Only Daughter

by Anna Snoekstra

  “How did it go?” I call back, randomly pressing buttons on the washing machine.

  “What are you doing in here, honey?” the mom says. Her face looks different as she stands in the doorway—her eyes look shiny and her skin is strangely waxen—but she’s smiling. She looks happy.

  “I can’t figure out how to make it work. I want to put a load in.”

  “I’ll do that, honey. You should be lying down if your head hurts,” she says.

  “I know. I just want to help,” I say, forcing myself to speak as normally as I can, even though my limbs are quivering, desperate to run. Even hearing the fear in my voice might be enough. They can’t know.

  “That’s nice of you, Bec. Where are your clothes, though?”

  “I left them upstairs.”

  “Well, go and get them.”

  I force myself to turn slowly, to walk and not run. She turns the machine on, water gushing into the empty barrel.

  “Bec?” My shoulders tense.

  “Yes.”

  “Your robe is filthy.”

  I look down at it. The hem is dark with muck from kneeling in the garage.

  “It must be from when I went outside to say goodbye to you,” I say weakly. She knows I didn’t go outside.

  “Well, give it here, then.”

  “I can bring it down with the rest.” My voice sounds strange, higher and forced, but I can’t help it.

  “Before it stains,” she says, her arm outstretched.

  She’s not asking. I pull it off, feeling horribly exposed in just my towel. She takes it from me. And, as she does, my phone starts ringing. The pocket of the robe lights up. She doesn’t stop, though; she doesn’t hand it back.

  “What are you doing? My mobile!” I yell, but she drops it into the machine. I lunge over, plunging my hands elbow deep into the hot gushing water. The ringing softens as it submerges, warbling as I pull the phone from the robe’s sodden pocket. It stops ringing; the screen is black.

  The mother pulls detergent and fabric softener out of the cupboards, ignoring me. She did it on purpose. There was no way she didn’t hear it ring. Maybe she even saw it in my pocket, and that’s why she insisted on taking my robe. I run away from her, up the stairs, wrapping my arms around the small towel that covers me.

  I close the door to my room and wedge a chair under it, then pull on some of the new clothes; they itch and smell of plastic, but it’s so much better than being naked. I sit down on the bed. This is really happening. My body starts trembling.

  They killed her. One of them killed Bec and pushed her into that dark hole. My breath starts coming in short bursts. They knew. This whole time, one of them knew. At least. They’d just been biding their time, waiting for Andopolis to lose interest, waiting for Paul and Andrew to leave. I wrap myself up in a tight ball, trying to smother the sound of my shallow breathing. I can’t panic. I have to get out of here. But all I can think about is her skeleton under the house, balled up like a scared little kid. It has been here this whole time, hidden in the dark.

  The window. I push myself up. The reporters are too far away to hear anything, but I can see them there. Miniature men with miniature cameras. If I could see them, maybe they could see me. I press myself against the window, waving wildly. One guy puts out his cigarette. The rest of them don’t even move. I could try yelling out to them, but the parents might hear before they do. I could jump out. It’s two stories, so I might break something, but I’m sure they would notice me if I was falling through the air. I have no other choice. I try to open the window, but it doesn’t budge. Putting everything I’ve got into it, I pull until my muscles feel like they’re ripping, but it won’t budge. It’s painted shut. I slide my fingernails underneath it and pull, screaming silently as they tear under the strain. It doesn’t work; my fingertips are throbbing and bloody. I begin to breathlessly cry. I can’t open it. The only way out is through the front door and I don’t want to go back down there. I feel like Rapunzel, locked at the top of a tower. No way out. I could try to break the window, but the glass is thick and they would almost definitely hear it before I got a chance to escape. Then they’d know. I would be bundled up next to Bec, twins rotting together.

  No. As long as they didn’t think that I was on to them maybe I could still just leave. Maybe I can walk out of the front door like I have done so many times. Wiping my wet cheeks, I force myself to breathe. I am a good actor. I can do this.

  The house is silent as I slink out of Bec’s room. The only sound is the faint whirr of the washing machine. I hold a pile of dirty clothes, just in case. My heart pounds as I walk silently down the stairs. The front door gets closer. Five steps away, three. Then I am there, at the foot of the stairs. The front door just a few paces in front of me.

  “Bec?” I turn to see the mother standing in the living room. She’s holding a pair of kitchen scissors. The dad is sitting on the couch, watching me.

  “Yes?”

  “Where are you going?”

  “I have to see Andopolis,” I lie. “He’ll be here any minute.”

  “You’re bringing him your dirty laundry?” says the dad. I don’t know what to say.

  “Let him come inside for once. If you’ve got a headache you might be getting sick. You shouldn’t have to wait outside in the cold,” she says, as though nothing is wrong. As though she is not holding a pair of sharp silver scissors in front of her.

  I look from them to the door. I might be able to make it before she plunged those scissors into my back. The dad stands up, taking a step between me and the door. He takes the washing out of my hands.

  “Do as your mothers asks,” he says.

  “I was wondering if you’d let me fix your hair?” she says, eyeing my split ends. I swallow.

  “Okay.”

  She seats me in the kitchen and puts a towel around my shoulders. The dad stands behind us, watching.

  “Your hair was always so pretty. I can’t believe you’ve let it get this bad,” she says, softly brushing it. The bristles scrape against my scalp.

  “This won’t take long, don’t worry. Vince can come in and have a chat with me and your father. I would like to know how it’s all going.”

  I try to turn to look and see if the father is still in the room with us. She jerks my head back, so I am facing forward.

  “We don’t want it to be crooked.”

  The scissors are cold against the back of my neck; I hear the sharpness of them as they snip through my hair. I hold my hands tightly together under the towel.

  “This is going to look so much better.”

  “Thanks.” My voice is strange and high again; I can hear my own fear in it. But she doesn’t seem to.

  “Nice and neat like it used to be.” I can feel her breath against my bare skin as she talks.

  A strange noise comes from somewhere in the house. A kind of strangled crying.

  “What was that?”

  “What, honey?”

  “That noise.”

  “I didn’t hear anything.”

  “Where’s Dad?”

  “He’s probably having a nap.”

  I hear the noise again. A painful sound.

  “Chin up,” says the mother, wrenching my face up so I’m looking at her. She slides the scissors next to my ear.

  “I really should see if Andopolis is here yet,” I say, looking straight into her eyes. How had I never noticed how strange her eyes looked, glazed and shiny and never quite focusing on you?

  “Almost finished,” she says.

  A loud echoing bang. I jolt in my seat.

  “Careful, honey. I don’t want to make a mess of it.”

  “What was that?”

  She doesn’t answer. The scissors snip again and again. I can feel the tears starting to fall and I can’t stop them. That sounded like a gunshot. I need to get out. But with one slice of those things she could slit my throat.

  “Please, Mom!”

  “One second, Becky,” she says.


  I cry silently, listening for the father, but hearing only silence. Then she pulls the towel off.

  “Go and have a look in the mirror!” she says. “I think you’ll like it.”

  I turn quickly, half running to the front door. She’s letting me out. I can go. I turn the handle, but it doesn’t move. The door is unlocked, but it won’t open. I throw my body against it, desperately trying to force it open.

  “Careful, Bec. You’ll break it,” says the mom, walking past me with a dustpan and brush.

  I notice something wedged underneath the door from either side. I throw myself at it again, my shoulder crunching painfully, but it doesn’t budge.

  Out of the corner of my eye I see Bec’s face. Her mouth crumpled in pain, her eyes full of fear. I whip around. It’s the hallway mirror I’m seeing, my own reflection. My hair has been cut into the same neat bob as Bec’s. I’m seeing what she saw just before she died. I finally know what happened to her and now we’re sharing the same fate.

  Then I smell smoke.

  22

  Bec, 18 January 2003

  Bec wanted to start the day off right. She made her muesli slowly, chopping an apple into slices to mix in. Something she meant to do every morning but never bothered with. A proper breakfast was important. That’s what her mom always said. She ate slowly. There was no rush, after all. It’s not like she had any friends to see. Bec decided to do the dishes, too, perhaps to put off deciding how to spend the day. She cleaned her bowl and coffee cup carefully, drying them and putting them back in the cupboard like her mom always did.

  It was amazing how much difference sleep could make. Last night, Bec had felt an overwhelming sense of impending doom. But today, that seemed so silly. So dramatic. She remembered she’d felt that way in the past and nothing bad had ever happened.

  She had a feeling deep in her gut this morning that everything was going to be okay. All the dark feelings of the night before were gone and she didn’t feel so helpless anymore. Today, she would change things. She would call Ellen and tell her she didn’t want to do closes anymore. Then she’d text Lizzie and tell her that she could have as much space as she needed and that she was sorry. It wouldn’t fix everything, but having a plan made her feel a lot better. Everything could be put back into place; she was sure of it. As long as she could find her phone, that was. She couldn’t believe she had enough anger inside her last night to throw it like that. She almost laughed, imagining what that must have looked like, but she was also a little bit proud of how tough she would have looked.

  After her shower she put on a clean cotton dress. She wasn’t going to hang around all day moping, she decided. She was going to go out, somewhere. Maybe get in touch with someone from school she hadn’t seen in a while. After all, it was getting ridiculous to have only one best friend. There were tons of people at school who she knew wanted to hang out with her more, but she had always been so content with her life the way it was that she would blow them off. Not today. She spent a long time in front of the mirror, making sure her hair was perfectly straightened and trying to get her makeup the best it had ever looked. There was something about looking good that made everything feel so much more in control.

  She stood up, turned around, counted to three and then whirled back around and examined herself. In the millisecond before her eyes adjusted to the familiarity of her own face, she saw a pretty, carefree young woman. Good. Now she’d have to go and dig around someone’s front yard for her phone.

  Something flashed across her doorway, something that wasn’t meant to be part of the image. It was Paul, and he was holding a kitchen knife. He didn’t look into her room but kept walking; she could hear his feet padding lightly down stairs and the door to the garage open and close.

  Bec began to slowly put away her makeup. Mascara, blush, foundation—all back in the box she kept it in. Her hand was steady. Looking at herself in the mirror again, her eyes didn’t adjust. She didn’t recognize the white circle reflected in the glass. Her fingernails pushed down into the flesh of her hands and somehow she had to stop herself from thinking about it. Tiny crescents were left indented across her palm.

  Without deciding, she left her bedroom and stood at the crest of the stairs. One step down and then another.

  As she did, the block in her mind that stopped her thinking about the secret slipped away.

  She tried to push them out, but it was too late. The block was gone and all the things she didn’t want to think about were in front of her.

  They’d said they were the only ones who were real. She remembered standing in their bedroom, half turned toward the door. Them smelling of bath time and clean children’s skin. The last light of the long summer day blocked out by the closed blinds.

  “Does that mean you hate me?”

  “Yes.”

  Her mind flashed through the dead beetle collection she’d found in their closet, the strange emotionless look they sometimes had in their eyes that she’d learned to ignore, the clumps of feathers she’d sometimes find in the garden and every so often a dead, mangled bird. She’d hoped it was the cat getting them. But that was before. She could ignore it then, easily. That was before she knew.

  That day. Last summer. She was meant to be babysitting them. She didn’t want to think about this, but it started unspooling in her mind without her being able to stop it. Every time she was happy they’d tell her she was ugly, and every time she was angry and broody they would crack jokes and give her soft hugs. If Lizzie was there it would have been different. If she’d had her job at McDonald’s it might not have happened. Her mom had given her ten dollars a day to look after them. When she’d agreed, she hadn’t known what it would be like. Eventually she’d stormed out of the house. She’d sat for an hour on the steps of the local shops, slowly devouring a killer python jelly and watching the families come and go, the tail of the jelly getting smaller and smaller as she sucked it down to sugar water.

  Bec had heard the lawnmower as she walked up the hill, but she hadn’t really noticed. It was just like any other summer sound that had no significance: the warble of a magpie, the hum of a cicada. Then she realized the sound was coming from her own yard. She’d broken out into a run, not knowing what to expect but knowing it was going to be something bad. Little kids don’t mow the lawn.

  She tried to stop the memory there. Tried to force herself to think of something else, to think of what she looked like from the outside, standing on the staircase like that. If her dress looked nice, if it was too short. But she couldn’t push her thoughts outward. She couldn’t imagine herself here and now. She could only see herself back then, running up the side of the house. Standing panting in the backyard.

  It had taken her a second to realize what was going on. The lawnmower was running and the boys were giggling wildly, but they had their backs to her and she couldn’t work out why. Then she heard the yowl of the cat over the motor.

  Molly was buried in the ground up to her neck and the boys were mowing toward her. Her eyes were gaping wide and her ears were slicked back against her head. She was straining, trying to free herself. But it was too late, it was already too late. Bec had only enough time to look away before the mower went over Molly. The engine stuttered for a moment, then went back to normal. Her brothers turned around when she started to scream. There had been so much blood. She’d run to Lizzie’s house, forgetting she wasn’t there.

  Lizzie’s dad and brother had smiled at her like it meant something.

  It wasn’t a thing her head could process. Bec realized quickly that it was better just not to think about it at all. Paul and Andrew were always sweet to her after that and she found that she couldn’t help but love them. This ugliness didn’t belong in her life.

  She stood at the bottom of the stairs, her body feeling cold and numb. She could just go back up to her room, grab her bag and shoes and leave. Beetles, birds, cats, dogs. As the twins got bigger, so did their prey.

  The laundry door swung
open silently. The light was on but it was empty. She took a step inside, half thinking they might be hiding somewhere, when the door slammed shut. She whirled around just as Paul jumped off the cupboard behind it, a brick raised above his head. Her arm shot out and connected with the brick, making a sickening thudding sound.

  Her vision turned white for a moment and a sharp hot pain ran up her arm.

  “You didn’t get her!”

  Bec hit the floor, falling from the force of the impact.

  “Only cos you slammed the door.”

  “You should have let me. I got her so good last time.”

  “Yeah, but it was my turn. It’s better this way anyway.”

  Her vision slopped and twisted; she felt like she might be sick.

  Something tugged against her wrist. It was Andrew, tying her old skipping rope around her wrist. The rope was blotched with red stains.

  The half memory of the Maltese terrier they were torturing in the basement earlier in the week came back to her with such force that it almost pushed the wind from her lungs. The images were hazy, blurring and running together. But she remembered the blood pouring out of its opened-up chest. She remembered Paul dragging the half-dead thing across the ground with the skipping rope. The sound it made was like a human scream.

  She pushed herself to her feet, shoving Andrew away from her. Adrenaline was pumping through her now; she couldn’t feel pain in her arm anymore.

  “You’ve been following me, haven’t you?”

  They just stared at her with their identical blue eyes.

  “We wanted to see where you go.”

  “And you were the ones who smashed me in the head that day?”

  “You forgot to take us to the pool.”

  She’d seen their bikes tossed in a pile in the driveway as she walked from the car into the house. She’d even noticed one of the wheels still slowly spinning. Maybe she’d known then.

  “Is that why you are doing this to me now? Because I didn’t take you to Big Splash?”

  The image of the superglue and razor blades she’d seen in Paul’s backpack was still fresh. She imagined slippery wet legs going full speed down the water slide toward the blades. That was something she couldn’t ignore.