15Life went on after that. The days passed by. But it felt like I was just standing still, watching the world around me move. Watching it be alive, while I was dead.
The baby died the night that Tilly did. I felt no emotion about it, for I was already numb after having lost Tilly. Freddy cried endlessly and would let no one comfort him. Tilly and the baby were buried within days. I watched Tilly's wooden coffin being lowered into the deep, dark pit. Then dampened dirt, from earlier rain, was shoveled on top of it. And I was alone.
I quickly forgot Tilly's last words to me. I cried almost constantly. I sat around just alone and hurt. I did not want to think of God. Not the God who had taken Tilly from me.
I pulled away from everyone after Tilly's death. I barely spoke to my family or any of the house servants. In church, I didn't speak to anyone unless they spoke to me. And, being mad at God, I had no wish to even be in church.
Soon my mother started pestering me. She complained that I was too self centered, too dark, too dreary. That I needed to get out more, that I needed sunlight.
"Leslie," she said to me one day, as I was sitting at the kitchen table, reading a book. "You should be more like your sister, Rosalie. She is a good example for you to follow."
I ignored her. She just stood there tapping her foot impatiently as I silently continued to read my book, acting as though I had not heard her. Then suddenly she ripped the book from my hands.
"Leslie!" she said angrily. "How can you ignore me? I am your mother! I have done so much for you! Given you a roof over your head and warm food to eat. You should be on your knees thanking me! It was because of me that you had Tilly, though now I wish you hadn't."
I stood up, knocking over my chair as I did. But I didn't care. I was shaking with anger.
"How dare you say that!" I screamed. "You never gave me anything! Tilly did! You never gave me love! You ignored me! You'd better never speak to me again! I hate you!"
With that I grabbed the book from her hands, glanced once at her twisted face, and stomped out of the room. I wanted nothing more than to die. Maybe I'd end up in heaven with Tilly. But no, not a wicked person like me. Not a girl who had just told her mother she hated her.
I climbed the stairs to my bedroom and opened the door and then slammed it shut once inside. I then lay down in my bed and sobbed, still clutching the book in my hands. I soon heard a knock at the door and then Rosalie entered.
"You know, Leslie," she said matter-of-factly. "You were very unkind to mother. Mother should toss you out into the streets for how you've acted, but I suspect she'll be merciful. Though you don't deserve it. And besides, ladies do not scream in anger. And they do not slam doors. Keep those things in mind. Did that Tilly teach you any manners at all? Well, perhaps it is better now that she is dead."
I screamed and threw the book at her as hard as I could and it missed her hair by inches and hit the wall hard and loud. She gasped and fled from my room quick as lightning. I hoped I'd never have to see her again.
The next day in the afternoon I was reading the dictionary, looking for cruel words to use for my mother and sister. As I turned the pages, I grew impatient, not finding words fitting enough. So I picked up a small pocketknife which Freddy had given me for Christmas one year. Soon I was staring at the sharp blade of one of the knifes and admiring it's shine. As I turned it around, I cut my finger deeply on it. Blood came out of the small slit and spilled down my finger. Perhaps if I just let it bleed I'd lose enough blood to die, I thought. I was thirteen at the time, and was very uneducated on the subject of the human body.
I decided to let it bleed and soon my lace white pillowcase was stained with red blood. I fell asleep, my hand resting on the pillow, blood dripping onto it from my finger. I did not awaken until the next morning when the sunlight came pouring through my white lace curtains. My mother quietly entered my room, unbeknownst to me.
I did not notice her presence until I heard a short gasp and she sat down on my bed beside me and lovingly picked up my now bloodstained left hand. I was awake, but closed my eyes and pretended to sleep. I was amazed. I couldn't remember my mother ever seeming so concerned about me.
"Leslie," she whispered. "What happened, my darling? Your hand is covered with blood."
I moaned, not wanting to speak. I didn't know what to say. Should I scream at her for bothering me or be kind to her for treating me with such kindness and concern? I turned my head to look at her.
"I'm sorry, Leslina." she said quietly, tears filling her blue eyes. "I have not been a good mother to you. I do not know if I ever could be one, but just know that I wish I was."
Her words were kind and warmed my heart. Maybe she did care for me after all. She quickly kissed my hair and left the room as I lay there in shock. I could not remember her ever kissing me, though Rosalie always received a morning and good-night peck on the cheek.
I did not see her again for the rest of the day, but she soon sent Susan up to my room with a tray of eggs, bacon, milk, and toast and some bandages and soap and water for my cut. Soon I was contentedly eating breakfast in bed, a rare thing, with my finger newly clean and bandaged.