Under the Bed

As I slot the keys into the front door, the knot in my stomach is already tightening. Don’t get me wrong, I love my parents, I really do, but this house… this house has become a beacon for the sad. A museum of death. Everything my sister owned preserved like any day she will walk in the front door and pick up where she left off.

As I slowly open the door, I hear the hushed whispers of my mother. Her face lights up as soon as she sees me, and then quickly – so quick that if you weren’t paying attention, you would miss it – her eyes flash with disappointment. The consequence of being identical to your dead twin, I have learnt over the years. It’s a weird feeling, seeing your mother hope you are someone else, seeing her study your face and recognising someone else. A feeling I will never quite get used to.

“I’ll make gin and tonics!” she enthusiastically shrieks as soon as my coat is off. That is her speciality now, gin and tonics. Gin and tonics in the evenings. Gin and tonics in the mornings. Gin and tonics all day, every day. I sit up straight and smile back at her “that’d be lovely, thanks mum”. I’ve gotten used to the routine now. The last Sunday of every month. Gin and tonics, a Chinese from the local, whatever movie is on the tv, and then bed.

This evening seems different. My dad is more fidgety than usual (if that’s even possible) and the atmosphere in the room seems strained. “So, sweetie” my mum mutters while not quite making eye contact with me. My dad clears his throat as she goes on, “your father and I, well... we have talked about it a lot and... well”. She stops to cough. “Well, we...” She coughs again.

“We are splitting up. Selling the house” my dad interrupts. “Out of here by the end of the month” he follows up with a grunt.

My mother looks at him like he just smacked her across her face. “FRANK!” she shouts.

My eyesight has gone fuzzy. Here is a humming noise in the back of my head I can’t quite place. My head spins and my mouth goes dry. How could they sell this house? How could they do this to me? To Lucie? I feel sick. I can’t breathe.  I search for something to hold onto, to ground me back to reality. As my dad shuffles quickly to avoid contact with me, I fall into the arms of my mother. Through heaves and tears I manage to blurt out that they can’t sell this house. Not the house we grew up in, the house Lucie died in.

I’m in Lucie’s room. How did I get here? Oh yes, the gin and tonics. What time is it? I go to check my watch only to remember I don’t wear a watch. My phone, yes, where is that? Oh god, it’s almost 2am. Why am I in Lucie’s room?

All of her toys are all still in her room, in a box under her bed. Despite being 21, she had always refused to throw out her childhood toys. Now, I am so glad she didn’t. I sift through each toy delicately, as if each one was made of glass.

I open the box of toys. No matter her age, Lucie always loved toys, teddies and trinkets, marvelled in their innocence and childlike qualities. Even in my slightly drunken state, I can still manage to find the humour in it. That these toys under her bed lasted longer than she did. I accidentally let a laugh slip.

 I find Mosby, the stuffed animal she slept with every single night. I remember the day she got him. We were 6. Or were we 7? Dad had finished up at the site early on a Friday and decided to take us to get toys. Lucie got Mosby, who was bright green and wore a purple tie and had a face like he was obnoxiously happy all the time. I got Wallace, who was a burnt orange colour and wore a full suit.

 I remember that day. Dad have given us cash and waited in the car for us to get our toys. When we got home the house smelled of burnt food, and mum was in the sitting room crying. Or was it the kitchen?

I find BeeBee, Lucie’s mermaid Barbie who she had destroyed with a black Sharpie marker. She got this when we were learning to swim, and she wanted to be a mermaid. We went to swimming lessons twice a week. Mum would bring us. She wouldn’t stay to watch, but she’d usually be there to bring us home. Lucie was always a good swimmer. Much better than I was.

Searching further down the box, I see River, her bright blue teddy bear she got when she was 11. Mum bought her River after Lucie had walked in on her and the neighbour. Holding River in my hands, it brings back a lot of memories. For months, Lucie couldn’t look mum in the eyes. I never knew why. Lucie kept that secret tight to her chest for years and years, never letting it slip. She finally told me when we were 19. On Halloween night, drunk at friend’s party. She told me a lot that night.

I am about to give up on my venture to find closure under my dead sister’s bed, when I spot a discarded pile of toys stuffed down the bottom of the box. A little toy cottage house and animal figurines. God, what were they called? Sylvanians. I always thought they were kind of creepy to be honest. Furry, miniature animals. But Lucie loved them, even in her last few months before she died, I often saw her taking them out and looking at them. I never quite understood the appeal.

Shuffling around the Sylvanians in the box, I find a little miniature bedroom. Intrigued, I pick it up to examine it.

A wardrobe, inside the miniature bedroom. Inside the wardrobe, a small figurine. Standing up straight with a small rope around its neck.

Just how we found Lucie.