Read Online Lizzie Borden by Elizabeth Engstrom - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Elizabeth Engstrom
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knock on Lizzie’s bedroom door and say something, she could say something soft and gentle, or something clever—except that Abby was not a very clever person, not nearly as clever as Lizzie, and they both knew it—she could say something that would touch Lizzie’s heart and have it healed.
But there wasn’t anything. There wasn’t anything she could say.
She’d been over this and over this—a million times in the past few years, trying to reach back to the daughter she had raised. The daughter who thought her older sister had raised her. The daughter who mistakenly believed that blood was thicker than love.
Oh, Lizzie. I want to come up to your room and play .
But she finished her ironing instead, and left the board up for Maggie to put away. She filled a plate with cookies and took them and the shirt up the back stairs to her room.
Abby hung the shirt on a hanger, then pulled it to and fro until it hung just right. Then she hung it on the closet door, ready for Andrew to wear in the morning. And tomorrow when he put it on, he’d never notice that it was new, nor that it was handmade. Abby shook her head. Andrew was preoccupied, as always.
Then she straightened the bed.
Maybe Emma will move to New Bedford. That was a wonderful idea. Even more wonderful, it was Andrew’s suggestion. She wondered if giving Emma money would really encourage her to go. The breath caught in her throat. Then the three of us can be a family again—it’s not too late for Lizzie and me. We’ve shared too many memories for there to be an irreparable chasm between us.
Abby sat on the freshly-tidied bed and felt a tear coming on. I wish Emma would never come back. She began to nibble a cookie. I hope she stays at least a month this time , she thought, finishing that cookie and starting another, and when she comes back, perhaps she’ll be sick to her death.
When the last cookie had been eaten, and the crumbs brushed from her bosom, she went back down to the kitchen for more. She loaded up the plate again, leaving five behind. She looked at the plate and remembered happier times, when she and Lizzie might have shared a plate of cookies and a session with Lizzie’s paper dolls. Oh, how Lizzie loved to play pretend with those dolls!
Maybe this is just the thing, Abby thought. She arranged the cookies nicely on the plate. She’d just knock on Lizzie’s door and say, “Lizzie? I’ve brought you a cookie.” Lizzie’s enthusiasm for paper dolls had of course faded, but she loved her cookies just the same now as she did then. Perhaps the two of them could get in some good chatting, some girl talk over a plate of cookies.
I wonder. Should I bring a tray with tea as well?
No. Don’t make it look too contrived. Make it look casual. Make it look like a spur of the moment decision. This plate of cookies reminded me of you and paperdolls, Lizzie, and I wanted to bring it up to you.
Emma never played with paper dolls. Emma mooned over her dead mother and spoke of death, destruction and hate. Always had, even to the day.
Carrying the plate, Abby went through the dining room to the front hall and looked up the stairs toward Lizzie’s room. She would just go knock on Lizzie’s door and offer her a cookie.
Slowly, she started up the stairs, but at the top, she looked at the door so firmly closed, and Abby knew it was locked. Lizzie would have to be interrupted from whatever she was doing—reading the book from her English friend, probably, and they would share a cookie and have nothing to say to each other. Or, perhaps Lizzie wouldn’t even open the door all the way. She would probably just open it four or five inches, just enough to see who it was and what she wanted. Then a hand would snake out of the open doorway, take a cookie, she would mutter a thank you, she would call me Mrs. Borden , and close the door again. And lock it.
No, Abby thought, perhaps the time is past for that kind of gesture. Perhaps Lizzie will come back to
But there wasn’t anything. There wasn’t anything she could say.
She’d been over this and over this—a million times in the past few years, trying to reach back to the daughter she had raised. The daughter who thought her older sister had raised her. The daughter who mistakenly believed that blood was thicker than love.
Oh, Lizzie. I want to come up to your room and play .
But she finished her ironing instead, and left the board up for Maggie to put away. She filled a plate with cookies and took them and the shirt up the back stairs to her room.
Abby hung the shirt on a hanger, then pulled it to and fro until it hung just right. Then she hung it on the closet door, ready for Andrew to wear in the morning. And tomorrow when he put it on, he’d never notice that it was new, nor that it was handmade. Abby shook her head. Andrew was preoccupied, as always.
Then she straightened the bed.
Maybe Emma will move to New Bedford. That was a wonderful idea. Even more wonderful, it was Andrew’s suggestion. She wondered if giving Emma money would really encourage her to go. The breath caught in her throat. Then the three of us can be a family again—it’s not too late for Lizzie and me. We’ve shared too many memories for there to be an irreparable chasm between us.
Abby sat on the freshly-tidied bed and felt a tear coming on. I wish Emma would never come back. She began to nibble a cookie. I hope she stays at least a month this time , she thought, finishing that cookie and starting another, and when she comes back, perhaps she’ll be sick to her death.
When the last cookie had been eaten, and the crumbs brushed from her bosom, she went back down to the kitchen for more. She loaded up the plate again, leaving five behind. She looked at the plate and remembered happier times, when she and Lizzie might have shared a plate of cookies and a session with Lizzie’s paper dolls. Oh, how Lizzie loved to play pretend with those dolls!
Maybe this is just the thing, Abby thought. She arranged the cookies nicely on the plate. She’d just knock on Lizzie’s door and say, “Lizzie? I’ve brought you a cookie.” Lizzie’s enthusiasm for paper dolls had of course faded, but she loved her cookies just the same now as she did then. Perhaps the two of them could get in some good chatting, some girl talk over a plate of cookies.
I wonder. Should I bring a tray with tea as well?
No. Don’t make it look too contrived. Make it look casual. Make it look like a spur of the moment decision. This plate of cookies reminded me of you and paperdolls, Lizzie, and I wanted to bring it up to you.
Emma never played with paper dolls. Emma mooned over her dead mother and spoke of death, destruction and hate. Always had, even to the day.
Carrying the plate, Abby went through the dining room to the front hall and looked up the stairs toward Lizzie’s room. She would just go knock on Lizzie’s door and offer her a cookie.
Slowly, she started up the stairs, but at the top, she looked at the door so firmly closed, and Abby knew it was locked. Lizzie would have to be interrupted from whatever she was doing—reading the book from her English friend, probably, and they would share a cookie and have nothing to say to each other. Or, perhaps Lizzie wouldn’t even open the door all the way. She would probably just open it four or five inches, just enough to see who it was and what she wanted. Then a hand would snake out of the open doorway, take a cookie, she would mutter a thank you, she would call me Mrs. Borden , and close the door again. And lock it.
No, Abby thought, perhaps the time is past for that kind of gesture. Perhaps Lizzie will come back to
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