Louella and the chambermaids, who slept in the downstairs rear bedrooms without fireplaces, would heat bricks and wrap them in their beds to keep warm. Henry was busy a large part of the day providing firewood for the various fireplaces throughout the big house. Papa insisted his office be kept warm as toast. Even though he was not in it for hours, sometimes days at a time, if he entered and found it cold, he would roar like a wounded bear and send everyone rushing this way and that looking for Henry.
During the winter months, Emily's and my walks to and from school were unpleasant at times and at times were nearly impossible because of the winds and the flurries of snow, cold rain and sleet. On a few occasions, Mama sent Henry for us, but Papa kept him so busy most of the time with his household chores, he was unable to make the trip either to or from the schoolhouse.
Winter didn't seem to bother Emily at all. She wore the same grim expression year round. If anything, she appeared to enjoy the monotonous gray sky. It reinforced her belief that the world was a dark and dreary place in which only religious devotion offered light and warmth. I used to wonder what thoughts passed through Emily's head as she plodded deliberately, silently, her long legs moving in regular, unabated rhythm down the driveway and over the road that took us to school and back. The wind could be whistling through the trees; the sky could be so dismal and dark, I had to remind myself it wasn't the middle of the night; the air could be so cold that our nostrils were lined with tiny crystals of ice. We could even be walking through a downpour of icy rain, and Emily would not change expression. Her eyes were always fixed on something distant. She was oblivious to the snowflakes that melted on her forehead and cheeks. Her feet were never cold, her hands never freezing, even though her fingers were as red as, and the tip of her long, thin nose was even redder than, mine.
She would either ignore my complaints or turn on me and spit out chastisement for daring to criticize the world God made for us.
"But why does He want us to be so cold and unhappy?" I would cry, and Emily would glare at me, shake her head, and then nod as if confirming a suspicion about me she had harbored all my life.
"Don't you listen in Sunday school? God gives us trials and tribulations to strengthen our resolve," she said through her clenched teeth.
"What's resolve?" I would never hesitate to ask a question about something that I didn't know. My thirst for knowledge and understanding was so great, I would even ask Emily.
"Our determination to fight off the devil and sin," she said. Then she pulled herself up in that haughty manner of hers and added, "But it might be too late for your redemption. You're a Jonah."
She never missed an opportunity to remind me.
"No, I'm not," I insisted, tiredly denying the curse Emily wanted to lay at my feet. She walked on, certain she was right, confident she had some special ear to hear God's words, some special eye to see His works. Who gave her the right to assume such power
? I wondered. Was it our minister or was it Papa? Her knowledge of the Bible pleased him, but as we grew older, he didn't appear to have any more time for her than he had for me or Eugenia. The big difference was that Emily didn't seem to mind. No one enjoyed being alone more than she did. She didn't think anyone else was fit company, and for one reason or another especially avoided Eugenia.
Despite the setbacks Eugenia continually experienced in her battle against her horrible malady, she never lost her gentle smile or her sweet nature. Her body remained small, fragile; her skin, guarded and protected from the intruding Virginia sun in winter as well as in summer, never was anything but magnolia-white. When she was nine, she looked like a child no older than four or five. I harbored the hope that as she grew older, her body would grow stronger and the cruel illness that imprisoned her would grow weaker. But instead, she dwindled in little ways, each one breaking my heart.
As the years went by, it was harder and harder for her to walk even through the house. Going up the stairs took her so long that it was a torture to hear her do it; the long seconds ticked by while you waited to hear her foot take that painful next step. She slept more; her arms tired quickly when she sat brushing her own hair, hair that flourished and grew despite everything else, and she would have to wait for me or Louella to finish the brushing for her. The only thing that seemed to annoy her was her eyes tiring when she read. Finally, Mamma took her to get glasses and she had to wear a heavy framed pair with thick lenses that, she said, made her look like a bullfrog. But at least it allowed her to read. She had learned to read almost as quickly as I had.
Mamma had hired Mr. Templeton, a retired school teacher, to tutor Eugenia, but by the time she was ten, his sessions with her had to be cut to a quarter of what they'd once been because Eugenia didn't have the energy for long lessons. I'd rush to her room after school and discover that she had fallen asleep while ciphering or practicing some grammar. The notebook lay on her lap, the pen still clutched between her small fingers. Usually, I took everything away and gently covered her. Later, she would complain.
"Why didn't you simply wake me up, Lillian? I sleep enough as it is. Next time, you shake my shoulder, hear?"
"Yes, Eugenia," I said, but I didn't have the heart to wake her out of her deep sleep, sleep that I wished would somehow mend her.
Later that year, Mamma and Papa acceded to the doctor's wishes and bought Eugenia a wheelchair. As usual, Mamma had tried to ignore what was happening, had tried to deny the reality of Eugenia's degeneration. She would blame Eugenia's increasingly bad days on the horrid weather or something she had eaten or even something she hadn't eaten.
"Eugenia will get better," she would tell me when I would come to her with a new worry. "Everyone gets better, Lillian, honey, especially children."
What world did Mamma live in? I wondered. Did she really believe she could turn a page in our lives and find everything had changed for the better? She was so much more comfortable in the world of make-believe. Whenever her lady friends had run out of juicy gossip, Mamma would immediately begin telling them about the lives and loves of her romance novel characters, speaking about them as if they really existed. Something in real life was always reminding her about someone or something she had read about in one of her books. For the first few moments after Mamma spoke, everyone would scan their memories to recall who it was she was talking about at the moment.
"Julia Summers. I don't remember any Julia Summers," Mrs. Dowling would say, and Mamma would hesitate and then laugh.
"Oh, of course you don't, dear. Julia Summers is the heroine in Tree of Hearts, my new novel."
Everyone would laugh and Mamma would go on, eager to continue in the safe, rosy world of her illusions, a world in which little girls like Eugenia always got better and someday rose out of their wheelchairs.
However, once we got Eugenia her wheelchair, I would eagerly encourage her to get into it so that I could wheel her about the house or, whenever Mamma said it was warm enough, outside. Henry would come running and help get Eugenia down the steps, lifting her and the chair in one fell swoop. I'd take her about the plantation to look at a new calf or to see the baby chicks. We'd watch Henry and the others brush down the horses. There was always so much work to do around the plantation, always something interesting for Eugenia to see.
She especially loved early spring. Her eyes were full of smiles when I wheeled her around so she could get full view of the dogwood trees, which were solid masses of white or pink blossoms against a new green background. The fields were filled with yellow daffodils and buttercups. Everything filled Eugenia with wonder and for a little while at least, I was able to help her forget her illness.
Not that she continually complained about it. If she felt bad, all she would do was look at me and say, "I think I'd better go back inside, Lillian. I need to lie down for a while. But stay with me," she would add quickly, "and tell me again about the way Niles Thompson looked at you yesterday and what he said on the way home."
I don't know exactly when it was that I fully realized it, but very early on I understood that my sister Eugenia was living through me and my stories. At our annual barbecues and parties, she saw most of the boys and girls I talked about, but she had so little contact with them, that she depended on me to tell her about life outside of her room. I tried bringing friends home but most were uncomfortable in Eugenia's room, a room full of medical equipment to help her breathe and tables covered with pill bottles. I worried that most who looked at Eugenia arid saw how small she was for her age looked upon her as a freak of sorts, and I knew that Eugenia was smart enough to see the fear and discomfort in their eyes. After a while it seemed easier to just bring home stories.
I'd sit beside Eugenia's bed while she lay still, her eyes closed, a soft smile on her lips, and I would recall everything that had happened at school in the most detailed way I could. She always wanted to know what the other girls were wearing, how they wore their hair, and what sort of things they liked to talk about and do. Besides wanting to know what we had learned that day, she was intrigued about who got in trouble for doing what. Whenever I mentioned Emily's involvement, Eugenia simply nodded and said something like, "She's just trying to please."
"Don't be so forgiving, Eugenia," I protested. "Emily's doing more than trying to please Miss Walker or Papa and Mama. She's pleasing herself. She likes being an ogre."
"How can she like being that?" Eugenia would say.
"You know how she enjoys being bossy and cruel, how she even used to slap my hands in Sunday School."