The Secrets of Lizzie Borden

by Brandy Purdy

Genres: Historical Fiction

Synopsis

In her enthralling, richly imagined new novel, Brandy Purdy, author of The Ripper’s Wife, creates a compelling portrait of the real, complex woman behind an unthinkable crime.

Lizzie Borden should be one of the most fortunate young women in Fall River, Massachusetts. Her wealthy father could easily afford to provide his daughters with fashionable clothes, travel, and a rich, cultured life. Instead, haunted by the ghost of childhood poverty, he forces Lizzie and her sister, Emma, to live frugally, denying them the simplest modern conveniences. Suitors and socializing are discouraged, as her father views all gentleman callers as fortune hunters.

Lonely and deeply unhappy, Lizzie stifles her frustration, dreaming of the freedom that will come with her eventual inheritance. But soon, even that chance of future independence seems about to be ripped away. And on a stifling August day in 1892, Lizzie’s long-simmering anger finally explodes…

Vividly written and thought-provoking, The Secrets of Lizzie Borden explores the fascinating events behind a crime that continues to grip the public imagination—a story of how thwarted desires and desperate rage could turn a dutiful daughter into a notorious killer.

Release date: January 26, 2016

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 320

Sample

I awoke from the dream, wishing, as I always did, that it would vanish right away without lingering to torment me, or, better yet, never come to visit me again. I hated it! And I didn’t want anything to spoil this special day I had been looking forward to for so many months. But it had already begun to work its evil spell. Curiously, it often came as a herald to announce the coming of my monthly blood, and this time was no exception. It was as though those terrible long-ago memories of the smell of fresh-spilt blood, my bare feet slipping and sliding in it, my bottom thudding down to sit in it, and feeling it soaking through my skirts and drawers seemingly into my very skin, enticed the blood to flow from my own body. How I hated it. The blood and the memories so intricately bound they could never be divided.

I have always claimed to have no memories of my mother, Sarah Morse Borden, who died when I was only three years old, but that is not true. Sometimes it is easier to tell a lie. To say No closes the door on the conversation, whereas saying Yes flings it open wide and invites further inquiry and to slam and bar it then is to be branded rude and inhospitable.

There are actually three things I remember about my mother.

The first is her appearance, her Gypsy-black hair and deep-set dark eyes, brooding and mysterious, the kind of eyes you could imagine intently scrutinizing a spread of tarot cards, shrewdly divining their secrets. Perhaps these recollections owe more to photographs than actual memories; I only know that she had such a stabbing deep stare that to even look at pictures of her makes me uncomfortable, as though her eyes could bore right through my skull and read every thought inside my head plain as words printed on the page of a book. Had she lived, I doubt I would have ever been able to keep a secret from Mother. As awful as it sounds, sometimes just the sight of those sharp, piercing eyes makes me feel relieved that she died before I had any secrets worth keeping. It is disconcerting at times just how much my sister, Emma, with her dark hair and prying and intrusive eyes resembles her; only the full, womanly curves are lacking. Emma is as skinny as a starving bird, with shoulder blades like scalpels.

The second thing I remember about Mother is her clothes. Everyone said she had the fashion sense of a color-blind gypsy. She loved to wear bright colors, fussy, bold, and garish prints in which violent wars raged perpetually between the shades, and fancy fringed shawls and flowered hats and bonnets the louder and livelier the better, and a crude string of coral beads she clung to religiously, superstitiously convinced that they would ward away all evil.

Maybe it was simply that she didn’t know any better. She was after all just a poor farm girl who had the good fortune to attract a prosperous undertaker, and there was no mother- or sister-in-law to take her hand and gently guide her in the direction of good taste and refinement. My father, Andrew Jackson Borden, was a tenacious, bull-headed Yankee businessman who knew nothing, and cared even less, about fashion, only what it cost him. But Mother knew how to make the most of a cheap dress goods sale, it was amazing how far she could stretch a dollar at such events, and Father felt blessed to have such a thrifty wife who could bargain a bolt of mauve and orange flowered calico that no one else seemed to want down from a nickel a yard to three cents. And her Sunday best bonnet—a wide-brimmed red-lacquered straw hat adorned with red and green wax tomatoes and a wild spray of sunny yellow dandelions and white meadow daisies sprouting like weeds, cherry-red and apple-green ribbons, and a lace curtain veil—bought on a rare trip to Boston, Father often recounted with great pride, she regarded as her greatest triumph won at only 75¢. If the tomatoes had been real instead of waxen, he always said, they would have rotted long before she bartered its freedom from the milliner’s window where it had been languishing the better part of a year. It was the ugliest and loveliest hat I ever saw.

The third, and last, thing I remember about my mother is her blood. The blood that came every month was a time of terror for us all. Father tore at his carroty-red hair and whiskers with worry yet tried to keep his distance, disdaining anything to do with “female matters,” preferring the company of corpses instead during what he privately called “hell week,” and busying himself with his never-ending, all-consuming pursuit of the almighty dollar. Money was Father’s religion, his muse; it occupied his thoughts all day and his dreams all night. He rarely willingly parted with his hard-earned dollars unless he was sure he could make them breed like green rabbits. And my sister, Emma, ten years older than myself, was at school for most of the day, so I was left alone at home with Mother.

Mother hated the monthly blood. No medicine could soothe her. She would throw the bottles at the wall when they failed her, devil-damning the false promises printed on their labels. She would crouch down upon the floor, bracing her back against the wall, and howl like a mad dog at the moon, rocking, crying, and screaming as the blood oozed out and the cramps seized her. Demons, she insisted, were trying to crush her skull; she could feel their talons digging in, and making wild displays of colored lights dance before her eyes. She would rage against God for unfairly visiting this curse upon all womankind to punish one woman’s sin. How my mother hated Eve! If a preacher mentioned her in a sermon, Mother would stand up, slash him with the daggers of her eyes, and stomp out of the church as though she were crushing a detested enemy with every step.

It was not time for the blood when she died. I had no inkling that anything was wrong, and neither, I think, did she. She had just finished braiding my unruly red hair into crooked pigtails tied with sky-blue ribbon at the ends and we were in the kitchen baking gingerbread. She was happy and humming as she bent to pick me up. The cookies were shaped like little men and I was to give them raisins for eyes and red currants for mouths and she was going to make some white icing for us to dress them in. What fun we would have, she said, drawing in bow ties and buttons and stripes and flowers on their suits and vests. She swung me up onto her hip, then suddenly her face went white as the new paint Father had just put on the farmhouse, and she dropped me. . . . She just let go and dropped me!

I was more surprised than hurt, though I skinned my elbow on the floorboards. I sat up in surprise, rubbing it, whimpering a little when I saw blood, and staring up at her with trembling lips and tears poised to pour. I knew something must be wrong. Mother had never dropped me before!

She gasped and hunched forward, hunkering down, hugging her lady parts, and I saw the blood seep, like a slow-blooming red rose, through her white apron. She gave a choking, anguished cry and fell to the floor and lay there, her body jerking and spasming while her hands still clutched tight between her legs as though they could somehow stanch the fatal flow. Then she was still. I had never been so afraid. I shook her, and cried, slapped, and shouted at her, but she just lay there, still, silent, and so very white as her blood seeped out and spread slowly across the floor, inching toward me, as if it were a monster reaching out ravenous red fingers, coming to get me, steadily advancing, to grasp the hem of my sky-blue cotton dress and white pinafore. I backed away until my spine bumped the wall and my bottom thudded down onto the floor.

When Emma came home from school she found me crying, howling like Mother used to do, reaching up to her with blood-gloved hands, sitting in the sticky, cooling dark-red pool of our mother’s blood. The backside of the ruffled white pantalets I wore beneath my skirt had turned completely red and was glued to my skin. That day my whole world seemed to have been suddenly dyed red. I thought I would never feel clean again.

Serious and grave even in childhood, Emma calmly knelt down in the blood—I vividly remember the ends of her long black pigtails trailing in the blood, like an artist’s sable brush being dipped in crimson paint—and rolled Mother over onto her back to make sure the flame of life had truly gone out. Tenderly, Emma kissed the stone-cold brow and closed the wide staring eyes. Then she took Mother’s hand, kissed it, and clasped it to the heart beating fast beneath her flat, childish breast covered by the garish purple, yellow, and magenta plaid silk of the last dress Mother had made for her, and solemnly promised to “always look after Baby Lizzie all the days of my life.” Only then did she release Mother’s hand and turn to me. She gathered me up in her arms, promising my clinging, wailing self that she would “never let go.”

It was a promise the child I was then was glad she made but the passage of time would often give me cause to regret. What was comforting to a hysterical three-year-old felt to a woman of thirty like a kraken’s crushing embrace of the ship or whale it was attacking. Every time I saw paintings or engravings of such scenes I always thought of Emma. Once, as a subtly intended hint, when I was well into my teens, I gave her such a painting that I found in a little shop in New Bedford as a birthday present, but Emma never guessed its significance; she just couldn’t see that I was the whale and she was the kraken.

I tried valiantly to shake the remnants of the dream off, but it kept clinging to me like that red sticky blood. I didn’t want to think about Mother or her blood that morning. I was going away. I was excited and didn’t want anything or anyone to spoil it. For the first time in my thirty years of life I was about to spread my wings and fly out of Fall River, Massachusetts, and escape into the great big, wide, wonderful world and put an entire ocean between me and the cramped closeness of the place my sister called “the house of hate” because the anger, resentment, and frustration that lived inside it was far stronger than its flimsy drab gray-tinged olive walls, so powerful and palpable it seemed to be the only thing holding our family together. Without that simmering animosity gluing us together, I sometimes thought, we’d fall to pieces and have nothing to say and never give a single thought to one another.

I rolled over and curled onto my side, drawing my knees up tight against the cramps, frowning at the faintly metallic tang and disgusting dampness of blood on my light flowered cotton summer nightgown. Always erratic, defying the discreetly penciled notations on my calendar trying to predict its arrival, my despised monthly visitor had come early.

I had bathed late last night, the lamplight giving a soft golden glow to the dark, dank cellar, keeping the dusty boxes of old tools and odds and ends, and the cobwebs in the corners, in the shadows where they belonged, while I sat with my knees drawn up to my breasts, my ample hips and thighs squashed uncomfortably into the old dented tin hipbath, soaking in lukewarm water heated on the kitchen stove and carried down the steep dark stairs in heavy pails by our Irish Maggie before she retired for the night. I had stopped my ears as usual to Father’s penurious tirade, exclaiming for what must have been the ten thousandth time that we women should all arrange to bathe upon the same day—not the night, mind you!—and be quickly in and out of the tub, none of this slothful sitting and soaking, a swift scrubbing with strong lye soap—none of that expensive lavender and rose or lily-of-the-valley nonsense!—then a rapid rinse and a brisk rubdown with a towel was all that was required. Father would never even think to take a bath any other way, for his was the right way and his mind was a barred and locked door to the idea that someone else’s way might be the right way for them. And we should use the same bathwater, he insisted, to save time and water and cause less trouble to the Maggie. None of us were filthy as coal miners after all. We hardly did anything anyway to raise a sweat or gather grime onto our persons; we were just a lot of lazy females who, between the three of us, could not even keep a decent house and had to waste $4 a week—the stupendous sum of $208 a year—upon a maid. And my stepmother, Abby, was so fat she couldn’t fit into the tub at all, and could only stand in it and sluice and scrub as best she could, sometimes using a rag tied to a stick to reach difficult areas, since none of us ungrateful girls were charitable enough to help her, so the water could hardly be considered used at all.

The bar of lavender soap that I had stealthily slipped into my purse while I was perusing the wares on display at Sargent’s Dry Goods one day, was the only luxurious thing about me as I sat there shivering and hugging my knees, dreaming of a proper, modern bathroom with a big porcelain tub I could stretch out in, like a reclining mermaid, basking in water that ran hot or cold at the mere twist of a nickel-plated knob, and a real toilet, instead of a crude hole covered by a wooden box seat, standing regal as a porcelain throne, shining like a pearl, on a floor of gleaming tile instead of hard-packed earth, with proper paper to wipe with instead of a stack of old magazines to rip pages from as the need required. I remember I used to sit there while voiding my bowels and in the dim lamplight gaze yearningly upon the fashion plates depicting the latest styles from Paris, and pictures of beautiful ladies enjoying a life of luxury and ease, of dining and dancing, opening nights at the opera and plays, boating excursions, sleighing parties, oyster suppers, clambakes, and games of tennis and croquet with their beaus, and imagine I was one of them—the belle of the ball in strawberry-pink taffeta dancing till dawn in the arms of a prince! Or a grand lady in pink satin, pearls, and point lace surrounded by adoring gallants serving her dainty cakes with pastel-colored frosting upon a silver tray. When the time came to wipe, I would always seek a page of print instead of soiling the images that inspired my dreams, though the others in the house were not quite as discriminating.

I had so wanted to feel fresh and clean when I awoke and put on my new midnight-blue bengaline dress figured with a delicate pattern of arctic-blue roses and the matching wide-brimmed hat, its crown wreathed with a ring of dainty ice-blue satin rosebuds, and now my monthly visitor had come and spoiled it all. Even my underthings were new, pure white cotton with white lace threaded with blue silk ribbons, and now I must either don old or risk soiling them if the blood overflowed or leaked through the bulky towel pinned to my homemade blue calico waistband and slung between my thighs, raising blisters and chafing them raw every time I moved.

I had been frivolous and ordered an ice-blue satin corset, matching garters trimmed with lace, and black silk stockings from Boston, and navy-blue kid gloves and button boots with French heels, the very height of fashion, instead of the usual sensible and sturdy low-heeled brown or black best suited for everyday wear. How Father had frowned over the bills!

“Blue boots and gloves, Lizzie! Mother-of-pearl buttons dyed blue! Shame! French heels! I doubt they will last a fortnight! And blue silk ribbons on your unmentionables! Ribbons and lace where no one but you, and the Maggie when she does the laundry, will ever see them! Even if you had a husband, men don’t notice things like that, not even on a painted Parisian whore! Shame, Lizzie, shame! Will you ever learn the value of a dollar? You cannot possess a penny for even half a day without it burning a hole through your pocket! Your mother could stretch a dollar like molasses taffy. I was always amazed at how far that woman could make her pin money go! She could have outfitted herself three times over for what you’ve spent on your underclothes! Why, all the Sunday dresses she owned during our entire marriage, God rest her frugal soul, cost less than your traveling dress alone! People said she had the dress sense of a gypsy, it’s true, but that woman was canny with her coins! But you . . . ! I almost died when the dressmaker’s bill arrived! Just thinking about it gives me heart palpitations! You’ll have us all in the poorhouse yet! Blue boots and gloves, French heels, mother-of-pearl buttons, God help us all! Do not expect me to sell fish out of a pushcart like my father did to support this family after your excesses have ruined us, you greedy, ungrateful thing!”

Of course, “the miserly millionaire” was exaggerating, and I rolled my eyes accordingly. It was nothing I hadn’t heard before.

I had imagined feeling something of the thrill a bride must experience on her nuptial morning knowing that a whole new life lies before her, but now . . . the blood and bulky towel had spoiled it all. I was so angry I could cry! I grimaced and drew my knees up tighter as another wave of pain washed over me, and tried to recapture some of the joy by thinking of all the money-pinching misery and resentment I was leaving behind me.

By the time Mother died Father was well on his way to becoming one of the richest men in Fall River. He had worked hard, scrimping and saving, shrewdly investing his earnings, seizing, like a champion wrestler, every opportunity to profit in a stranglehold, and persuading heartbroken and tear-blinded mourners that if they truly loved their dearly departed spouses, siblings, and offspring they would prove it by laying them to rest in the safe, luxurious, moisture-proof, vermin-impervious padded snow-white satin-lined embrace of a Crane’s Patented Burial Casket, a bed for eternity finer than any these humble folk had likely ever slept on in life, of which he had the honor of being the exclusive local distributor. There was no finer casket to be had in all Massachusetts, not even in Boston, he would declare, proudly patting the one he kept for show in his office, sometimes even inviting them to climb inside and see for themselves, always describing the proffered experience as “a little taste of Heaven.”

When they hemmed and hawed about the expense, protesting their love, but uncertain if they could actually afford to lavish their hard-earned dollars upon the dead, Father would offer a simple and happy solution for all—in lieu of his customary fee he would gladly, and graciously, accept a lien upon their property; thus they would have several months to discharge the debt. More often than not, dazed by their bereavement, they put their trust in Father and nodded blindly, acceding to his every expensive suggestion for giving their loved one a grand send-off, thus accumulating a debt these simple country people could hardly ever even hope to repay.

In six months to a year, depending on the terms they had agreed upon, they would have cause to weep again when the bank—by then Father sat proudly on the Board of Directors of half a dozen—inevitably foreclosed and they found themselves homeless and Father snapped their property up like a lucky penny. In this manner he gradually acquired a number of profitable rental properties and a reputation for being the most hard-hearted landlord in Fall River and its environs. If he heard that one of his tenants was prospering, he immediately raised the rent, and if they fell on hard times, out they went. “Which is harder?” a popular joke went. “Granite, marble, or Andrew Borden’s heart?”

What little comfort the dispossessed might have derived from the knowledge that they had beggared themselves for a noble cause would be considerably diminished if they knew how great an advantage Father took of broken hearts and tear-blinded eyes.

Those much-touted Crane’s Patented Burial Caskets Father was so proud of were just about as sturdy and moisture proof as matchboxes; an earthworm bumping its head against one could have knocked the walls down if the lid didn’t cave in after the first shovel full of earth thudded down on top of it.

Whenever Father proudly petted his prized display model, which truly was an object of beauty painstakingly crafted with exquisite care, unlike the shoddy product turned out by the factory, and caressed the “heavenly soft” white satin within he was in reality selling a fantasy.

Father always led the bereaved away before the actual interment, telling them they could best honor their loved one’s memory by remembering them in the glorious bloom of health and vigor instead of watching their coffin being lowered six feet into the ground and hearing the thud of earth—such a sad sound with the harsh, inescapable ring of finality!—upon the lid. Nor did they know that most adult men, and a few women too, were consigned to their eternal rest without their feet, and also their jewelry, gold fillings, and teeth, and ladies with particularly handsome tresses habitually entered the Kingdom of Heaven shorn like convicts while Father hastened to sell their hair to a wigmaker in Boston with whom he had a lucrative and congenial arrangement. He had a similar agreement with a dentist who used the teeth of the dead to craft dentures to fill the mouths of the living. To cut costs, Father habitually purchased the shortest adult-sized coffins the Crane Company manufactured and then sawed the feet off corpses to make them fit. I often wondered if centuries after we were all returned to dust an archaeologist came along and excavated the land behind the chicken coop of our Swansea farm what he would make of the mass burial of hundreds of human feet. When the rare mourner exhibited a glint of shrewdness and remarked that their loved one looked uncommonly short in his coffin, Father was quick to retort that without life to fill them people always looked smaller in death.

Two years after our mother died, Father decided to forsake the funerary trade and the farm at Swansea and concentrate on his more lucrative and refined business ventures involving banking, textiles, and real estate in the business district of Fall River, thus necessitating our move to that city.

He put the farm, the only home Emma and I had ever known, up for rent, and moved us all into town and an ugly cracker box house at 92 Second Street, painted the most hideous shade of drab I ever saw, sort of a dull, muddy olive green tinged with an even uglier gray or brown depending on how the light struck it, though personally I always felt it would have been far better if lightning had struck it. Surrounded by a picket fence and situated on an almost pleasant street lined with elms and poplars, the house itself was a monstrosity. It was a former duplex that had been converted, ineptly and as cheaply as possible, into a single-family dwelling; thus there were no hallways and all of the rooms led directly into one another, so no one could reach the privacy of their bedroom without first passing invasively through another’s private sanctum. But Father had “gotten it for cheap” and fully, if hideously, furnished by hopelessly outmoded people who hadn’t the faintest clue about what was au courant even twenty years ago. I hated it on sight, but Father said I was the most ungrateful girl he ever knew or heard tell of; I didn’t even know the meaning of the word gratitude, and I should be thankful to have a roof over my head when so many others didn’t even have that much.

The sudden change from country life to city life was jarring. We had known no other life. Emma and I had loved the clean, fresh air, green grass, wildflowers, pure water streams, fishing holes, animals, and wide-open spaces of the farm, and the days spent frolicking with our cousins and nearest neighbors, the Gardners. Leaving Swansea for Fall River was almost like moving from Heaven to Hell. Fall River was a thriving mill town booming with big brick chimneys belching clouds of black smoke and red sparks into the sky day and night to the music of the constant thrum, hum, and roar of machinery from the eighty-seven mills that earned it the proud sobriquet of “Spindle City” and made it the largest producer of cotton in America.

But an even more drastic change lay in store. Father decided to take another wife. When Emma wept and said it was disloyal to Mother’s memory, Father countered that life was for the living and Mother was as dead as she was ever going to be. It was the sensible thing to do, he said, far cheaper than hiring a housekeeper to look after the house and a pair of growing girls who needed a woman’s guidance. When I suggested a governess—Emma had just finished reading Jane Eyre and had told me the story—Father glared and leveled a finger at me like a Puritan minister about to denounce a woman as a witch or a whore before his entire congregation and thundered the word SPENDTHRIFT! as though it was the worst insult he could think to hurl at me.

The year was 1865. Though I was only five, I remember well the Sunday Father took us to the Central Congregational Church and, after the service, introduced us to the woman he had chosen to be our stepmother.

Her name was Abby Durfee Gray; she was thirty-seven years old and had long since resigned herself to spinsterhood and embraced the consolation of sweets in lieu of a sweetheart. She was shy, short, and round as a full moon. Though she was descended, like us Bordens, from one of the first families of Puritan settlers who had arrived in Fall River in the seventeenth century, the branch she sprang from was a poor one. Like our own grandfather, whose poverty-stricken ghost Father was always running away from, hers had been a pushcart peddler, though he sold gewgaws made of tin to delight children, and little pies and cakes his wife baked instead of stinking fish.

She was wearing a massive crinoline beneath her Sunday best and I could not help but stare; I’d never seen a hoop so enormous. She’d made the dress herself, proof of her talent as a seamstress that, along with her cakes, cookies, and pies that no picnic, women’s gathering, or church social was ever complete without, often supplemented her meager income. It was charcoal-gray damask trimmed with ribbons the color of ripe plums, with wide pagoda sleeves billowing over puffed clouds of gauzy white under-sleeves trimmed with frills of lace and silk ribbons at the wrists. Beneath a matching feathered hat, her thick dark hair, actually an impressive false piece artfully braided in to lend volume to her own sparse tresses, was caught up in a net of braided purple silk sewn here and there with seed pearls. A pair of amethyst and pearl earbobs dangled like heavy ripe plums from the fleshy pink lobes of her ears and a mother-of-pearl brooch carved in the shape of a peony that her mother had worn upon her wedding day bloomed in the snowy lace at her throat.

She had such a kind face, round and open, the sort of face that knows no artifice and shows every joy and hurt as it happens. She was not like most adults, who when introduced to children stare down at them with superior eyes and a slight, tolerant smile. When Father introduced us she immediately crouched down to shake my hand and smile at me face-to-face.

She so wanted to be liked! That never changed in all the time I knew her. In that open, sincere, trusting way she had—she truly did wear her heart upon her sleeve—she told me how much she had always wanted a daughter, a little girl, to play dolls and dress-up with, to sew and bake with; she said we could try out new recipes and have a different cake or pie every Saturday. She complimented my hair—“what lovely hair for curling!”—and said that she hoped we would be real friends. Her shy smile and hopeful words touched my heart, but even as I nodded and answered her with a smile of my own, I was aware of fifteen-year-old Emma standing vigilantly, and sullenly, behind me, like a skinny black crow, still wearing mourning for our mother and keeping a steadfast, iron grip upon my shoulder while glowering a warning at Abby. Emma had stepped into our mother’s shoes where I was concerned and was not about to vacate them. I was hers and she aimed to keep it that way. And I soon found myself caught between my sister and stepmother like a rag doll two little girls were waging a war over.

In those days, when I was a child and thought like one, I genuinely liked Abby; I might even have loved her. But Emma hated her right from the start; “the Cow,” “that useless cow,” “that greedy fat slug,” she always called her.

Emma made me choose between herself and Abby—between my own flesh and blood sister who had been like a mother to me since our own had died and the usurper who had come to take, to steal, our mother’s place—and with the cruelty unique to children, I broke Abby’s heart. I turned my back on the woman who, from the day I started school until I left it, made sure the smell of cookies, moist and hot, straight from the oven, greeted me the moment I walked through the door. The woman who had scoffed at Emma’s imperious pronouncement that redheads could not wear pink and made me a dress that color and curled my hair with pink ribbons to satisfy my childish craving for that candy-sweet color. The woman who had laboriously lowered her hefty bulk down to sit on the floor and carefully cut the figures of fashionably dressed ladies from the pages of Godey’s Lady’s Book to make paper dolls and play with me. But Emma was always there to goad and remind me, to make me feel guilty, and force me to choose. So, to please Emma, and honor our dear dead mo