abby’s belongings.

  I had planned a whole life and you ruined it.

  Tell me again about the day I was born.

  There’s something you should know about me and Samuel Miller.

  I remember how your mouth creased when you smiled.

  Sometimes you are a vile man.

  I caught Abby praying for a child of her own.

  Tell me again what my first words were.

  Did you see who did this to you?

  I forgive you, I forgive you.

  The tub water went cold. The sound of movement upstairs. I dressed in my black mourning silks, patted them hard onto my body until they felt like second skin, placed an oval-shaped silver and turquoise enamel locket around my neck. Inside was a photograph of Mother and Father, finally together after decades between deaths. I emptied the bath water into the sink, looked around the basement: shadows against the walls. Was this where the weapon was hidden? I surveyed the foundations, looked for markings in wood, blood riddles. On the wall by the basement door: a rust-brown handprint. I aligned my hand against the dried print. It was smaller than mine. My hand shook. It’s my experience that a man’s hand is always big. But this. I didn’t want to think about who it could belong to. I noticed a basket full of Lizzie’s washing in the corner. I picked through her dirty clothes, days of Lizzie sitting stagnant, that heavy smell, sifted through dresses. I found a slightly hardened white apron, sniffed. Putrid. There was a faded red stain near the bottom of the apron, close to where a groin would be. Someone’s time. I felt guilty for looking. I hid the apron at the bottom of the basket, layered Lizzie’s dresses on top. The air in the basement was dark and muted and I remembered Lizzie telling me, ‘The police haven’t found a weapon! Imagine not being able to find one!’ She had made it seem like a joke.

  The house was put in order for the funeral and I waited for the undertaker to arrive while Alice Russell made tea. ‘It’s the least I can do,’ she said. Alice looked at me, saw my armful of Father’s and Abby’s clothes. ‘Are they special outfits, Emma?’

  ‘They’re clothes they wore,’ I said. The idea of special things, it hadn’t occurred to me. A careless daughter: what would people think? I went upstairs to Father and Abby’s bedroom to find them something else to wear.

  The last time I had chosen Father’s clothes was the day he married Abby. I had carefully picked the necktie and cufflinks, Lizzie chose the brown leather shoes. Before the ceremony we stood in Father’s bedroom doorway in awe of our creation. He had looked understated, the way a father should.

  Now I had to choose for an ending. Common sense told me that couples should dress in marital cloth, eternity vows going deeper and deeper into the earth. But I decided against common sense. I opened Abby’s wardrobe, fingered the drab clothing that had been worn day in and day out. In the back of the wardrobe were silks, blue, red and orange, velveteen capes. Abby had the habit of holding on to past glory: the dresses that once fit her pre-marital body now hid underneath protective covers. She must have believed she would fit them once again.

  Abby’s wedding dress was there, also under a cloth cover. I paused; weddings, funerals, the same gathering of family. I left the wedding dress where it was, pulled out a simple house dress. I lifted the dress from the hanger and caught the smell of sweat and faded lavender water. How many times had Abby worn it? Had she caught the scent of herself ripening? Had she wondered, ‘Am I rotting from the inside?’ Now the old woman would be buried in the stink. I knew I should find her something else. I was surprised by the detailing on dresses that I had ignored each day: lace rosettes, fine needlepoint cross-stitch, an owl. I couldn’t help but hold the garments close to my body and imagine myself in them, how they would scratch at skin or gather around hips. In the end I chose the blue house dress and a pink silk scarf to drape over Abby’s dead shoulders.

  It was easier to choose Father’s burial clothes: his Sunday best. Black wool and a white cotton shirt. Uniform. I went downstairs and when the undertaker arrived, handed him the clothing. ‘Dress them gently,’ I said. The undertaker nodded.

  I went to Lizzie’s bedroom, knocked on the door before entering. Inside Lizzie sat on her bed, overdressed in mourning: head-to-toe jet black, a crepe dress, long, fat, silk bows around her neck and on her back, a mid-chin-length veil. Over her heart Lizzie wore two thin ribbons of royal blue and ivy green, one for Abby, one for Father.

  Lizzie stroked an ostrich feather. ‘You took your time coming to get me.’

  Heat crept along my spine, hammered my cheeks. ‘Everyone will be here soon.’

  ‘I’m not quite ready.’ The feather was twisted around and around, was let go.

  ‘Get up, Lizzie!’ I shouted, made my throat strain.

  Lizzie slammed her fist into her mattress. ‘You’re mean! I’m doing the best I can.’

  Doing her best. Not good enough. I strode to her, shoved my arm underneath Lizzie’s shoulders, tried to lift her up.

  ‘Let me go!’ she screamed, thrashed, and I lifted her a little more, her heaviness, and she said again, ‘Let me go!’

  All the things that could have been said.

  Mourners began to arrive, told me, ‘The floral arrangements are lovely.’ I smiled politely, relieved that someone noticed the finer details of my grief.

  Bridget arrived at the front door, wore an ill-fitting, new-looking black silk and cotton dress, gave me a bouquet of violets tied together with a royal blue ribbon. ‘Could ya put these on for Mrs Borden?’
She’d been crying.

  ‘You’re not staying?’ I wanted to touch her, to see if she would reveal anything more about what she saw that day.

  ‘No, miss. I’m not family.’

  ‘I know, but I thought . . .’

  ‘I’d like to just give ya these flowers. She would’ve liked ’em.’ Bridget forced the flowers into my hand, a petal fell onto the carpet.

  ‘That’s very decent of you, Bridget.’

  She looked over my shoulder into the sitting room. ‘Is Miss Lizzie in there? Is she alright?’

  ‘She’s talking to family. Lizzie’s been up and down since it happened. Do you want to speak to her?’ I should have pulled her inside.

  Bridget shook her head, made her cheeks squelch. ‘No doubt I’ll be seein’ her around.’ We looked at each other, Bridget whitening like a spectre. ‘I’ll be off now, Miss Emma.’

  Bridget backed away from the door, backed out into the heat of Second Street. I stuck my head through the door, leaned into a small breeze, watched Bridget girdle down the street, hold her head high as if trying to look into neighbours’ houses to see how they lived. I almost called out, wanted to ask if I could go with her.

  There was a tug at my hip. I turned. It was Mrs Churchill, black-veiled, rouged cheeks. ‘Emma, are you alright?’

  ‘I needed some air. Bridget was here.’

  Mrs Churchill lifted her veil, tried to push past me and look outside. ‘Oh? Is she coming back? She could be serving everyone tea.’

  I gently pulled her inside and shut the front door. ‘I don’t think so.’

  We returned to the small crowd gathering in the sitting room, and I went to the parlour, placed the flowers on Abby’s coffin. My knuckles grazed smooth wood. I had been afraid to touch it, afraid that it might tip over, open up, pour her body onto the carpet.

  I paced a path from kitchen to sitting room until the service began, made clumsy pots of tea. On each trip, I watched Lizzie, sitting on a black chair, take hands of condolence and say, ‘Thank you for coming,’ and ‘You’ve no idea of the horror.’ Lizzie the consummate griever, Lizzie outdoing me once again.

  When the service began we sat in front of Father’s and Abby’s coffins. My legs knocked together, collisions of hard stone knees, and nerves churned through my body, made me want to pass out. I stared at Father’s coffin. How was it possible that he could be reduced to hard wood and brass? I quickly glanced around the room: one day this small gathering of friends and family would assemble for me. Lizzie grabbed my hand, trembled, and I squeezed tight until she relaxed.

  The priest held his hands in front of his stomach: short-fingered, well-practised gestures of Father, Son and Holy Spirit. He began summarising Father’s life and I expected an historic account of true love between Mother and Father, but all he gave was, ‘Beloved husband of first wife Sarah, who passed some years before he met Abby. Many here would agree that marriage to his dear Abby healed the hole in his heart left by Sarah . . .’

  This could not be all that Mother was reduced to. I tightened my grip on Lizzie and considered for the first time the possibility that Father had stopped loving Mother, had truly moved on with his life without telling us that we should have done the same.

  It had rained the day Father brought Abby home to us. I was thirteen-and-a-half years old and they were not yet married. It was cold, fingers prickled from pins and needles. Mother had once told me that the prickling sensation meant that fingers needed to tickle someone. So I went to find Lizzie, pounced on her, drew her close and hunkered my fingers into her ribs, waited for blood to return sensation. Lizzie’s mouth opened wide; my triumph of joy.

  Abby held Father’s hand when she came into the sitting room. She smiled, cheeks pulled tight into soft balls, little cakes. The rain fell. The thick blue vein along the side of Abby’s neck pulsated and galloped, linked panic and excitement of impending motherhood together.

  As Father spoke, I noticed Abby’s hand squeeze tight around his wedding hand.

  ‘Abby is happy to meet you.’ Father brought her slightly forwards towards us.

  Lizzie leaped from my lap and stood next to Abby. Lizzie smiled; disconnected pebbled teeth. Abby’s fingers swirled across Lizzie’s hair, untangled knots.

  ‘How are you, Lizzie?’

  How could she know about us already?

  ‘Goody good.’

  ‘Emma, say hello to Abby.’ Father was forceful, opened his palm wide by his side.

  ‘Hello.’ It was hard to say.

  Abby’s lips formed a relaxed smile, the kind that inspired painters. I smiled back involuntarily.

  Father told me, ‘Find your sister’s coat so we can all take a walk.’

  ‘But it’s raining.’ I was a whinge.

  ‘It’s only light rain.’ Father stroked his dark beard, was struggling to keep himself light-hearted.

  ‘Do you need help?’ Abby asked.

  ‘I know where they are.’

  I went to the cupboard underneath the stairs, my hands fell across lengths of wool and broadcloth: Father’s coat, my coat, Lizzie’s coat. I let my hands drift further to the back of the cupboard. Wool and fur. Mother’s coat. Every now and then, when nobody was looking, I put on her coat and stood in front of the mirror. The coat hit my ankles; sleeves stopped just before fingernails. How many years does it take to grow into someone? If I tried hard enough, I could find Mother on the inside of the coat’s neck, underneath two large buttons. Oil of Rose, a sweetness. I would pull the coat tighter around my body and thought of myself inside Mother: how warm it must have been underneath all her skin.

  Now the coat waited in the back of the cupboard. I rubbed the neck and closed my eyes. ‘Today would be a wonderful day to wear you,’ but thought better: I didn’t want to give away this secret in case Abby, this stranger, wanted to wear it. Some things needed protection. I pulled Lizzie’s coat down with my own and shut the cupboard. When I turned around, Abby was standing at the doorway and she said, ‘We thought we’d lost you.’

  When the rain stopped the four of us walked down Second Street, me and Lizzie leading the way. Behind us: Father and Abby, unified strides. I watched over my shoulder, saw Father look love at Abby. I had seen this type of behaviour before—newlyweds at Sunday services.

  Lizzie pulled on my hand and we skipped ahead. I was happy to put a little distance between me and the paternal mutiny that was taking place behind us.

  ‘Not so far, chickens,’ Father called out.

  Abby giggled, mistaking his unease for happiness.

  There was laughter and small words, little secrets to be kept from daughters.

  ‘I can see the resemblance in their faces.’ Abby was kind-voiced.

  ‘Sometimes she comes through in their personalities and I don’t know what to do.’

  ‘Just embrace it,’ she said.

  ‘I don’t want them to be exactly like Sarah. There were problems between us.’ Father said it serious.

  ‘But she loved them.’

  ‘My word she did.’

  ‘And I will love them too.’

  ‘Good.’

  I placed my hand over my heart, my breath strangled. What problems? I thought about Father praying over Mother’s body the day she died, the way he held her hand. There had been a strange smell in the bedroom that day; it stuck to me. It travelled with me for days afterwards. It had slowly crept into the house a few days before Mother had died; sour and aged, bitter on the tongue. It had stained Mother’s hair, made me too afraid to touch. At night the smell took the form of molasses, a hint of sulphur slurping under doors and through keyholes. I had accepted it. A dutiful daughter, I made a hole in my lung and let the smell fill it completely. Then, a week after Mother died, the smell disappeared, leaving the house feeling completely empty.

  SEVENTEEN

  LIZZIE

  6 August 1892

  ON THE MORNING of the funerals, an officer told us that an old man had handed himself over to the police t
he day before, had told them to hang him for the murders. He had brought his own noose. Where would you even buy one of those? The officer described him: sixty-two, thin hair, beard cut short and ragged. ‘We offered him breakfast but he refused. Said he didn’t want to add to his weight and run the risk of breaking the rope.’ Swing, swing, swing. The idea of it made me shiver. The old man’s confession took an hour and in the end, the police called for his son to take him home to bed.

  ‘Why did he confess?’ I asked.

  ‘Beats me. But, then, we get all kinds confessing to things they didn’t do. Maybe he was hoping we would hang him so he could be done with his life?’

  I wondered if Father had ever confessed to anything. What would it feel like to do that?

  In the dining room where Father and Mrs Borden had spent two days hidden in the heat, the undertaker placed them in their coffins and opened the door wide, presented them like two debutantes. The smell from their temporary tomb raced through the house, rubbing up against the drapes as it made its way up the stairs towards our bedrooms. Emma opened one of the windows and took a deep breath. ‘At least this will all be over soon.’

  For two days every conversation ended with the same wish: at least this will be over soon. When Mrs Borden’s sister came by the house the day before the funeral and asked to see Abby, I told her, She’s dead! She’s dead! ‘It’s best not to go inside the room.’

  She pouted like a stupid baby. ‘I wanted to put this on Abby.’ She held a royal blue silk sash that was frayed at the ends. She paused. ‘Goodness, I don’t even know how I came to have this back in my possession.’

  ‘We’re deciding what Father and Mrs Borden will wear.’ I folded my hands across my chest and she hung her head, looked at her feet. From this angle I could see that Mrs Borden and her sister had the same hairline, the same bone pattern at the back of the head. I smiled.

  ‘Lizzie, she’s my sister. Can’t you be kind, just this once?’

  I didn’t like what she was accusing me of. I gave her a look, made her step back from me.