Afternoons with Emily Read Free Page B

wave, but
     they did not often stop. I never expected them to. My grandfather’s death, my mother’s isolation, the frequent doctor visits,
     all spoke to one fact: we were dangerous. My family had a terrible disease, and the relatives did not want us very close.
    I do not mean to suggest that my parents and I were complete outcasts in that family neighborhood. The relatives never abandoned
     Marian; instead, there was a distance. It was simply that Latham plans did not often include the Chases. “Marian wouldn’t
     enjoy it,” said the uncles. “Marian isn’t well enough,” said the aunts. “Arethusa probably shouldn’t exert herself, just in
     case,” said the cousins.
    There was and is very little known about the course, treatment, and prevention of consumption. My grandfather had died of
     it, and after I was born, my mother’s illness flared up; she went from being a “parlor case” to a near invalid.
    The Lathams told one another that Dr. Jackson saw Marian every week and that he always listened to my chest too. They reassured
     themselves that we were being taken care of while firmly establishing among the connected families that I too either had or
     would soon come down with consumption like my mother.
    Cousin Daisy Powell was the family’s designated herald. Sixty or so, alert and stylish, she loved her duties of reporting
     news and carrying messages among the relations. She was unfailingly kind to me; she always expressed an official family sympathy
     and interest.
    “We all want you to get better,” she assured me. “What did Dr. Jackson say about your health this week?”
    “Not much. He always asks if I have spat blood.”
    “And have you?”
    “Not yet.” And I would search her face for a clue as to whether this was the right or the wrong answer. There seemed to be
     an expectancy surrounding this question. I answered truthfully, and there did seem relief in my response, but the very routine
     nature of the questioning reinforced the idea that coughing up blood was inevitable. My difference, my unique unhealthy condition,
     was a fact, a given — like the Lowell cousins’ freckles. Being “not well” was as much a part of me as my fair braids or the
     little hidden mole behind my left ear — or the secret that I did not really have a mother.
    It was the task of one of the servants to take me for walks twice a day around the streets of Beacon Hill. Whenever I met
     relatives, they would always ask about my health. Again I was reminded that I was frail and sickly — and I accepted this,
     as children will. I had no basis of comparisons; I had never lived any other way.
    Cousin Daisy was also the keeper of the web, the weaver of stray threads and loose people into the family tapestry. And in
     my case, she assumed many of the duties ordinarily handled by a mother. She took obvious pleasure in overseeing my wardrobe.
     Every fall and spring, she climbed to my nursery with little floppy books of cloth, accompanied by a sad, silent woman who
     measured me. Usually we copied the styles of dresses I already had, but I was allowed to choose the colors and materials.
     This selection was important to me; it was the only part of my life where I had any authority. I always looked for stripes,
     which delighted me; they still do.
    Despite the family taint, we were always included in the great family occasions: weddings and funerals, Thanksgiving and Christmas.
     To do less would have been far more scandalous than the danger implied by the threat of consumption. I could also count on
     seeing all the Lathams collected every New Year’s Day, when one of the linked families (never ours) took its turn giving a
     reception.
    The loud, crowded house would be alight with candles and crystals, fragrant with evergreen decorations. One of the half-grown
     sons would stand importantly beside the candle-laden tree with a bucket of water at hand in case of fire. Every table carried
     silver bowls of eggnog