Lizzie Page 8

  Emma waves her fork at me. “I thought we talked about this—why mess with perfection?” The sternness in her eyes clouds over with obvious affection, and my heart does this weird thump-thump thing that always happens under her praise. I forget all about the journal. “I suppose in this case it’s okay,” she says. Her eyes burn with ridiculous pride, and I’m drowning in happiness. “It’s divine, Lizzie. Don’t you think, Jesse?”

  He moans in agreement.

  I watch his expression for lies. His lips for dishonesty. A subtle hint that he doesn’t like the meat loaf, is only pretending to for my sister’s sake, a blatant attempt at earning her approval. My trust.

  Much to my shock, he seems sincere.

  Emma reaches for her water glass, and something flickers under the overhead light.

  I blink. Then watch carefully as she lifts, sips, swallows.

  A small gold band encircles her finger, an oversize diamond plunked at the center, as out of place there as it is on my sister’s left hand. My stomach pulls into a tight ball of denial and I’m sure my face pales, drains completely of blood.

  Emma catches my eye and I know she knows too.

  I turn away to catch my breath.

  A fat teardrop hits the countertop and splatters across the granite. I rub, rub, rub it clean with the back of my hand until my skin is raw and red. “Izzy, I’m so sorry. I swear I was about to tell you. . . .” Her voice catches, betraying the lie. Emma was nervous to share her news with me—and why wouldn’t she be? She knows how unstable I can be. “It just happened yesterday.”

  I struggle to match her enthusiasm, but the knot between my shoulder blades won’t let up. “I’m happy for you, Ems.” My shoulders stiffen. “It’s fine, really.”

  My words cough out like a steam engine fighting for air, and I feel a shortness of breath as my heart starts to race. Questions bubble at the tip of my tongue but I stuff them back, push them to the bottom of my throat where they’re tangled up with disbelief, hurt, and a disquieting sense of dread that hangs on with the strength of a cinch. I am free-falling into darkness, grasping for the light. Bridget. I need Bridget.

  But Bridget isn’t home right now.

  Emma’s voice softens. “I’m glad. It’s important to me that you approve.”

  My eyes wander to Jesse, more a boy than a man. Light stubble peppers his jaw. His hazel eyes twinkle. By the expression on his face, it’s clear he’s misread the moment, thinking I’m pretending to be hurt instead of writhing in pain.

  I exhale slowly, as though deflating a helium balloon. “Have you set a date?”

  “Not without consulting you, of course,” Emma says.

  And I’d believe her too if the sharp stab of duplicity wasn’t pushing against my stomach. I squeeze my eyes shut, not trusting myself to meet their gazes head-on. My sister will see through my reservations. “Have you told Father?”

  Jesse clears his throat. “I’m going to ask his permission tonight.”

  The tremble in his voice suggests he knows it won’t be easy. Our father straddles the line between not believing anyone is good enough for his daughters, and not believing anyone could want them—though I often wonder if that’s just how he feels about me. My thoughts turn to Bridget, and I ache for her closeness. For the chance to show him I am wanted. That someone needs me as much as I need—

  Her.

  “And I was going to tell you first,” my sister says again. I jump at the closeness of her voice. When did she leave the table? Her hand settles on my shoulder, the warmth finding its way to my bones and easing off the chill, her touch so different from Bridget’s, yet somehow comforting, too. “You distracted me with your meat loaf.”

  I force a grin. “You’re an easy mark.”

  I’ve never been able to stay angry with my sister. And not just because she’s older, wiser. But because no matter how hurt or betrayed I may feel, her presence calms me, somehow quiets the paranoia and tames the beast that hovers—always—just under my skin. The medication is supposed to stanch the madness, but maybe Bridget can help with everything else—Father, Abigail, this new development with my sister. Is that too much to ask?

  I close my eyes and imagine Bridget here now, soothing me with her words, erasing my fears with her magical fingertips. The hair on my arms stands erect, and for a split second I think about confessing to Emma.

  No. This isn’t my moment in the spotlight. Despite my reservations, my sister deserves this.

  Emma rests her head against mine. “I’m glad you’re not mad at me.”

  “Only enough to smother you in your sleep,” I say with a light laugh, reminiscing of pillow fights that lasted long into the night.

  Jesse coughs out a surprised, “Whoa.”

  Emma giggles, oblivious to how my words might have sounded to someone outside our family sphere. “You’d have to come to the Holiday Inn, because that’s where we’re staying for the night.”

  My shoulders slump. “Why so far away?”

  Emma’s eyes dim. “You know why.”

  A shiver ripples down my spine.

  “Leaving this place was hard,” she says, her voice cracking. “It took strength, determination, careful planning.” She lowers her tone. “It’s dark here, Izzy. I know you feel it too. And I can’t come back . . . not now. Things haven’t been the same since Mom—” She swallows. Her spine visibly stiffens. “After dinner, Jesse and I will go to the Holiday Inn. That’s how it has to be. I got out, Izzy. You should too.”

  A halo of sadness circles my heart.

  Emma knows the only way I’m leaving Fall River is in a proverbial straitjacket—Father will never let me go on my own. But the way she says it, it’s almost like she thinks I have a choice. I stare into her eyes and it’s just like I thought—neither of us truly believes I do.

  CHAPTER

  11

  My sister’s fiancé stares at his dinner setting, recoiling at the things on the plates before him. A human leg, the skin cracked, pink sinew shining through charred flesh. An arm, bubbled and blackened like burnt cheddar cheese, with its fingers curled tight into a fist, a sprig of rosemary protruding upright like a flag. Beside it, half an intact rib cage with the pulsing lungs still inside, draped with coils of intestines and surrounded by lettuce and kale, garnished with a ripe tomato carved into the shape of a heart.

  My father tucks his linen napkin into his shirt. “The pigeons will be nesting soon,” he says, lifting the lid off the silver platter at the center of the table.

  There, Abigail’s head, severed at the neck, nestles on a sticky bed of rice, artfully drizzled in scarlet blood. Her blue-tinged lips part and a whisper croaks from her throat. “Pigeons. Such vile creatures.”

  “Don’t say that around Izzy,” Emma says, laughing. She sips her wine, the crimson color staining her teeth, and smiles. Maggots ooze from between her lips. “Isn’t that right, sis?”

  My heart feels like it’s in my throat, blocking my scream. I blink—swipe, swipe, swipe—blink. The strong scent of tuna casserole swirls under my nose, bringing me back to reality.

  “Lizbeth?” I crane my ear toward Abigail’s voice, strangely relieved to find her head securely attached to her neck. The horrific images of severed body parts disappear like smoke. “What is wrong with you?” she says. “You’re practically a ghost.”

  Swipe.

  “She’s afraid Father will start talking about killing the pigeons again,” Emma says, leaning toward me so that our shoulders touch. I pull away to break the connection, angered by how easily she mocks me.

  Jesse’s eyes flit to mine, Abigail’s, back to me, and then finally rest on his blushing fiancée. She pats his hand. “My sister has a soft spot for birds.”

  “Any animal, really,” my father cuts in. He raises his glass in a fake toast. “But the birds, especially.”

  An uneasy quiet settles over the room; the calm before the storm. My attachment to the flock of pigeons that nest in the pear tree out back is a cons
tant source of tension in this house. At first I only wanted to protect them as a way to annoy Abigail, but it’s become more than a childish game now that Father is involved.

  Jesse clears his throat. “Did you know that carrier pigeons were used by Julius Caesar to relay messages?” At everyone’s blank stare, he shrugs sheepishly, his voice wavering slightly. “I wrote an article on them last year.”

  Abigail curls her lip up. “That’s about all they’d be useful for. Such ugly creatures.”

  My father runs his tongue over the top row of his perfectly polished teeth and washes down his casserole with a splash of wine. “I’ve got no use for them,” he says. “Nuisances.”

  I flinch at how easily he dismisses them, barely giving them a second thought. My skin prickles, as though hundreds of feathers form ridges along my skin.

  Jesse swirls his wine, the bright liquid sloshing up the sides of the glass. “I find them fascinating, actually.”

  Emma elbows my rib cage. “Look how much you and Jesse have in common.”

  I smile thinly. What’s he playing at here?

  My father dusts off the front of his napkin. Bread crumbs sprinkle his casserole, camouflaged against the excess of baked cheese. “These insolent birds insist on eating the pears.”

  Forbidden fruit.

  “Lizbeth makes quite a delicious pear pie,” Abigail says.

  My flesh ruffles. This might be the only compliment I’ve ever received from her, and I struggle not to call out her insincerity.

  Jesse holds up his fork, layered with cheese, and smiles. “If this casserole is any indication, I’m not surprised.”

  I jab my tongue into the inside of my cheek, still unsure of Jesse’s endgame.

  A shadow in the hallway pulls my focus. Bridget, sneaking by the dining room as she makes her way to the kitchen, where I’ve left her a generous slice of tuna casserole and a chunk of strawberry shortcake. I imagine her swiping a layer of whipped cream onto her finger and sucking it clean, hiding in the small staff room that is only a fraction bigger than a broom closet. My mouth parts and a soft sigh escapes.

  “She can only make pie if there are pears,” my father goes on, oblivious to the rising discomfort in the room. “Which is why when the pigeons become a nuisance this year, I’ll have to kill them.” He smiles without humor. “I saw one just the other day, in fact.”

  I saw her too. A mama, looking for a place to lay her eggs. Sometimes I watch her through binoculars from my bedroom window, her tiny beak bobbing for scraps. Peck, peck, pecking.

  I envy her freedom, the way she flits around the yard as though no one is watching. Building a home, a life, without judgment.

  “I should poison them all,” my father says.

  A tightness pulls in my chest. “What did you say?”

  Jesse’s sympathetic eyes land on me just as the blood begins to drain from my face. I set my fork down and fold my hands on my lap, looping my pinky through the lace edging around the bottom of my dress. My knuckles are white with tension.

  “That would be a shame,” Jesse says, his voice soft and soothing.

  Curious, I lift my gaze.

  “Pigeons are quite symbolic.” He dabs at the corners of his mouth with his napkin, transforming from tattooed jock to college professor in the blink of an eye. “Some people believe that the pigeon symbolizes determination and the ability to overcome obstacles.”

  Abigail squirms. “Hogwash.”

  Jesse shrugs.

  “Preposterous,” my father says. A string of cheese hangs from his beard. I imagine a mama pigeon peck, peck, pecking it off, twisting it around and around her beak, feeding it to her young.

  My spine straightens. “Pigeons are renowned for their navigational skills.” All eyes turn to me. I lick my lips. “They’re known for their ability to find their way home—which is why they are a symbol of house and home.”

  Jesse lifts his glass and offers me a discreet wink. “Indeed.”

  Some of my reservations about him begin to fade.

  My father pushes his plate forward. “I think we’ve talked enough about pigeons for one night.” He gives me a warning glance, quietly dismissing me, and then shifts his gaze to Jesse. Elbows on the table, he steeples his fingers, pressing the tips so tightly they turn light pink. “I understand there is something you’d like to discuss with me.”

  My intuition hums like an overloaded electrical wire. I stand, gathering the plates and cutlery, the empty glasses. My sister puts her cool hand on my arm. “Stay,” she says softly. Her eyes plead, but I look away.

  This conversation won’t go well—and I would rather hide from conflict than face it head-on. Emma knows this. “You’ll be fine,” I say, and it’s true. Emma is always fine—her menstrual cycle isn’t irregular she doesn’t black out or need medications to be normal, isn’t tethered to the church by her calling or still grieving the loss of our mother.

  No, Emma is free from all that.

  And when this is all over, Emma and her fiancé will leave and I’ll still be here. Stuck. Trapped.

  Jesse’s voice fades as I quickly make my way out of the dining room. I set the dishes in the sink and inhale. Exhale. Bridget’s portion of tuna casserole remains untouched. Was her appetite suppressed by the conversation in the dining room, or—?

  Outside, the moon hovers high in the sky, peeking at me through the window. Fresh blades of grass in the backyard appear iridescent under the light. In the distance, branches from the pear tree are silhouetted against the old barn, their shadows twisted and gnarled like monstrous arms, beckoning me closer.

  The pigeons will be nesting soon, my father whispers over my shoulder.

  Vile creatures. Abigail’s scratchy voice zigzags up my spine and buries itself at the base of my neck.

  I should poison them all.

  No. I can’t let my father do that. Can’t let him destroy the joy I find while watching them fly free, oblivious to the dangers that lurk only a few feet away.

  I shrug into the sweatshirt hanging on the back of the pantry door and pull the hood up over my ears. My head throbs at the temples. In bare feet, I tiptoe to the door and ease it open, silent as a rat.

  Vile creatures.

  I jerk my face back to look over my shoulder, my spine electric at the thought of someone standing behind me. But there’s nobody there.

  Just as there is no one to watch as I creep across the damp grass to the barn and slip inside.

  The pigeons will be nesting soon.

  But only if I get to them first.

  CHAPTER

  12

  Bridget brushes up against me, her breath a whisper across my neck. Tiny goose bumps ripple across my flesh. “You’re sure this is safe?” she says.

  I put my finger to my lips and then lift the metal bar that latches the barn door closed. It opens with a loud creaak. For a split second, I freeze.

  Moonbeams spill into the room, casting light over the film of dust that covers everything from the floor to the soiled boxes stacked in the corner. Tools are propped up against the side wall—a shovel, rake, two hoes, and a headless ax. A smaller hatchet leans up against the workbench.

  Something small scampers at our feet. Bridget jerks closer to me as the creature darts into the darkness. Her hand tightens around my arm like a vise. “Rat?”

  “Most likely a mouse.”

  “Christ,” Bridget says. She exhales hard. “And you’re sure it’s safe?”

  I flick the light switch and a pale-yellow glow fills the barn. “Promise.”

  Bridget follows me inside, flinching as I close the door. I stand on tiptoes to peer at the house through the small round windows, relieved that everyone seems to have gone to sleep. My gaze lingers on Emma’s empty room, its vacancy now luring me into the past. The memories we’ve shared—the fights, the laughter, the tears and whispers. She’ll never come back now, not after the things Father said to her. I squeeze my eyes shut to hold back the tears.

  I
’d rather die than see that abhorrent man again. A sharp pain of regret stabs me in the gut, and I shake loose the sadness that follows. I’m not surprised Father didn’t approve of the marriage, but my sister’s venomous response—a series of hisses, strong words, and thinly veiled threats—plays back in my mind like a tape recorder on slow speed. That isn’t her, isn’t the Emma I know and love.

  “Why are we whispering?” Bridget says, startling me to the present. “Abigail is passed out by now, and your father . . .” Her voice trails off, and I know what she’s thinking. Not even Bridget’s and my laughter can wake him, especially in the dead of night. His snores often echo through the vents in the house, as though the walls themselves are groaning.

  Bridget and I spend our evenings alternating between her bedroom and mine. We play cards and board games, watch reruns of Emeril, and challenge each other to Truth or Dare. Mostly truth, I admit, but I don’t think I’m good at either. It’s hard to be “bad” when you’re suffocating in air so heavy with judgment you can barely breathe.

  Each night as Bridget tiptoes down the hall, I thumb through the weathered copy of my Bible, reinforcing the tenets of my faith—and how I am failing it. But as a child repeatedly reminded of her inadequacy, her dirtiness and worthlessness, I’ll never shed these feelings of guilt and shame, not even if I confessed every last sin. Do I need forgiveness? Or is Bridget enough? These questions plague my dreams, spilling over to my waking hours, deepening my confusion.

  Bridget says it’s up to me to decide. “I don’t know if I believe in a higher power,” she says. “But if I did, I wouldn’t side with someone who thinks I need His approval of who I can love.”