After Alice Fell(8)

Theresa Messer—1855

The summer Mother died, wasted and anguished with pain. The summer Alice turned fourteen and suddenly refused to speak.

Lydia Snow—1862

I did not make the funeral. We are too much entangled in war, I wrote. Alice will be of good use for the boy, as I am of good use for the Union.

Alice’s return letter was a drawing of me splayed on the lily pads, the creatures crouched on my abdomen and poking the sockets of my eyes with the tip of a gnarled walking stick.

Smoketown Hospital, MD Nov 1862

Dear Alice,

Your letter (drawing) was much disturbing and I am distressed enough as it be. If this is my punishment for not attending Lydia’s funeral, if this is so—to have this horrible drawing seared in my mind—then it is too much. If this is to tell me you are angry, it is too much. I am full here with terrible enough scenes, and men in pieces and many ill with dysentery and some will not make it home.

Sister, you must look to the sunlight. You do remember that, to look away from the dark. You must be a good aunt now for that little child.

I must go. It is far late. I am sending two dollars and this bead bracelet as a token of my everlasting love to you. It is simple, yes, but it sparkles in the light.

As ever yours

—M

There is no air tonight. I’ve left the windows thrown open on the off chance of a whisper of breeze. I twist on the bedsheets, searching for a spot less hot than the space I just occupied.

The clock ticks, though I cannot see the time. Late, I know. I sent Toby from the room, listened to the squeaks and groans of the floorboards as Cathy took him to bed, took herself to her room. Lionel calling a goodnight from the landing and knocking the balustrade with his knuckles, just as Father did for us. Then later, his footfall on the stairs. The latch of the kitchen door as Saoirse locks up, then treks across the gravel drive to the road and the cottage at the crossing she shares with Elias.

I squeeze my eyes shut, clench my fists to my stomach, wish for sleep. Listen to the tick of the clock. But images sift and turn: strange Kitty scuttling along the stone fence, the pipes of the asylum basement, the lavender I crushed to powder, the marbled green of Alice’s stomach as if she were transforming to stone.

I breathe through my nose, in and out, my limbs so heavy against the bed. Bones without muscle.

Tink tink tink.

The noise comes from the hall. I pull my robe from the bed iron, shrug it on, then lift the candle and turn the doorknob.

The light slips across the parquet on the floor, creeping up the walls and through the pattern of irises and mourning doves. I can see us all, hear us—Lionel and Alice and I, tumbling down the stairs to the landing. A snow day. Father waiting out front with the sleds. Mother leaning off the top railing.

“You make sure Alice has her mittens,” she calls down, her voice still strong, her cheeks ruddy with life.

Lionel shoves his arms in his coat, then winds a wool scarf round and round his neck. He’s taller than me, whisper thin, and knobby at the knees and elbows. When did he grow so?

I lift Alice’s coat from a hook. “Come on. Father will turn into a penguin.”

“Where’d you hide all the mittens?” Lionel leans over the storage bench, digging through and then lifting out the pairs. He twists round, kneeling to Alice. “Hold out your hands, little bluebird.”

I button my jacket to the neck and grab my wool cap. “Don’t forget her hat, Lionel.”

“I won’t forget the hat.”

“I don’t want a hat,” Alice says, and shakes her curls.

“You’ll take your hat,” I say.

“I’ll be ten on Friday and you won’t be able to tell me what to do anymore.”

“That’s right.” Lionel stands with his palms on his hips. “You’ll rule the house and all the world. And Marion will have to listen to you instead of us having to listen to her.”

I watch the ghosts of us that linger still, that rush out the door and let in the blistering cold. Trudging to Wagon Hill in our snowshoes and Alice bobbing along on Father’s shoulders. Lionel and I dragging the sled and blowing air that freezes to spirals.

A scrape of a chair in Lionel’s study pulls me back from the memory. A swirl of tobacco smoke floats through the half-drawn door just across from the stairs. Then he is there, leaning his shoulder against the doorframe. He’s in robe and slippers, his hair mussed on one side. “Am I making too much noise? Or are you looking for a drink too?”

“Do you remember taking the sleds to Wagon Hill?”

He blinks and squints at the wall, his eyes flicking back and forth, as if he’s flipping the pages of a book. “Huh. I haven’t thought . . .” He swallows and gestures for me to enter. The room is as small as mine, stuffed with an overlarge desk, two low leather chairs, and a round rosewood table upon which lie his pipe and an empty glass.

“Take a seat.”

The chair is well worn, the arms cracked and darkened with oils. Lionel’s had more than one drink; his movements are too thought out. He leans close to the cabinet. “I know you’re not a sherry drinker. Whiskey or rum?”

“Whiskey.”

With a half smile, he pulls the bottle from a shelf and holds it to the light. Makes a show of pouring the liquor for us. “It’s a little rough. You’ll need sugar.”