by Amy Cross
Right now, however, I can hear a scratching sound. It's almost as if she's reaching up and trying to claw her way out through the ceiling. A moment later I hear a faint snap beneath my feet. Did one of her fingernails just break off?
“Don't go worrying about her,” Father says after a moment. “Don't think about it.”
Turning to him, I realize my concern must have been obvious.
“Sorry,” I reply, heading to the stove to fetch my own food.
“Some people never learn properly,” he continues. “It's a curse.”
“How...” I pause. “How long will she be down there?”
“How long?” He lets out a loud sniff, which is his way of laughing. “Well, I sure as hell don't have any plans to let her up again today, so I think she'll be waiting a good long time.” He sniffs again. “We'll see.”
“Of course,” I reply, setting the food on my plate before heading over and taking a seat opposite him. I don't have much appetite, but at the same time I know that Father thinks family meal times are very important. He's a real family man, and I know he appreciates the time we spend together, even if he doesn't say as much. As I settle and prepare to eat, however, I can tell that he's troubled this evening, to the point that he seems to have lost his appetite.
I wait, hoping his mood will recover.
“If you don't like the food,” I say finally, “I can -”
“It's not the food.”
“Well...” Pausing, I try to work out what I've done wrong. “Is it... If I've displeased you in any way, Father, I would rather know at once, so I can remedy my behavior. Mother never really taught me very much about managing the house, I suppose that's another of her failings but I'm sure I can learn if you just...”
My voice trails off as I watch him close his eyes. Whatever's wrong, he's clearly very troubled indeed.
“What is it?” I ask, getting to my feet and making my way around the table. Stopping behind Father, I put my hands on his shoulders, and immediately I can feel the tension. His muscles are rigid, especially on the right side, and I can't help wondering whether all his recent exertions have left him injured. I'm sure there are plenty of simple cures for such things, but I wouldn't know where to start. If only Mother had taught me properly, I'd be better placed to take over her duties. Still, I saw her massaging his neck and shoulders once or twice, so I start trying to do the same.
“Go back to your seat,” he says after a moment, rubbing his face as if he's tired.
“I know you didn't sleep well last night,” I tell him, keeping my hands on his shoulders. I'll go to my seat if he tells me again, but for now I would prefer to stay close, to maybe find a way to help him. “Was that my fault? Did I move too much during the night and keep you awake?”
“It wasn't that.”
“If you wish,” I continue, “you could strap me down so that I -”
“It wasn't you,” he says again, with just a hint of irritation in his voice. Reaching up, he pushes my hands off his shoulders. “Quit doing that, girl, and quit talking so much. You're giving me a headache.”
“I'm sorry,” I tell him. “I'm just... Mother really should have taught me what to do.”
“I will go back to sleeping in the other room tonight,” he replies. “I think it might be best.”
“But why?” I ask, shocked by the idea. In just a few nights, I have become accustomed to having Father next to me during the night. “Father, if I'm doing something wrong -”
“You're not,” he replies, “I just...”
He sighs.
“Let me show you that I can be better,” I tell him, looking down at the back of his head. “Let me prove myself to you.”
“Annie -”
“You should be in my room,” I continue, trying not to sound too panic-stricken as I try to think of a solution. “People should sleep near each other, it's only right. I mean, for warmth if nothing else, but also for safety. Or... I could be in your room, I suppose.”
“Your room is for you.”
“It's for both of us,” I point out. “If you wish, we could add your name to the door and -”
“I'm going to bed,” he says suddenly, getting to his feet and pushing past me. Stopping in the doorway, he glances back at me with tired, labored eyes. “I usually take a plate down to your mother after dinner, but tonight I'm too... You'll have to do it. No cutlery, she's not allowed that. God forbid that woman gets hold of a fork in her current state. Tell her I'll be down to talk to her in the morning. I think it's time we start thinking about bringing her back up.”
“But you said -”
“I think she's most likely learned her lesson by now.”
“You can't be sure of that,” I reply, feeling for some reason a hint of concern at the thought of Mother returning. The truth is, I've rather liked having her out of the way, and the idea of bringing her back up feels like a defeat. “Don't rush things, Father.”
“Take her some food,” he mutters, turning and heading out into the hallway and then up the stairs.
Making my way to the door, I stop and listen to his heavy footsteps. When he gets to the landing, he seems to hesitate for a moment, as if he's not sure which room to enter and which bed to sleep in, and I hold my breath for a few seconds until I hear the boards creak and the sound of my door opening. With a faint smile, I realize that he's entered my room after all, which is how things should be. I can handle anything down here, truly I can, so long as I know that I shall be able to sleep alongside him tonight.
Looking down at the kitchen floor, I realize that there's one more task I must complete before I go up to join Father.
***
The metal plate clangs unpleasantly as I set it down on the concrete floor. With just the light of a candle to help me see, I look across the dark basement toward the shadows at the far end, and I wait for Mother to show herself. As the seconds pass, however, I start to realize that the room feels perfectly silent and still, almost as if...
I hold my breath.
Almost as if Mother is dead.
A moment later, I hear the faintest of scraping sounds, and I breathe again. Mother is alive, albeit scared and apparently unwilling to come any closer. I know Father has tied her with ropes, and I know those ropes are attached to the old ironing stock in the corner which means she can't possibly drag herself free, but from the mess of sour gravy on the floor I can tell that Mother must be able to at least reach the middle of the room. There's really no reason for her to hold back. It's almost as if she's scared of me, but that's a ridiculous idea.
“Come on,” I say with a smile, tapping the side of the plate with a fingertip. “You must eat.”
I wait.
After a few seconds, I realize I can hear her breathing. From the sound of it, she seems to have almost become some kind of animal.
I force my smile to remain hidden, but I can't deny a sense of relief. After all, if Mother has become such a brute so quickly, how can Father ever think to bring her back upstairs? It's amazing how quickly someone can lose their civilized manners, although perhaps Mother's manners were never deeply-set to begin with. She was from lowly, common stock when Father met her, and I've always wondered why he took pity on her and married her when they were both so young. I suppose he just wanted to get the whole thing over and done with, so he took the first wife he could find. He could most certainly have done better if he'd waited.
“You must come closer,” I tell her. “I can't just leave the plate here. Perhaps that's how Father does things, but I want to see your face. I also want you to thank me, because -”
Stopping suddenly, I think back to the moment when Father used the sandpaper on her eyes.
“But you're blind, aren't you?” I continue, having not remembered that fact previously. For a moment, I almost feel sorry for her. “Well, no excuse, you must come toward the sound of my voice if you want to eat.”
I wait.
Silence.
“Come!” I
say firmly, deciding to try a different approach. “Right now, Mother! Come!”
I wait again, and this time there's a faint shuffling sound. Peering into the darkness, I start to make out the faintest of shapes, and then an arm moves into the light, dirty and almost yellow with bruises. A moment later, as if by shifting her position she has disturbed the air in the basement, I become aware of the most horrible smell, which I suppose must come from the fact that Mother has been relieving herself down here. Disgusted by the stench, I want to turn and go upstairs immediately, but I force myself to stay in place as she crawls a little further forward. Finally I see her face and, as she comes closer, the flickering candlelight picks out her damaged eyes perfectly, even marking the scratches that run across her pupils. Those scratches seem almost ghostly white now.
“Just a little further,” I tell her. “This isn't so bad, is it? What are you afraid of?”
She stops, looking in my direction but not directly at me.
“You mustn't worry about Father,” I continue. “I'm doing a fine job of looking after him, and the house too. You really should have taught me better in case this day came, but what's done is done and I'm learning quickly. In fact, I'd go so far as to say that I'm performing remarkably well, it's almost as if I was born for this role.” I pause, watching her wretched face, and after a moment I realize with a flash of pride that she really is scared to come closer. My own mother fears me. “Do you think I intend to beat you?” I ask with a smile. “It's Father's place to punish you, not mine. Mother, really, don't be so foolish. Come closer, you must know that I won't hurt you.”
I wait.
“Come,” I continue. “If you want to eat, you have no choice. Or shall I take the plate back up?”
After a moment, she crawls a little further forward. Her clothes are torn and stained, with her pretty white dress having been ripped in several places, and her long black hair is hanging down in dirty, straggly knots. As she gets closer to the plate and reaches out with a trembling hand, she truly resembles a mangy dog far more than she resembles a civilized woman.
“There,” I say with a grin, which I suppose she cannot see, “isn't that better?”
Her hand fumbles for the plate, feeling its edges as if she's searching for cutlery, before finally she scoops some potato into her palm and moves it to her lips. I can't help but wince as I watch her licking the food from her dirty skin, but at the same time I know full well that she brought this on herself. She simply never learned how to keep Father from getting angry.
After a moment she edges closer still, as if her fear has begun to dissipate. She focuses on eating, while I watch her bare shoulder. Looking down at my right hand, I find myself contemplating the damage that I could cause if I just sliced her flesh with one of my nails. I know I told her that it's Father who doles out the punishments, but still, I should at least like to know how it feels to wield that power, and besides, I liked the idea that Mother was starting to fear me and suddenly I don't want that fear to fade. She should see Father and I as her clear superiors, especially if there's any chance of her coming up to the main part of the house again. Finally, I reach out and move a fingertip toward the skin of her shoulder, and I wait until she's almost finished eating before I quickly slice my nail against her.
She lets out a yipped cry and recoils, scurrying back into the shadows.
A broad smile crosses my face, and when I look at my finger I see a hint of blood under the nail. I know it's wrong of me to take on one of Father's tasks, but I truly can't deny that it feels good to experience a sliver of his power. It's almost as if I'm an extension of him.
Half an hour later, once I've gone back to the kitchen and washed the dishes, I'm finally ready to go to bed. I notice some drips on the kitchen floor, but when I look at the ceiling I'm unable to see any kind of hole. Getting onto my hands and knees, I wipe the drips up, keen to ensure that the house is tidy and clean. This, after all, is honest work. Finally, a little before midnight, I'm done, and I feel a sense of great satisfaction before heading upstairs.
When I get to the landing, I open the door to my room and see Father sleeping in the bed. I feel as if he has doubts still, and I have to find a way to ease those doubts so that Mother isn't rehabilitated and brought back up. I suppose it will just take time. Besides, Mother is such a mess now, it's clear she can never resume her old position. Smiling, I step into the room and push the door shut.
Eleven
Today
“You look stupid,” Scott says, sitting on a chair in the corner of my room and watching as I get ready to stand. “You know that, right? You look really, really -”
“Thanks for the pep talk,” I reply, wedging the crutches in my armpits. “You're a real confidence-booster, you know that? You should think about a career in motivational -”
Feeling a pinch of pain in my right knee, I let out a gasp.
“Loser,” Scott mutters.
I've spent all day psyching myself up to try the crutches, but now that the moment is here I can't help feeling a little worried. What if I can't do this? I've been in bed for three days now and I swear I'm going to go stir crazy if I don't manage to get out of this goddamn room, but at the same time my plaster-encased legs are already starting to hurt just from the effort of swinging them over the bed's side, and now even the thought of lifting myself up with the crutches and trying to reach the door... Well, let's just say that in my current state, even a simple task feels like way too much.
“Are you going to do this or not?” Scott asks. “And why do I have to be here?”
“I'm going to do it,” I mutter, adjusting the crutches, “and you don't have to be here, I just don't want Mom and Dad to know I'm trying this and I figured you could help.”
I take another moment to compose myself, before counting down from three in my head and finally starting to haul myself up. The effort is way, way more than I expected, and I feel as if I'm about to collapse as I slowly raise myself on the tottering crutches. Holding my breath, I eventually let out a gasp as I set just a little weight on my less-damaged-of-the-two right leg, hoping against hope that I might be able to at the very least hobble about. Damn it, I knew this would be hard, but I never expected it to be this bad.
“I think people with crutches need to have one good leg,” Scott points out. “I don't think this is going to work.”
“Quiet!” I hiss, steadying myself. The pain in my legs – both of them – is way more than I'm willing to let on right now. “I'm going to try to make it to the door.”
“If you fall over and hurt yourself, it's not my fault.”
Ignoring him, I try to turn toward the door, before realizing that even this simple movement feels like a Herculean task. I stop and try to consider alternatives for a moment, but finally I figure that I have to somehow scooch the crutches an inch or two at a time. To be honest, I'm already realizing that this whole experiment is a mistake, and if Scott wasn't watching and commenting on the whole thing, I'd be giving up right about now. Then again, I figure I just need to have a little more confidence.
“Mom and Dad are being weird,” he says after a moment.
“Sounds about right.”
“I mean weird,” he continues with a frown. “I don't like it.”
Seeing the sense of concern in his eyes, I realize my brother is doing something he's never done before: he's actually opening up to me about his feelings. Glad of the chance to just rest on the crutches and delay the attempt to turn, I wait for him to continue, but he seems almost nervous. First Mom started acting out of character, and now apparently it's Scott's turn.
“Go on,” I say finally. “Details.”
He shrugs.
“Give me an example,” I add.
“Mom was in the basement after lunch,” he continues, “and when I went down to see what she was doing, she shooed me out like a dog. She was acting like she had something down there she didn't want me to see.”
“It's your birthday in t
wo months,” I reply. “Maybe she's just really organized this year.”
“And then Dad got back from the store and when he realized she was down there, he got, like, really mad. Really, really mad.”
“That doesn't sound like Dad,” I point out. “I didn't hear anything from up here.”
“I heard them from the kitchen,” he replies. “Dad was telling her off down there, and then it sounded like...” He pauses. “It sounded like he was pushing her up the stairs really hard. Now she's got this bruise on her arm.”
I stare at him for a moment.
“Dad wouldn't hurt Mom, would he?” he asks finally, and it's clear that he's worried. Either that, or he's gotten a lot better at trolling me since his last pathetic attempt.
“Dad would never hurt Mom,” I reply, trying not to dwell too much on such a crazy idea. “I think you must've got the wrong end of the stick somehow. I'm sure Dad wasn't mad at her, and there are a million ways someone could get a bruise on their arm.” I wait for him to say something, but he seems to have sunk into his own thoughts. One thing's certain: he's not making any of this up, he's genuinely worried. “What's in the basement, anyway?”
He shrugs again.
“You haven't been down there?” I ask. “Seriously? I thought you were, like, exploring the whole house?”
“Dad keeps it locked.”
“So where's the key?”
“There's a key to the lock, and there's also a padlock, and that needs a key too. I don't know where either of them are, and he told me not to go down there.”
“He did?” Pausing, I can't help thinking that there have to be a few elements missing in this story. After all, the behavior Scott's describing sounds nothing like Dad at all. The last thing I need is for all three of my closest family members to starting acting out of character. “I really don't think I'm up to getting all the way to the basement on these crutches,” I tell him, “but why don't you just find the keys when Mom and Dad are out, and then you can look?”
