Dear Diary,
I think Amanda is trying to tell me something, but I don’t know what. Amanda. Amanda.
Dear Diary,
Today I crawled around on all fours because I thought I was Reaper. I lay in a ball under my bed, purring. It was really nice. But then I remembered that I’m not a cat. I remembered that I’m Lizzy Harris, and my sister is dead. And I cried and cried and cried.
Dear Diary,
It’s happening again. I’m losing my arms.
I’m scared. I’m scared. I’m scared. I’m scared.
I am not crazy. I am not crazy. I am not crazy. I am not crazy. I am not crazy. I am not crazy. I am not crazy. I am not crazy. I am not crazy. I am not crazy. I am not crazy.
Dear Diary,
Sarah came over today. It was so nice to see her. We stayed up all night talking, and we laughed and laughed just like we used to. But then she reached up and pulled her head off, and I couldn’t stop screaming.
Don’t kill me. Don’t kill me. Don’t kill me.
All my life I’ve been told,
You need to see a doctor.
The fuck is wrong with you?
You’re strange. You’re broken. You’re not one of us.
Maybe I’m sick of people trying to fix me. Maybe I don’t want to be fixed, just like the house. We’re dirty and hideous, and we love it. We have blended our ugliness into one whole pure thing.
Dear Diary,
Where the hell is Joe?
And why the fuck am I holding a bloodstained hammer?
Chapter 33
June 25
I’m vomiting in the downstairs toilet when the car pulls up. Wearily, I lift my head, swipe at my mouth, and listen. I haven’t had a visitor in…I can’t remember when. The last guests were the builders, and shit. I think I might have fired them…. That was days ago, wasn’t it?
The car tires rumble smoothly over the dirt, and the noise is so startling, so loud, because other than the drone of the TV, the house has been silent for days and days. I flush the toilet and tighten my robe, then stumble to the couch and steady myself against it. Weakly, Reaper looks up from the cushion.Are you okay?he seems to ask. No, I think, and neither are you. It’s touch and go with Reaper. I got him back from the vet’s yesterday. I carried him to the couch, propped him up on the nicest cushion, and watched him sleep. He’s eating out of my hand now, and I bring him a bowl of water so often he’s probably sick of it. Sometimes I’m shaking so hard the water bowl’s empty by the time I’ve carried it to him.
Car headlights light up the house, and I freeze, squinting out the window. Joe? But no, it’s not my adulterous husband. The car pulls up, and I study it for clues. This van is muddy white, missing its driver’s side hubcap. A functional, family-friendly car, probably strewn with fast-food wrappers and children’s car seats. I’m surprised to see that the sunis setting. I blink, wondering where the hell the day went. I don’t have a single memory of what I did today.
The headlights flick off, and the driver steps out.
Emily.
Shit. I look guiltily at the mess in the lounge room—empty wine bottles, a carton of milk souring next to the couch. Oh God, I’m not ready to be normal.
Her paisley skirt is wood brown and purple and swishes when she walks. She pulls her mid-thigh-length coat tighter, its camel color bringing out the warm brown tones in her sandals. Once upon a time I gave a shit about those details. Now I slop around in my bathrobe and cat slippers and wonder what’s become of me.
Emily peers in through the window, and I’m too stupid to move. She spots me standing there, hesitates. I’m wearing my worst bathrobe and nothing underneath. It’s an ill-fitting terry cloth that reveals a scandalous amount of my tits. I pull the robe tighter, but the deep V of the chest doesn’t budge. She points to the front door, motions for me to open it. I shuffle forward, try to cover my chest with my left forearm while opening the door.
Emily smells like lavender and toast.
