I wake up.
My eyes see that I am bathed in daylight, and I realize I am lying on a bed. I try to move and discover that my wrists and ankles are each tied to one of the four bedposts. I look around the room, twisting my head as far as I can, and I’m relieved to discover that I am at least alone. I stare at the crumbling, damp-stained walls, the dirty white net curtains crusted with mildew and age, and the elderly-looking wooden furniture. A faded painting of the Virgin Mary is on the wall in front of me, and a metal statue of Jesus is on the bedside table. I recognize this room. I’m in the house where I was born in Ireland; the sound of the sea in the distance confirms it. I haven’t been here since I was five years old, but the smell of the place transports me back in time, as though it might have been yesterday.
There is a dressing table, covered in a lace doily, with a framed photo on top. It’s me as a little girl, wearing a white blouse, red skirt, and white tights. My hair in the picture is tied in slightly uneven bunches and I look happy, even though I don’t remember ever being especially happy when I lived here. It seems, even at that age, I already knew how to pretend for the camera. There is a mirror on the dressing table, and when I twist my body as far as the restraints will allow, I can see myself in it. I am wearing clothes I don’t recognize. An adult-size white blouse, red skirt, and white tights. My hair has been tied into bunches. Red lipstick is all over and around my lips, so that they look twice as big as they should. The sight of myself like this makes me scream without thinking.
The door flies open and my brother rushes in. He’s dressed as a man, the wig and makeup are gone. He is Ben again, but different.
“There, there, you’re okay, Baby Girl. It was just a bad dream.” He strokes my cheeks and I stare in horror at the alterations he has made to his face.
“Oh, I’m afraid Maggie has gone now. I only dressed like a woman to mess with your head and hide from the police. Why are you looking at me like that? Is it my new face? I thought I’d make myself look more like Jack Anderson, seeing as you find him so irresistible and attractive. Do you like it? Doctors can do almost anything nowadays. Just give them a picture from a magazine, along with a big fat check, and away you go. I was hoping for a nice Jack-shaped six-pack, too, but life made other plans. I’m afraid it’s just you and me again now. Does that make you sad, Baby Girl?”
“Stop calling me that.”
“You said that’s what Maggie called you. I thought you liked it. I thought that’s why you left me and never came back. I made you some breakfast.” He lifts a blue bowl and spoon to my lips.
I keep my mouth closed and turn away.
“Come on now, don’t be like that. It’s porridge in your favorite bowl. Do you remember what I told you when it got chipped? Things that are a little bit broken can still be beautiful.”
“Please untie me.”
“I want to. I really do, but I’m scared you’ll run away again. Do you even remember that day? I never ate chicken again after he made me kill that bird.”
“Why have you dressed me like this?”
“Don’t you like it? If you’re upset about the red shoes, I’m afraid they don’t fit anymore. You could say you got a little too big for your boots.” He laughs at his own joke, then waits, as though expecting me to do the same. When I don’t, his smile vanishes and his whole face seems to twist and darken. “If you don’t like the clothes I got you, I can always take them off.” He roughly pulls up my skirt and starts to roll down the white tights.
“No, don’t! Please!”
“What’s the matter? Once upon a time you used to like it when I took your clothes off. You kept saying you wanted to have a baby together, despite me telling you that wasn’t a good idea. You understand now, right? Besides, it isn’t like I haven’t seen it all before.” He pulls the tights down to my thighs and puts his hand there, moving it slowly up. “It isn’t like I haven’t seen every single part of you, tasted you, been inside you. There is nobody on this earth who knows you better than I do. I know who you are. Who you really are. And I still love you.”
I turn my face away as his hand moves higher.
“You can pretend like you didn’t want it now, if that makes you feel better. But we both know that you did. Having me inside you was about the only thing that seemed to calm those nerves of yours, wasn’t it? Before a big interview, or one of your silly red carpet events?”
“I didn’t know who you were—”
“Didn’t you?”
I don’t answer.
“Had I really changed that much when we first met as adults? Look at you, with your perfect tits and curls and big pretty eyes. You could have had anyone, but you wanted me. Your own brother.”
“What do you want from me?”
“I just want us to be together. That’s all I ever wanted, but it was never enough for you, too busy flirting with directors or actors like Jack Anderson. Well, we’re going to be together now, till death do us part. We might not have very long. I’m sick.”
He climbs on top of the bed and arranges his body around mine. His fingers entwine with my own, and his head rests on my chest, so that I can smell his hair and see the pink skin beneath the beginnings of a bald patch. The weight of his body crushes me, but I don’t say anything. I keep perfectly still and silent until he falls asleep.
As he starts to gently snore, I hear only one voice inside my head, and it is Maggie’s, not my own.
So long as you never forget who you really are, acting will save you.
I silently repeat those words as I lie wide awake. I cradle the idea in my tired mind, rocking it gently, trying not to wake it or him, trying to keep the thought as quiet as possible, scared that someone else might hear it and snuff it out. Right now, it’s all I have left to hold on to. My fear thaws into hate, just enough to allow me to dare to think of a way out of this, to imagine an ending that isn’t my own. I start to rehearse my lines and play out the next scene in my imagination. Life is like a game of chess; you just have to play it backwards and work out all the moves you need to make in advance, to get where you need to be.
The wind starts to pick up, a mournful howl singing through the old house. Outside the window I can see the tree I used to climb when I was a little girl. It looks dead. Its branches sway in the breeze, creaking with effort, and its fingers of twigs tap on the glass like blackened bones.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
It gets dark inside the room before it does outside the window, and when it is almost completely black, I know exactly what I need to say and do.