Chapter Eight
The Emily Dickinson Museum was a masterpiece. With every step I took on the grounds and through the homes, I wondered repeatedly why I’d never come before. The Homestead, a brilliant yellow structure with green shutters and a small conservatory lined with windows, made me feel as if I’d gone back in time. The interior decor had been painstakingly returned to that of Emily’s time, and standing in the foyer, I could easily imagine Emily appearing on the staircase, headed to the kitchen for a little baking, or on her way outside for a walk.
I felt her presence everywhere.
I moved slowly, room to room, poring over every displayed photo, note, and commentary. And smiled at a plaque outside the library with words from one of Emily’s letters, regarding her father. He buys me many Books—but begs me not to read them—because he fears they joggle the Mind.
My father bought me many books as well.
I listened as the guide mentioned Emily being odd. Her poems being occasionally dark. Her life marked by loss. And I appreciated all the more that Daisy’s dissertation was about the poet’s love of nature.
The type of gardening she preferred was slightly different than I’d expected, but interesting nonetheless. Unlike the vegetable plants I’d bought from Seeds of Love, Emily had focused on flowers. Her family somehow managed to raise grapes and corn in the rough New England weather, but her beds were filled with annuals, perennials, and bulbs.
Which reminded me of the work I had waiting for me at the manor.
An hour later, I poured a mug of herbal tea and took a seat at the kitchen table, then opened Paul’s letter.
Emma,
Your unexpected presence was a bright spot in my day. It was lovely to meet you, and I hope to repeat the pleasure soon.
Sincerely,
Paul
I read the words a dozen more times and planned to use the gift as inspiration to get my letter mojo flowing. I found a comfortable seat, a pen and paper; then I began to write.
First, I knocked out a simple update to Cecily and another to my parents—none would fault me for my terrible letter-writing skills—and I expected they’d humor me and write back. My hands were cramped into claws from using a pen for so long, and frankly, I’d had enough. It was beyond time to switch gears.
My energy level had depleted by half since returning home. Time alone was definitely draining my battery instead of refilling it, but I’d come to Amherst on a mission. I had to learn to be happy on my own.
“How did you do it, Emily?” I wondered aloud. The isolation didn’t feel as relaxing as I’d imagined. More like being punished or put in a weekslong time-out.
Images of her bedroom, where I’d stood only a short time ago, flashed into mind. She’d written the majority of her poems, more than 1,800 of them, there. Surrounded by floral print wallpaper, before a window draped in green, on a little desk facing the glass. She’d thrived in solitude.
I was sure I’d perish.
Perhaps the key was staying busy. Wasn’t that the key to everything? Don’t want to think about a nasty breakup? Find something to do. Trying to avoid the other half of the cupcake you’re saving for later? Find something to do. Embracing spinsterhood with dignity?
Find something to do.
I changed into a pair of old jeans and a T-shirt, then went to survey the yard. According to Olivia, all the plants I’d purchased needed full sun, and thanks to yesterday’s rain, they’d all had plenty of water. I walked the area contemplatively, and I found the perfect spot, free from the crawling fingers of shade, about fifteen yards from the patio. The grass looked slightly different there, and I wondered if someone had once had the same idea. The possibility another garden had grown where I planned to plant mine brightened my mood, and I clung to the thought.
Maybe that was another reason Emily hadn’t minded the years she’d spent alone. Maybe she’d found ways to connect to the people who’d come before her, and those who would follow, by reading, writing, and growing beautiful flowers.
My desire to emulate the poet in all her quiet, nature-loving glory filled my heart in a burst. If I could tap into the peace she found while gardening and roll that into contentment elsewhere as well, I’d be happy with my long single life.
The sun brightened, and I lifted my chin to absorb its warmth. Emily’s words floated through my thoughts. And a smile formed. Yesterday’s clouds were gone. I would embrace this day. “Superior glory be.”
I started by rooting through the little toolshed I spotted beneath an oak at the side of the manor. I found a shovel and old floral-printed gardening kit with gloves that fit my hands. I couldn’t imagine Grace caring if I used them. I’d asked about possibly planting a garden on the night I’d made my reservation, and she’d thought the idea was lovely. I remembered specifically because she’d used the word lovely . It’d struck me as almost a bit odd and rather proper. Then again, she’d taken on a more formal air altogether when it came to our correspondence about the manor, which had made perfect sense. I certainly didn’t email customers or vendors in the same tone I used when posting in IBOOM. Her spoken language matched her email correspondence, making her persona on IBOOM the anomaly. Something I never would’ve known had I not come to town.
I got busy pulling weeds around the patio’s edge and removing the grass covering the site of my future garden with the shovel. My back, shoulders, and arms ached from the effort. Carrying the heavy bags of mulch and topsoil from the front yard to the back only added to my discomfort. But I persevered.
I scooped mulch from the broken bag into a pail, then lined the sacks of topsoil on my newly degrassed patch of land and split them open with the shovel. Each whack felt deeply satisfying.
Hours later, when the prep work and my aching body were finished, I considered dying on the spot. At least it would be easy to bury me. I was already covered in dirt. I rolled onto my back in the grass and remained motionless for an undetermined amount of time, willing my noodle arms and legs to firm up.
“I don’t know how you did it, Emily,” I said, pushing myself into a sit. “I’m dehydrated. Exhausted. And filthy. Not my idea of a good time.”
Clouds raced over the sun, and I forced myself upright. I hadn’t come this far to quit, and I refused to be defeated again. Plant by plant, I kept going until my energy fully depleted and my arms had pinkened from the sun. I transferred veggies into the garden, small shrubs and flowers into a narrow mulch bed around the back patio. Then I carried all the trash to the bins out front and flew a mental flag of victory.
I couldn’t feel my legs as I wobbled into the manor. My clothes were black with dirt and mulch, and my unruly curls stuck to the drying sweat on my neck and cheeks. I’d need two baths to feel clean again.
The climb to the second-floor bathroom nearly finished me. I sank dramatically to my knees, hanging both arms over the edge of the claw-foot tub.
I turned the knobs and tested the water, wincing at the cold and waiting for it to warm. I rested my cheek on the cool porcelain, but the water didn’t heat up.
I groaned, wrenched upright, then grimaced at my reflection in the mirror above the sink. I couldn’t take a cold bath, and I couldn’t call Davis for help. If he found me looking like this again, he’d think I was the human incarnate of that Peanuts character, followed perpetually by a cloud of rolling dirt.
Not that I cared what he thought.
I turned off the water and went back downstairs to reconsider dying in the garden.
Twenty minutes later, I’d washed my face and hands in the sink and put my letters, destined for Willow Bend, in the mailbox at the end of the lane. I turned the flag up to let the postal worker know they were inside; then I spread a blanket beneath a tree and took a seat. I unpacked my bag, a pen and paper, cheese and crackers, apple slices, and bottled water. I needed sustenance and rest before dealing with a cold bath.
I chose a purple gel pen and gave the fountain pen a dirty look. I needed to unload my troubles, not compile them. Gentle wind fluttered the page as I began to write.
Cecily,
It’s been a long while since I’ve written proper letters. Probably since we had pen pals for third grade English class, and mine never responded. Please respond.
Life in 1855 is lonelier than I expected. I’m not sure how Emily found inspiration in solitude, but maybe I need to be patient and let myself adjust.
I paused to stack sliced cheese on a cracker and munch. All around me, the slowly changing leaves on ancient oaks danced on the breeze. Hearthstone Manor stood in the distance, the sun shining beautifully overhead. Why was being here so difficult for me? Everything was exactly as I thought it would be. I just hadn’t anticipated how much I wouldn’t like it. Hopefully I’d find my rhythm soon.
I sighed and stuffed an apple slice into my mouth, then began to write again.
I have to call Davis, the handyman, soon, because there’s no hot water today, and there’s something wrong with the furnace as well. I get the feeling he doesn’t want me here, though it doesn’t make any sense. Why would he care who rents the place? Anyway, I’ll keep you posted on that. Hopefully everything will be working when you come to visit. Until then I’ll be counting the days.
Do you think the real reason I’m unhappy lies within me?
I stared at the words, hating them and questioning their truth.
Would I be sad wherever I went because I was the problem? Not my family, my job, or my singleness? I shoved the thought aside. All that mattered was that I made big changes in the next few weeks and went home happy. Besides, it’d only been a couple of days, and I was a work in progress.
I finished my letter, and then I closed my eyes and thought of all the times Emily mentioned home in her poetry. This town was important to her, and it was important to me too. This was where my life would change.
Nearly an hour later, when my meal was gone and my spirit was revived, I carried the letter to the mailbox. Then I walked home to fight my next battle.
I dropped my lunch container in the sink and peered through the kitchen window at all my hard work outside. The process had been laborious and new to me, but I’d seen it through, and the results were worth the trouble. “I did that,” I whispered, letting pride swell in my chest.
The ring of black mulch around the patio was dotted with colorful mums and rosebushes. Leafy green plants stood like soldiers in tidy little rows several yards away. Maybe I could talk to them sometime—to help them grow.
Maybe I was lonelier than I’d thought.
I rolled my eyes as I contemplated my new plant babies and my unreasonable feelings toward them. Then something dark caught my eye at the corner of the patio. A brown-and-white cat pressed its body into the shadows beneath the eaves.
I strained my eyes to search for a collar. If the cat was a stray, maybe we could be friends. I made a mental note to put out a bowl of cream after I cleaned up. I’d always thought of myself as a dog person, but maybe that could change too.
The feline stilled, and its backside rose, twitching slightly as if preparing to pounce.
Across the lawn, a little rabbit hopped into my garden.
I watched in horror as the adorable fuzzball stopped near my newly planted turnips and nibbled.
“Hey!” I said, fumbling to unlock the door.
The bunny, unaffected, reared its head, stretching and ripping a leaf off its stem.
“Stop!” I called, rushing out and waving my arms. “Knock it off!”
The bunny stilled midchew. Its long white ears turned like satellites, as if trying to make sense of my appearance in its dining room.
It took another bite.
I launched toward it, fueled by adrenaline and despair. Two frantic steps later, I wobbled on tired spaghetti legs, tripped over my feet, and crashed to my hands and knees. Then I thumped onto my chest. A sound like “oof” blew across my lips as the air left my lungs.
Birds lifted from the treetops in a wave of complaints. The bunny darted away. And I rocked upright, noting the rip in my pant leg and sting in my skinned palms.
Living like Emily Dickinson stunk.
It took an hour and eleven trips up the steps to heat enough water on the stovetop to fill the bathtub. I pulled twigs and bits of mulch from my hair. After I’d dried off and redressed in sweatpants and a hoodie, I crawled onto the bed for a short rest.
Hours later, a full-body shiver opened my eyes to moonlight and darkness. The temperature inside the manor was frigid.
I craned upright, cussing a little as I gripped and kneaded the tender muscles along my neck and shoulders. I still didn’t know how to make a fire, and I didn’t want to fill the house with smoke again.
I took a moment to visualize the tantrum I was too tired to perform, then pulled on a pair of sweatpants and a hoodie and crawled back beneath the covers.