Annie's Room (8 page)

“It hurts a
little
,” I tell him, hoping to nudge him back to his normal self.

“I'm sure it's fine.”

“But if the cast is cracked -”

“It's only a hairline.”

“But -”

“Annie!” he snaps, glaring at me with barely-concealed anger. “Just stop! I can see your cast properly, which is more than you can claim. Trust me, there's only the faintest of hairline fractures, and it's obvious your leg isn't too badly damaged.” He pauses, before taking a step back and seeming to reset himself slightly, becoming slightly more like his usual self. “I don't want you trying to get out of bed like this again, okay?” He picks my crutches up from the floor. “These are going to be kept well away until
I
decide you're ready for them.”

“Can I try my wheelchair instead?” I ask. “I'd at least like to roll around for a while.”

“You wouldn't be able to get down the stairs.”

“But -”

“You need bed-rest,” he continues, “and that's what you'll get, even if I have to tie you down.”

“I need the toilet,” Scott says, climbing down from the chair and hurrying out the door. It's clear that he just wants to get away from Dad, and a moment later I hear his bedroom door slamming shut.

“I'm not going to tie you down,” Dad adds, almost as if he was truly considering that option for a moment. “Annie, you need to consider your health. If I have to lock the door to your room, then -”

“No!” I blurt out, suddenly panicked by the idea. “Please don't do that, Dad, I swear I'll stay in bed!”

He eyes me with caution for a moment. “Well, you'd better. It's not so bad in this room, is it?”

“It's boring as hell.”

“Then you'll appreciate things more when you're up and about, won't you?”

“Where's Mom?” I ask. “Can you send her up when she gets back from wherever she's gone?”

“She hasn't gone anywhere,” he replies, heading to the door. “She's downstairs, reading.”

I frown, surprised that she didn't come with him when they heard me fall.

“Well, can you get her to come up?” I ask, but he just walks away and a moment later I hear him heading downstairs. “Dad?” I call after him. “Did you hear me?”

Sighing, I lean back as he leaves the room. There are still tears in my eyes, mostly due to frustration at my own miserable failure. If I'd just managed to stay on the crutches, I could have proved to them that I can get about, but I guess maybe I tried a day or two too early. I swear, sometimes I feel like I'm never going to get out of this stupid room.

Twelve

Seventy-one years ago

Watching myself in the mirror, I reach back and start to tie my hair. I know it's a little vain to spend time bothering about my personal appearance, but I feel the need to look more grown-up. After all, I'm no longer a child and it won't do to look like one, so I have begun to experiment with various subtle changes. Fortunately, Mother's dresses fit me rather well, and I intend to take them in a few inches at the waist. My hair, meanwhile, looks much better when it's tied back.

I swear, just these few simple changes make me look ten years older, perhaps even more.

Once I'm certain that I look my best, I head out of my room and down the stairs. It's still early and I intend to reorganize the kitchen, to make it fit my needs a little better. All last night, I lay in bed planning some alterations I intend to make around the house, and although I haven't mentioned any of these out loud yet to Father, I'm quite certain that they will meet no resistance. After all, every single one of them is rooted in common sense and -

Stopping suddenly in the kitchen doorway, I stare in horror at the sight of Mother working at the sink, washing breakfast dishes.

Father, at the table, glances at me for a moment with somber eyes before looking back down at his plate.

“What...” I pause, convinced that this has to be some kind of mistake. “What's happening?”

“Your Mother has come back up,” Father mutters. “She's learned her lesson.”

I watch as Mother limps to the cupboard and sets a plate on the shelf. She has to tilt her head, as if she's trying to see out through one of the less scratched parts of her damaged eyes; although it takes a moment, she's able to find a cup on the counter and take it back to the sink. She glances at me, and although there's a great deal of fear in her eyes, there's also some self-satisfaction. She's wearing a proper dress again and her hair is more or less back to its old neatness, but as she starts to wash the cup I can't help but feel she looks like a savage dressed up in civilized clothes. As if to prove that point, she almost knocks a stack of pots over, and it's clear that her damaged eyes make it much harder for her to work. She's still blinking furiously, almost non-stop, as if the scratches are unbearably uncomfortable.

“Father,” I continue finally, turning to him with a sense of cold steel in my chest, “you didn't say that -”

“It's done now,” he replies. “I made the decision this morning.”

“But -” With tears in my eyes, I start to feel an incandescent rage building through my body. I clench both my fists, filled with the urge to go over and beat Mother back down into the basement, but I know Father would stop me and I also know that I wouldn't get what I want by letting my anger overflow. I take a series of deep breaths in order to stay calm, and as I watch Father eat, I try to work out what I could have done to displease him so much that he would rather have Mother back. He never acted as if I had disappointed him, but clearly I must have done something wrong.

“Annie -” he begins.

“Excuse me,” I stammer, turning and hurrying to the bathroom, my eyes already filling with tears.

***

Father is chopping wood and Mother is in the kitchen, and I am sitting on the porch steps. Mild spring sunlight shines down, but I feel sick to my stomach as I watch Father work and hear, from over my shoulder, the sounds of Mother shuffling about in the kitchen. Barely able to see at all, she works so slowly, I feel as if she should just be put out of her misery. The fact that she's trying so hard only makes her even more pitiful.

I hate her.

No, it's more than hate.

I'm repulsed by her. I'm offended by the fact that she exists.

Getting to my feet, I briefly consider going over to talk to Father some more, to work out what I did wrong and how to set it straight. He's not a man of many words and our conversations are usually brief, but I still feel the urge to make him tell me how I could have been such a disappointment. Those days when Mother was down in the basement were among the happiest of my life, and although I have gone over every moment in my mind a thousand times, I still can't think of a single thing that I did wrong. Perhaps I did not excel at certain duties, but I showed I was keen to learn. Still, by bringing Mother back up, he has rejected me.

Even worse, he has barely spoken to me all morning. He even avoids eye contact.

Perhaps if I were to plead with him...

“Annie,” Mother calls out suddenly from the back door. “I need your help.”

I shiver at the mere sound of her voice, and at the idea that she should call on me for any kind of help at all. I had begun to make that kitchen mine, yet now she thinks she can reclaim it. Does the woman have no shame at all?

“Annie,” she says again. “Come.”

Another shiver passes through my body, so intense that I have to squeeze my eyes tight shut and clench my fists just to keep from crying out with rage. I can feel tears welling in my eyes, but I force them back, determined to remain in control of my own body. I will not let this woman beat me.

“Annie! Don't make me tell you again!”

“Coming!” I reply, opening my eyes wide and watching for a moment as Father continues to chop wood. Turning, I walk up the steps toward the back door, my whole body stiff with rage. When I reach the kitchen, I see that Mother has set various pots and pans on the table, along with the ingredients to roast a leg of lamb. She knows that leg of lamb is Father's favorite meal, a luxury we can only afford once or twice a year, and I feel sick to the stomach at the thought of her trying to inveigle herself back into his good books like this.

“I need you to help me,” she says, with her back to me as she sets out a block of butter and some herbs. “I can't see more than a few shadows but there's a lot to do, so you must go to the garden and fetch plenty of carrots and parsnips. And two turnips. Those are your father's favorites, you know.”

Looking down at the knives on the table, I want nothing more than to drive one of them into her pathetic head.

“After you've brought the vegetables in,” she continues, “you must scrub enough potatoes for the three of us and then peel them. Get started on that nice and early, because I intend to roast them very slowly and I don't want dinner to be too late. I'll have more jobs for you after, too, so there's really no time to waste.” She turns to me and smiles a cautious, reticent smile, as if she's nervous. Her damaged eyes are staring almost directly at me, the scratches barely visible in the morning light. “I want to make your father happy. I want to give him the best meal he's ever eaten.”

I feel a knot of horror in my belly, twisting in disgust at the thought that she thinks she could ever make Father happy. What gives her that right? She's failed enough times, and now it's my turn. I want to crack her head open, but I know I must be patient.

“Annie, you must get started,” she adds, turning back to the chopping board. Her hands fumble for the herbs since she can't see them very well. It's almost like watching a child trying to prepare a meal. “There really isn't any time to lose. I haven't told your father that I'm doing any of this, and I'd like to get it started while he's out there working. I'd like it to be a surprise for him.”

Stepping over to the table, I pick up the largest carving knife. The leg of lamb is resting on a plate, its skin all stripped away to reveal the sinewy muscle beneath. There are traces of blood on the plate, and at the nearest end the bone has been broken away, revealing a rich seam of marrow running through the center. Mother has already arranged plenty of herbs over the surface, but I reach out and brush them away, feeling as if the meat should be pure when it cooks. Pressing against the leg's muscle, I feel its firm, smooth surface and I think of all the blood still inside. Mother is right, Father
does
love this meal, but it feels wrong that someone like her should be the one who gives it to him. She's trying to buy back his affection, and to my mind this only makes her more pathetic.

Slowly, I slide the knife into the side of the leg, pushing it all the way through and enjoying the sensation. After a moment, I pull it out again.

“Hey!” she says, hurrying over and pushing my hand away from the meat. “You mustn't touch it too much. Have you washed since you were out in the garden?” She peers closer at the meat, as if she's worried I've dirtied it somehow, but it's clear she can't see properly. She's pretending, doing her best, but she can't even see where I slipped the knife in. “We don't want to contaminate anything, now do we?”

Swallowing hard, I feel as if I might vomit if I have to hear one more word from her pathetic mouth.

“You seem well,” I tell her. “Considering.”

“Considering what?” she asks. Glancing at me briefly, she lets a sliver of fear into her eyes. “Annie, I really don't have time to stand around talking all day, so you must go to the garden and do as I asked.” She waits for a moment, and I can tell that she's trying to hide her nerves. Finally, she points toward the door with a trembling hand. “Annie, go! Now! We're doing this for your father!”

“How would you know what Father likes?” I reply, unable to hold my tongue a moment longer.

“I beg your pardon?”

“You don't know him,” I continue. “You don't understand him.” Glancing at the window, I see Father in the distance, all the way over on the other side of the lawn, near the trees. I turn back to Mother. “You can't make him happy.”

She stares at me with those ugly, scratched eyes. “And you think you're suddenly such an expert, do you?” she asks, her voice filled with disgust. “There's something wrong with you of late, my girl. Something dark and cruel.”

I shake my head.

“Did your father sleep in your room while I was in the basement?” she asks. “You don't even have to answer, I know the truth. You're foul, both of you.”

“What are you talking about?” I reply, trying to control the urge to last out at her.

“You're very close to him, aren't you?” she continues with a sneer. “Sometimes I wonder if you want to -”

“Liar!” I shout, pushing her in the chest so hard that she stumbles back against one of the cabinets and lets out a gasp of shock. “You filthy, dirty-minded whore!” I continue, slapping the side of her face as hard as I can imagine. “Is that really what you think? I'm just close to Father, that's all! I actually care about him and understand him!”

“Annie,” she stammers, “please -”

“You must have the most evil mind,” I sneer, “to entertain such awful thoughts.”

“I'm sorry,” she replies, “perhaps I spoke out of place...”

“Perhaps?” I ask, stepping closer to her with the knife still in my hand. “You don't understand Father and you certainly don't understand me! You have the heart and soul of a common beast!”

She turns to go back over to the counter, and her trembling hands reach for a bottle of oil.

“My word, girl,” she says after a moment, her voice trembling with fear, “you must learn to do as you're told. I never intended to insinuate anything untoward, I was merely remarking upon some of the changes I've observed in you of late.” She pours oil into a pan. “You must admit, you've been rather highly-strung.”

And that's when I can stand her no longer.

Hurrying over to her, I grab her by the neck and pull her toward me, before slicing the knife deep into her back until the tip pokes out from the front of her dress. To keep her from crying out, I place my left hand over her mouth; she tries to scream, but I squeeze her lips tight shut, pinching them tight so that she can't make any more noise than a muffled murmur. At the same time, I twist the knife in her back and feel the blade grinding against her ribs, but still she struggles so I pull the knife out and slide it in again, further up this time, closer to where her heart should be. It feels exactly like when I put the knife into the leg of lamb a moment ago.

“You,” I whisper directly into her ear, “are nothing but a whore with a mind full of foul and impure thoughts.”

I can feel saliva leaking out from between her lips, onto my fingers as I continue to hold her mouth closed, but something seems to have changed; whereas a few seconds ago she was struggling constantly, now her struggle seems to be in a series of short, sharp jerks, punctuated by moments of rest. I twist the knife in her back again, having to briefly let go of the handle so I can adjust my grip and turn it some more, and such is the force of my anger that I feel the blade once again grinding against her splitting ribs. Pulling her further back, I feel as if I should whisper something more into her ear, but no words really seem necessary. Perhaps, if a woman is forced to kill her own mother, the task should be completed in silence. Instead of saying a word more, I slide the knife out and then push it back in, determined to find her heart. This time, her body shudders once and then remains tense, and I feel as if she's not trying quite so hard to cry out. I wait, counting the seconds as they pass, before she starts to fall limp in my grasp and I realize that if I wasn't holding her up, she'd have collapsed by now.

Looking over at the window, I see Father still working at the far end of the garden, close to the line of trees.

Mother hasn't twitched for fully five or six seconds now, so I slowly let go of her lips. As soon as I do so, a gulp of blood slops out onto my fingers and then runs down her chin, splattering onto the counter. I pull the knife out of her back and finally look down, and I'm shocked by the sheer amount of blood that has soaked not only the back of her dress but also the front of mine, and my right hand too. I was so focused on holding her still and keeping her quiet, I had no idea that blood was not only covering us both, but had also begun to splatter down onto the kitchen floor. Taking a few steps back, I keep hold of Mother's neck and feel a burst of relief when she slumps in my arms. I cannot imagine, from the feel of her, that there can be much life left in her body at all. I set her down on the floor and look into her scratched eyes, and although they're perfectly still, I can't help wondering if there's still just a flicker of consciousness remaining, watching me as it dwindles to nothing.