Lizzie

by Dawn Ius

  Abigail takes off her coat and lays it across the reception desk, knocking the service bell onto the floor with a reverberating clang. I bend to pick up a stray piece of glass from one of the ornaments, carefully tucking it into my pocket while I use my wrist to scrub at the small dot of blood on the tile.

  Swipe.

  The spot grows larger, brighter, a glowing planet Mars. Swipe. Swipe. Bridget loves the planets and the stars. I can’t get this spot to go away. Go, spot, you cannot, must not stay. My skin turns raw and red and I press down hard enough to leave an angry welt across my flesh, grunting from the effort. Sweat beads between my shoulder blades. The anxiety flutters up along my throat—

  “Lizbeth!” my father shouts.

  Swipe.

  With measured speed, I turn to look up at him, eyes cloudy with tears, and something in the distance catches my gaze. Bridget, crouched at the top of the staircase, peering through the banister as I rub, rub, rub at a speck of blood on the floor like some modern-day Cinderella. Fresh panic trips along my spine. It’s one thing for Father to berate me, but the thought of Bridget witnessing his anger—

  My throat swells.

  Go away, I mouth.

  She shakes her head. I say it again, my voice a hoarse whisper.

  Too late I remember that my every move is monitored, carefully analyzed. Abigail’s hands go to her hips, and her lips pucker with distaste. “Lizbeth, you will look at us when we talk to you.”

  My eyes flit to Bridget, willing her to go away, to retreat farther into the shadows before she is seen. Abigail’s chest heaves, her whole body rigid with and poised for intimidation. “Seriously, Lizbeth, what has gotten into you?”

  I cast one last glance at Bridget. My heart pounds, thumps, thunders through the tense silence. Do not look at Bridget. Don’t.

  Look.

  I steady myself against the edge of the reception desk, my head light.

  Abigail runs her tongue over her upper teeth. Her eyes sweep me from head to toe, and a snarl curls her lip. “Sweep the whole lobby until it is spotless.” She flicks a manicured fingernail toward the corner, where a broom and dustpan lean up against the wall. “Now.”

  Anger flashes through me. “But it’s Christmas.”

  “I don’t care if it’s the last fucking day on earth,” my father interjects. “Until the new maid arrives, this is your job. Do it.”

  I focus hard on not shifting my gaze to the stairwell, praying that Bridget has tiptoed back to the safety of her room. My lips move in a silent prayer. Lord, please keep her safe and free.

  Tomorrow I will go to church. I will ask forgiveness for missing Mass. For dishonoring my father. For my unholy thoughts about Bridget. I will go to confession. Recite Hail Marys. Repent for these sins and promise to obey my father, Abigail, Him from now on.

  Anything to keep Bridget hidden, if only for one more night.

  Abigail’s icy stare leaves me cold. “Do not talk back to me, Lizbeth.”

  My gag reflex lurches. I despise the way she says my name. Lizbeth. Like her forked tongue’s about to have a seizure.

  A thump at the top of the stairs pulls my attention, and my skin tingles with nervous energy. I freeze, waiting for Abigail or my father to turn to the noise, but neither of them seems to hear it. I risk a glance.

  Bridget’s pupils shine white through the shadows, peering at me with confusion and alarm. I give my head a subtle shake. Go! The color drains from her face, turning her pale as a phantom.

  I quickly look away.

  Abigail gathers her dress in her fists and brushes past me, pausing only to address my father with the dramatic flair that always turns moments like these into something out of a B-grade horror movie.

  “Come, Andrew. It’s late.”

  I know without looking that he won’t follow his wife to the bedroom, that her words are more of a test than a command. My father’s face is tight with anger. But there’s something else there too: regret for what he is about to do. Every muscle in my body flinches, clinging to the hope that this time will be different.

  My hand presses to my cheek, a futile attempt to soothe the forthcoming pain.

  “Come with me, Lizbeth,” my father says. Dread carves into my bones and burrows deep. “You’ve been a bad girl, and there must be consequences.”

  I shrivel into the role of helpless child, cowering in fear of what comes next. Of what always comes next.

  My father guides me to the staircase, his hand firm on the small of my back. Traces of sweet sugarcane rum and cigar smoke cling to his clothes. I hover on the first step, hand on the rail to steady myself. Goose bumps whisper along my skin. I move slowly, drawing out the inevitable, my throat swollen, chest pinched with fear.

  At the top of the stairs, I glance over my shoulder to where Bridget trembles in the corner, camouflaged by the shadows. Thin lines of concern crease her forehead. Her lips purse, then open. I look away before she can mouth the questions I’m unable to answer.

  I’ve seen all I need to anyway.

  After just a few hours in Fall River, the bright light in Bridget’s eyes has already begun to dim.

  CHAPTER

  6

  The fuzzy yellow streetlight outside glows through the kitchen window and blankets the checkerboard floor. In the distance, the sun hovers just under the horizon, lingering in the early light of dawn for a few minutes longer. It’s my favorite time of day, when the house sleeps and I can pretend I’m the only one home.

  Across the street, the neighbor’s Christmas tree in the living room twinkles to life. Any second now the Dawson kids will bound down the stairs and tear into their presents like Ems and I did once upon a time, before Mom died and Dad . . .

  My throat clogs up.

  I close the blinds and flick on the stove light. The low-humming overhead fan swirls the sweet scent of cranberry muffins throughout the kitchen. I breathe in deep. My stomach tingles with anticipation, and it’s almost enough to mask last night’s memories.

  Almost.

  My skin burns like there’s a fire in my veins. I peer into the stovetop glass, wincing at my reflection. I touch my cheek. Layer after layer of foundation and still, the bruise glows like an overripe blueberry, plainly visible through the makeup.

  It doesn’t matter. Not even spray paint could hide what I know Bridget heard.

  Shame hits me like a cold wave. It’s rising, all-encompassing, and the idea of it being exposed outside the house makes my hands tremble. I pause, listening for the creak of the uneven floorboards overhead. A rustle of movement, a sign that Bridget hasn’t stuffed all her things—pictures, black underwear, her beautiful constellation scarf—into her rainbow backpack, climbed out the bedroom window, and run straight to the police.

  A fresh lump of fear swells under my tongue. Would the authorities investigate? Put my father in prison? I lick my lips. No, he would convince them to send me away, lock me up instead.

  The stove timer buzzes.

  With trembling fingers, I slip on oven mitts and take out the muffins, replacing them with the scrambled-egg casserole layered with smoked Gouda, green onions, and a thick béchamel sauce I whipped up from scratch earlier, whisking the ingredients with an intensity meant to exorcise the demons that feed off the madness lurking inside me.

  The kitchen is the only room in this house that doesn’t stifle. Doesn’t feel as though the walls are closing in, trapping me like a caged pigeon. Cooking, baking, creating—it makes me forget that it’s Christmas, and that my sister isn’t coming home. It dulls the sharpness of my father’s words and even his backhand.

  No one should ever underestimate the power of a pear cobbler.

  Each monotonous motion of mixing and mincing holds me together by the thin thread of normalcy I cling to, giving me hope for a life beyond this house and the invisible locks that confine me to it.

  The warm air from the oven singes my cheeks. I bask in it, allowing myself to get swept up in the mechanics of a new creati
on, yet another recipe stolen from my idol. Today, under Emeril’s tutelage, I have truly kicked things up a notch.

  A soft hum vibrates from my throat. My feet feel lighter, the weight on my shoulders lifting as I draw in the calming scents of savory and sweet. I twirl once, removing the oven mitts and setting them on the counter. Then twirl again and again, craving the kind of freedom that leaves me light-headed and giddy. Alive.

  So utterly alive.

  A soft gasp raises the hair on the back of my neck and I freeze.

  “Is this heaven?”

  I spin around at the sound of Bridget’s melodic voice, and smile so wide the bruise on my cheek aches. My hand flutters to my face and I watch with horror as Bridget’s mouth opens in shock. It’s too late to shield her from this, I know, but I silently beg her not to ask questions, not to acknowledge it at all. Without uttering a single word, Bridget has already said so much. I want to melt like butter into the floor.

  “I’m sorry,” she says, a soft whisper.

  I hold up a finger. “Don’t say that.” Turning, I snag a muffin off the cooling tray and pass it to her with a reverence reserved for far more sacred things. I lower my voice, try to smile. “Merry Christmas, Bridget.”

  The words sound silly considering all that’s happened, but I lack the courage to say all the other things hovering on the tip of my tongue. Run.

  Leave before you are trapped.

  Stuck here. Forever.

  Bridget cups the muffin and brings it up to her nose. Inhales. “Cranberry?” Her eyes burn with excitement, and my pulse thrums. It’s suddenly so important that she loves it—

  Me.

  Good Lord, I’ve never wanted anything so much—the ability to be untethered, free from guilt and self-doubt. Just . . . free.

  Bridget takes another long sniff. “Cinnamon.” I nod. “Cloves. A hint of citrus.” She lifts her gaze. “What else?”

  I wring my hands together and rock back on my heels, my chest swelling with pride. “It’s a secret.”

  Her grin is all mischief. “I’ll get it out of you.”

  She reaches toward me and I dodge her advance, my hip hitting the edge of the stove. It doesn’t burn me, but my skin ignites anyway. Her fingers playfully jab into my rib cage, twisting into an older bruise that creeps up my side like a glass of dark wine splayed across white linen. I try to mask my wince with a giggle, and fail. Laughter dies on Bridget’s cherry-kissed lips.

  Her voice drops to a whisper. “It’s my fault, isn’t it?”

  I shake my head with vigor, fighting the tears. It’s not sadness or pain fueling the reaction, but anger and embarrassment. Bridget should never see this. Emotions pool under my tongue, threatening to bubble over, the madness spilling out and onto the floor like vomit. I struggle to contain it, unable to process what this all means.

  In Bridget’s presence, I am weightless, spiraling toward the unknown, grasping for something to ground me. Some way to keep balanced, stay afloat. I blink, suddenly realizing with surprise that my anchor is here—it’s Bridget.

  “They drank too much,” I say softly, my head spinning with thoughts and feelings and fears. The lie slides easily from my mouth, but it’s not enough, not nearly enough, to wipe the concern off Bridget’s face. It’s etched into her perfect skin with permanent marker, and I hate that I’m the cause of such blasphemous graffiti.

  She reaches up and brushes her thumb under my eye, her gaze lingering on my mouth.

  My lips quiver. “Ginger.”

  Bridget blinks, and the moment is lost. “My hair?”

  “The secret ingredient. It’s . . . ginger.”

  She smiles like I’ve unveiled the Cadbury secret, making my insides twist. It’s an obvious attempt to change the subject, and I almost gasp with relief when she takes the bait. This place is bad. Abigail is bad. I’m bad. But Bridget is the first good thing I’ve come across in so long, I can’t stomach the thought of letting her go.

  My gut clenches at the realization, and I’m shocked at my selfishness. At the sheer depth of my feelings. It’s too soon. Too fast.

  My throat squeezes shut, making it impossible to breathe.

  Bridget slaps her forehead with a flat palm. “Damn it. I should have guessed. Ginger ale is my favorite soda.”

  My eyes widen. “Mine too. Father B . . . my friend . . . says he ate so much ginger in China, he almost got sick. I can’t imagine that.” My words string together, almost incoherent with excitement. “Have you ever been there?”

  She pops a chunk of cranberry muffin in her mouth, her lips strangely mesmerizing as she chews. A small groan emerges from somewhere deep in her belly, making my skin prickle with pride. The pulse thunders against my eardrums.

  “Good Lord, these are delicious,” she says, mouth full. “I spent two weeks in Hong Kong.” A crumb latches onto the corner of her lip, and I’m desperate to lick it clean. I imagine my tongue sliding across her soft mouth, and heat crawls up the side of my neck.

  I drag my gaze to the cross above the kitchen door. Swipe. The face of God pinches with more disappointment, more contempt. I am drowning in his judgment.

  Grab the anchor.

  Swipe.

  Bridget bites down on her lip. “Honestly, Lizzie, these muffins are fucking brilliant.”

  Brilliant.

  “You could be a chef—I mean, you’re already a great cook, but . . .” Bridget stares at me, and for some inexplicable reason, tears prick my eyes. “A professional chef, Lizzie. Like, you could go to school and everything.”

  I couldn’t. Can’t.

  My father’s words play back at me, a constant reminder that I don’t have the skills or resources to make it on my own. In the world outside Fall River, I would get lost. Hurt, or worse.

  A fresh blush sets the bruise aflame. I force myself to keep my voice steady while I shift gears. “What was Hong Kong like?”

  “Busy.” Bridget hops up onto one of the kitchen stools, tiny feet dangling over the edge. She isn’t wearing socks, which is ridiculous. My father barely runs the furnace in this place. A silver ring encircles her pinky toe, and purple nail polish shimmers under the harsh overhead lights. I glance down at my mismatched fuzzy slippers, for the first time wishing I could steal something more glamorous from Abigail’s armoire, something sleek and elegant. Or maybe just cool.

  Bridget manipulates the muffin wrapper into a series of folds. In seconds, the cranberry-stained paper transforms into a blooming rose. She passes it to me, a shy smile playing on her heart-shaped lips. “That’s the extent of what I learned in Tokyo.”

  I grip the stem of the rose so tight the paper sticks to my fingers. A bead of sweat moistens my forehead. Familiar anxiety creeps across my swelled chest, but then I look up at Bridget and my nerves begin to unwind. An unfamiliar lightness begins to spread throughout my body. “I’ve only seen people make swans,” I say. On TV.

  “That’s advanced origami,” she says, deadpan. “I barely made it past beginner.”

  “You took a class?”

  I’m totally gushing.

  Her laugh stirs up more butterflies in my stomach. I glance down, sure she can hear the flutter of their wings coming to life. But it’s the cranberry stain that catches my eye. Red, like . . . swipe . . . blood. A low hum buzzes behind my temples.

  I pivot away and open the stove with shaky fingers. Cheese bubbles on the surface of the casserole, turning golden under the heat. I release a nervous breath.

  “Origami flowers are common icebreakers at bars in Asia,” Bridget says, moving closer to the open door. Heat radiates off her skin, bathing me in its warmth. “And I’m a sucker for a good line.”

  My tongue tangles as I try to find some kind of witty response.

  “Boys like my hair,” she goes on, like I’m not agonizing over how to keep the conversation from getting even more awkward and confusing. “Girls, too, come to think of it.” I hold my breath, daring to hope. “Gingers are easy, they all think.” I turn ar
ound just as she winks, and the fluttering butterflies begin to inch up my throat. There’s this strange tingle between my thighs that keeps throwing me off balance, turns my cheeks crimson. I press my knees together. “Do I give off that vibe?” Bridget continues. “Never mind. Even if I do, it’s got nothing to do with hair color.”

  “Is it real?” My jaw drops. I’m shocked by the question, my audacity. I’ve never been so blunt in my life, but being with Bridget is both unnerving and the most natural thing in the world.

  Bridget bursts out laughing. “This week, yeah. But I’ve been every color of the rainbow—even green.” She snorts. “An Irish girl with green hair? Shocking, I know.”

  Ireland.

  Another destination on my travel bucket list. The Bible teaches us not to covet, and maybe I’m going to hell, but in this moment, I am coveting Bridget. Her freedom, her experiences. If I am a hamburger, she is an exotic lamb roast—we could not be more opposite. But isn’t it true that opposites attract? That they can forge some kind of connection that is maybe more than friendship?

  Fresh hope forms a ball in my chest, clenched like a fist.

  “Why leave Japan?” I say, though what I’m really wondering is why she ended up in Fall River, ended up—

  Here.

  Bridget sighs. “I make bad life choices.” Her shoulders sag. “Or maybe I’m just drawn to bad romances. My ex-girlfriend ended up doing time in juvie. . . .” My breath hitches. Girlfriend? Could I have imagined those words? My emotions are on a yo-yo, with Bridget manipulating the cord. Up. Down. Up . . . “And the guy I was seeing in Hong Kong cheated. Dick.”

  The string snaps. “That was his name?”

  Bridget smiles. Good Lord, I’m already addicted to the way her lips curve. She is like a mirage, plucked from my fantasies and into my life. A living, breathing manifestation of all the secrets I’ve kept hidden—my attraction to girls growing even under the church’s microscope, her presence here a convenient way for us to be together without arousing suspicion.

  “As in, he was one. And then there was Miss Italy . . .” She shoves another piece of muffin in her mouth. My tongue slides across my teeth, as if to swipe clear the grit and filth of my sins, my unholy thoughts.