Trembling With Fear 12/20/20

You’re Not Lizzie Borden by Tom Gumbert

“Calm down, hon.”

“How can I fucking calm down knowing this?”

“You’re being emotional. Sit down and I’ll fix you a drink.” She walks toward the kitchen, pausing to press her palm to his face. 

He exhales sharply, his breath hot on her hand, before resuming his pacing. She shrugs on her way out of the room.

“What’s his deal?”

Standing at the back door, tears in her eyes, is her husband’s twelve-year old daughter. She dabs her eyes, blotting the mascara that is starting to run.

“You know he doesn’t like it when you wear makeup.” She looks the girl over. “And those clothes—he told you just last weekend that you’re too young to dress like that.”

“He hates me,” the girl pouts. “I remind him of Mother. He hates her too.”

“He doesn’t hate you. Have you taken your medication?” 

“He does,” the girl insists, ignoring the question. “You don’t know him like I do. You’ve been married, what? Six months?”

The woman pulls a glass from the shelf in the cupboard. “I’m making him a drink. You can kiss the glass. It will make him feel better.”

The girl takes the glass, eyebrow arched. “You really think this will make him feel better?”

“Absolutely.” She pulls the whiskey bottle down from the top of the refrigerator and sets it on the counter.

The girl’s pink lipstick smudges the glass, and she sets it on the counter next to the whiskey bottle. “Why’s he gone ballistic? What did the therapist say?”

The woman folds her arms across her chest and leans against the kitchen counter. “It isn’t what the therapist said…it’s what you said.”

The girl frowns, her brows pinched together. “I don’t remember saying anything. At least, nothing that should make him lose his shit like that.”

“Language,” the woman sighs. “When you were under hypnosis. You said something that upset your father.”

“What? That I totally get why Mother left him? That sometimes I hate him and wish he were dead? ‘Cause, that’s nothing he hasn’t heard before. That’s why he’s sending me to therapy in the first place.”

The woman shakes her head, pulls her hair back behind her ears and looks up at the ceiling. “You said you had a previous life. You said you were Lizzie Borden.”

The girl shakes her head, eyes narrowing before her mouth drops open, her eyes opening wide. “The axe murderer? He thinks I’m an axe murderer?” The girl staggers back against the door like she’d been struck.

“First, you are not Lizzie Borden. Second, she was not technically an axe murderer. She was acquitted. Third—” the woman holds her hand up to prevent the girl’s interjection—“your father didn’t say you were Lizzie. You did. But you’re not.” 

The girl puts her hands on either side of her head, her fingers clutching her hair, her breathing rapid, face pale.

The woman pulls a chair out from the kitchen table, takes the girl by the shoulders and directs her to the chair. “Breathe,” she instructs as the girl sits. “It’s going to be okay.”

“You don’t know that,” the girl challenges. “He, he…he’s going to put me away. He’ll have me locked away…in an asylum.”

“He won’t. I won’t let him.”

The girl looks at her, eyebrows raised. 

“I’m serious. But you,” she points at the girl, “need to do exactly what I tell you.”

The girl nods in quick agreement.

“Good.”

“Where’s my drink?” her husband yells. 

“You’re going to start being nice to your father, and start helping out around here.” The woman looks slowly from the girl to the drink.

The girl rises from the chair, picks up the glass and taking care not to spill a drop, goes into the living room.

He stops pacing when he sees her, cocks his head.

“It’s fine,” the woman calls from the kitchen. 

He takes the drink from his daughter, gulps it, hands the glass back and mutters, “Another.”

The girl returns to the kitchen, holds the glass out to the woman, who nods toward the counter. The girl huffs as she sets the glass down.

The woman removes a twenty-dollar bill from her pocket, and holds it out to the girl. “Now, go to the hardware store and get that weed killer he’s been talking about. When you get back, you can spray the driveway. One less chore for him to stress about.”

The girl hesitates. 

“Or pack your bags…”

The girl pushes through the door, then trudges down the street. 

The woman calculates how long the errand will take, factors in the girl getting someone to buy her cigarettes. 

“Where’s my fucking drink?”

“A moment, hon. Almost ready.”

She opens the cabinet under the sink and removes a small container. On the counter she pours a thimble full of the contents into the glass, then tops it with whiskey and stirs the mixture with her finger. Using a napkin, she lifts the glass from the bottom.  

“Here you go, hon.” She kisses his cheek and returns to the kitchen. Humming, she wipes down the container and replaces it under the sink. 

She glances at the clock, sits at the kitchen table and waits. It hasn’t been easy, the past six months. A workaholic husband with anger management issues, a stepdaughter with her own exhaustive list of emotional issues, and yet she has handled it all so gracefully. Ask anyone—the neighbors, the parishioners at St. Ann’s, the school guidance counselor, the goddamn therapist. She probes the bruises under her sleeve with her index finger. Not easy…

“Hon, I don’t feel so…” his body crashes to the floor.

 But so worth it. 

The girl will be back soon. The woman goes to the garage and returns with an axe. No child, you are not Lizzie Borden. But after this, the world will think you were.