Like Good Puppies by Dahlia Mandel

Little sister Poppy is hurt, but it’s ok, it was only a tiny accident – only a tiny accident.

Image generated with OpenAII broke my sister’s brain, and I don’t know how to put it back together again.

We’d been banished outside because Mommy and Father had to talk to an ugly man in a suit about Grandma’s money. Father was angry because Grandma was a fan of the slots, and now she’s dead and there’s no money left for us. Mommy told me to take Poppy and go play, because she didn’t want us to hear him yelling, but we heard.

In the woods on the outskirts of the city, there’s a hole that’s twice as deep as Poppy is tall. It’s called The Dump, and it’s where people toss things that they don’t want anymore. It’s usually pretty dry in the summertime, and you can find all sorts of stuff – license plates, old toys, pieces of fancy dishes. A few weeks ago, we even found a puppy. Poppy was excited at first, no doubt picturing late-night cuddles with Spot, and then we saw the flies.

Poking out over The Dump was a long piece of plywood, which we named The Plank. We were playing pirates, the day Poppy’s brain broke. I was the captain, waving around my window-wiper sword and taking great pleasure in threatening her with the little-girl-eating sharks that prowled below. It was a dumb game, but it kept her smiling. She was only seven. The kids in her class called her “Poopy Poppy”, because she pooped her pants on the first day of school. She didn’t like that name, and neither did I. I only ever called her Poppy.

“It’s my turn to be captain!” she whined, shaking her head as she shuffled away from me and down The Plank. “I never get to be captain!”

“Arrr! Ye need to be mighty strong to be a captain!” I sang, pointing my sword at her.

“I am strong!” Poppy said. “I want to be captain!”

Her eyes welled up and she stamped her little foot, which just made me angry. I swung my sword at her, pushing her back towards the very edge.

“You can’t. You can be the captain tomorrow,” I told her.

“I don’t want to be the captain tomorrow; I want to be the captain now!” she wailed. Tears ran down her chubby cheeks, and I wanted to hit her.

“Well, too bad! I’m the captain!”

“No!” she shouted, charging towards me. The sudden movement caught me off-guard, and I noticed too late that my sword was still swinging. The force of the hit sent Poppy’s head spinning, and her body turned with it. She shrieked, her foot slipped, and then she was gone.

For a split second, all that I could hear was the light breeze blowing through the trees, like Poppy had sprouted wings and simply flown away.

She landed with a thud.

I peeked over the edge of The Plank and found my sister lying on her back in the middle of The Dump. Her fall had been broken by bags of trash, stuffed to capacity with the stench of rot. Some had exploded like tiny bombs, ejecting their contents; takeout boxes and half-eaten hamburgers, dead mice and candy wrappers. Maggots crawled around like tiny explorers. An unfortunate few were drowning in a puddle of blood. Poppy’s blood. Her head rested, like it might on a pillow, against a thick concrete block that jutted out from the filth.

I dropped into The Dump, wincing as my knees bore the brunt of the impact. I knelt beside my sister, unsure of what to say.

“Please be alive,” I said.

Poppy opened her eyes. Her mouth opened and closed like a goldfish, but nothing came out. I didn’t care, because she was alive. At least she wasn’t crying.

She was alive.

“You okay? Come on, Poppy, we gotta go home for dinner.”

If I didn’t make a big deal out of the fall, maybe she wouldn’t either.

“It hurts…” she whimpered.

“Where?”

“Everywhere.”

I lifted her head up and away from the concrete block. Poppy moaned as she pulled herself, clutching onto my arm like it was the only thing keeping her tethered to the ground, to a sitting position.

“I’m sorry. You can be the captain now, okay? And you can even push me off The Plank if you want,” I said. “Just… don’t tell, okay? They’ll never let us play pirates again. You know that, right? You can’t tell.”

She nodded, looking slightly dazed, but I was sure that she wouldn’t tell. Poppy and I are good at keeping secrets.

But the blood was a problem.

I looked around The Dump, searching for something to soak up the nasty red liquid that coated the back of my sister’s head. I found a hand towel – it looked clean enough – and pressed it against the wound, doing my best to ignore Poppy’s whimpering.

As a final touch, I took off my red beanie and placed it, over the towel, on her head. Even if she bleeds through the towel, I thought, the blood will blend in with the colour of the hat and nobody will notice.

When I was satisfied with my work, I pulled Poppy to her feet and gave her a hug.

“You look so cool in that beanie,” I told her. “You can have it, if you want.”

Her left eye blinked. Then her right. Her brow was furrowed, like she couldn’t quite understand what was happening, but when I patted her on the back, she offered me a gentle smile. It was just a tiny accident, just a bump on the head. No need to tell Mommy and Father. They’d be upset with me for not being more careful with my little sister. No more playing pirates.

As we were leaving, I told myself that if Poppy still felt bad the next day, I’d take her to the school nurse. The thought lessened the guilt squeezing my heart.

It was just a tiny accident, after all.

By the time we got home, the sun was hiding behind the trees, casting shadows that crisscrossed over our house. The small television that Father insisted we keep in the dining room was blaring a football match, and Father’s team was losing.

“Set the table,” Father said, leaning against a cabinet, eyes fixed on the screen.

Poppy shuffled off towards the kitchen that occupied half of the dining room. She opened the cutlery drawer, muttering to herself. She swayed with each step as if she was on a boat during a storm. I felt a sharp pang of panic shoot up my spine. I wanted to tell her that we weren’t playing pirates anymore, but my mouth was dry, and I couldn’t make a sound.

An advertisement for some kind of dog food started, and Father changed the channel. A picture of Grandma filled the screen. She was smiling; whichever photographer caught that moment should be proud. She was beautiful when she smiled.

I remember when we went to go see her, the week before she died. Father stayed at home; he and Grandma were in a fight. Mommy said that the two would be friends again in no time. Grandma, who was never afraid to say what was truly on her mind, disagreed.

“The bastard can rot in hell for all I care,” she spat.

“Grandma, why are you so mad at Daddy?” Poppy asked.

“That’s grown-up business, hon,” Mommy said, ruffling Poppy’s hair.

Poppy, who was apt to accept such vague explanations, questioned Grandma no further. I, however, lay in bed that night, clutching Big Ted to my chest, wondering.

She died a week later.

Father didn’t come with us to the funeral. He was too tired and wanted to take a nap instead. Poppy didn’t want to go either; she wanted to stay and play with her dolls, but Mommy insisted that she come say goodbye.

“Why do I have to say goodbye? Where’s Grandma going?”

Mommy didn’t answer. She’d been in a bad mood all day.

“She looks like she’s asleep,” Poppy whispered, slipping her sticky hand into mine as we gazed into the coffin.

I agreed. I wanted to shake her awake, I wanted to see her smile again, but I was afraid of making the dent in her head even worse. Best to let her sleep. Maybe she’d meet Father in her dreams.

A groan from Father snapped me out of my memories. A man with greasy, slicked back hair and a purple suit in had replaced Grandma’s picture on the screen. At first, I wondered at Father’s groan – was he bothered by the hair? The suit? And then I realized; the man on the screen was talking about Grandma. More specifically, he was talking about how the police were still on the hunt for whoever killed her.

“They should just give up,” Father spat.

“They’ll find something. It’s only a matter of time,” said Mommy, who was chopping up tomatoes for her signature salad. She offered Father a reassuring smile, but he didn’t see. It made me feel better, though. Her smile had a way of doing that. She and Grandma had that in common. Now that Grandma’s dead, Mommy’s been smiling a lot less. Father hasn’t been smiling at all.

After the funeral, two officers came to our door and asked to speak to Father. Mommy told them that he was out fishing, but he’d left his fishing hat on the hook by the door, and he didn’t come home with any catches. The officers managed to snag him the next day – just to check in, Mommy said, but she didn’t sound convinced. When they left, we could practically see the steam leaking from Father’s ears. Poppy and I were sent outside, and played at The Dump until Mommy came to tell us that Father had fallen asleep.

I wanted to hear what the man with the hair and the suit was saying, but Father was too busy snarling at the television screen like some kind of animal. It would have been funny, if not for the dried blood that I’d just noticed on my hands.

I looked over at Poppy, who was setting the table like she did every night, except that tonight she was doing it all wrong. She placed the knives where the forks usually went and forgot the forks altogether. She balanced cups in precarious positions, ready to fall and smash into a million pieces, which would send Father into a frenzy. Her hands were shaking.

“You’re setting the table wrong,” I told her quietly.

“Grandma is here,” she whispered.

“What?”

“Behind the lamp.”

“There’s nobody there,” I said.

“She’s there,” Poppy insisted.

I looked nervously at my parents, who – thankfully – weren’t paying attention. Mommy was invested in her salad, and Father’s eyes were still fixed upon the screen.

“Shut up, Poppy,” I said. “No one’s there!”

I reached out to pinch her arm; at my touch Poppy shrieked and stumbled away from me, her eyes fixed on the space behind the lamp in the corner of the kitchen. Her elbow struck a glass of water, and a tsunami struck the residents of Tableville.

“She’s smiling, she’s smiling and I don’t like it! Make her stop!”

“Who’s smiling? What the hell is going on?” Father demanded, his face reddening. He looked at the mess on the table, and then he was yelling too.

Mommy, who had mastered the art of navigating the tantrums of both Father and Poppy, sent us to go wash our hands for dinner.

When we got back, Father had returned to glowering at the television screen, and Mommy was cleaning up Poppy’s spill and resetting the table. She looked curiously at Poppy, who was studying her shoes intently, and told us to sit down. Poppy begged me to switch seats, so that she didn’t have to see Grandma’s smiling face. I didn’t believe that Grandma was there, but even if she was, what was so awful about her smile? I had no problem switching seats.

As Poppy turned away from me, I caught a look at the back of her head. Nothing. Maybe it had scabbed over. Maybe it wasn’t that bad, and everything was going to be okay. Poppy’s fingers wormed their way to the back of her head and underneath the beanie. I slapped her arm.

“Don’t pick it,” I said. “You’ll only make it worse.”

Father turned off the television and tossed the remote aside. He took his seat at the head of the table and glared at his empty plate, as though it had just called him a nasty word.

“Did you two have fun playing outside?” Mommy asked.

“Yes, Mommy,” I said, crossing my fingers that Poppy had nothing to add.

I didn’t have to worry. Poppy hadn’t even looked up.

Mommy brought out dinner. It was Poppy’s favourite, but she didn’t seem to care. Over her shoulder, I could see the lamp. I tried to imagine Grandma crouched behind it, smiling at me. Eyes sat upon two fat lids, the folds in her face twisted into a smile, lips yanked towards the sky.

There was nothing there. Poppy was an idiot.

I wasn’t particularly hungry; the maggots from The Dump were crawling around in my mind, but I didn’t want Mommy to ask any more questions. I don’t think Father was hungry either; he barely ate a thing. Neither did Poppy. We ate (or, at least, some of us ate) in silence.

And then Father started to cry.

This happened a lot. Usually, we just sat and watched, but this time Poppy joined in. Father was sad, but Poppy was terrified. I could see it in her eyes. A terrified little girl. Mommy stared at her, concerned. She knew something wasn’t right. She opened her mouth to say something, and I sprang to my feet.

“Stop it! Stop crying like babies, both of you! Just shut up! Shut up!”

For a moment, time froze. And then Father was shouting instead of crying, and Poppy was screaming, and Mommy was begging us to go upstairs before somebody got hurt.

I grabbed Poppy’s hand, and together we ran.

By the time we reached our room, Poppy was all cried out. She stumbled towards my desk chair and collapsed into it, her body rigid, like she’d forgotten how to sit. Her face looked like spilt milk.

“You don’t have to be scared,” I told her. “Grandma’s not here.”

“We have to help her. Like good puppies. We have to help her!” Poppy squealed. She barked, and my heart dropped. Grandma used to call us that, she used to call us puppies and laugh as we chased our imaginary tales and begged for treats. It was our favourite game, back when Grandma was alive. Back when Father smiled. Back when Poppy was alright.

“My head itches,” she said.

“Don’t pick it, you’ll just make it worse,” I said again, but it was too late.

Her fingers were underneath the beanie, and when she pulled them out they looked like my own fingers after digging into a bowl of spaghetti with my hands. Except my spaghetti usually isn’t covered in blood, and it certainly never wriggles.

Poppy was holding a writhing maggot. A smile crept across her face. I almost threw up.

Her left eye blinked. Then her right.

“Cool,” she said, giggling.

I didn’t think the maggot was cool at all. I didn’t think the maggot was anything to be giggling about. I opened my mouth, but before I could say anything I heard Mommy’s voice echoing in the hallway. She was calling my name.

I looked at the door and then back at Poppy. If I stayed, Mommy would come into the room, and we’d be dead. No more playing pirates. For now, she was focused on the maggot, letting it crawl across her hand. At least she wasn’t crying anymore.

I left the room and closed the door behind me.

Mommy was standing at the top of the stairs, holding Poppy’s untouched plate of food. She held it out to me.

“See if you can get your sister to eat something, okay? I’m worried about her.”

I took the plate from her hands and nodded. I started to walk away, but Mommy caught my chin in her fingers and looked me right in the eyes. For a moment, just a moment, I saw Grandma in my mother’s soft eyes and rosy cheeks.

“Thank you for being there for Poppy,” she said, smiling her beautiful smile. Grandma’s smile. She slipped a five-dollar bill into my pocket, “for your next adventure.”

The words, “I think Poppy is hurt,” almost tumbled from my lips, but I kept them clenched behind my gritted teeth. It took almost everything I had to keep myself from diving into her arms and bawling my eyes out into her favourite shirt. It was just a tiny accident.

But Mommy has favourite shirts, and Father has favourite children.

No more playing pirates.

We were a family full of secrets. Like Mommy’s daytime friend, or like the time I found Father crying in the bathtub clutching a bloodied baseball bat, or like what happened to Poppy at The Dump.

Mommy released my chin, and I found myself on the verge of tears. I forced myself to smile at her before turning away and stumbling back towards the bedroom, barely able to hold myself upright. It was like the house was being thrown about in the ocean. My stomach was full of seawater. My heart was a shipwreck.

As I turned the door handle, I prayed to find my sister there. No beanie. No maggots. Just her. Just Poppy.

But when I stepped into the room, I almost ran right back out again. The air was thick with a moist tang, dull and sharp at the same time.

It was a horrible smell.

Poppy said something, but I was beyond hearing.

The beanie was gone. She had spun around in the desk chair and was facing away from me, and I could finally see the hurt I’d caused. The back of her skull looked like a blooming flower. A stream of thick blood oozed from the back of her head, spilling down her back, pouring off the chair, dripping into a red lake in the middle of the room. Terrified of what I’d see, I reached over to spin around the chair and looked into her eyes.

For a moment, I was relieved because they were open. But she wasn’t breathing or blinking, and the lake of blood was boiling and something was crawling out of it and it had a smile I recognized and a dented head and it said hey puppy where’s your father? and I started to cry because I broke my sister’s brain and I don’t know how to put it back together again.