I nervously run my clammy hands over the folds of my new funeral black petticoat as I stare into the lens of the camera. I tell myself to stay quiet; to keep the real story of Cece’s death behind closed doors. No one knows the secret besides me. No one. And I intend to keep it that way. If I don’t, the life I call my own will be spoilt, like a barrel full of fresh apples which falls rotten because of a single corrupt fruit.
Today, father has arranged for a photograph to be taken of Cece and I. I have never been in a photograph before but Alison at school says it is quite extraordinary. Alison has had hers taken three times! Once with her 2 year old brother, when he died from Diphtheria, another time with her grandmother when she passed away, and yet on another occasion when her father arranged for their family portrait to be taken. I asked father if we too could get a family portrait taken but he just looked at me and said gruffly, “ There is no need to get a family photograph taken of us. It is an expensive luxury only used for keeping memories of loved ones alive.”
I think father is so morose because of mother’s death. Father did not have the pecuniary means to get a photograph taken of her when she died so he has no visual image to remember her by. After mother died, it was father, Cece, and I left to carry on; but now, father and I are all that's left.
Cece and I were five years apart; Cece seventeen and I twelve. Although the age gap between us was substantial, we were as close as any sister pair. We did everything together. Cece was the one who let me use her old church dress fabric to make an apron for the play so I wouldn’t be made fun of for having one of plain cloth. Cece was the one who made little molasses cakes for Alison’s tea party so I would have something to bring.
But she was also the one who disobeyed father the most. Even against his wishes she visited with that Moretti boy from the general store. They were both sweet on one another and father detested the growing passion between the two. Alberto Moretti and his family came over from Italy when he was five years old. Father openly voiced his opinion of them as “ damned immigrants who come from across the ocean to take advantage of our jobs and money.” That was why father did not allow Cece to see Alberto. Every time father went to the store, he took me instead of Cece because he didn't want Alberto making eyes at her. Cece didn’t like that one bit but she wouldn’t dare challenge father face to face.
I did like Alberto so. He had smooth olive toned skin which tanned quite well in the summer and shiny dark hair the color of coal. His eyes were a deep chestnut brown and sparkled when he saw Cece. I do believe they were in love even with father’s attempts to keep them apart. They made the most stunning couple; Cece’s playful forest green eyes pairing well with Alberto’s own sparkling ones. Anyone who ever witnessed them together could see they belonged with one another; everyone but our father. He did anything and everything in his power to keep the connection between them from growing.
  Cece had a secret which she didn’t want anyone to know; including me. But I knew her the best, I knew when something was awry. The late night snacks, unstable emotions, nausea, fatigue; all signs that could only mean one thing. Even at the age of twelve, I knew quite a bit about what went on behind closed bedroom doors. And I knew the symptoms of the outcome.
Alberto didn’t know about Cece’s secret but I know she was going to tell him. That was before father intervened. I know now I shouldn’t have mentioned my suspicions to Mrs. Dextrose but I had to talk to somebody. She must have mentioned them to father for when I got back from school the next day, father was yelling obscenities at Cece.
“ You whore!” He screamed banging his hand on the desk. “ You are a shame to this family! Get out! Leave, you are not my daughter!”
I could hear Cece sobbing, “Please father, I didn’t mean to. Please, don’t do this.”
I crept to the open door of father’s study, freezing when I heard the sharp slap of a hand against skin. I peered around the door to see Cece sprawled on the floor her face towards me. Father was standing, his back towards where I was.  “ Leave,” my sister mouthed, tears streaming down her face. I didn’t know what to do so I ran outside to the barn and hid in the hay bales. Father had a temper and when he got upset, it was best to stay out his way. But he rarely seemed to remember how bad his outbursts got.
One night, Cece had burnt the stew and in a furious rant, he had thrown his mug of apple cider across the table; it crashed on the wall and shards flew every which way, one slicing a jagged cut across my eye. Cece dressed the wound that night but in the morning father didn’t even remember what he had done. “ What happened to your eye?” he had asked gruffly. Cece had cut in saying I had fell down the stairs that morning. It happened quite frequently but Cece and I had gotten used to it. I was sure that father would not remember this incident in the morning either.
  I hid in those bails for what seemed like hours; silently listening to the enraged screams of my father and sobs of Cece until suddenly, I heard a huge crash and there was silence. I ran out the barn, tripping over my skirts trying to reach the house as icy tendrils of dread found their way to my heavily beating heart. Opening the door, I spied the lanky frame of father bent over the still form of Cece. Hiding in the shadows, I watched him gently pick her up and make his way to the back kitchen door. I followed him as he trudged through our yard to the woods, Cece’s powder blue skirts drifting in the wind. What could he be doing, I wondered silently as we neared the roaring sound of the rapids.
   I was careful to keep my steps quiet, and swallowed my sobs as I watched him step on the bridge that connected the two sides of the river. He looked out across the grey turning water, a look of pure evil painted on his face; it chilled me to the bone and I insignificantly shivered. He couldn't be doing what I thought. Father couldn’t do something like that. Not to Cece. Not to me. But the look on that man’s face what not the look of the man I called father and I stifled a scream as his hands loosened their grip on Cece’s petite body. She fell like a stone, splashing into the waves, their turbulent embrace carrying her still powder blue form roughly down the river, mercilessly tossing her against rocks and logs.
“ No!” I screamed shrilly. “ No!”
Father slowly turned his gaze to me and I saw what I can only explain as sadistic satisfaction pass through his eyes. I swiftly backed up; tripping over branches, unable to break his fixed stare which seemed to peer in the darkest crannies of my soul. I turned around and ran home, stumbling up the stairs to my room. I shut the door and fell into my bed, shocked with what I had just witnessed. He was sure to come and kill me too. I knew it. I stayed under my covers, listening for any sign of father. The door downstairs squeaked as it was opened and I heard the unmistakable sound of a man’s footsteps making their way up the stairs.  I was shaking uncontrollably when I heard him come into the room and kneel by my bed. I squeezed my eyes shut, waiting for the killing blow.
“ Sonia? Are you asleep?” father whispered. I froze, holding my breath and pretended to sleep. I felt the bed lower as he sat down and a whiff of cool air as the covers were lifted from my head. “ Goodnight daughter,” he said tenderly, placing a soft kiss on my forehead. I felt the bed return to its original shape and he walked out, softly closing the door behind him. I let out a heavy breath, releasing its hold on my lungs in amazement. Father always came in and gave me a kiss before I went to bed. He never did it to Cece but for as long as I could remember, he had done it to me. Than it hit me. He wouldn’t remember what he had done to Cece in the morning. It was just like all his other rants. He would forget all actions from the previous night, and in the morning everything would be normal for him.
  I didn’t sleep most of that night but fell asleep at the crack of dawn. I awoke to the banging knock on the front door. “ Mr. Perry, I think you’d better come out here,” our next door neighbor who lived down the road two miles said. I heard father get out his bed, “ Yes Mccarthy, one moment. Try to keep it down, my girls are still sleeping.”
I let out a sigh of relief. Father sounded normal. I must have dreamed all those horrible things last night. I ran to the window and peered out curiously. But reality hit me like a ton of bricks when I saw a stiff human body covered by canvas in the back of Mr. Mccarthy's wagon, a torn piece of powder blue fabric peeking out from under the drab covering. I gasped in horror, quickly sprinting back to the bed, pulling the covers over my head as fast I could; trying to somehow block the memories from the night before that were now bombarding my mind. I lay there waiting for the inevitable gasp from father when he saw the body, for I knew he would not remember his actions of last night.
  The funeral is today. I’m dressed in a black lace dress with a woolen peacoat. Father is seated next to me and I spy the anguished face of Alberto. His pained eyes meet mine and I doubt they will ever sparkle again. He deserves to know about Cece; but he won’t for I cannot tell him. That would just lead to questions.
“ Come Sonia, it's time for the photo,” father says gently, taking my hand and leading me to the still form of Cece who is lying in her coffin. I stand on one side, father on the other, and place my hand atop the folded ones of Cece’s. Staring into the lens of the camera, I cry inwardly for the two lives lost; Cece’s and her unborn child’s.
So you see it is not my fault. And I cannot say anything to anyone about father for that other man was not him. If I am a good girl, the other father will not visit again.