The Letting Go

by Deborah Markus

  I’ve always stayed holidays here, and she’s never asked why I have to. I used to wonder if she knew more than I’d told her, but she would never have let me stay at Hawthorne at all if that were the case.

  Maybe she thinks I’m Harry Potter.

  Ms. Lurie took a deep breath. “I’m not bringing this up to pressure you,” she said. “I want you to know your options, that’s all. So let me just say very quickly that the minute you feel up to talking, really talking—”

  “Ms. Lurie—”

  “—I can find someone kind and helpful who’ll come here on your own terms. No questions, no pressure, no judgment. Someone safe.”

  “I don’t—”

  “And if money is any kind of issue—well, it isn’t. I promise. Don’t even think along those lines.”

  I shook my head, unable to speak.

  I haven’t been able to cry in a long time, which is just as well, but now I felt a sort of background possibility of tears. Furious tears, if that makes sense.

  Oh, Ms. Lurie.

  Money problems are the only problems I don’t have.

  Heaven is large—is it not? Life is short too, isn’t it? Then when one is done, is there not another, and—and—

  When early death was more common, belief in a joyful afterlife was widespread. And those who saw no hope for happiness in this life—the desperately poor, the slaves who wouldn’t be freed until Dickinson was thirty-five years old and even then they didn’t exactly have a great time—pinned all their hopes on the ever after.

  Sometimes I think I should do that. Wouldn’t it be easier to accept the coldness of this life if it were the preface to an eternity of warmth?

  But that’s assuming I can make myself believe any such thing. And belief doesn’t seem to be available for the asking. Not for me, at least.

  Anyway, that consolation prize seems too vague, too far away. I can’t let myself think along those lines too often, because instead of feeling more resigned to my joyless, solitary state, I feel angry.

  I don’t want Heaven.

  I want life.

  I noticed people disappeared,

  When but a little child,—

  I was lying on my bed in a pleasant daze of milk and honeybuns for dinner, reading a little and thinking nothing at all, when I heard stealthy footsteps, and then a quiet rustling.

  No.

  I didn’t look for a minute. If I waited long enough, maybe whatever it was would be swallowed up in silence and disappear.

  But the note that had just been pushed under my door was still there when I finally managed to move enough to pick it up.

  If giving you this counts as a violation of terms,

  I’ll be the one to leave Hawthorne. Don’t let that

  thought worry you, either. I’d be delighted to ruin

  my parents’ holiday plans by showing up under the

  tree, like something Krampus dropped.

  Is it getting close to the holidays? I haven’t been keeping track.

  At any rate—I have to talk to you. In person. I

  wouldn’t say this if it weren’t absolutely crucial.

  And then I’ll leave, if that’s what you need. Or I’ll

  stay and never speak again. Word of honor.

  I’m not saying this so I can plead my case or fight for

  visitation rights or anything like that. And I wouldn’t

  be saying anything if it weren’t important. I promise.

  I’ll tap on your door later. If you don’t want to talk

  in your room, I’ll wait for you in the library.

  I know you don’t want to do this, and I know you’re

  not doing very well right now. That’s actually part

  of why I think it’s important that I say what I need

  to say. I think it might help.

  Also, I’m terrified of waking up one morning and

  learning you’ve been shipped off to a sanatorium or

  something. Ms. Lurie won’t tell us anything except

  that you’re not to be disturbed as long as you’re in

  your room and if you do come out, we can’t make a

  big deal out of it or she’ll tie us to a tree and leave us

  for the wolves to eat.

  I’m pretty sure Ms. Lurie didn’t say it like that.

  Please, Emily.

  Don’t say that. Don’t plead with me.

  I don’t want to hear her pleading, and in spite of what she promised, I’m sure that’s what she’s going to do.

  If that isn’t what she wants—I honestly don’t want to hear whatever she thinks is so important.

  I don’t mean I don’t want to see her and hear her because yes of course I do. I want it more than anything.

  I just don’t think I’m up to this, whatever this is.

  Can I tell her to please wait until at least tomorrow? Maybe a few more tomorrows than that?

  Of course I can. I can tell her whatever I want to. She can’t force me to do anything.

  If I’m so powerful, why am I sitting here trying to remember how to move?

  So I pull my

  Stockings off

  Wading in the

  Water

  For the Disobedience’

  Sake

  I don’t want to talk to her in here. I absolutely can’t do that.

  It’s easier not to, anyway. She’ll knock and I won’t answer and then she’ll wander off to wait for me. Simple.

  And if we’re in the library and she says something I don’t want to hear, I can just leave. Easier than trying to boot her out of my room.

  But then I have to go all the way to the library.

  What if someone wakes up and sees me?

  What if I get halfway there and freeze?

  If I need to lie down in there, there’s only the floor—and I feel so tired so much of the time these days.

  It’s exhausting existing.

  This morning I had to rest between brushing my teeth and washing my face. Ridiculous.

  But I can’t let her in here. I can’t.

  If I don’t say Come in and I don’t follow her down the hall, this doesn’t happen. It’s up to me.

  None of this is up to me.

  My will endeavors for its word

  And fails

  This can’t be

  This isn’t possible

  She can’t

  My Heart opon a

  little Plate

  Her Palate to Delight

  She told me everything.

  In here. Not in the library.

  Why not in here?

  Everything is out of my control now. It always was, really.

  I might as well throw a tea party for the world.

  I should

  not dare to

  be so sad

  So many

  years again—

  A Load is

  first impossible

  When we

  have put it

  down—

  I couldn’t speak when she knocked on the door, but I could open it and so I did.

  Her face spoke whole paragraphs—first startled surprise, almost shyness (M, shy?), and seriousness mixed with uncertainty; and then shock and dismay as she took in my appearance.

  “Emily,” she tried, just managing to keep her voice down. “Oh sweet Saint Lucy, you look awful.”

  “I do?” Ms. Lurie hadn’t mentioned that, but of course she wouldn’t. And it’s not the kind of thing I’d notice about myself.

  “You look as if you’ve never even heard of the sun.”

  “I’m always pale. You know that.” It was my turn to be startled, this time at how easy it was to talk to her now that it was actually happening.

  “Not like this, you’re not. And you’re creepy skinny, too. You look like the madwoman in the attic if she’d been living on rats the whole time.”

  “Well, I haven’t,” I said. “It’s been like breakfast the day Stephen James
died three times a day in here. Haven’t you seen the things Miss Miller’s been baking for me?”

  M shook her head, and I was amazed to see she was blinking back tears. I never thought I’d live to see the day, as Jonella would say.

  “I think maybe she always wanted to be a pastry chef,” I said. “I don’t know what the rest of you have been living on, but when she cooks for me, it’s like butter and sugar are the only things she’s ever even heard of.” I forced my voice to be brusque. “And I’m fine. I would have asked Ms. Lurie to tell you that if I’d known you were so interested. Could have saved us both a lot of trouble.”

  M looked at me, very steadily now. “No,” she said. “No more of that. No more playing games. That’s what I came to talk to you about.”

  She stepped all the way inside my room and closed the door quietly behind her, and then she said a name I haven’t heard in a long time. One that’s always in the back of my mind, but that I never thought I’d hear from anyone else again.

  “It’s you, isn’t it?” she asked.

  Think Emily lost her wits—

  I’d been standing near my bed as she spoke, so I managed to sit on that rather than falling down completely.

  It felt like falling, though, and maybe it looked it too because suddenly M was right next to me, looking worried but determined. “Emily,” she said. She picked up my pillow and tried to put it behind me, but I grabbed it and clutched it in my lap, drawing away from her. I needed something to hold. I needed something between us.

  We both stared at each other for a minute. I can only guess how I must have looked.

  And then at the same time, we both said, “Does Ms. Lurie know?”

  She dealt her pretty

  words—like Blades—

  M smiled a little. “I haven’t told her,” she said. “I take it you haven’t, either.”

  I shook my head numbly. What a stupid question.

  “I kind of figured you hadn’t,” she said. “She does tend to see below the surface, though.”

  I shook my head again. Ms. Lurie is sweet and good and caring, but even she has a sense of self-preservation. And she certainly has a stated duty to preserve the other selves who live here.

  Speaking of which:

  “Why?” I managed.

  M was looking at me much too calmly. “Why what?”

  I didn’t know where to start. “Why … why are you here? Why are you telling me this?”

  Why are you stupid enough to be alone with me if you even suspect who and what I am? Why aren’t you running off to tell everyone and rid the premises of this threat?

  Now M looked perplexed. “Why wouldn’t I tell you? I mean, how couldn’t I? Once I knew. Or thought I knew, at least.”

  My heart gave a little drop, which shouldn’t have hurt considering it was only going back where it belonged. “Of course,” I said. “You had to be sure.”

  “Sure? Emily, why are you talking like that?” She looked around, almost in exasperation. “Look, can I sit down, please?” She clearly wanted to sit next to me, but instead she pulled the chair away from my desk and close to my bed. “All right?”

  I said nothing.

  “Emily,” she said. “Look, you know I’m a crap liar.”

  I just waited.

  “I didn’t know right away,” she went on. “Obviously I would have mentioned it. But—”

  “How?”

  She sighed. She was fully dressed in spite of the late hour, and now she looked down and pleated some of the colorful fabric of her long skirt between her fingers.

  “I think a lot of things just added up after a while,” she said. “Not any one thing in particular, just—everything. Things you’ve said. The way you talk. The way you push everyone away. How you acted—and how you didn’t act—when Stephen James showed up. There was nothing wrong with any of it,” she added quickly. “You didn’t do anything wrong. I mean, sure, you’re an awards-caliber bitch to everyone but me and Ms. Lurie when you’re not pretending to be made of marble—”

  “Yeah, I’ve been adorable to you,” I said. The idea of that being anywhere near true shocked me as much as anything that had happened tonight.

  She laughed a little. “As a matter of fact, you have.”

  “Look, can we just get to the point?” I said. “How do you know who I am?” And what are you planning to do now?

  “It was your face,” she said quietly. “When they brought you back from—you know.”

  Sweet of her to be worried about saying something that might upset me.

  “Your eyes were huge,” she said. “It made you look ten years younger. And your hair was kind of ruffled and mussed up. It was curling around your face—you don’t usually let it do that. And I realized it looked familiar. I’ve always had a good eye for faces, and all of a sudden yours looked just like it did when you were little.”

  I think I must have dropped away for a second—from consciousness, from the planet—because then she was sitting right next to me, clutching one of my hands urgently. “Emily!”

  “You knew me?” I couldn’t recognize my voice, couldn’t even make out the words.

  Neither could M, apparently. “What? Emily, please, breathe. Talk to me. Do you need some water? I can get—”

  “How do you know what my face used to look like?” I tried again. “Were you—have we—”

  She understood me this time, thank God. “No, no, Emily, we’ve never met. Not before Hawthorne, I mean. I just—I saw a picture of you once. One from when you were little.”

  I shook my head, baffled.

  “It was in a book,” M said. “My mother had one of those true-crime books about—what happened to you. What happened around you.” She took a deep breath. “God, I’m sorry. She’s an idiot. And I was just a kid myself.”

  We both sat silently for a minute. I realized dimly that she was still holding on to my hand.

  “I saw your face in a photograph,” she said again. “I think it stuck so hard in my mind because before that, the whole story seemed so—God, just so over-the-top horrible—I couldn’t believe it was real. And then I saw that picture and, no, really, this is the girl it happened to, this really did happen—”

  “Which one was it?” For some reason I felt a little calmer now. Maybe because M was starting to lose her self-control. We couldn’t both go into hysterics. Not at the same time.

  “Which picture?”

  “Which book.”

  “Oh.” Now it was M’s turn to calm down a bit and think about it. “There was more than one?”

  I gave a cough that might pass for a laugh. “Was it the one where the writer thinks my aunt did it, or the one where they think there are really three different murderers, or the one where they say my father—”

  “Oh. God. The first one. With the thing about your aunt, I mean. Yes, that must have been the one because I remember being terrified—which wasn’t something I felt very often, believe me—thinking about a real little girl having to live with someone who—”

  “It wasn’t her,” I said. “Trust me. Aunt Paulette is all kinds of awful, but she didn’t do it. She adored my father, and she hated having to take care of me after he died.”

  “Oh, Emily.”

  “At least I didn’t have to live with her all that long. Not my whole life or anything, I mean. And I never have to go back to her now. I never have to see her again.”

  “Good.” M squeezed my hand.

  “That hurts.”

  “Sorry.” But she didn’t let go.

  Could you believe me without? I had no portrait, now, but am small, like the wren; and my hair is bold, like the chestnut burr; and my eyes, like the sherry in the glass that the guest leaves.

  Dickinson was lying when she wrote that letter. She did have a photograph of herself, taken when she was about my age. She just didn’t feel like sharing it.

  It’s the only for-sure photo of Dickinson that exists, so all the biographies and poetry collec
tions use it on their covers.

  Her hair is pulled tightly away from her face, with a part in the middle. You’d never know looking at it that she was a redhead. Her nose is broad and her lips are thick with just a hint of a smile, and her eyes are a mystery to me. Sometimes they seem frightened. Sometimes she looks mischievous, almost daring. Sometimes she looks frighteningly human—young and serious, trying hard to get this pose right and get it over with.

  The biographers figured out a while ago that this picture of Dickinson was taken by some traveling photographer, but they used to think it was taken while she was at boarding school. One of the other girls there wrote in her diary about how excited everyone was to sit for their pictures.

  Hawthorne doesn’t have any “school picture” nonsense. It was always ridiculous at my other schools. They made me have them taken, but they couldn’t make me keep them.

  And they didn’t know who I really was, so the official record of images of me ends with whatever picture M looked at with such terror.

  I knew the books were out there and I hated the people who wrote them, but I never thought about the people who read them. Or rather I thought of them as a great faceless mass, or a wake of vultures eager to make a feast of my grief.

  People like M’s mother.

  I never thought of anyone reading my story with terrified sympathy at the thought of all this happening to another girl, a girl her own age, a girl still alive somewhere.

  She thought I was trapped in a gingerbread cottage with my bloodthirsty aunt, waiting to be oven-baked and eaten.

  My face—my picture stayed in her mind.

  Did she ever dream about me?

  I incur the peril.

  We sat side by side on my bed, me clutching a pillow and M holding my hand.

  “So,” I said. “Now what?”

  “I have no idea.” We both sounded absurdly calm. “I just needed you to know that I knew. I thought—”

  “What?”

  “I don’t know. Like I said in my note. I thought maybe it would help if you knew you weren’t alone with this.”

  I stared at her. “You’re absolutely crazy,” I said.