Lizzie Borden by Elizabeth Engstrom Page B

two candles, and place one on either side of a mirror. Then she was to sit in the dark and view her face in the mirror for no less than one-half hour. Every day for thirty days.
    At first, she could not do it. Her face turned gargoyle within three minutes, and her eyes, always pale, seemed to dissolve and fade away, leaving only empty sockets through which she could see unpleasant things floating about.
    It was a week before she could spend fifteen full minutes at the task, and another week before a half hour passed and she could still view herself without nausea.
    It could be the setting—the darkness, the mystery surrounding the exercises in the book—it could be the shadows the candlelight threw upon her face, or it could be that she was fresh from the “within each individual resides many others” exercise, but the face that Lizzie saw in the mirror was not her own. It was close, it was very close, but it seemed to be just slightly foreign. It was almost her, but not quite.
    Regardless, she started counting her thirty days from the day she first spent thirty minutes. Beatrice complimented Lizzie on her thoroughness. “Cheating on the exercises will not harm you, Lizbeth,” she said, “but it could invalidate some of the work you’re doing. Invest this time in yourself. Do it right and reap the full benefits.” And in the meantime, to fill the other twenty-three and a half hours in every day, Beatrice suggested some books Lizzie could read, most of them on business. “Business is just busy-ness, Lizbeth,” she said. “Life is about getting on with other people. And the more you practice, the better you get at it. But before you can practice successfully, you must have a fine self-image of yourself. The exercises will give you personal power. The books on business will tell you how to act with others. Be sure of yourself. Be bold. Be adventurous.” And then she’d sign off with the inevitable, “Affectionately, Beatrice.”
    Lizzie would hug those letters to herself, knowing that the next time she met Beatrice, she would not be a fumbling fool. She would be well practiced, bold, adventurous and self-assured.
    Yes. Soon she would be ready to be a fit friend for Beatrice. But would she ever be ready for her father?
    Lizzie lay back against the hay and thought about her father. He was becoming increasingly odd. A function of age, surely, Lizzie thought, as he’d always been quite eccentric, but of late, he had become most abusive.
    In church two Sundays ago, for example, he told the organist that Lizzie couldn’t carry a tune even if it had two handles. Then he went on to explain that the laundry basket had two handles and she didn’t seem to be able to carry it, either. Lizzie and old Mrs. Watkins listened in horrified silence as he expounded further on Lizzie’s laziness. Lizzie finally turned and walked away.
    Andrew caught up with her several paces down the church walk, catching up her arm in his hard fingers.
    Lizzie pulled away from him.
    “Don’t you dare walk away from me like that. You embarrassed me.”
    “ I embarrassed you ? Father, how could you say those things to Mrs. Watkins—especially since they weren’t at all true. I can sing, you know I can sing. And your laundry doesn’t go wanting, either.” Lizzie felt herself near tears and that infuriated her.
    Her father looked at her with astonishment. “It was said in jest, Lizzie.”
    “No it wasn’t, Father,” she said, her breath coming in gulps. “It was said in meanness.” Lizzie stalked away from him, fuming. She was conscious of him walking about two paces behind her, silent, all the way home.
    She fumbled about trying to unlock the front door, and when she couldn’t fit the key in the lock because of the tears of rage and hurt that befuddled her, Andrew calmly took her keys, unlocked the front door, turned the knob and pushed it open. As angry as she was— angry too about her failure to control her emotion—when her father