Abbigale
by
Helen Jones
Word Count: 1500
My name is Isabele. I used to be happy. I used
to have a family, you see. My mother died in a car accident when I was very
young. My older twin brothers, Paul and Edward, died with her. It was a tragedy.
She was so young and beautiful, and my brothers were so full of life. That left
my father, my twin sister, Abbigale, and myself. Having introduced you to my
family, I can begin my story of sorrow.
Father fell ill with the
cancer when Abbigale and I turned 18. At first it seemed that there would
be nothing to worry about. Father was being treated and the drugs appeared to be
winning. When he lost his hair, he bought a bright, rainbow coloured clown’s
wig to make us both laugh. Then it started to go wrong. Sometimes he would be
sick and spend days on end in bed, but in the end he always came out again,
smiling his warm father’s smile. It appeared that each time he got sick he
spent longer in bed and less time walking around. He was getting thinner, and
his skin had an unhealthy pallour to it.
It was around the time of our 19th
birthday that Father was admitted to hospital. We used to visit him regularly.
He had needles and tubes all over his body. It scared Abbigale and me, to know
he was sick enough to need all of that. He said he felt fine, but we could see
the pain in his eyes. When the doctor told father he only had six months to
live, he came home.
Abbigale and I made sure Father was
always comfortable, always had a drink by his side and was as happy as could be
expected. He used to watch us as we went about our chores, a sad smile on his
face. He used to say, “Isabele, Abbigale, you are both so like your mother!
You have her grace and gentle beauty.” Sometimes a small tear would run down
his face, matching the tear on Abbigale’s face…and on mine.
I came home one day, brushing
snowflakes from my hair and eyelashes. The house was very quiet. Father had
become almost bedridden. He was very weak and so very thin. The most he could do
was make his way painfully to the toilet and back again, and after such a trip
he would be soaked with perspiration and taking short shallow breaths, almost
like a cornered mouse. I would be so scared when I saw him like that that tears
would course down my face. Once he had slowed his breathing and could talk, he
would beckon me to his side and raise one skeletal arm, tenderly wiping the
tears from my cheeks with his cold hand and all the while pleading, “Please do
not cry because of me, Isabele. Because you are my daughter means I can die
happier than if I had of lived to a hundred and owned all the riches the world
has to offer.” He would smile weakly at me, and I would stay by his side until
he slept, clasping his hand between mine. Abbigale was probably affected more
than I was by Father’s condition; she had always been the more sensitive of
us. Sometimes I would find her weeping into her hands by Father’s side as he
slept. One time she saw me and fell to her knees at my feet, begging me,
“Please, Isabele. I am sorry! If Father knew I wept so for him, it would break
his heart. He wants nothing more than that we should be happy, and when in this
state I clearly am not!” I helped her to her feet and held her until her
violent sobbing had ended, then took her into the kitchen to make her a hot
chocolate.
As Father’s condition deteriorated further, so did Abbigale’s. One day I sat dozing on the back porch, enjoying the feel of sun on my face when Abbigale came outside sobbing. I jerked back into full consciousness and looked at Abbigale. She fell to the ground and started to cry uncontrollably, taking short, convulsive breaths. I was alarmed. “Abbigale, what ever is the matter?” She took a few minutes to calm herself enough to reply.
“Father…he’s dead!” I felt as though the air had been knocked from my lungs. I struggled to take a breath. I took a hold of my sister’s shoulders. “Now, tell me Abbigale, you are certain Father is dead?”
“Yes,” she whispered, “because I
killed him.”
Abbigale was accused of murdering father, and if found guilty, would face the death penalty. The public were all screaming for justice, and Abbigale and I felt all alone. I was dreading the court hearing, for I knew nothing short of a miracle would save my sister.
“The prosecution calls Abbigale Carroll to the stand.” Abbigale was sworn in, and the lawyer began to weave his web. “Miss Carroll, you are here because you killed your father, is this so?”
“Yes” she whispered, keeping her eyes down.
“How did you accomplish this?”
“I helped him to overdose on sleeping tablets.” A startled row went up in the room, everyone whispering and pointing at Abbigale. The Judge called for order and the lawyer continued. “Did your father ask for your help?”
“Yes. He was in pain and wanted it to end.”
“So you obliged, full knowing that, if discovered, you would be put to death!”
“Yes.”
“So now why? Why! Why did you help a man to die?” Abbigale shook her head, she was crying. “Answer, Miss Carroll!” Abbigale started crying harder. “Miss Carroll, answer the question!”
“Because he was ashamed!” she stood up and screamed. The courtroom was silent. Abbigale continued. “Father had always been strong. Independent. And he had never ever been know to ask for help, even if he knew it would be easier. Maybe he was too proud, but that’s what made him so strong.
“I came home one day to find him crawling across the floor towards the bathroom, crying in pain and humiliation. He had soiled himself because it had taken so long for him to crawl that far. I had to clean my father like he was a baby…and that was when he asked me to end it.”
For a moment, the lawyer was silent. I thought I almost saw a tear in his eye, then he blinked a few times and turned to the Judge. “No further questions, your Honour.”
“Any questions for the Defence?”
the Judge asked. The reply was no. “Witness is dismissed.” Abbigale returned
to her seat, hid her face in her hands and wept.
It seems like time passes, not in the
sixty minutes in an hour form to which you and I are accustomed, but in bursts
of speed followed by a lagging period where it almost seems to be catching its
breath, getting ready for its next race against itself. Abbigale was put to
death, as I had expected would happen. Time has been in that lagging period
since Abbigale died, and I can’t remember the last time I felt as though time
was flying, dancing and capering through the minutes and the seconds with me.
Most days I just sit here as I am now, gazing vacantly over the wooded fields
that run away behind the house and disappear over the horizon. I ponder the
meaning of justice. The lawyers, public, police, everyone said that Abbigale’s
death brought justice. But what is justice? Is it putting a person to death if
they have taken another life? Maybe they should look at the circumstances,
rather than the outcome. Justice for Abbigale was when Father no longer had to
lay in bed and cry because of the pain, justice for Abbigale was when she saw
him slip into that eternal sleep, and knew that he couldn’t feel pain or fear
anymore. I laughed at what the media wrote about Abbigale in the newspaper, that
she was a modern day ‘Antigone’. That is the story Father used to read to
us, and then he would tell us that family is more important than anything in the
world. Maybe Abbigale remembered that, when she was putting the pills into
Father’s mouth and helping him wash them down.
There isn’t much for me to do here, all alone as I have become. I never had many friends, because Abbigale was my best friend, as well as my sister. When I leave the house to go to town, I feel as though a part of me stays behind, remains in the chair and gazes over the meadows. I try not to stay away from the house for too long, and I know that when I return my family will be there to greet me, though not in the form they once occupied. I can’t tell you I’m happy, and if I did I know you would be able to see right through my facade. I don’t eat very often now, and when I do it is out of instinct and I feel ill afterwards. Maybe no-one will notice I am gone, maybe Mrs Leske will notice that Isabele hasn’t been in to buy her groceries for a while. I guess I’ll never know, but at least I’ll be reunited with my family and happy again, which is something I haven’t been in a long time.
Isabele
