He had clicked his fingers, made my eardrum itch. ‘There’s a door. Shut it and you’ve got a separate space.’
At twenty-one, I knew my room was still decorated in fantasy. On a dark-wood desk: a world globe, a photograph of me sitting on Mother’s knee, a postcard of the Paris opera house (found in my aunt’s travel case), a set of charcoals. On a shelf: encyclopaedias, a collection of sheet music, a small leather-bound Bible given to me by John. After Mother died, he had hoped I would use it to find a way to God, to find peace and acceptance. I did not want to accept. For a time, I had blamed Lizzie. If she had been more of a loving child, Mother would have had more reason to stay by our sides. The dust that Bible has collected.
Right there in the silent house, all alone, I lifted my skirt above my ankles and removed my stockings, was shocked at how pale I was. Then I took my skirt off. How I could move. I went down to the sitting room, sat on Father’s sofa, rested my head on the backboard and widened my legs, a mimic of manhood. I had invaded my father’s space. I had thoughts of how I would run the household if I were in charge. If this could be a future, I had much to look forward to. I smiled.
A small pigeon flew into the closed window, its breast bone slamming hard before its beak tapped on the glass. I pulled my legs together, sat up straight, calmed my heart. I looked down at my half-nakedness. Should I be ashamed? The day for being myself was over.
Helen called out again. ‘Emma, tea is ready.’
I made my way to the kitchen. Helen had made banana pancakes, had set a pot of apple marmalade on the table. ‘How did you sleep?’ she asked.
‘I am afraid to say that I was a bit too excited about the class to sleep properly.’
‘Are you sure you’re not ten?’ Helen poured tea, poured milk, dolloped cream, blew brown hair out of her eyes.
‘Not cute, Helen.’ Laughter.
We buttered pancakes. Helen looked at me, said, ‘Are you alright? You look like you’ve got a plague of hives.’
‘I’m fine.’ But I knew this feeling. It was happening again. Years before I had heard Abby complain to Dr Bowen of rising temperatures, of volcanic anger. He had said nothing and Abby continued to live with her moods and weeping eyes. Then I started to feel it too, like a strange hereditary gift, this thing that was traded from woman to woman, whether it was wanted or not. It was the same when I first menstruated. For a long time, I thought I was defective, broken inside. I was late to it all; seventeen. The last of my friendship circle to be seen as a woman. My friends made fun of me but Abby had been kind about it. ‘I was late too. Once we get this, it’s there for years.’ The way she insisted on ‘we’, like she and I were from the same seed.
‘Look on the bright side,’ she said, stroked my shoulder. ‘You’ll be able to be a mother now.’ I considered what growing a baby might be like, the expectation of children. Once, after baby Alice died, I foolishly prayed to God that she would be returned to me, come live in my body. I would do what mothers did and push out screaming skin, and together we would pick up our sisterhood where it had left off and live happily ever after. Then Lizzie came along. Would I be disappointed if my daughter was not like Alice, turned out like Lizzie instead: one part love, one part brilliance, one part mystery?
‘If it’s so good, why don’t you have children?’ I did not mean it the way it came out; unkind.
Abby shrugged. ‘Sadly, that’s how life goes sometimes. We don’t get everything we want when we want. You’ll learn that eventually.’ Something about what she said felt instantly true, made me hate her.
We heard carts roll down the street, heavy wood grinding into stone at the mill. Helen yawned, made me do it too. Funny how doing so little makes you tired. ‘I guess I should start my day properly,’ Helen said.
‘Or not. You should relax.’ I caught myself in my ear. I almost sounded like Lizzie.
‘If I don’t get this baking done, there won’t be anything for the Woman’s Temperance Union to sell on Saturday.’
‘That’s why you need a maid. Lizzie usually gets Bridget to bake for her chapter.’
‘I wouldn’t expect anything less,’ Helen said.
‘Still. Bridget’s soda bread raises a lot of money.’
We sipped our tea. Then Helen said, ‘You should probably get yourself ready for your big afternoon.’
I looked at the little gold watch hanging from my chest. Ten o’clock. The day was slipping. I let it go, and it swung a pendulum. ‘I think I’ll go outside, let the day inspire me.’
Helen clapped. ‘Marvellous.’
I dug out a notebook and pencil and headed for the empty lot behind Helen’s house. I sat in direct sunlight. Everything around me glowed and for a moment I understood how it was possible for Lizzie to believe in God as strongly as she did. The leaves on trees; slow movements of branches; the way the wind blew wheat grass; patterns that were made then erased: this was what I sketched. When I was still at school, I used to draw pictures for Father. I gave my best drawing—‘Landscape with horse’—to him as a gift. I went to Father while he was in his bedroom, took a gamble that I would be allowed in. I had wanted a private moment between us, and I anticipated his compliments. ‘Emma, so beautiful.’
And he would kiss me on the forehead.
But when I gave it to him he said nothing more than, ‘Oh.’ He cleared his throat. He put the drawing on the ground. ‘Go find out what your sister is up to.’
Out I went, shut the door. My fingers curled into small deflated balls.
I found myself drawing a small child who was playing in the nearby creek. I made it plump, like Lizzie had been. I drew the baby’s head large, gave it a mass of curls, a butterfly wing mouth, soft blubber cheeks. This cherub of a being.
There have been times when Lizzie was away from home that I nursed absence. Always two ways of feeling: relief and loneliness. The longest absence between us was when Lizzie took her grand European tour. Only thirty and seeing the world. I cried foul: as the eldest, I had been denied my chance, more than once, was told that I had far greater responsibility at home, that the family, one of Fall River’s richest, couldn’t afford it. I suspected that the real reason Father didn’t want me to go to Europe was because he knew I would never come back, would encourage Lizzie to move out of the house too. And if I wasn’t housebound, I wasn’t Borden-bound. And he would be right.
When Lizzie had asked Father over dinner if she could travel with our cousins, he said, ‘Yes, of course.’ He sounded almost joyous.
Lizzie had not mentioned any plans to me. That sneak.
Abby wiped a napkin over her mouth and smiled, showed her greying teeth. ‘We know how much this means to you, Lizzie. You’re going to have a wonderful time.’
Lizzie grinned triumph. ‘Emma, isn’t this so marvellous and unexpected?’
I was furious, lost my appetite. ‘Very.’