by Dawn Ius
I scurry backward, hunching on my hands and knees, crouched and ready to pounce, poised to attack.
Stop! Bridget is not the threat.
The first pinpricks of fear drip down along my spine. I can’t let Bridget see me like this. Frightened and vulnerable. The madness uncoiling at my feet, pooling like fresh blood. What would she think?
Creaaak.
My stomach clenches.
Breath hitches.
Bridget’s hand is on the closet door.
A noise in the hallway startles her, and she scurries behind the dresser just in time to avoid Abigail passing by in the hall. I inch closer to peer out through the slats and recoil when I catch Abigail staring into the room, at the closet, at me. She sees me.
A smirk curls her lip up.
I swallow hard, forcing every bit of paper down my throat, every minuscule piece of her name. She is in me—and out there too.
She is everywhere.
Fear turns my blood to ice.
I’m scared that she’ll discover Bridget hiding behind the dresser. That she will find me in the closet. Terrified that she will sliccce me open and uncover the sticky, pasty ball of her existence dissolving in my stomach, breaking into tiny little pieces.
My eyes flit between Bridget and Abigail.
Neither moves.
Abigail flicks off the light. She pulls the door closed and traps me within darkness, with Bridget. I will Bridget to smile, to bring warmth and sunshine. To ease the ache of loss that swirls in my chest. But even though I can’t see her face, I feel her sadness.
“Where are you, Lizzie?”
Here.
“I need to know you’re okay.”
A dull ache spreads across my abdomen, forcing out a muted gasp. I am dying.
“I found blood. . . .”
On the bedsheets, the carpet, the bathroom floor. Swipe. A drop trickles down my thigh and hits the floor outside my bedroom door. Swipe, swipe. I drag my feet across the carpet, digging my toes in as I stumble toward the bed, my stomach bloated and sore. Swipe—
“I know you’re not well,” she says, voice cracking. “It’s more than your period though, right? Let me help you. We can get through this. . . .”
A tear runs down my cheek and splashes onto my hand. I rub it into the floor of the closet, burying it with stains and memories, the ghosts of the past, the present. My future.
All of it here. For now. Forever.
Her tone drops to a whisper. “I’m sorry you’re hurting. . . . I didn’t mean to make things awkward. . . . I know you’re not ashamed of me.”
It’s not your fault.
The words don’t come out. Not even as Bridget casts one last longing glance at the closet door. Not as her shoulders slump, her thin body trembling. Not even as she creeps toward the front of the bedroom, her shadow silhouetted in the soft light of the stars shining in through the window. I am frozen. Immobile. Bridget peers out into the hallway and closes the door behind her with a soft click.
Everyone leaves.
Reeling, I grip the pen and drag it across my thigh. I push so hard, a vein bulges.
Pops.
Blood bubbles out through the opening, trickling along my skin and onto the carpet. My mouth opens. Closes. I can’t force the scream out. Dizziness buzzes through me and my eyes grow heavy, weak.
Music drifts in from the bedroom. I stare through the slats at my mother twirling across the carpet. Swipe. Her dress rises and falls as she spins and laughs. I call to her, but no words come out.
She turns and smiles. I flinch so fast my head slams against the back of the closet. The coppery taste of blood fills my mouth. Maggots squirm from between my mother’s lips and out from her black, vacant eye sockets.
Swipe. Swipe.
Swiiiipe.
I slump down on the carpet and drop my head.
My eyes catch the glint of something metal. A knife, not a pen, its serrated edge outlined in my blood.
A wave of nausea rolls through my body and turns my world black.
CHAPTER
14
Bridget’s camera clicks, whirs, clicks. I shift left, right, take two steps back at her soft command. When she moves in closer, I freeze, carefully sliding my hands across my stomach.
“Stop covering up,” Bridget says. “You’re beautiful.”
I lick my lips, go very still. Pretend I’m focused on this moment, when I’m still thinking about the other night in the closet, the visions, the madness, the loss of control. That madness is the elephant in our relationship, both of us tiptoeing around it.
How long before one of us snaps?
Click, click, click.
Bridget pulls the lens away from her face. “I get it. Cameras make people anxious.” She grins. “Don’t believe the myths, though—they don’t strip your soul or add ten pounds.”
My left palm caresses my belly. “That’s a relief.”
Bridget shifts on her hip and studies me. “You’re a natural, you know?”
I choke on a laugh. My arms move like spaghetti noodles, limp and lifeless. Every pose is awkward. Unnatural. Like a mannequin trying to do advanced yoga. “You keep saying that word. I don’t think it means what you think it means.”
Click.
“Nonsense. My lens is Jedi. It sees straight to the goods.”
Bridget is always saying stuff like that. The kinds of things that make my stomach flip and my heart flutter.
“Lean up against the tree,” she says, as though I haven’t tried that pose a half-dozen times. I step through a patch of daisies and press my back against the rough trunk of what I’m sure is the biggest maple in Massachusetts. “Like this?”
She shakes her head. “Too stiff. You’re like a plank.”
I turn sideways and wedge my hip against the tree. “Better?”
Bridget picks a daisy and tucks it behind my ear. “Good. Now tilt your head down.”
I do, and gasp. My shirt is unbuttoned at the top, and the black lace of the bra I lifted from Emma’s old room peeks through. It’s like my breasts have grown a full size in one day. A rash of heat creeps up the side of my face.
“Excellent,” she says, in a low gravelly voice that makes my knees go weak. Her gaze lingers on my chest, and I stiffen under her scrutiny. It takes every ounce of willpower not to cross my arms over my chest. What would Father Buck—God?—think of such brazenness?
Bridget ducks behind me and holds the camera so that the lens faces us. “Selfie time,” she says, and tilts her head toward mine.
Sunlight streaks through the clouds and hits me in the eye. I squint, make a face. “A little warning next time?”
Bridget snaps off a few more candid shots—she scrunches her face, sticks out her tongue, throws her head back and laughs. “I like being spontaneous.” She kisses my cheek so fast I barely have time to blush. “You should try it more.”
A light breeze blows through the branches, and a few leaves trickle down around me. I reach up to dust off my shirt, but Bridget holds up a finger. “Don’t move. Don’t . . .” Click, click, click. “Okay, now you can move.”
I lift my eyebrow. “Something interesting on my shoulder?”
“Caterpillar,” she says with a wink.
My spine stiffens as I see the insect’s green-and-black body in my peripheral vision. Bugs don’t skeeve me out, but this thing is perched near my collarbone, precariously close to falling into my cleavage. I clench my fists at my sides.
Bridget leans forward and zooms in on the caterpillar. “I wonder what kind of butterfly this will become.”
“Monarch.” Another symbol of the resurrection, Father Buck often says. But to most people they’re just butterflies, famous for their orange-and-black-patterned wings. “We get a lot of them out here.”
Bridget shudders. “I saw a TV show about them once. . . .” She peers at me over the lens. “Kinda creepy.”
“I think they’re pretty.” A cramp in my leg makes my knees buckle, and Bridget steps
forward, hand out to steady me. I resume position, still tingling from her touch. “This photo shoot is taking forever. Rigor mortis must be setting in.”
Bridget smiles like she knows the secrets of the world, and somewhere deep in my heart, I believe that she does. If not the world . . . me. No one has ever taken time to get to know me before, and I cling to the idea that she’ll stay with me, even once all my secrets are revealed. “Art takes patience.”
The leg cramp tightens and I stumble forward, losing balance before Bridget can react. My foot gets caught on a root, and I start to fall. The ground comes at me in slow motion, punctuated by the click, click, click of Bridget’s camera. I hit the grass hard on my wrists. A stinging vibration runs along my forearms. “Dang it!”
“Jesus, that was magical.”
I glance up at the sound of Bridget’s voice. Her eyes are all watery, like she can’t help but laugh.
“You kept taking pictures?” I say, incredulous. At her half-apologetic nod, I crumple to the grass and roll onto my back. A daisy petal tickles my ear. I shield my eyes from the sun. “Delete them at once.”
Bridget clutches the camera close. “You’ll have to pry it from my cold dead hands first.”
“Happily.” I reach up, and she twists away. Her strawberry hair twirls over her shoulder and cascades down her chest. The sun hits her golden highlights, forming a halo over her head. The image is in stark contrast to the devilish grin that splits her cheeks in half.
“Give up now, baby,” she says.
I blink innocently. “Can you help me stand?”
Bridget eyes me with suspicion, so I fake a light moan to indicate that I’m in pain. She takes the bait. As soon as her fingers curl around my wrist, I grab her forearm and yank. Bridget falls forward, crashing down on her knees with a curse. “Motherfucker.”
She tries to stand, but I push her over so she lands on her hip. Her hair gets lost in the weed-choked grass. She coughs out a laugh. “I suppose I deserved that.”
I clap my hand over my mouth to stop from giggling and lie beside her. Light clouds drift across a deep blue sky, almost too dark for this time of year. Warmth spreads over me, but I’m not even sure it’s from the weather. Bridget is so close, I can almost touch her. Every cell in my body snaps awake.
“We should learn to ride horses,” she says, threading her fingers through mine.
I turn my face to her, cupping her hand to my chest. Can she feel my heart beat? “Didn’t you ride one across the Sahara Desert?”
Her eyes glisten. “Okay, I’ve never been to the Sahara Desert.”
“I know.” I reach with my free hand and push aside a strand of hair covering her cheek. “You’re quite a mess.”
My beautiful disaster.
She arches an eyebrow. “Yeah? You’re not exactly Teen Vogue-ing it yourself.”
I stretch across her to grab her camera, my chest resting on her torso as I turn on the screen. The image on display stops me cold. Heat flushes my cheeks. The picture is of me, but I barely recognize myself—I look different. Relaxed and happy.
Not me.
Swipe.
“I told you,” Bridget says, her voice a near whisper. “You’re beautiful.”
“Stop it.” My eyes get watery. “That isn’t me.”
“It is, Lizzie. It’s the real you. The one I see every day.”
The lump in my esophagus grows to the size of a softball. I can’t breathe.
Anxious, I scroll through some of the other pictures until I find the series of selfies. It’s me again—still relaxed, still happy—but Bridget is blocked by a ray of sunlight that hits her lens at just the wrong angle. Everything else but me is washed out. And for some inexplicable reason, I’m overcome by sadness. I set the camera down with trembling fingers. I blink to try and stop a tear from falling. I’m too late.
Bridget brushes her thumb across my cheek, the light touch igniting the burn on what’s left of my latest bruise. She pretends to ignore them now, understanding that her silence means I can somehow move on. Not forgive—never forgive—but forget. If even for a few hours. “You’re perfect, Lizzie. Just the way you are.”
Uncomfortable with her praise, I swallow, and try lightening the mood. “So, we gonna lie around all day, or shoot some pictures?”
Grinning, Bridget lunges toward me, but I’m too quick. I leap up and take a giant step back. She’s on her feet now, reaching for my skirt. Genuine laughter rumbles from deep in my chest, and I stumble backward. My foot catches on the same root and I pitch backward, landing faceup in a cluster of daisies. I prop myself up on my elbows and crawl backward, eyes wide as Bridget dives on top of me and pins me to the ground.
Her eyes glint with mischief. “Whatcha going to do now?”
I take advantage of her confidence and flip her over onto her back. In seconds, I straddle her, trapping her wrists with a viselike grip. She’s stuck.
Just like the lump in my chest.
I bend forward, hair falling across her face, eyes locked on her lips. She runs her tongue along them. My chest fills like a helium balloon as her mouth moves toward mine. Her breath is hot on my skin. The energy between us snap, crackle, pops.
Our lips touch.
Gently, so soft it’s almost nothing—
And everything.
Her tongue darts between my lips. A soft moan purrs from my throat. Bridget curls her hand around the back of my neck, pulling me closer. My stomach is a roiling mass of butterflies.
Bridget’s teeth scrape against my lip.
“Shit,” she says. “Did I hurt you?”
Emotions swirl around my heart like a dust devil, but pain isn’t among them. “I’m stronger than I look.”
Bridget’s complexion pales and she looks away. The tips of her ears have gone pink, and I realize she’s upset. When she finally meets my gaze, there is a sadness in her eyes. My heart skips a full beat.
“You shouldn’t have to be so strong,” she says.
The conversation shifts to less comfortable ground. I try to change the subject, but Bridget stands firm. “Where did you go the other night, Lizzie?”
I swallow, stalling.
“I felt you in the room with me and—” She inhales a shaky breath. “And I couldn’t do anything. Why wouldn’t you let me help you? We need to tell someone about what’s going on. Your father should be reported.”
I swallow hard. “Calling child services won’t do anything. It’s my word against his.” The logic makes sense, but somewhere beneath it, a much more confusing emotion lurks. A sense of love and loyalty that’s woven into my DNA and refuses to let loose, coupled with the realization that I need him. As easy as it is to pretend with Bridget, the reality is I’m not well. “It’s complicated. . . .”
“Not if you showed them the bruises.” Bridget blows out a slow breath. “They’d put you in a foster home or something.”
“I don’t want to live with strangers,” I say, but that’s only a fraction of the truth. The only reason Abigail hasn’t had me committed is because my father is worried about how that might affect his reputation—what reason would foster parents have to keep me? I’m sure they’d just send me away.
“I hate your father,” Bridget says, her tone thick with venom. “I fucking hate him with every fiber of my being.” Her hands curl into fists. “I want to kill him for hurting you, Lizzie. Him and his fucking wife.”
My heart grows heavy. I crawl off her and sit, curling my knees up to my chest. Across the horizon, the setting sun silhouettes the barn against a red-and-orange-streaked sky. It’s picture-perfect, but this new tension has ruined the shot.
A shadow flickers in the distance and I flinch. “Someone’s out there.”
Bridget puts her hand up to her forehead and squints. “I can’t see.” She reaches behind to grab her camera and adjusts the lens. She sucks in a breath. “Shit.”
The hair on the back of my neck stands on end. “Let me look.” I zoom in and gasp. My stoma
ch twists into knots.
A line of trees marks the edge of the field where the Borden B and B sits. In front of it, Abigail stands, hands on her hips, staring off into the distance.
Staring . . .
At us.
CHAPTER
15
Welcome, child. How long since your last confession?”
The question startles me, or perhaps it’s Father Buck’s voice, solemn and muffled behind the thick screen of the confessional, that raises the hair on the back of my neck. His face is all shadows and soft angles. Though there is nothing anonymous about this.
“Six months, Father.”
Since just before Bridget arrived. The significance of that isn’t lost on me, but even still, I hadn’t exactly planned on confession today. Perhaps not ever. Circumstances had other plans.
Despite all my teachings—and God’s ever-present disapproval whispering in my subconscious—I’ve clung to the belief that somehow, I can have both. My faith, and Bridget. An impossible wish, now that Abigail has seen us together. I’m sure she saw us in the field. She had to have.
Fear is a low humming buzz in my veins. Why hasn’t she said anything? What is she waiting for?
I didn’t imagine her standing there, staring at Bridget and me as we rolled around on the grass, laughing, kissing, pretending to be free. Abigail saw, and before she tells Father, I must repent.
The confessional bench presses against my thighs, and I’m grateful the church decided years ago to do away with kneeling. I tug at the hem of my skirt, pulling it down to my shins, as though it can ward off the chill that winds its way into my bones. It must be below zero in this place. Restless spirits in the burial grounds below have begun to move.
I’m frightened.
But of what?
I’ve avoided confession until now, fearful of the consequences, both inside and beyond these walls, once I have bared my soul to Him. But listening now to Father Buck’s heavy breaths echo within the confines of this small space, I’m not sure what I’ll say. How much I’ll reveal.
This isn’t my first confession—I’ve always considered myself a good Catholic girl—but it’s perhaps ironic that here, where I should feel most safe, I’ve never been able to fully spill the contents of my heart. Maybe it’s because the feelings that truly haunt me are not my sins to confess.
