Page 90 of The Mother-in-Law

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 seeThe Wizard of Ozat the Grand Theatre for my ninth birthday and even gave me a pair of sparkly ruby slippers to wear as a present. I missed most of the show because I was admiring the way my footwear sparkled in the theatre 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 got 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, not in my entire life. 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 say 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, freefalling 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 a reasonable human being. If they do it right, they will keep your feet on the ground. If they do it wrong, they’ll stop you from flying. The difference is subtle, yet vast.

Dad. His name pops into my mouth and I breathe it out. 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 darn fridge!

She had said that, hadn’t she? Or have 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 with medical gibberish. I squat down to examine the labels. In square green and red letters the nameLATUBENis 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 realised 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. His eyes close, hard, his face crumples. I don’t dare speak. I hardly dare to breathe.

‘Yes,’ he says after an eternity. ‘Okay. We’ll be right there.’

‘What is it?’ I ask when he hangs up the phone.

‘It’s Nettie,’ he says. ‘She’s dead.’

62

NETTIE

The past . . .

Who are we after we’re gone?I wonder. It’s a good question to ponder. Most people can’t come up with an answer right away. They frown, consider it for a minute. Maybe even sleep on it. Then the answers start to come. We’re our children, of course. Our grandchildren. Our great-grandchildren. We’re all the people who will go on to live because we lived. We are our wisdom, our intellect, our beauty filtered through generations, continuing to spill into the world and make a difference.

People may not articulate it exactly like this, but ultimately they will end up with some version of it. Then they can rest secure in their contribution, certain that their lives will not be void of meaning. But not me. I’ll go to my death with no idea if my life had meaning. To anyone.

The funny thing is, there are so manyifs that could have changed this story.