Another Day as Emily (16 page)

in order.

Next,
Play the piano
.

We don’t have a piano.

I go to Parker’s room.

“Lend me your xylophone.”

He digs it out from his toy box.

I take it back to my room.

I play “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star.”

Over and over.

Dad pokes his head in the doorway.

“Know any other songs, Suzy?

I mean, Emily.

I think we’re just about

twinkled out.”

I roll my eyes, give a loud sigh-groan.

“'Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star’ it is, then,”

says Dad, backing away.

Next it’s Mom who stops by my room.

“I have to drop something off at Dr. Ellis’s.

Want to come with me?”

“I don’t go visiting,” I tell her.

“But I’d appreciate your mailing these

while you’re out.”

I give her the letters I wrote

to Alison and Gilbert.

A few minutes later,

Parker pops by.

It sure isn’t easy

to be a recluse

in this house.

“What do you want?”

I ask.

“I want to visit Ottilie.”

“Who’s Ottilie?”

Parker folds his arms

across his chest.

“Your goldfish, dummy.”

“My goldfish is named Carlo,”

I tell him.

Parker stomps out. “You’re

getting me all mixed up,

Suzy.”

I scream after him:

“I’m Emily!”

He screams back:

“Soooooooozie!”

Mom tells us all to stay out of

the kitchen.

“I’m going to clean and

organize the cupboards.”

“But I was hoping to bake,” I tell her.

“You?” she says. “Or Emily?”

“Mom,” I groan. “I
am
Emily.”

Mom closes her eyes, blows a strand of hair

from her face.

Then she takes her apron off the hook

and drapes it over my head.

“Make way for Emily,” she says,

and leaves the kitchen

to me.

I send Parker

over to Mrs. Harden’s

for her gingerbread recipe.

“And don’t you dare

go anywhere else,” I say.

“I’ll be watching you

from the window.”

Parker comes back

with the recipe

and a letter

from Mrs. Harden.

I tuck the letter

in my pocket.

I’ll read it

after I bake.

But I can’t bake

in this apron.

It was a Christmas gift

from Grandma Fludd.

It’s got a huge cactus

with Christmas lights

all over it.

Emily would never

wear such a

monstrosity.

Her apron would be white.

I dump the cactus.

When the gingerbread is done,

I wrap squares of it

and take them to my room.

“Can I have a piece?” Parker asks.

“Not now,” I tell him.

I close the door.

I read Mrs. Harden’s letter.

Thank you for the lovely rose.

It’s in a vase on the kitchen table,

reminding me of you.

Remember, my dear,

Emily Dickinson did leave her house

on occasion

and walk across the way

to visit her sister-in-law

and dear friend, Susan.

Perhaps I can be

that kind of friend to you.

Come visit.

Anytime.

Fondly,

Mrs. Harden

I do remember.

Emily’s brother, Austin,

married a woman named Susan

(which used to be my name).

Emily could easily slip over

on moonless nights

and not be seen

by anyone.

Maybe on some dark,

moonless night

I will slip over

to Mrs. Harden’s.

But not now—

the sun is still out.

On Sunday morning, Mom asks

if I’m ready for church.

I reply, quoting the first two lines

of an Emily Dickinson poem:

“Some keep the Sabbath going to Church—

I keep it staying at Home.”

Mom looks at her watch.

“You’ve got thirteen minutes.”

I come downstairs

in my long white dress.

Dad gawks at me,

then at Mom.

“She’s wearing
that
?

To church?”

Mom shrugs.

“I’ve seen worse.”

It’s as hard being a recluse

at church

as it is at home.

Everyone in church

is friendly.

A couple people

ask about the dress.

“From the thrift shop,”

I tell them.

They are polite.

They don’t ask

any more questions.

The pastor’s wife says that

I look “quite pretty.”

The custodian asks

if there’s a wedding

he doesn’t know about

on today’s schedule.

He chuckles at

his own humor.

Mom says I can skip

Sunday school

and stay for the sermon,

which I do.

Afterward, I sit in the car

while the rest of the family

heads for the coffee hour.

I see Gilbert and his mom

walking across

the parking lot.

I crouch down so

they won’t notice me.

Finally we go home.

I race to my room,

shut the door,

and flop on the bed.

Who would have thought

being a recluse

could be so

exhausting!

Franky comes over to play

with Parker.

Parker knocks on my door.

I open it a crack.

“What?”

“Can me and Franky have

some gingerbread, Suzy?”

I shut the door.

Parker knocks again.

“I mean some gingerbread,
Emily
?”

“Go stand under my window,” I tell him.

“And wait there.”

I look out

to where Parker

and Franky

are standing—

like I told them—

right below

my window.

I put two

wrapped squares

of gingerbread

in the lidded basket

I found in the attic

and lower it

with a rope.

Parker opens the lid.

Franky grabs

the first piece.

He unwraps it.

He takes a bite.

He spits it out.

“This stinks!”

he calls up to me.

I slam the window shut.

What does a little kid

know about gingerbread,

anyway?

I unwrap a piece

to taste for myself.

It stinks.

I think I forgot

the sugar.

Next on Emily’s list:

Read
.

Easy.

I take down
Jane Eyre
,

a popular novel in the 1800s.

I decide to read aloud

to Ottil—oops—I mean, Carlo.

I haven’t been paying

enough attention to her

lately.

Later in the day,

I realize

I never pulled my basket

back up.

So I do.

It feels a little heavier

than when I lowered it.

I open the lid.

Out pops

a chipmunk!

I’m not usually afraid

of chipmunks.

I think they’re cute.

But when one pops

out at you—

in your bedroom—

it can be terrifying.

I let out a scream.

Dad comes running.

I stand on a chair

and point toward

my desk,

where the thing

darted.

“Chipmunk!” I screech.

Dad gets down on

his hands and knees,