Page 16 of Hellebore

Mothers’ eyes bulge, a flare of red rising through her cheeks as she draws a slow deliberate breath.

“LEAVE. IMMEDIATELY,” she screams, bubbles of spit forming between her lips. A tear slips down her cheek, anger and sadness fighting beneath her composure.

Isabel shrinks back into the hallway, shoulders sunken and convulsing with fretful sobs as she disappears.

Mother exhales slowly as Isabel’s shadow slips through the hallway, collecting herself and turning to the kitchen.

“She doesn’t mean any harm, mother. This isn’t like her, you know that,” I soothe, following her.

“Where has my sweet, devoted child gone?”

She presses her palms flat against the bench, shaking her head as tears spill over. We so rarely saw mother cry – she prided herself on always appearing composed. Doing her duty with grace, without complaint. If she ever felt sadness, she would slip quietly behind a closed door and return minutes later with reddened eyes, dabbing at her nose, as if nothing had disturbed her usual order.

Seeing her now, her vulnerability like a bleeding wound, my body aches. Where there was once a formidable matriarch, a woman so firm in her resilience and appearance, stands someone broken. And the sight of it breaks something inside me in return.

“Mother, she’s still in there,” I say gently, approaching the bench with care. “She’s just finding her way back. She’s lost right now and needs your help. Can’t you see how sad she is?”

“I can’t do this without him,” she whispers, causing the room to shutter out of focus and my chest to constrict.

“You can. We’re not easy to care for, I know that. But you can do everything… anything… without father. You’re so brave, so strong. I know we’ve been difficult. But I promise from now on, I’ll be better.”

A moment of quiet settles through the room as mother sniffles, eyes cast to the ceiling in reverence. Her mouth moves in familiar prayer, her mind occupied with silent devotion.

“Fruit cake,” she says suddenly, eyes alight as though she’s discovered the solution to everything.

“What?” I question, confused by her sudden shift.

“Yes, yes,” Mother mutters, turning on her heel. “She can take fruit cake to Reverend Brookes.”

She reaches above the cabinets, gathering an old Christmas sweet tin from a small collection, placing it on the bench without care. The metal scrapes across the granite, making my teeth ache.

“Why would she…”

“Fruit cake,” Mother interrupts. “For Reverend Brookes… He can help her. He’ll know what to do.”

And beneath the weight of her grief, the burden of being alone with two thankless daughters, I fear she might be losing her mind.

It’s as though I’ve been sleepwalking since Francesca went missing. Day slipping into night with a mere blink of an eye, the edges of everything softened in a surreal mist of sorrow. Time feels liquid.

Beyond our small homestead, the forest chitters with wildlife. Yet inside, nothing stirs. Mother sleeping in her quarters at the end of the hall, Isa still sheltered behind her firmly closed door.

But my feet are restless.

Since my father died all those years ago, there’s a sadness that clings to the walls. Reminders of him at every turn. His books still on the shelves, his favourite record collecting dust on the turntable, his photos still lining the living room wall. Sometimes I struggle to recall his face. I can’t seem to remember the way his nose curved or the colour of his eyes.

The house smells of Christmas, remnants of Mother’s days spent in preparation for the community celebration – roasting pecans and drying pinecones in the hearth. The advent candle alight, counting down the days until the celebration of Christ. The holidays are the time when our sadness plummets into dark sorrow, with father gone. This is the sixth season without him. The sixth time we’ve had to bless the earth for her abundance, thank God for his generosity – all while battling with the confusion of why he would be taken.

If God truly loved us, why would he tear fathers from their children’s arms without a trace of mercy? Why would young girls be swallowed by the thicket of the pines, their cries lost among the branches? Why would he condemn love, when he himself died in its name? And why must I bear the sound of my sister’s unrelenting sobs, seeping through the thin wood of her door, night after night, with no end in sight?

But mostly, why would he have allowed sweet Francesca to have her life taken in the way she did, when she was nothing but a guiding light to me while I navigated my own life?

It doesn’t make any sense.

At least, that’s where my thoughts linger as I trail my fingers against the evergreen garland that hangs above the back door.

The living room is deathly quiet; all sound lost to the blanket of night as I pace through the small space. It’s a time capsule of our childhood, artworks from Sunday school still pinned to the windows, our handprints pressed into the concrete lintel at the door. Photos are hung with no order, fitted in places where they make no sense. I approach one with a flutter of nerves, weary of the memories it might draw forth.

A photo I know by heart, I can recall with ease usually. But now, the image blurs in my mind, our faces smeared like ruined oil paintings. This happens when I try to recall father’s face sometimes, as though a protective part of me has started to bleed him out. But even with the knot of emotions in my stomach, I long to see him again. Love is complicated in that way; it grows steadfast even when it shouldn’t. Even when you know it’s of no benefit, no value – just something familiar and comfortable, something you’ve settled into knowing – it endures.