Another Day as Emily (18 page)

It’s almost dark.

Mom comes upstairs.

She tells me that she and Dad

are going over to Mrs. Harden’s

to fix a leak in her kitchen.

I’m in charge of Parker.

I make sure he gets into his pj’s

and brushes his teeth.

I ask if he’d like me to

read him a story.

“No,” he says. “I want Tickle Monster.”

“Then good night,” I say.

Parker wails. “I want Tickle Monster!”

“Good night,” I say again.

“It’s not
good
,“ he sniffles.

“It’s a
poopy
night and it’s all

your
fault!”

I wake up thinking about

Tween Time

and wonder if Alison

will go without me.

She only joined

in the first place

because I coaxed her.

Whatever.

Who cares.

Dad is acting

mostly normal.

Not mad like yesterday.

I ask him if he’ll deliver

a letter to Ms. Mott

on his way to work.

He says yes.

But he doesn’t tweak my cheek

or try to tell me some

post-office trivia

from back in the day.

Who cares.

I check the porch basket.

No letters for me.

I hear Gilbert whistling

as he passes my house.

Parker is going

with Franky and

his family

to the pretzel factory.

Who cares.

I feed Carlo.

I make my bed.

I sit by the window

and look out.

Then back to Emily’s list:

Care for sick mother
.

Mom is sitting

at the kitchen table

with her coffee

and her nose in a book.

“How are you feeling today?”

I ask.

She looks up. “I’m fine. But

thanks for asking.”

“You look a little pale,” I tell her.

She smiles. “No makeup yet.”

“How about a nice cup of tea

to perk you up?” I say.

Mom lifts her coffee mug. “I’ve got this.”

“Are your shoulders stiff?” I ask.

“Would you like a shoulder massage?”

“Can I take a rain check on that?” Mom asks.

“As soon as I finish this page

I have to call Dr. Ellis.”

“Sure,” I say.

“Great,” says Mom.

I pat her on the back.

“Feel better soon.”

And I head to my room.

Emily Dickinson seemed to enjoy

playing with her dog, Carlo.

Not surprising—since you can

actually do stuff with a dog:

Teach it tricks.

Take it for a walk.

Play fetch

or tug-of-war.

Groom it.

Pet it.

Enter it in shows.

Even volunteer it

for work in schools

or nursing homes.

Try doing any of that

with a goldfish.

Listen to the crickets
.

Well, I can’t do that now.

It’s only 9:30 a.m.

I go back to

Read
.

I pick up
Emma

by Jane Austen.

I remember how much

I liked the miniseries.

No TV for me anymore,

though.

Ah well—don’t grown-ups

always say

the book is better?

I read.

All.

Morning.

Long.

I decide

not to wait

until noon

for lunch.

At 11:49

I hear something.

Visitors?

I peek downstairs.

It’s just Mom

dusting the living room.

“Emily Dickinson

hated to dust,” I tell her.

“Hmmmm,” says Mom.

“I think I’ll get some lunch,”

I say.

Silence—except for

the swish of the dust cloth.

“Anything good

in the fridge?” I ask.

“Pasta salad.”

“You think Emily Dickinson

ate pasta salad?”

Mom stops dusting.

She gives me a look.

I know that look.

“Pasta salad it is,” I say.

I eat by myself.

Then it’s back to my room.

I tell Carlo about Dad and how

he hardly spoke to me at breakfast.

And now Mom—all grumpy.

And Alison—some friend she turned out to be.

“What is wrong with people?” I say.

Carlo swims into her underwater castle.

No comment.

Emily wrote a lot about

the stuff around her.

The garden.

A bird outside her window.

A clock.

A fly.

She also wrote a lot about

death.

I guess I’ll stick to

the stuff around me.

Here goes …

Here’s to my goldfish,

my desk, and my chair.

Here’s to the sneakers

I no longer wear.

Here’s to a hair clip,

a comb, and a mug.

Here’s to the fly

that is dead

on the rug.

I guess it’s all part of being

a poet—

this death stuff.

Even without meaning to

I got it into my poem.

I have a title for another

death poem.

How about

“Bored to Death”?

Except

I’m too bored

to write it.

Time is a worm.

It crawls.

How did Emily

stand it?

I’m ready to

wimp out,

crack up,

give in,

and go back to being

plain old Suzy.

Then Mom comes up

to my room.

Mom tells me that

the Capras

have invited

all the neighbors over

for lasagna

and homemade

ice cream.

“And live music,”

she says.

Mr. Capra’s nephew

is bringing his guitar.

I shrug.

“Sounds like fun,”

says Mom.

“I can’t go,” I tell her.

Mom throws her hands up

into the air.

“Of course you can go.”

“I’m Emily,” I remind her.

“I stay home.”

Mom takes a deep breath.

I wait for her to coax

just a little.

But she doesn’t.

She simply says,

“Suit yourself.”

And goes out the door.

Mrs. Capra sends Dad home

with a plate for me:

lasagna, salad, and bread.

Also a small container of

strawberry ice cream.

I wait for Dad to coax me

to come over.

One teeny-tiny coax

and I might topple.

But Parker is with him,

yanking at his shirt.

“Let’s go, Daddy.

We’re missing all the fun!”

I take a couple bites

of lasagna.

And a spoonful of ice cream.

But I’m not hungry.

Music and laughter

spill across the air

into my window.

I slip into my nightie,

into my bed.

I pull the sheet

over my head.

Still the happy sounds.

But do you think

anyone,

anyone at all,

is asking,

“Where’s Suzy?—

I mean, where’s Emily?”

Ha!

Fat chance of that.

My heart feels like an egg

that has cracked—

sad is seeping out of me.

A tear is rolling down my cheek.

But who cares?