Owl Song at Dawn by Emma Claire Sweeney

Author:Emma Claire Sweeney
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Legend Press

PART

TWO

CHAPTER TEN

I am drowning in mud. Frank turns his back on me, his body silhouetted against the red light of dawn as he makes his way towards the clock tower across the firm sand.

The mud turns into cracked eggs, their yolks sucking me under, slipping between my toes and thighs and armpits, and the more I flail the more the yolks slurp between my fingers until I can no longer raise my hands.

Rain is drumming on my head, my sopping hair sticks to my face, and the water runs into my eyes. My hair and eyes, identical to yours.

Frank has reached out for the handrail; he’s raised his foot towards the steps that lead up to the prom.

A distant owl hoots, and there’s a tiny voice whispering: open your eyes, rouse yourself, towel yourself dry.

But the rain continues to stream down my face and I let myself sink a little more.

*

I see you, Edie, standing bare, your hands clasping my wrists, your face and breasts and hips in line with mine. You let me take your weight as you lift one leg over the rim of the tub and then you stumble slightly, and I move my hand to your armpit to steady you.

‘Nothing to worry about,’ you say.

You watch as I sprinkle baking soda into the water to soothe your nappy rash, as I work up a lather, as I rub a soapy cloth from your ears to your toes.

Your body has changed during my years at college: your breasts rounder, your legs stronger, your tummy – which you never did learn to pull in – a little plumper, perhaps. It’s hard to imagine that as a child you’d been matchstick thin. I take more notice of your body on this particular night, it being our twenty-first birthday. Later, I will run my new Max Factor lipstick across your fulsome lips. With your lovely bust and bright blue eyes, you would have been a real bombshell – all things being equal.

I still don’t know what caused your marionette limbs and wonky teeth and scarcity of words. Perhaps the town gossips were right and there was a deficiency in our genes; or perhaps it was down to Mum’s age; or our slightly premature birth; or perhaps the doctors didn’t notice that you lacked oxygen during our delivery; or perhaps I deprived you of nutrients or damaged you in the womb.

Even now, I see your eyelids crinkle shut as I massage your head with shampoo, as the water darkens your coppery hair, as it streams down your spine. I see you straining with concentration as I place the flannel in your palm.

Although I’ve asked you to scrub your armpits, you touch your elbow. ‘Up, up,’ I instruct, guiding your hand. ‘You can do it, I can help you.’

‘On my own!’ you call out, delight spreading across your face as the flannel touches your armpit, so I clap and cheer and call out, ‘Edith Mary Maloney is the cleverest girl in the

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