bed was bare, the coverings washed and to be washed again. Dr. Bigelow had initially said Emily died of apoplexy, but he had written on her death certificate that she had been a victim of Bright's Disease, which he swore had no contagion.
Vinnie had learned, in her fifty-three years, that doctors knew less than most about death and disease, but she trusted Dr. Bigelow enough to keep the sheets and Emily's favorite quilt, although she would launder them repeatedly before putting them away.
Vinnie had thought to burn them, but their mother had made that quilt, and it held precious memories. Still, Vinnie had time to change her mind. She would have a bonfire soon, before the summer dryness set in.
Emily had made her swear—had asked a solemn oath—that Vinnie would destroy her papers, all her papers, should Emily die first.
Vinnie had not expected Emily to die first. That bright flame seemed impossible to distinguish, even as she lay unconscious on her bed for two days, her breath coming in deep unnatural rasps.
No one expected Emily to die—least of all, Emily.
And Vinnie was uncertain how to proceed, without her stronger, smarter, older sister to guide her.
May 15, 1847
The West Street House
Amherst, Massachusetts
The moon cast an eerie silver light through Emily's bedroom window. She set down her pen and blew out the candle on her desk. The light seemed stronger than before.
She slid her chair back, the legs scraping against the polished wood floor, and paused for a moment, hoping she had not awakened Father. He would tell her she should sleep more, but of late, sleep eluded her. She felt on the cusp of something—what, she could not tell. Something life-changing, though.
Something soul-altering.
She dared not speak these thoughts aloud. When she had uttered less controversial thoughts, her mother chided her and urged her to pull out her Bible when blasphemy threatened to overtake her. Emily's father did not censure her thoughts, but he looked concerned, worrying that the books he bought her had weakened her girlish mind.
All except her father and her brother Austin recommended church, hoping the Lord would speak to her and she would become saved. She saw no difference between those who had become saved and those who had not, except, perhaps, a certain smugness. She was smug enough, she liked to tell her sister Lavinia. Vinnie would smile reluctantly, at both the truth of the statement and the sheer daring of it.
Everyone they knew waited to be saved; that her brother and father had not yet achieved this was seen as a failing in their family, not as something to be emulated. If she was not saved, she would not reunite with her family in Heaven. Indeed, she might not go to Heaven.
And, at times, such an idea did not terrify her. In fact, it often filled her with relief.
Eternity , she had once said to Vinnie, appears dreadful to me .
Vinnie did not understand, nor did Austin. And Emily couldn't quite convey how often she wished Eternity did not exist. The idea of living forever, in any way— to never cease to be , as she had said to Vinnie—disturbed her in her most quiet moments.
Like now. That silver light made her think of Eternity, perhaps because the silver made the light seem unnatural somehow.
She crept to the window, crouching before it, her hand on the sill, and peered out.
Behind their home lay Amherst's burial ground. The poor and the unshriven slept here, alongside the colored and those not raised within the confines of a Christian household. Oftimes she sat in her window and watched as families mourned or as a sexton dug a grave for a lonesome and already forgotten soul.
On this night, the graves were bathed in unnatural light. The world below looked silver, except for the darkness lurking at the edges. Something had leached all of the color from the ground, the stones, and the trees behind—yet the bleakness had a breathtaking beauty.
In the midst of it all, a young man walked,
Vinnie had learned, in her fifty-three years, that doctors knew less than most about death and disease, but she trusted Dr. Bigelow enough to keep the sheets and Emily's favorite quilt, although she would launder them repeatedly before putting them away.
Vinnie had thought to burn them, but their mother had made that quilt, and it held precious memories. Still, Vinnie had time to change her mind. She would have a bonfire soon, before the summer dryness set in.
Emily had made her swear—had asked a solemn oath—that Vinnie would destroy her papers, all her papers, should Emily die first.
Vinnie had not expected Emily to die first. That bright flame seemed impossible to distinguish, even as she lay unconscious on her bed for two days, her breath coming in deep unnatural rasps.
No one expected Emily to die—least of all, Emily.
And Vinnie was uncertain how to proceed, without her stronger, smarter, older sister to guide her.
May 15, 1847
The West Street House
Amherst, Massachusetts
The moon cast an eerie silver light through Emily's bedroom window. She set down her pen and blew out the candle on her desk. The light seemed stronger than before.
She slid her chair back, the legs scraping against the polished wood floor, and paused for a moment, hoping she had not awakened Father. He would tell her she should sleep more, but of late, sleep eluded her. She felt on the cusp of something—what, she could not tell. Something life-changing, though.
Something soul-altering.
She dared not speak these thoughts aloud. When she had uttered less controversial thoughts, her mother chided her and urged her to pull out her Bible when blasphemy threatened to overtake her. Emily's father did not censure her thoughts, but he looked concerned, worrying that the books he bought her had weakened her girlish mind.
All except her father and her brother Austin recommended church, hoping the Lord would speak to her and she would become saved. She saw no difference between those who had become saved and those who had not, except, perhaps, a certain smugness. She was smug enough, she liked to tell her sister Lavinia. Vinnie would smile reluctantly, at both the truth of the statement and the sheer daring of it.
Everyone they knew waited to be saved; that her brother and father had not yet achieved this was seen as a failing in their family, not as something to be emulated. If she was not saved, she would not reunite with her family in Heaven. Indeed, she might not go to Heaven.
And, at times, such an idea did not terrify her. In fact, it often filled her with relief.
Eternity , she had once said to Vinnie, appears dreadful to me .
Vinnie did not understand, nor did Austin. And Emily couldn't quite convey how often she wished Eternity did not exist. The idea of living forever, in any way— to never cease to be , as she had said to Vinnie—disturbed her in her most quiet moments.
Like now. That silver light made her think of Eternity, perhaps because the silver made the light seem unnatural somehow.
She crept to the window, crouching before it, her hand on the sill, and peered out.
Behind their home lay Amherst's burial ground. The poor and the unshriven slept here, alongside the colored and those not raised within the confines of a Christian household. Oftimes she sat in her window and watched as families mourned or as a sexton dug a grave for a lonesome and already forgotten soul.
On this night, the graves were bathed in unnatural light. The world below looked silver, except for the darkness lurking at the edges. Something had leached all of the color from the ground, the stones, and the trees behind—yet the bleakness had a breathtaking beauty.
In the midst of it all, a young man walked,
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