Read Online The Evening Spider by Emily Arsenault - Free Book Online Page A

for me. He had hired a nurse to help me, and he had enlisted Clara’s help for Martha’s care. For the entire month, Martha would stay with her and Jonathan.
    You cannot be serious, Matthew. A month away from her mother? How can that be good for either of us?
    How much nurturing is the child getting with you, Frances? How many evenings have I come home and found you staring into your bubbling stewpots, with Martha squalling in her cradle, or with Tessa trying to comfort her?
    Oh, it had happened but once or twice! He was exaggerating.
    No matter. Matthew had made up his mind and there would be no changing it.
    Dr. Stayer and the hired nurse set up a bed for me in the small room at the top of the stairs. They removed everything from the room except for that bed, a chair, a table, and a tray. The bed was for me, the chair for the nurse.
    And what was I to do for a month in this room?
    Why, rest, of course, Matthew explained. Simply lie on the bed and rest. I was to sit up occasionally to eat rich meals and drink copious amounts of milk. I was to be fattened like a heifer, as apparently I’d grown thin since Martha’s birth.
    There would be no books, no music, no going outdoors, and no visitors. Matthew would of course drop in to check on me, and Dr. Stayer would come weekly to check my progress andmassage my muscles. The nurse—a sturdy young woman with an incessantly foolish smile—also did this to some degree.
    Did you ever think of me, during that month? Did you miss me? Did you know I nearly went mad in the first three days?
    I was saved from madness, however, by the incompetence of the hired nurse. It was clear to me, from the early days, that she was instructed not to leave my side unless I was sleeping. It was easy enough to feign sleep to get rid of her. The first few times, I wasn’t sure what to do with myself. All I could do was sit up in bed and stretch—I feared she would hear me if I stepped onto the floorboards. The first time or two, I amused myself practicing different fancy plaits on my hair. Of course, I couldn’t see the result because I had no mirror, but it kept my hands occupied. When I’d hear the nurse’s footsteps, I’d rush to undo my work and slip back onto my pillow. Sometimes the window was open, but from my position on the bed, I could see only the sky. When clouds were visible, I fancied them animals, and whispered stories about them, pretending Martha was with me to hear them. This endeavor became too painful, however, so I ceased. Thinking of Martha made the void of that room ever more vast. Sometimes it was easiest to forget she existed at all.
    After a few days in that little room, I would often hear my nurse chattering with Tessa downstairs. Her absences lengthened as their friendship developed.
    Twice I stood and plucked tiny yellow moth larvae from the ceiling—cautiously and shakily, as I knew such endeavors had caused this very ordeal. Then I would watch their inching movements atop my hand, or across the hills and valleys of my quilt. I longed to find two at once, so I could race them, but I was never so fortunate.
    I listened for birdcalls and attempted to identify the different types, as Father used to do. No matter that I knew nothing of bird species. Their twitterings were most welcome, and I learned to distinguish between the songs of the three types of birds that appeared to frequent the trees surrounding our house.
    Two particular birds seemed to call out most often. I named them Archibald and Mercy. They did not have the prettiest songs, but they had the most consistent. Nor did they seem to be calling to each other. I decided they were singing for me, reporting the existence of the world and the day outside the narrowing white of that room.
    To this very day, I still often return to thoughts of Archibald and Mercy. After six hours of silent sewing, I close my eyes and listen for their calls coming through the maddening void. Or