May 25, 1929 … Midnight

I dreamed of Mother.

She stood in the middle of the sitting room, her back very straight. She wore a high-necked white blouse and a long navy skirt. Something hung around her neck as well—something long and frayed looking—but I couldn’t quite make out what it was. Her shadow stretched out across the floor, dark and menacing.

“How could you?” she asked, her voice low. There was no mistaking the barely- veiled rage. “I told you to protect him!”

“I’m trying,” I said, my voice coming out high and young. “I’m nursing him around the clock.”

Mother took a step forward. She seemed to loom over me, a giant. Even her shadow had grown and stretched. I could feel myself cowering. “How could you be nursing him and yet be here now? You’re sleeping, aren’t you?”

“I had to take a break,” I whined, sounding more and more like my five-year-old self. "Gertrude forced me. I didn't want to."

“He never should have been allowed to get this bad,” she fumed, taking another step toward me. The thing around her neck bounced on her chest and I suddenly realized what it was.

A noose.

“Why didn’t you stop this sooner?” she hissed.

“He wouldn’t let him near me,” I cried. “I tried. Honest, Mother. I tried.”

“You. Didn’t. Try. Hard. Enough.” With each word, her voice grew louder and shriller until it turned into a shriek. She raised her hand and that’s when I saw the knife.

Dripping with blood.

“Mother is mad,” she snarled, and smiled. A truly dreadful smile.

Full of sharp, pointed teeth.

“No,” I screamed, covering my face. “No, Mother. Don’t hurt me. Don’t hurt me.”

I heard a sharp gasp and a clatter, like the knife had fallen to the floor.

“Oh, my dear Helen.”

I peeked through my fingers. There was my mother, her face horrified, beseeching me. “I’m so sorry, Helen. It wasn’t me. I … I don’t know how long I can hold it off. You must save your brother. You must.”

“Mother?”

“You must find it. Find what was stolen. It’s the only thing that can save you.”

“Find what? What are you talking about?”

Her face was anguished. “I love you, Helen. I’ll always love you. Don’t ever forget. No matter what happens.”

“Mother,” I screamed again, only to find myself in bed, my face covered with tears, my body soaked with sweat.

It was dark, so dark. And quiet.

Why was it so quiet?

Henry! I bolted up in bed. How long had I been asleep?

Mother’s warning echoing in my ears, I swung my feet off the bed. I was still wearing the same dress I had worn since I started nursing Henry. It was sticky with sweat and I longed for a moment to clean up and change, but I was too impatient. Something was wrong. I knew it. I could feel it.

I eased out of my room and hurried to Henry’s. His door stood open. Gertrude was sitting in a chair near to the bed, her head back at a peculiar angle, her mouth slightly open, a line of drool dripping down her chin. She was snoring softly.

The bed was empty.

For a moment, I could only stand there, gaping. Where was he?

He wasn’t … oh no. What if he was sleepwalking again?

I stumbled as I turned, clumsy in my haste. All I could see was the knife Mother held in her hand.

The knife that dripped with blood.

Nellie’s blood.

The night Mother went mad.

I hurried as fast as I could down the stairs, trying not to trip. I clutched my dress, trying to will my breathing to slow, to stop panicking. After all, he hadn’t hurt himself the night I had discovered him sleepwalking. There was no reason to think he had hurt himself tonight.

Although … I didn’t actually know when he had first cut himself.

No, I mustn’t think of such things. Right now, I had to find him.

As I turned the corner, I found myself wondering how Gertrude could have slept through Henry getting out of bed. She was right there! How did she not wake up?

Henry was in the middle of the sitting room, standing exactly where Mother had stood in my dream. But, unlike Mother, he was hunched over, his back to me, doing something I couldn’t see.

I slowed my steps, not wanting to startle him. “Henry,” I called out softly. “There you are. Shall we go back to bed?”

His movements didn’t stop. What on earth was he doing? It looked like he was sawing something.

“Henry?”

He turned so I could see a hint of his profile in the dark. “My name is not Henry.”

I swallowed. “Edward, then.”

“It’s not Edward either,” he snarled.

“Henry, what are you talking about?”

“This is all your fault. You were always on her side. Always. You were never on mine,” he hissed.

“Of course I’m on your side.”

“No! You never were.” He whirled around, his face twisted in rage.

I screamed.

He was holding a bloody knife.

“Henry. Why do you have a knife? Whose blood is that?”

“Don’t come near me,” he warned, brandishing the knife. Drops of blood flew everywhere. It dripped down his wrist and I saw the dark stain on his chest. I screamed again as the awful realization blossomed inside me.

“Henry. Are you cutting yourself?” Oh, my dear Lord in Heaven. What has happened to my sweet little brother?

“Why do you care? You hate me. You’ve always hated me.”

“What in the devil's name is going on here?”

Father was standing there, his grey hair sticking straight up on one side, his shirt wrinkled and stained. He looked like he had fallen asleep in his clothes.

Henry saw him, and his lip curled. “You,” he growled.

“Edward, what …”

“My name is not Edward,” he shrieked, momentary shocking Father into silence. “You always take her side. You never take mine.”

“Henry,” Father said at last. “Please, put down the knife. We can talk about this.”

“There’s nothing to talk about,” Henry exploded, spittle flying from his lips. “This is your fault. You. You brought her into our home. You did this. All of this.” He pressed the knife against his bloody shirt. I let out another shriek.

“No,” Father said, moving forward, holding his hands out. “You’re right,” he said, his voice suddenly broken. “This is all my fault. All of it. But, please. I beg you. Take me. Not my son. Take me.”

“It’s too late,” Henry sneered, pressing the tip of his knife down.

“No,” Father said, frantic, taking a few steps forward. “It’s not too late. I’m sorry. Do you hear me? I’m sorry. Just take me. Take me!”

Henry stopped, tilting his head and blinking. “Father,” he said, his voice so young and confused it nearly broke my heart. “Father? What’s happening? What …” Suddenly his eyes rolled up in the back of his sockets and he collapsed in a heap, the knife clattering against the floor.