Ann-Marie MacDonald - Fall on Your Knees

Mercedes feels ease. This is as close as she gets to a state of grace, curious as she knows this to be. It’s a mystery. To experience the gift of peace with your bad sister in your arms. Nothing can get you now, Frances, te’berini .

Mercedes casts a net of thought prayers over Frances’s sleeping form, lighter than air, than gossamer wings, finer than the finest silk to keep my little sister safe. Hush baby, sleep, thy mother tends the sheep….

Three and a half weeks later, Mercedes has unearthed another fossil. It was beached beneath a quarter-inch of dust on a forgotten page of a crumbling chapel registry. Another name. Perfectly preserved in its desert grave, waiting to be exhumed and grafted onto Mercedes’ family tree; granted eternal still life in a meaningful context.

Late at night when all is blessedly quiet, when she’s got a moment to herself alone, she sits at her desk, straightens her spine and begins to unscroll the family tree. She squints as though against a sudden light — it’s … unscroll a little more … what is it? A riot of golds and greens and ruby-reds swirls and ululates across the page, what is it? … scroll it slowly open all the way and … where there was once a sober grid etched in ink with loving and dispassionate care, there is now a swaying, drunken growth, a what, a tree! A tree. Yes, she can see that now, it is in fact a tree.

Coloured in with crayons. Every ancient name has been obliterated by a shiny red apple, each right angle beguiled into a serpent twist of bark; each vertical stroke has evolved into a leafy stem bearing fruit. The largest apples strain the lower boughs all in a line. These are the only apples with names, printed in an awkward childish hand: “Daddy,” “Mumma,” “Kathleen,” “Mercedes,” “Frances,” “Other Lily,” and “Lily”. The Mumma and Kathleen apples have little golden wings and the Other Lily one has silver wings. Trixie’s black face and yellow eyes peek out from a high branch amid emerald leaves. Meanwhile, at the base of the trunk, grass sprouts on the surface of the earth and a little blue creek flows by all innocent of the continued drama below, for a cross-section of the earth reveals tree roots thrusting down and branching out into the surrounding soil studded with glistening chunks of coal and worked by a sightless army of worms. And there, nestled among the pale subterranean branches, is a golden chest encrusted with diamonds. Buried treasure.

Mercedes’ tears fall and bead on the shiny wax colours of the new revised edition of the family tree. She has never cried so bitterly or so quietly in all her life.

People have been known to go grey or snow-white overnight due to a fright or a sudden loss of all joy. But Mercedes’ hair simply fades. Frances sees it happen. She was thinking of sneaking out of the house when she passed Mercedes’ door and saw her light.

“Mercedes? … Are you awake?”

Mercedes is slumped over the desk, perfectly still. Has she died? Turned to stone? To salt? “Mercedes?” Frances approaches, leans down and looks. Golly Moses. How long has she been like this? Her gaped-back mouth all tight and wrinkled at the corners, her eyes crunched and seeping, perfectly still. Frances touches Mercedes’ shoulder and Mercedes takes a big gulp of air, emerging from her silent picture to cry in a real-life way.

“What’s wrong? Mercedes, what is it, what happened?”

Mercedes speaks from the back of her throat: “I hate her. I hate her so much. I wish I could kill her. I wish it weren’t a sin, I wish she were dead, I wish she had died, I hate her, hate her.”

Frances understands Mercedes and so does not embrace her but lightly strokes her newly pale braids. What on earth is Mercedes going on about?

“She wrecked everything,” says Mercedes, “everyone was happy before she came along, everyone died, everything went wrong when she was born, she’s spoiled rotten and I’m going to have to look after her for the rest of her life because she’s a cripple, oh God I hate my life, I hate my life.”

Mercedes sobs. Frances comforts her the way you would a dear and delicate moth, if moths could be comforted.

“Shshsh. Shshsh, it’s okay now. It’s all right now.”

“What’s wrong with Mercedes?” Reverent, worried, Lily asks from the door. How long has she been standing there? How much did she hear? Frances answers gently without missing a beat,

“She had a bad dream, Lily. Go back to bed.”

Mercedes doesn’t acknowledge Lily’s presence. She just goes on crying. Lily retreats. Frances looks down at the brilliant scroll.

In bed, under the covers, there is a small unearthly glow. It emanates from a tiny grotto formed by sheets held up by Lily’s knee. The source of the glow is the Virgin Mary. She is made of white phosphorescent Bakelite and towers four inches above a tin sedan in which Lily, Frances and Mercedes have lost their way in the middle of the night out in the country. They saw a glow in the distance a little way off the road, in a farmer’s field. And there she was. Our Lady. Everywhere there is the smell of lily of the valley. They must be right in the middle of a field of it but it’s too dark to tell. Either that or the lovely smell is coming from her. The Blessed Virgin has a message for each of the sisters that they must never reveal. Not even to one another. Lily’s message is this: Her leg will never heal. It will never be like the other one. She will always have one boot-leg and one good leg. There is a reason for this. Our Lady does not say what it is. “Now get back into your car and love one another.”

“Yes, Our Lady.”

“Lily.”

It’s Frances. Oh no. Lily has used her perfume without asking. But Frances doesn’t even say anything about that.

“Lily.”

Lily drives the car away from the grotto and out from beneath the sheets. She looks up at Frances. Frances has the scroll.

“What happened here, Lily?”

Tears form in Lily’s eyes and roll down but she’s not crying that she knows of. “I coloured in the family tree.”

“That was Mercedes’ special thing.”

“It was a surprise.” Now she’s crying.

“You know you shouldn’t touch other people’s things, Lily, especially when they’ve worked hard. You should have drawn your own.”

“I couldn’t help it.”

Frances knows this to be true. She sits down on the edge of the bed.

“I’m sorry, Frances.”

“Don’t cry, Lily.”

Lily tumbles into Frances’s arms for a good snoggling cry and Frances hugs her.

“Frances?”

“Mm-hm?”

“Everyone didn’t die.”

“What do you mean?”

“Everyone didn’t die when I was born.”

“Of course they didn’t.”

“Daddy didn’t die. Mercedes didn’t die. You didn’t die.”

“Mercedes’s feelings were hurt, that’s all, Lily, she didn’t mean it. She loves you. We all do.”

Lily can’t resist another look at her artwork. She peels open the scroll and reaches under the sheets for the phosphorescent statue. She and Frances look at the scroll together by the light of the Virgin Mary.

“You’re a good artist, Lily. I like the worms.”

“Thank you.”

“What’s inside the treasure chest?”

“Treasure.”

“What kind of treasure?”

“Ambrose.”

“Lily. Ambrose is just a story.”

“I know.”

The Virgin is losing her glow. The picture is no longer visible. It’s time to go to sleep. Frances rolls up the scroll.

“What are you going to do with it, Frances?”

“We don’t want Mercedes to see it any more. I’ll have to take it to the dump or burn it.”