Читать книгу The Widow Next Door - L.A. Detwiler - Страница 13

I was seven the first time I realised the world is a lonely place.

In truth, I should’ve learned it years before that. My perfect place in the world was tainted the day Lucy came into my life. I just didn’t know it at the time. Of course, I’d been too young when she was born to know the difference between right and wrong, just and unjust, loved and not loved.

When I was seven, though, things became apparently clear: I was no longer important in the family. Or maybe, in truth, I never was.

We stood on the altar looking out at all the people. My eyes landed on my parents, sitting five pews back. I counted the five rows with pride, double-checking to make sure I’d counted correctly. I’d been working on my numbers, on my counting. My teacher said I was a smart girl. I’d beamed with pride that she’d noticed.

Lucy stood beside me, her red satin dress shining under the streams of sunlight as the preacher spoke about something I wasn’t listening to. I was too busy watching Mom and Dad. Dad was in his best shirt and slacks, his jacket frayed at the edges but still looking great. Mom was in my favourite dress, the blue one with pink flowers. She looked beautiful, even with her hair swept back.

We’d been picked along with some other children in the church to perform a song. It was a special moment because I was getting to sing the solo. It was my mom’s favourite song, too: ‘The Old Rugged Cross’. I’d memorised the words. I’d practised over and over. I couldn’t wait for my moment to shine.

This was going to be my moment. I imagined Mom and Dad beaming with pride, rushing up after the song to hug me, Dad lifting me into the air like he had when I was younger, before Lucy became their sole focus. They’d crowd around me, praising me for a job well done. After church, we’d all gather in the hall and they’d be grinning ear to ear, telling everyone I was their daughter.

The preacher grew quiet, and I knew it was time. I fidgeted with the skirt on my blue-checked dress. Mom told me the mustard stain on the hem wasn’t noticeable. Still, I tucked the fabric over itself, clutching it with a hand to cover it. I needed everything to be perfect.

The song began, our Sunday school teacher leading us as we sang the words in our makeshift choir. Lucy sang too loudly, as usual, her voice shrieking out the words. At one point, she stepped in front of me, shoving me over. I shoved her back slightly, knowing my moment to sing was coming up. I needed to be the centre of attention for once. I needed to be in the middle, noticed, for when it was my turn.

She stepped forward again, right in front of me, and anger bubbled. It was just like her to try to steal the spotlight all the time. In school, at home, when we were baking with Mom – she was always stealing my spotlight. She was always making sure I was shoved to the side.

Not today, I thought to myself. It was my solo. I needed this moment, had waited for it all week.

I elbowed her in the ribs, inching forward as the song came to my solo. It was a soft shove, not enough to do any damage but enough to show her where she belonged.

I opened my mouth to belt out the words, but at that moment, Lucy screamed, falling to the ground, tumbling down the steps of the altar.

‘Ow, you hurt me,’ she whined, flailing on the ground and pointing up at me.

The organ continued playing, but the words for my solo eluded me. I didn’t sing. I watched in horror as the teacher rushed over, helping Lucy from the ground and asking if she was okay. My parents, too, rushed from their pews.

Couldn’t they see she wasn’t really hurt? That I hadn’t done anything? That she’d started it?

The other kids laughed and pointed at the ruckus, ignoring the song. ‘The Old Rugged Cross’ went unsung, the preacher looking angry. The whole church stared at me. I was in the centre of the altar, feeling so alone, my face burning with embarrassment and frustration.

And eventually, that embarrassment and frustration boiled over into something else entirely: rage.

My parents helped Lucy up, her crocodile tears rolling down her cheeks. Mom hurried over, grabbing me by the wrist and yanking me down from the altar in front of everyone.

‘You’ve done it now,’ she hissed through clenched teeth.

And instead of them congratulating me, they dragged me from the church as everyone watched, kids on the altar laughing and pointing as the preacher tried to regain composure and order.

Outside the church, the sun was shining, the clouds billowy and soft. Mom’s hold on my wrist hurt, but I didn’t dare cry out. I was too stunned, too shattered to complain anyway. My stomach burned and my head pounded. How did this happen? How could this happen?

It was her. It was always her. I seethed inside as she held Dad’s hand. He comforted her, telling her it was all okay.

They rushed us to the car and Dad tucked Lucy safely in the back. I was shaking now, out of frustration and fear of what would come. Dad didn’t like to be humiliated.

Before I could open the door, he took one arm and slammed me up against the back of the car. Mom crawled inside, ignoring the scene unfolding.

‘You bitch. How dare you embarrass us. Look what you’ve done. You’re ruining this family. You ruin everything,’ he said, his face inches from mine.

Tears welled, stinging my eyes.

‘Daddy, it wasn’t me. She did it. She started it. She shoved me.’ My voice was shaky as I pleaded with him. I needed him to understand, just this once. I wanted him to side with me and to understand that it was all Lucy. It was always Lucy.

There was no sense of understanding that day, however. There was no pride or acknowledgement of what today was supposed to be about. Instead, he shoved against me, his arm pressing against my chest, making it hard to breathe. I felt the metal of the car, hot from the sun, against my back.

‘You’re the older one. You should know better. Don’t you dare blame Lucy. She’s an angel. You’re nothing. You’re the problem. We’d have been better off without you. Now get in the car.’ He pressed against me one last time, his rage jolting through the pressure he placed on me.

As he stepped back, I slumped to the ground, but he grabbed me by the hair, yanking me up and tossing me in the car. I crumpled on the seat, in shock even though I really shouldn’t have expected anything different. It wasn’t the first time I’d felt Mom or Dad’s unhinged wrath.

The whole way home, I shook with terror, with anger, with a sense that all was not right. I stared out the window, watching the familiar landscapes whir by as the car sped onward, back to the home that had always housed so many dark truths for me, even at seven.

What had happened to me? Why had everything changed? Why was I never good enough?

The questions swirled over and over in my head, looping through clips of memories and of other times I’d felt this bubbling anger inside. I thought about how Lucy was always the one to get new clothes while mine fell apart into tattered rags. I thought about the beaming smiles when she came home with a good report from her teacher and the ignorance or wave of a hand when I did the same. I thought about all the signs I’d tried too hard to ignore but couldn’t any longer.

I was nothing. She was everything.

Although I was the eldest, there was never a doubt: she was first; I was second.

Sitting beside Lucy, a scalding fury stirred in me. I thought about how I could get payback. I considered lopping the head off her favourite doll or drowning it in the river next time we were outside. I imagined putting bugs in her shoes or cutting her hair when she was sleeping. I thought about what it would feel like to pin her against the car like Dad had done to me, to keep pressing, overpowering her, showing her just how strong I was. It became clear to me as we turned onto the familiar street that I wanted, no needed, revenge.

She needed to pay.

When we got home and everyone got out of the car, Dad still seething mad, I trudged to my room, tears falling from my eyes.

Lucy strutted into my room, her satiny dress still perfectly crisp.

‘Sorry about your solo,’ she murmured, mocking me and mimicking me with the whiny voice that made me want to choke her.

I stared at her, my chest heaving with rage. I crossed the floor of the room and she backed up, perhaps seeing something in me she hadn’t noticed before.

‘Sorry,’ she murmured, shaking a little now, but I didn’t stop.

I kept creeping towards her as she inched backwards into the corner.

‘I’ll scream for my mom,’ she said, and the way she said ‘my’, like she was claiming her as her own, did something to me. It made something snap.

Maybe because I’d known it was the truth.

I put my arm against her tiny chest, shoving her hard against the wall in the bedroom, pushing and pushing, thinking about how hard I could push. Her breathing was ragged and she was crying now. I stared into her face, watching the fear in her eyes and feeling relief that she hadn’t won, that I could still win.

Finally, after a long moment, my arms grew weak, shaking from the exertion and the sheer adrenaline. It was only when the strength left my body that I realised I needed to stop. I let up, releasing her. She ran out of the room, panting, and I slumped to the floor, feeling horrible in so many ways as the emotions surrounding my violent victory faded.

What had happened? What had I done?

I sobbed myself to sleep that night. I cried for the lost solo, for my lost parents and for my lost temper.

Most of all, I cried because I realised the anger burning inside wasn’t okay.

And because I wasn’t sure if I would be able stop it again.