skeletons in the closet.
"Sit still," Claire admonished Liza, with a fistful of Liza's hair in hand. Liza squirmed, gripping the sides of the seat as her mother tried to apply the dye. The smell was excruciating to Liza, it smelled like her hair was on fire. She hoped that her mother wasn't actually burning her hair.
The reason why Claire was dying her hair was unknown to Liza. Her strawberry blonde hair slowly darkened and finally turned to an auburn brown on her ninth birthday. For some reason, this upset Claire. It bewildered Liza. She didn't do it on purpose, at least she didn't think so. She didn't think it was possible to change hair colour just by thinking about it. Even if it was possible, it wasn't like she wanted it to happen.
Regardless, she sat there every couple weeks whenever Claire deemed that she hair needed fixing up. This continued on for years until Liza was a teenager. By then, Liza had gotten used to her blonde hair. Whenever she saw the roots start to show, she would grab her touch up kit and do it herself. Blonde suited her, she thought and Claire thought the same.
"Bethie," Claire called up Liza one day, in the middle of work. This alarmed Liza. Firstly, Claire never phoned, ever. Secondly, Liza hated being called Beth, Bethie, Betty, and anything else that was not Liza. She had pushed back against the nicknames for years before Claire finally got it into her head to call her Liza.
"Beth," Claire repeated. "I came home and your father is nowhere to be seen."
Liza's mind raced. "What do you mean?"
"He's not here is what I mean!"
"Mum," Liza's voice wavered. "I'll be right there."
Claire sat in Liza's car, arms crossed. "There's nothing wrong with me," Claire protested. "I'm perfectly fine."
Liza took a deep breath and looked over at her mother. Since when did Claire get so old? She seemed smaller than how she remembered and her head of hair was almost all gray now. Liza instinctively grabbed a lock of her own dyed platinum blonde hair. She wondered if that meant that she, too, looked old.
"The doctor will help you," Liza reassured her. "You're getting forgetful as of late."
"Hmph," Claire scoffed, looking out the window. "My mind is in perfect condition. I'm not forgetting anything."
You forgot that dad has been dead for the past five years, Liza wanted to say. But she restrained herself. She wasn't sure what Claire did or didn't know anymore.
"Well," Liza looked around the parking lot, trying to think of something to say. "You're due for a check up anyway."
"Beth, you know I hate dolphins," Claire frowned.
Liza paled. Seeing the look on Liza's face, Claire started. "What's wrong?"
"What did you just say?" Liza asked slowly.
"Liza, you know I hate dolphins," Claire repeated. "They never do anything good for you. They're just pharmaceutical nut jobs who want to pump drugs into you for money."
"You hate… Dolphins?"
"No!" Claire scrunched up her nose. "That's not what I said. I said I hate dolphins, not—" Claire stopped. A wave of realization washed over her face. The two women sat in the car silently.
It never crossed Liza's mind that her mother might have alzheimer's. It was true, Claire was a bit forgetful at times especially over the last two years. But for it to progress into something like this was unexpected. Slowly, Claire began to mix up words more and more frequently and she referred to Liza as Beth almost exclusively. At a certain point, Liza moved in with her mother. It was getting hard for Claire to do basic tasks and she was always misplacing things.
One day, Liza was getting ready to go get groceries when Claire grabbed her by the arm.
"Where are you going, Beth?" Claire asked sharply. "It's not safe to walk by yourself, especially when crossing those streets."
"Mum, it's Liza, not Beth," Lize smiled wearily, slightly annoyed. Partly because her mother had not let up with the awful nickname. The part was the nagging. When she was younger, Claire always stressed the importance of road safety. She would white knuckle her hand at every intersection, never letting her go once. Even when Liza deemed herself to old to hold her mother's hand, Claire asked to compromise by holding onto her arm.
"You know what happened last time with Peter," Claire said, still gripping onto Liza's arm.
"Who's Peter?" Liza asked. That was a name she never heard before.
"Your father! How could you not know your own father's name?"
"Ah," Liza shrugged off her mother's hand. Claire was mixing up words again, this time it was names. "I'll be fine, mum. I've been crossing streets now for fifty years now."
Claire stared at Liza. "How could you possibly? You're dead."
"I don't understand a word she says anymore," Liza said hesitantly. "She calls me by my name but it's like she doesn't even know me."
"Sweetie, I've had my couple of friends who've been down the same path. I know what to expect." Sally patted Liza delicately on the arm.
She's gotten plumper, Liza thought as she guided Sally to Claire's room. Sally was indeed stout, and she was also quite short. It added a grandmotherly touch to the already sweet old woman, who never had anything but a smile on her face.
It would be good for someone to handle Claire instead, even if it was just for an hour or two, especially if it was Sally. Claire always spoke of Sally with fondness. Maybe seeing an old friend would lift Claire's spirits, allow her to indulge in the past.
When Liza opened to door to let Sally into the Claire's room, Claire immediately brightened from her bed. Liza's heart panged. It had been a while since Claire had a reaction like that.
Sally immediately rushed over to Claire's bed and bent over to give her a hug. It was almost comical to see Sally engulf the tall and nearly skeletal Claire with her embrace.
"Alright, now don't you two get too excited," Liza said as she backed out of the room, leaving the two elderly women alone.
"How are you dear?" Sally asked once Liza closed the door. She scanned the room. Everything was in order. The pills were even lined up in a neat line on the bedside table. It was so like Claire. When they were roommates in college, Claire was the one who was perpetually cleaning. Sally had no time for that, for she was never in the dorm. She always out partying or protesting.
"Peaches," Claire smiled, colour rising to her cheeks. "Peaches, just peaches. Hasn't Beth grown into a lovely young woman?"
"You're right, she has." Sally nodded. She had thought Elizabeth hated being called Beth. If Elizabeth knew what Sally knew, she would doubly hate it.
"Peter would be surprised at how lovely she is," Claire gushed as she leaned back into her pillows.
"Peter?" Sally asked, surprised. She had forgotten about Claire's circumstances for a moment. Peter was a name she hadn't heard from Claire in a long while. Sally pressed her lips together, suddenly serious. The frown looked very strange on Sally's sweet face. "Claire, let's talk about something other than that for now."
Sally didn't want to talk about Peter. Her face would betray the fact that he was in town and she had sat down with him for tea. They had happened to pass each other on the street. Peter recognized Sally first, despite all her added curves and rolls and sagging skin from over the years.
Peter looked exactly the same. Yes, older, a lot wrinklier, grayer, but still exactly the same. Tall, olive-skinned, handsome Peter. His eyes were still a piercing blue. They never lost theirits gleam. He even still clasped his neck with his hand in the same way whenever he got excited, which he did as soon as he saw Sally.
They sat outside the old tea shop, exchanged pleasantries, and life milestones. Peter was in town for a divorce, another one. Sally tried to conceal a smile from behind her teacup. It was so like Peter. All this terrible luck with women. She didn't know how he kept trying, kept falling in love at his age.
"How is Claire?" Peter had blurted out suddenly. His face was sheepish, and suddenly red.
Sally chewed at the inside of her cheek, unsure of what to say. She still hadn't made her mind up over Peter regarding Claire. It was terrible what happened to Peter and Claire, but she had some lingering feelings against Peter for doing what he did. For leaving Claire when she was the most vulnerable.
She still hates me, Peter had grimaced, seeing the look on Sally's face. For letting that happen to Claire, for not being able to stick it out, for divorcing Claire afterward, for having the gall to be the first person to bring up Claire after all of it.
Peter did everything he could to forget that day. He blamed himself for it. He had let go of her hand to adjust his glasses. They were sliding down his nose and it was bothering him. He never blamed Claire, even though she was the one who let Bethany slip through her fingers. If he was still holding onto her, he would have definitely pulled her back from running into the street. But all they could do was lunge forward in a futile attempt and then watch in horror.
More than anything, Peter wanted to forget those terrible screams that came from Claire's mouth. There were nights where, years later, he would hear her cries of agony in his sleep. Her wails seemed inhuman to him. It was too raw, too animalistic.
It proved to be too much for them. Peter wanted to forget. Claire dwelled. And dwelled. And dwelled. She sat in Bethany's room, either crying or just sitting there, staring out into nothing.
It disappointed Peter, how when he said he was going to leave, for India of all places, Claire did nothing to stop him. In fact, Claire had simply turned to look at him, the first time she had looked at him in days, and nodded. That single nod wrung out any bit of love he had for Claire out of him.
One time, Peter came back from India for his brother's funeral. He had seen Liza walking downtown with Claire and recognized her immediately. She looked so much like Claire. Which meant that she looked like Bethany and heartbreakingly so. Her high cheekbones, her bright blue eyes, and most of all, her soft blonde hair. He watched them for a while as they waited at an intersection. Once he saw Claire's talon-like grip on Liza's wrist, he quickly turned away.
He wanted to forget.
But he couldn't forget, not as long as he was in this god forsaken town and especially not when he was sipping tea with Claire's best friend.
"She's been ill," Sally had finally said, bringing Peter back fully to the present. "Alzheimer's."
How convenient, Peter thought. How utterly convenient. She could forget everything but everyone was stuck with the knowledge of their past.
But under Sally's gaze, all he could muster was a small, "Oh."
They switched topics for a moment, talking about how lovely the weather was, how awful it was that divorce lawyers sucked money out of people, how their pension wasn't nearly enough to pay the rest of the mortgage. But the conversation was still soured at the mention of Claire.
Peter had stood up suddenly. Being reunited with Sally was wonderful. He had missed her so and was amused at the fact that the wild young girl was now all soft, doughy and old. But Claire. He couldn't stand to give one more thought to her and his mind was full of said thoughts.
"I'm visiting Claire in a couple days," Sally said, standing up with Peter. "At the old house, she still lives there, you know."
"Ah." What does one say to that? Oh good, you're visiting my ex-wife, how nice. God forbid Sally did anything, said anything that didn't involve Claire. Peter picked some lint off his slacks. "Well, I must be off."
"Yes, of course." Sally smiled, her lips pressed together a little too firmly. Anything except for a genuine smile looked so odd on Sally's face, Peter thought. Still, it was nice to see her.
They parted ways after squabbling over who would pay the bill. Sally won that fight, she didn't have divorce lawyers to hire.
As Peter walked away, he thought about what Sally had said. Why did she tell him that she was visiting Claire? Ah, the seed had been planted. Her mission was accomplished, if that's what she wanted.
He was suddenly driven by a strong sense of curiosity. How did time treat Claire? Did it ravage her like it ravaged Sally? Would she remember him? Peter clasped at his neck with his hand. Would it be as lovely to see Claire as it was to see Sally?
He stopped walking at the crosswalk. Seeing the cars zoom by, he made his decision.
"Hi," Liza opened the door, with a confused look on her face, but with a smile nevertheless. "How can I help you?"
Peter stood at the doorstep and immediately clasped at his neck nervously. He did not know Liza would be here. He had assumed that Claire lived alone, after her second husband passed away. He scolded himself. Why would anyone let a senile old woman stay at home all by herself, especially Claire of all people?
"Hello," Peter said, avoiding Liza's direct gazeeyes slightly. She reminded him slightly of the new woman he Peter had started seeing. Liza would probably be right around the same age, too, maybe at most ten years younger. Age gaps didn't matter much anyhow, not when you were nearly seventy.
Liza stood there, waiting patiently as she held the door open.
Her hair was no longer blonde, Peter noticed. It was more of a dark auburn brown, like her father's. He wondered if Bethany would look like her, if she had lived.
"Are you Elizabeth? Is your mother home?" Peter finally asked, freeing his neck of his hand and shoving his hand in his pocket instead. "I met with Sally the other day and she told me about Claire. I thought I would stop by. I'm an old friend of your mother's, we were very close."
Peter flushed. He was blathering now.
This didn't surprise Liza. Many people started to visit. They wanted to get one last glimpse of Claire. It didn't make sense to Liza. Her mother wasn't dying, not yet. Her mind was going but other than that, she still had some life in her. Claire didn't complain about the visitors, seeing old faces seemed to cheer her up a bit. The same couldn't be said of the visitors. The situation depressed them, Liza could tell. How they pitied Claire and how they breathed a sigh of relief that they, unlike Claire, were still of sound mind. They probably thought Liza didn't notice, but she did.
Despite all this, Liza kept accepting the visitors and she would accept this one. It was strange. Every other visitor she knew or heard of. Peter was a name that she only started to hear recently and sporadically from her mother. It was good to finally put a face to the name. But a small part of her heart tugged. She thought her mother was simply misremembering her father's name each time Peter came up. Just who was this man?
Liza ushered Peter in and led him to Claire's room. She started her usual speech. "You have to be warned, my mother isn't exactly herself. A lot of the things she says won't really make sense, but usually you can kinda get the gist of what she means…" She looked back behind her.
Peter had paused at one of Liza's childhood photos. It was an odd picture, Liza admitted. She never remembered wearing a sweater as ugly and outdated as that. Also, the picture never really quite looked like her. As a child, she looked a lot like Claire: wide blue eyes, a face that was all cheekbone, and an aquiline nose. As she grew older, she started to look more like her father: dark haired, with a long face, and a little surly. Eventually, she settled into looking just like herself.
Liza cleared her throat once she reached Claire's door. Peter started and rushed over to her side. Liza smiled primly, that same patient but wary smile she gave him earlier, and opened the door.
Claire's eyes darted to Liza once she walked in. She was sitting at the window seat, her head resting on her hand.
"Hi Claire," Liza said, that same smile still stuck on her face. "I have another visitor for you."
"Thank you," Claire sat a little straighter. She smiled. "Sometimes the crow even has its days. Your mother must be proud to have raised such a nice daughter."
Liza cringed. Ever since Liza started to grow out her natural hair colour, Claire finally stopped calling her Beth. Instead, Claire had forgotten who she was entirely. Claire thought that she, her own daughter, was the help.
Enough. There was a visitor here, Liza thought. She let Peter in before leaving and closing the door behind her.
Upon seeing Peter, Claire's eyes widened. She stood up immediately and walked over to him, grabbing his hands. "Peter."
"Yes." He wondered what he was doing. He didn't have a plan going into this. If it wasn't for Sally, he wouldn't be in this room, in Claire's room. No. This was not Claire's room. He took in a breath. It was Bethany's room. He remembered the window seat covered in her dolls. The walls used to be covered in art and scribbles. Books would be scattered all over the floor. Now the walls were barren and a single bed and bed stand occupied the room, making the space feel impossibly large. He eyed the tray on the bed stand, with a single nearly empty bottle of pills sitting on it.
"I was lost under the motor," Claire muttered, gripping Peter's hands tightly. "Bethany is a lovely flower now, isn't she?"
Peter nodded. Maybe Claire hadn't forgotten after all.
"Elizabeth is lovely," he said slowly, trying to tease out the meaning of Claire's words. It came out more like a question. He looked exasperatedly at her for confirmation.
"I don't know an Elizabeth," Claire said, staring cooly back at Peter. It sent a shiver down Peter's spine. He immediately withdrew his hands. He shouldn't have comecame.
"Did the dark come back?" Claire asked.
Up until that point, Peter had avoided observing Claire closely. He was afraid to. He looked at her face and immediately understood. She seemed like the old Claire for a moment. The nosy Claire who needed to know everything and everyone one who was involved with him. Her eyes were wide and curious but never suspicious. Just the face of someone who wanted to know someone inside out.
"No," Peter looked away, ashamed. "I'm divorcing her. I'm here in town, actually, for a divorce. There's another woman…"
"A cat never loses its stripes," Claire muttered. She turned and walked back over to the window seat. She gazed out. "I waited for the dark to leave but you never put it back in the right place."'
Peter was silent. She was accusing him but he didn't want to have any of it. "You were a wreck, Claire. After Bethany's death you were unresponsive. Not for weeks. For months. What would you have had me do?"
"Not to fall through the sky," Claire said. She nodded to herself as if that was the correct way to say it. Truthfully, Peter didn't know what she was talking about.
Feeling awkward standing around, Peter stepped forward to sit beside her. Claire instantly whipped her head from the street view to Peter. "Stay back!" she cried out, putting a hand out in front of her.
Peter froze. Liza came in bursting through the door. She had been listening outside the door. Although her mind was swirling with questions, the sound of her mother's yell frightened her.
"Mum, what's wrong?" Liza said shakily, putting a cautious arm forward.
Claire turned her head back to the window. "I'm not a mother. Not since Bethany."
Liza threw an accusatory glance at Peter, who was pale as a sheet. She heard every word but she could not wrap her head around who Bethany was.
Peter looked down at the floor. "Bethany was her first child, our first child. She was killed in a car accident."
Everything started to make sense. The baby photos, the fear of crossroads, the blonde hair, the horrible Beth nickname. It never felt like Claire knew her or made the effort to get to know her. She had always thought her mother's impossible standards just came from wanting a mini-Claire. Liza closed her eyes and took a deep breath.
At one point, Liza thought she was adopted. Which was ridiculous, seeing how alike she was to her father. Claire never truly treated her as her own daughter, only at intersections.
"Hands aren't strong enough to hold up a house," Claire muttered, reaching out to press her palm against the window pane.
The sound of the window pane sliding open startled both Liza and Peter. They stood in terror as Claire stuck her head out into the air.
"Elizabeth," Claire said, voice barely a whisper. "I'm not a mother. Not since Center Street and 4th Avenue."
"Look at me, mum," Liza prompted, slowly inching forward. "I'm here, right? You gave birth to me. Aren't I proof that you're a mother?"
Claire shook her head and laughed. "My mind is going."
The wind whipped her gray hair around her face. She looked young at that moment, so sure of herself and carefree. Peter was instantly reminded of Claire and Sally that one summer night they decided to dive off the cliff and into the lake.
He lunged forward just as Claire leaned her whole body over the window sillpane. His fingers grazed her arm but it wasn't enough. Claire disappeared from the window. Peter cried out. Liza's scream sounded just like Claire's did on Center Street and 4th Avenue.