Agatha

by Joyce Tremel

Agatha. God, she hated that name. Who in the world would name their child Agatha in this day and age? Oh, wait. Her adoptive parents, that's who. She hated them, and not just because of her name. For the last seventeen—almost eighteen years—they'd made her life a living hell. She was more of a servant than a daughter. She'd been scrubbing commodes since she was big enough to hold a toilet brush. It was a wonder they hadn't named her Cinderella.

For her entire life, The Bitch and The Bastard made it very clear that she was adopted. They told everyone they met how “special” their daughter was, how she was “chosen.” Only Agatha knew what a load of crap that was. If she was chosen for anything, it was for her ability to clean and cook.

That would come to an end, and soon.

Agatha began searching for her birth parents a year earlier. The official records were sealed, but she lucked out when she stumbled on an internet site where parents posted ads looking for their children they'd given up for adoption. She wrote them a letter and now she sat with the reply on her lap, afraid to open it. Agatha's hands shook as she lifted the envelope and studied the return address. Her parents—her real parents, only lived one town over. Had The Bitch and The Bastard known that?

Agatha slipped her thumb under the flap and opened the envelope. She took a deep breath as she spread the letter out on her lap.

“Dearest Michelle.” Her real name was Michelle! Such a pretty name. She let it sink in for moment, then continued reading. Her heart pounded as she read about how happy they were to find her. How they never wanted to give up their baby, but they were so young at the time and their parents convinced them it was the right thing to do. How the childhood sweethearts married just a year later and had never been able to have another child. But now they had their Michelle back!

Agatha—no her name was Michelle now—read the letter again, savoring every word. Her real parents were coming to see her in two weeks. And she was damned if she'd let The Bitch and The Bastard ruin it. After that visit, she'd never clean another toilet again. She would make sure of it.

Michelle squeezed the last lemon into the pitcher, added the precise amount of sugar and filled it with water. Heaven forbid the lemonade wasn't made to The Bitch's and The Bastard's exact specification. After tasting it to be sure, Michelle took a small vial from her pocket and emptied it into the glass pitcher. She gave it a final stir, wiped off the pitcher, then put it in the fridge beside the plastic jug of store bought lemonade that was always served to guests. No fresh lemonade for them. Or her, for that matter.

Michelle hurried off the school bus, looking at her watch. Her parents were due to arrive in less than thirty minutes, and she wanted everything to be perfect. She'd be going home with them in just a few hours. As she turned the corner onto her street her heart practically leaped into her throat. An ambulance, two police cars, and a coroner's van were parked in front of her house. The Bitch and The Bastard must have had their lemonade a little early. This was even better than she planned.

As she reached the house, a police officer stopped her. “Whoa, there, miss. You can't come any closer.”

“But I live here,” Michelle said, putting a concerned expression on her face. She was suddenly glad for being in the drama club at school. “What's going on? Where are my parents?”

“We're right here, Agatha. Mummy and Daddy are okay.”

Michelle spun around at the sound of the voice. No—it couldn't be!

The Bastard put a hand on her shoulder. “We don't know what happened. We gave them some fresh lemonade—only the best for the people who gave us our Agatha—and they went into some kind of fit and collapsed. I'm afraid they made quite a mess of the dining room rug. You'll have a time cleaning that up.”

Michelle stared at him, then at the two stretchers being brought out of the house. Before the officer zipped up the second body bag, she got a glimpse of hair the same color as hers.

Michelle sat in the living room with her adoptive parents while detectives questioned them about what happened. Her mind was racing. What was she going to do now? Her parents were dead! The Bitch and the Bastard were not going to get away with it. She was not spending another minute with them. And she knew just what to do.

Michelle stood up. “I need to get a drink of water, please.” In the kitchen, she removed the empty vial that she'd been carrying in her pocket and wiped off her fingerprints. Then she untied her shoe, got a quick drink and headed back.

When Michelle reached the living room doorway, she pretended to trip over her shoelace and let the vial drop to the floor. She tied her shoe and as she began walking, she let the tip of her shoe nudge the vial toward the detective.

“What's this?” he said. He pulled a glove from his pocket, put it on and picked up the vial.

The Bitch and The Bastard denied any wrongdoing, but when the jury heard Michelle's story of abuse at their hands, and that the only fingerprints on the pitcher belonged to The Bitch, and the poison had been purchased using The Bastard's credit card, they were convicted in record time.

Leaving the courtroom, Michelle stopped to speak to the reporters who gathered outside.

“Agatha, how do you feel knowing they'll spend the rest of their lives in prison for killing your parents?”

“Is it true they're making a movie about your life?”

“Yes, it's true.” She smiled and wiped a tear from her eye. “And my name is Michelle…”