The Mother-in-Law(82)

“Nettie. Darli . . .”

I fall silent. The expression on her face is pure and unadulterated hate. I think of Ollie’s visit a few minutes ago and I see the juxtaposition, suddenly, of sons and daughters. Sons see the best parts of you, but daughters really see you. They see your flaws and your weaknesses. They see everything they don’t want to be. They see you for exactly who you are . . . and they hate you for it.

“This is over, Mum,” Nettie says, and I’m not sure what she means until she presses the pillow into my face and holds it there with a resolve that tells me she is not letting go. I feel her weight on my chest. I grab hold of her wrists and squeeze hard, but she just pushes the pillow harder into my face. I can’t take a breath. My lungs burn. And as the edges fade to black I think to myself . . . she got that resolve from me.





60: NETTIE


PAST

Mum’s legs stop moving first. She didn’t go down without a fight, but that was classic Mum. And it worked in my favor, each kick had only served to tire her out faster. Now I sit astride her chest, the same way Ollie used to sit on me when I was a kid and he wanted to interrogate me for snooping in his bedroom. Slowly her viselike grip on my wrists weakens until she lets go entirely, but I keep holding the pillow down until she’s been still for several minutes. Finally I stand, leaving the pillow over her face.

Mum is dead. Her legs have fallen to the sides so her shoes point in opposite directions. Looking at them, I’m reminded of the Wicked Witch of the East when Dorothy’s house falls on her. Mum took me to see The Wizard of Oz at the Grand Theatre for my ninth birthday and even gave me a pair of ruby slippers to wear as a present. I missed most of the show because I was admiring the way my footwear sparkled in the theater lights. I wore those slippers every day after until the soles were thin as paper and I could feel the rocks and dirt under my feet. It was one of only a handful of times that Mum had gotten it right with me.

My brain wades through all the information at hand as I try to figure out what to do next. Mum’s left arm is bent up over her head. Her nails are painted an awful flesh-coloured pink, and on her ring finger is her cluster of rings, all modest, yellow gold. I’d never seen her without those rings. They are like a bizarre knuckle, a living part of her. Or, now, a dead part of her.

I’m slowly becoming aware of the trouble I’m in. I killed my mother. Killed her, as they said in the movies, with my bare hands. And yet, as I look down at her, so still and quiet, all I feel is peace. Not the untethered, free-falling terror I felt when Dad died. Peace. It’s funny, in theory, a mother and a father do the same thing. They nurture you, protect you, try to form you into reasonable human beings. If they do it right, it keeps your feet on the ground. If they do it wrong, they’ll stop you from flying. The difference is subtle, yet vast.

For me, it was Dad’s way that gave me life.

Dad. His name pops into my mouth and I breathe it out. It occurs to me that it’s the first time I’ve had a problem, a real problem, and he hasn’t been here for me.

“It is just a problem, Antoinette,” he would probably have said, “and a problem is only a problem until you solve it.”

I massage my right wrist gently, then my left. For someone so skinny Mum was surprisingly strong. And determined.

After your father died, I contemplated suicide. I researched it, I bought poison online—it’s still in the door of the damn fridge!

She had said that, hadn’t she? Or had I imagined it?

I walk to the kitchen and hold the fridge door open with my hip. A half-empty carton of milk is wedged in beside an unopened bottle of tonic water and two brown glass bottles with white labels covered in medical gibberish. I squat down to examine the labels. In square green and red letters the name LATUBEN is spelled out.

An idea starts to form in my mind.

I slide my hands into a pair of washing-up gloves and carry both bottles back into the front room. When I remove the pillow from Mum’s face, I only look at her long enough to see that she doesn’t look serene. Her face is frozen in a haunting grimace, an angry bitter cry. I put down one of the bottles and remove the lid of the other, and I focus on tipping the contents into her mouth. Most of it spills down her cheeks and collects in her mouth, so I tip the last of it into the fireplace and leave the empty bottle beside her limp hand. There doesn’t seem to be a lot of point in using the other, so I shove it into my handbag. It’s not a great plan, but it’s all I’ve got.

As I turn to leave, I rub my wrists. They’re going to be bruised tomorrow.





61: LUCY


THE PRESENT

Ollie’s phone stops ringing, finally. But when my phone starts to ring immediately afterward, it sends an odd alert through me.

“We should answer that,” I say.

Ollie nods as if he’s just realized the same thing. My phone is next to him on the couch and he presses it to his ear.

“Hello? Yes?” His eyes find mine. “What do you mean?” His eyebrows shoot skyward. “No.”

“What is it?” I ask, but Ollie holds a palm up.

“Are you sure?” he says into the phone and then he is silent for the longest time. I can’t tell if he’s listening, or processing, or what. His eyes close, hard, his face crumples. I don’t dare speak. I hardly dare to breathe.