HOUSE OF SIGHS
PROLOGUE:
It Begins
“There is only one Evil: Disunity.”
—Pierre Teilhard de Chardin”
ONE HUNDRED AND FOUR
Suzie Marten was ten years old when she died.She lived to dance. Spinning herself sick in search of rhythm, pirouetting until her toes hurt in the ballet shoes her father bought. They were a perfect fit—and let’s not forget the pink ribbon laces. She scuffed and broke the soles of those shoes with a knife spirited from the kitchen drawer, just don’t tell Mum. Yes, Suzie adored them with the pure love only children can muster, or sustain, for inanimate things. And she was wearing them the day she came unsewn.November 12th, 1995.To Suzie, Sunday mornings were the final love-hate pit stop between freedom and being a ‘big girl’. Suzie despised school and feared her raven-faced teacher, a man who sometimes got so mad he threw things. She imagined he spent his Sundays alone, watching the clock, eager for Monday to roll around so he could overturn yet another desk. He did this to her best friend. Books and pencils crashed to the floor, an eraser bouncing up to clip one boy’s ear. Suzie sat beside her humiliated friend at recess and draped an arm over his shoulder—a brave move considering his sex, because as any ten-year-old girl knows, where there be boys, there be a whole lot of germs.“It’s okay,” she whispered in his ear. “I saw on the telly that teachers can’t hurt kids. We can sue if we want. He’s such a dirty shit.”They looked at each other, shocked. Dirty shit.“Suzie Marten, you can’t say that. If they hear you, they’ll send a letter home to your ma and she’ll wash your mouth out with soap. I saw that on the telly, too.”“Na-uh she won’t. My ma’s too tired for that. Always in bed. Besides, she says words like that. She works the dogwatch at the hospital—whatever that means. She gets home from work when everyone else is getting up. I don’t know what the dog has to do with it. I once saw this boring black-and-white movie about a vampire who only ever came out at night. He could turn into a bat and flew ’round eating people, and during the day he slept in a box. Did’ja ever see that one?”Suzie once teased her mother’s mouth open with a spoon while she slept to see if she had fangs. Donna Marten bolted awake, grabbed her daughter by the wrist and pulled her under the sheets. They laughed and had Fruit Loops for dinner.***On the morning of the ninth, Donna fell into bed after a ten-hour shift. Knees ached, the stink of disinfectant and cigarettes sweating from her pores, too tired to shower. Suzie pulled the blankets up to her mother’s chin.“Mum,” Suzie said, voice drawn out and meek.“What is it, honey? I’m dead on my feet.”“Well.”“Come on, out with it. I’m two ticks from dreaming.”“Well, I was just wondering. How come on television mums don’t get old? How come Julia Roberts never gets wrinkles or anything, but you’re starting to look like an old lady? A bit of an old rag.”Mother stared into daughter’s innocent eyes.Innocent, Donna reminded herself. Innocent. Forgive her, for she knows not what she says.It wasan expression her own mother had been fond of using, and often. Donna never really understood its meaning—its weight—until that moment, there in her bedroom with her daughter by her side. For the last time.“Count yourself lucky I love you, Suzie,” she said, wishing her little girl were old enough to start lying like everyone else. Despite this, they kissed each other bye-bye and all was forgiven, as it should be. Donna watched her daughter pull the door shut, taking with her the smell of Strawberry Shortcake, of pre-teen sweat.***Suzie passed a cabinet of her gymnastics trophies in the hallway, glass planes shaking as she bounced along. Her reflection twittered from one family photo to another. Leaping into the kitchen in her socks, she slid to the refrigerator; it was covered in drawings and magnets, school reports, and shopping receipts.Alone at last.Her father was away on another one of his business trips. Where he went she didn’t quite know, but she was always glad to see him go because he never came back empty-handed. Once he brought a packet of windup crayons home—and the good kind, unlike those her friends owned, crayons that had to be tossed if twisted too far.Another time, the ballet shoes.Watched Sailor Moon over cereal. Pulled her hair into a ponytail. Brushed her teeth, bristles frayed as the wheat stalks on her uncle’s farm after a storm. Suzie didn’t see much of her extended family anymore, not with her father always traveling and her mother sleeping day after day.***Donna Marten would find dried toothpaste splashes on the bathroom mirror a week later. She licked them off and fell to the floor, mouth tasting of mint and the briny tang of tears.***Suzie put on her headphones even though the padding itched her ears, and slipped into a pink leotard and tutu. Thumbed PLAY on the Walkman so music filled her ears. She went into the yard, front door clapping shut behind her.Meanwhile, within the house, a mechanic hum escaped the freezer. The grandfather clock ticked away. Gentle draughts tickled the wind chimes near the window until they laughed. Through it all Donna Marten snored.The little girl danced to MisterBoombastic (“say me fan-tas-tic!”) on the front lawn. In her opinion, she lived on the most boring street in all of James Bridge, maybe even all of Australia: a rarely traveled stretch of road on the outskirts of town. They had no neighbors, but should a car come along she liked the idea of being seen. This was why she danced, and why she danced so well. She didn’t twirl and fall for herself, but for everything. There was simply nothing else to do.Autumn was hot that year, her house surrounded by matchstick grass. The valley hissed when the wind blew through the dead trees, a desperate, lonely sound.Suzie spun and curtsied, laughing. I could do this all day. And I just might, too.Go on, try to stop me.Dirty shit. Dirty shit!She loved watching her shadow on the lawn, the way it was a part of her, except for those times when she leapt into the air and they separated. These moments, which seemed so much longer than they were, left her floating and sad. The kind of sad not even MisterBoombastic (“say me fan-tas-tic!”) could mend.I wish I could fly forever, only I’d miss my shadow. I really would.That would be a little like losing a friend.***Four hours after falling asleep, panic reached into the dark and ripped Donna from her bed. Her stomach knotted, brow flecked with sweat. It hadn’t been the screeching tires or muted gunshot that woke her—fatigue muted both. It was that her mind fled her body and the flesh had no choice but to follow.She threw the door open and ran from room to room. Nothing.“Suzie!” Voice feral and unrecognizable. Something burned within her chest, fueling dread. The house was empty.Donna stumbled outside, squinting against sunlight. Pain thudded in her head and shot down her spine. Suzie wasn’t in the backyard. As she rounded the house and neared the front gate, heat waves coming off the brick wall to her right. She fumbled with the latch. Next to her were the trashcans, their stench reaching out to make her feel ill. The latch opened and the gate swung wide—a sharp cry of metal grinding metal.Donna ran onto the front lawn and stopped.Her daughter’s shattered Walkman near the gutter, ribbons of gray tape fluttering in the wind. Suzie Marten was strewn in pieces across the road.Crows fluttered over intestines, disturbing the stillness. One hopped onto the little girl’s head, spread its bloodied wings and squawked. It lowered its beak and ate the tongue cooking against the tar.A pink ballet shoe. The foot still inside.Donna screamed. Breath ran short as her nostrils filled with the stink; a putrid mix of chemicals and sugarcane, shit and salt. She would never forget it.Darkness flittered over Donna’s vision as she ran to her child, lashing at the birds. They twirled and cawed, sprinkling blood drops over her face. “Get away from my baby!” she screamed, arms thrashing. But the beaks returned to meat, to gorge.Delicate, soft stabbing sounds.Another crow settled on Donna’s shoulder and its feathers brushed her cheek. Her world emptied. She clambered over gravel. This isn’t happening. It can’t be. I’m dreaming—that’s it! I’m still sleeping, my baby isn’t torn to pieces. Donna giggled. Parents weren’t equipped to see these sights; to smell such insane, bitter scents.She fought the birds again, kicked, punched. Donna didn’t comprehend what she was doing until she held one of the animals in her hand. Its scream mingled with her own, formed a single high-pitched mewl that echoed across the fields. She let it drop, wings broken.Donna fell to her knees and attempted to scoop up as much of her daughter as she could. Arms swept wide in manic, possessive hugs, pulling the larger chunks closer. Tears slipped down her face. She gave in and settled on the largest intact fragment: Suzie’s head, neck, collarbone, and left arm, which held on by a thinly stretched tendon and little more. Only the birds were hungry and selfish and wouldn’t let their bounty escape without a fight. They swooped, black-on-black eyes both empty and cold.The chunk of Suzie was only a quarter of her corpse, but it felt heavier than her daughter had ever been intact. She turned her back to the crows, deflecting swoops and scratches. The weight in her arms lessened and something slapped against her shins, something warm and wet.Donna was a nurse and assisted doctors in surgery. What she saw now was unlike anything she had ever seen at work. It was small and childlike.A child’s healthy heart with many years of beating left to do.Donna collapsed amid a flurry of dark wings, dark shadows.“PART ONE:Boarding“Men’s courses will foreshadow certain ends, to which,if persevered in, they must lead . . . ”—Charles Dickens”ONE HUNDRED AND THREE:James Bridge“We have two cemeteries and no hospitals—so drive carefully”, read the sign coming into James Bridge. The population at the time was marked at a firm 2022.Outsiders built homes in its vacant lots, leaving neighbors scratching their heads, wondering what spell The Bridge cast over those not born there. Surrounded by vineyards and two hours northwest of Sydney, it was a highway town passed through on the way to somewhere better.Bobby Deakins, the local mail carrier, laughed when he read books about people in small communities knowing everyone and their business. “Not true of The Bridge,” he often said to his son, a boy defined by naivety. Their town was its own schoolyard—with cliques and bullies, princesses and nerds. People didn’t ming
ONE HUNDRED AND TWO:Liz“The girl’s nothing but skin and bone.” Laughter, the electric crackle of the wicker chair under his weight. “I’ve seen scarecrows with more stuffing.” Liz shied away, dug her toes into the lawn and closed her eyes. In the dark—the smell of grass and cooked onions, the wind growling until her father’s voice faded away.Safe.At fourteen, her mother measured Liz at five feet against the kitchen doorframe. “God’s stretching you like taffy,” Reggie said, tucking the permanent marker into her blouse pocket. “I’m going to have to put a brick on your head to slow you down.” A shy smile on Liz’s face as her mother ruffled her bangs. “Out you go.” She gestured towards the back door, a hand on the seat of her daughter’s overalls to get her moving, and within seconds Liz was outside with two tennis rackets in hand. She gave one to her younger brother.“Here you go, weed.”“That ain’t my name,” he spat back. “It’s Jed and you know it.”“Yeah well, ‘ain’t’ isn’t a r
ONE HUNDRED AND ONE:SarahSarah Carr ran down her hallway and stopped before a mirror to check her cropped, spiked hair. “Pushing sixty-three but I don’t look a day over forty-five.” Her laughter was a sad, husky sound in this house. Self-affirmations like these got her through the day.Flat shoes thumped the floorboards as she searched for the keys. Sarah considered herself, and with a certain amount of pride, as a hip nanna in high-waisted jeans. The kind of nanna her grandchildren could approach with anything. Nobody would deny her open-mindedness, maybe even calling her a little different by Bridge standards—yet still she wore those shoes. Always. Those sensible flats, as reliable and well-worn as her wisdom.“Do unto others as you would have them do unto yourself,” she told her grandkids, their round, innocent faces staring up at her. “And those aren’t my words.” It was one of her recycled lines, one that left her feeling a little flat, a little well-worn herself. Though she
ONE HUNDRED:PeterAs far as Peter Ditton was concerned, a little sun was always a little sun too much, so he settled for whatever shade the STOP HERE sign granted. His fair features were burning already. Australian sunshine knew no mercy, and although clouds would come, the sky above remained a clear bowl of hot blue for now.Peter shielded his eyes from the red cloud of dust stirred by a passing truck, the first vehicle to swish past in over an hour. He’d mistaken the weekly route for the weekend’s and had expected the 243 bus to Maitland earlier than this. Oh, well.A notebook in hand. The spine cracked and a sliver of twine marking his page.The plan: skip church, visit a friend, together go to a creative writing and poetry class at the Rotary club in town, and pour out their souls to the laughter of slot machines chewing pensions in the adjoining room. The room stank of beer and old paper. Sometimes the organizers provided tea. Nice in a way.Embarrassment almost always over
NINETY-NINE:SteveSteve Brown wanted to scream.Instead, he focused on catching his breath. The skinny kid next to him at the bus stop—who looked like he’d been too busy doodling his notebook instead of some schoolgirl like other normal kids his age—hadn’t reacted. Good. His cool was in check.Poor shit, Steve thought. He’s better off.Or maybe he knows something about women that I don’t.Although he doubted that.Steve’s thoughts turned back to his wife. She had the wonderful ability of confusing him into anger, which hurt because he loved her like the world was ending. No wonder he wanted to bellow frustrations into the new day.Bev appeared okay with him quitting his job as janitor at the James Bridge Public School. He gave his reasons, citing differences with the principal and harassment in the workplace. Bev nodded along, understanding.Or so he thought.In reality, he’d been fired—caught smoking pot under the year-six dormitory where the kids stored their bicycles. “Yo
NINETY-EIGHT:Diana and JuliaNot so long ago, nothing more than a worn patch of grass by the road signaled the stop. Two people sat on the new bus bench now, quiet and unmoving, handbags clutched in their laps.Diana Savage appeared younger than her twenty-six years. Hair pulled back in a bun, face covered in a film of sunscreen lotion. She despised putting it on—it felt like chicken grease. Nevertheless, burning was worse. She would happily trade this moment, her job, her future in Australia, for one more look at Astoria, Oregon. Home. She wanted to fish the Colombia River and laugh at the tourists walking up the private driveway, cameras clicking, to where The Goonies had been filmed. She missed sitting near the E. Morning Basin at the end of Thirty-Sixth Street, smoking cigarettes and skipping class.Home wasn’t dead trees and inescapable heat. Hell, Summer was still nigh.In her world, yellow fire hydrants crouched on every corner. Pastel chalet houses. Pontiacs and GMC truck
NINETY-SEVEN:MichaelMichael Delaney used to be fat. Not puppy-padding fat—bursting-frankfurts-in-a-boiling-pot fat. He remembered gym class and swimming lessons. All the thin guys could be divided into one of two groups: those who looked but didn’t comment, and those who looked and commented with enthusiasm.Tubby Bitch.Fat Mumma.Fanny Tits.The silent ones were the worst. They just stared.Fat kids are like alcoholics, he now knew. They always have excuses.“I’m not big, just big boned,” he said. Michael could fool himself but he couldn’t fool the skinny kids. “I’m fat. Butterball fat,” he would tell the person staring back at him in the mirror, smart enough to know that no fat kid ever got thin unless they started calling themselves what they really were.“I’m Santa-Claus fat. I’m I-make-you-sick fat. I’m I-make-myself-sick fat.”He was something else also, but that was harder to say.Another memory: crying after swimming class, hating having to strip down to his Speed
“PART TWO:On the Bus“ . . . there are no accidents. Nothing happens unless someone wills it to happen.”—William S. Burroughs”NINETY-SIXTrees along the highway like the skeletons of contortionists hired to distract commuters from the rising temperature outside. Bushfires devastated coastal New South Wales earlier that year, resulting in the death of four people. Over three hundred houses were lost. Many thought it nothing but blind luck that James Bridge escaped damage. Its townsfolk sat drinking beer on their front lawns, watching the skies roll brown as others less fortunate burned to death. Denial was the best distraction because bad things didn’t happen in places like this. Not in The Bridge.Airwaves still brimmed with news of Anna Wood, the Sydney girl who died in October from water intoxication after taking Ecstasy. There was a sense that something bad was seething in the cities, something which was yet to touch