Elizabeth Sykes was not oblivious to the pain and suffering that plagued the lives of many. She was, after all, the daughter of two social workers who lived behind a homeless shelter and helped on the weekends.
Elizabeth would often lie awake at night, wondering if the resolve to support people in need, that featured so prevalently within her mother, father and older brother, and now, her, was genetic. Because, when she looked outwards into the vast world, she saw little altruism, little compassion, and very little desire to help from others.
Whatever the reason, she knew now that the tight grip she had on Mary’s hand was in earnest. It was real and wasn’t simply an attempt to pacify someone broken and lost. She felt compassion.
Mary had been induced following a miscarriage and wasn’t in complete control of her senses. Still, although she was bedridden, she possessed enough sense to know of her loss, and had now cried for her child for close to an hour.
When Mary finally calmed, she asked, ‘What’s your name?’
‘Elizabeth.’
Mary stared up at the ceiling as if trying to process something.
Eventually, her eyes moved to Elizabeth. ‘A beautiful name. I’d like to call my daughter, Elizabeth. If that’s okay with you?’
Elizabeth didn’t know the most appropriate way to answer this question, so she went with her gut. Her gut always told her to be agreeable and kind. ‘Yes, of course,’ Elizabeth said. ‘I’d like that.’
Mary turned her focus back to the ceiling. ‘They said it was my fault. That I abused my body.’
Elizabeth squeezed her hand.
‘But I didn’t, Elizabeth. I swear I didn’t. Since the day I found out about you, I didn’t take a thing.’
The peculiar use of the pronoun made Elizabeth wonder if Mary had suddenly addressed the child that she’d lost.
Elizabeth heard someone at the door to the room. She turned and saw her brother, James, there. He had an irritated look on his face, and he closed the door behind himself when he came into the room.
James was often irritated. Fortunately, he rarely took this out on her. With his fourteen-year-old sister, he was usually sweet, and had always fed her and brushed her hair when she was much younger, and their parents were busy. Still, she’d heard him vent before now. He’d shout and swear in another room, usually, and she’d hear things being smashed. It was terrifying, truth be told.
So, she was always cautious in his presence.
‘What’re you doing here?’ he asked her. In this moment, his voice seemed to be wound tighter than it ever had been with her before.
‘I heard crying and—’
‘So?’
She felt pain in her stomach. ‘I – I’m sorry.’
‘You shouldn’t be here. Hasn’t it been made clear to you?’
Elizabeth nodded but looked up at her brother with sad eyes, trying to appeal. ‘But… she was crying. So much. I thought she could do with company.’
‘No… she just needs her rest… she’s been through a lot.’ He looked over at Mary. His irritated expression morphed into one of disgust instead. He leaned back out the door. ‘Nurse… we need. The medication is wearing thin.’
Elizabeth rose to her feet at the same moment his intense glare swung back onto her. ‘Go.’
‘I’m sorry—’
‘I said, go.’ James turned away and sighed.
As she made her way to the exit, Mary called out, ‘Elizabeth… please, Elizabeth… don’t go. Don’t leave me.’
Elizabeth turned. ‘Sorry, Mary, I—’
‘Damn it! Go!’ James hissed.
Elizabeth swung, her stomach jarring again.
‘My daughter… please, Elizabeth. You’re my daughter!’
James stepped forward and prodded his sister out of the room as the nurse swooped in.
Once the door was shut, Elizabeth pinned her ear to the wall.
‘Listen… she’s not your daughter,’ James said. ‘Your daughter is dead. And, as we’ve discussed, it was your fault. Your own selfish fault.’
Elizabeth backed away, hand to her mouth. It was at this moment that she realised that James, her brother, wasn’t like her and her parents after all.
And if altruism was genetic, then James couldn’t be her brother. Not really.
Because James Sykes was a wicked man.
A very wicked man.