Writer's Corner - Thursday's Child

Thursday’s Child

Monday’s child is fair of face
Tuesday’s child is full of grace
Wednesday’s child is full of woe
Thursday’s child has far to go
Friday’s child is loving and giving
Saturday’s child works hard for a living
But the child that is born on the Sabbath day
is bonny and blithe, and good, and gay
-- Mother Goose Nursery Rhyme

“Oh no, not today!” Lizbeth closed her eyes tightly as one hand moved up to support her temple. Up until then, she had been enjoying the warmth of the mid-May morning. Sheltered as she was within her glassed-in porch, the child’s voice carried far, and the unmistakable melody of the old song reached her ears loud and clear. She tried not to hear the words, but instead, imagined the original tune, “Ta-Ra-Ra-Boom-Der-E”. Sometimes it worked, and she could dismiss it. Sometimes it didn’t.

“Should have been long forgotten by now,” she muttered to herself. “It’s 1927; that song belongs to another century. Why must people insist upon dredging up those old songs, teaching them to their children?”

The aging woman braced herself with both arms of the chair, and pulled her heavy body up with some difficulty. Everything was becoming a supreme effort now; her once-graceful form now seemed determined to defy her, resolved to pull all of her being down toward the earth. Inside the entrance hall, she placed one hand against the rosewood newel post, steadying herself for the slow ascent of the staircase.

Almost at the top, she had to stop. Her heart was beating its own strange rhythm deep beneath her ample bosom. She clasped one hand over it, as though she could somehow calm it down, and will it to settle back to regularity. Arrhythmia, the doctor had called it. Her heart was making up its own songs now. Wild and maniacal beats from some far off place she herself had never known.

Lizbeth took a second to get her bearings, then walked toward the back of the house, toward her summer bedroom. Having only just made the seasonal move, she had been momentarily confused. She made her way to the bed, and sat down heavily upon it with a sigh.

She would read today, in bed. She needed to rest, and try to forget that spring smelled so sweet outside the window. Outside, where truant school-children were free to run wild, singing songs whose words they did not truly understand. But Lizbeth could not read, could not concentrate on the strings of words laid out on the pages before her. One minute, the world could be so peaceful, but the next . . .

Lizbeth loved this time of year; springtime so lush and green, a bounty of new hope. Yet, something so seemingly innocent as a child’s sing-song voice could shatter the tranquil harmony so completely. If her will was weak, and it was weakened now, along with every other part of her, she could easily tumble down into that place of pain. She could feel herself slipping. She had come upstairs to escape it, but there was no sanctuary. Ghosts were walking around inside of her, turning a fine May morning as cold as the darkest and most bitter All Hallows Eve.

Emma. Sometimes she longed for her sister, even wept. And yet, people cannot go back into the past and erase what has been done. Words are said, and once spoken, cannot be taken back. Words can cut deep and leave scars. Scars may be flesh that has healed, but the mark is the reminder of a wound that will never fully heal. And blood. Shared blood, once shed, bleeds the most profusely.

There had been happy days. Nance. Oh! Those carefree times they had shared. How free she had been, her vivacious friend. Such energy and youth she had brought into Lizbeth’s life. Nance was like eternal spring. Her golden hair, creamy porcelain skin, sapphire blue eyes, and lips like rosebuds. Such a command she held over her audience once onstage, holding them transfixed with her performance. Nance knew everything, everyone, and had been everywhere. Nance was Lizbeth’s life not lived. But for a moment in time, one that had seemed as brief and as sweet as spring, she had given so freely of that life, and Lizbeth became that girl she had never dared to be. What a space Nance had left when she was gone, onward to seek new adventures. Her letters came for a while, filling Lizbeth with joy. And then, the letters had stopped coming. Along with Nance went a piece of Lizbeth’s heart. But she could not dwell upon that. Who could contain such an exotic bird within the stuffy confines of New England? Lizbeth herself was a part of Fall River, rooted to the soil through generations. Blood ties that bound her. Nance had such freedom as Lizbeth would never know. Even with all of her money, it was beyond Lizbeth’s means.

Lovers. Love. Was it ever so sweet? Love existed in books and the theater. It belonged to a world where all is simple, and everything is possible. In real life, maybe love came to the lucky few, and stayed for a while. Love for Lizbeth was merely a dream. Sometimes it had been so close, but she dared not reach out to touch it, for she knew it would always elude her. In her youth, it was a promise that never came, though she waited through endless nights and days until at last, she espied herself in the looking glass, and found it was gone forever. Something she had missed along the way. Perhaps she had failed to see it because her mind was elsewhere. Loves lost. Loves that never were. Love for Lizbeth? Not so much in this life, not so much. Just a dream in a book. A wonderful book that makes the heart sing; a magical song that really belongs to someone else.

Lizbeth was born on a Thursday. The nursery rhyme says, “Thursday’s child has far to go.” And, she had gone far. Journeyed far across the sea. Journeyed through the land of the free. Journeyed into hell and back again. One long, long adventure. And yet, it was all too short. Here she was, mere miles away from Ferry Street, and the house where she was born. That had been like another world. Lizzie may have been born there, but Lizbeth now lived on The Hill. She had traveled to the continent. And now, Lizbeth of Maplecroft lived on French Street.

She had seen so much.

The world was moving faster now, far more fast than she had ever dreamed possible. Motor cars and airplanes. Machines to do everything. Girls now showed their hose on the street, cropped their hair short, and wore no corsets. Moving picture shows like dreams made visible.

Dreams. She had put her book down. And now, as Lizbeth slept, she saw her mother. Her real mother. “Mama, is that you?” she cried. A woman, whose colorless face came from an old photograph, held her arms outstretched. “Are you coming to take me to heaven?” Lizbeth cried out in her sleep.

Her mother faded away, leaving behind a trail of tears.

Lizbeth woke from the nightmare, bathed in sweat. The sun shone high in the sky outside, and it was noon.

“Miss Borden,” her maid, Nelly, gently patted her shoulder. “Lunch will be ready soon.”

Lizbeth’s rheumy blue eyes were swollen and red.

“Oh mama,” she said. “Do I still have so far to go?”

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