Fullepub 
Chapter Fourteen
chapter fourteen
September 16, 1929
Lanesborough, New Hampshire
Work on the foliage festival has reached a frenzy: I am out of the house every day arranging things and making preparations. Today, we scoured the kitchen in the church basement and took stock of all the kitchen implements, making a list of the additional things we’d have to bring in to cook and serve the chicken-pie supper.
Will says I have become the Queen of Lists.
It does me good, hearing the scratch of pencil on paper. Writing down what needs to be done, then doing it and crossing it off the list. It makes me feel like I have a sense of control.
I have no control over my own body anymore. It’s growing in new ways. I’ve had to let out my dresses. My stomach turns at the thought of food that isn’t porridge, bread, or applesauce. Even my hair seems to have a will of its own, sticking up at funny angles and refusing to be held by pins.
Will says I look beautiful, that pregnancy has given me a healthy glow.
I feel more out of my body than ever before. Like I am floating outside it, watching the bloated and swollen Mrs. Monroe scratch things off her list, kiss her husband’s cheek, let out her dresses and loosen her shoes. You have no control over anything, I want to tell her.
Today, I arrived home to find that a new letter arrived from Eliza.
Dearest Ethel,
Since poor Martha’s death, I have been very busy indeed. I have been engaged in secret research. I have not told Benson or anyone else what I have learned. You are the first.
I have contacted everyone I’ve been able to who has experienced a “miracle” at the springs. And what I’ve learned is very troubling indeed.
The musician I told you about who became an overnight sensation—his oldest son was hit by a streetcar and killed three weeks after his record hit the top of the charts. The woman whose asthma was cured—her husband took ill with consumption. Little Charles Woodcock is now walking, while his sister has been laid to rest.
The old folks in town, they know the truth. They say the springs give miracles, but they always take something in return.
The springs exact a price equal to what was given.
Please tell me, my darling friend, did you get your wish?
Please don’t think it horrible of me to admit that I pray you did not.
There is one more thing I must tell you, though I am sure you will think me quite mad.
I have seen little Martha. I went to the pool at night, and she was there, waiting for me. “Come swimming with me,” she said. And oh, Ethel, I ran from her then. I ran and have not been back, but I know she’s there still, waiting.
Yours,
Eliza Harding
The room swam around me and before I even realized what I was doing, I crumpled the letter and threw it into the fireplace, where it landed on the hot coals from this morning and immediately caught fire.
September 23, 1929
After hearing from Eliza, I wrote back right away, confessing that her letter troubled me deeply. “I do not think you mad,” I assured her. “I believe you were shaken to the core by the death of poor little Martha,” I told her. “Grief can do funny things to the mind.” I went on to say that I thought it would do her a world of good to get away from the hotel and springs. I invited her to come to visit me, to be our houseguest. “Come right away,” I wrote. “Please, Eliza, I insist. You don’t even need to take the time to write me back. Just get in your car and come.”
And I waited, like a foolish girl, ever hopeful. With each sound of a car engine on our street, I peered out the window hoping to see Eliza, imagining our embrace, how lovely it would be to have her in our house. We would drink tea every morning. I would tell her about my pregnancy, and she would offer advice, tell me stories of what her own pregnancy had been like. And surely, once she was away from the hotel, the springs would lose their strange hold over her—she would see that the stories she’d heard, the things she believed she’d seen, simply could not be possible. We’d even laugh over it, how foolish she’d been for believing such things. I pictured it all so clearly as I sat alone in my kitchen with my tea. I’d made a whole pot, set out an extra cup and saucer across from me, told myself Eliza could show up at any moment.
When she did not come, I dumped the extra tea down the drain, went into the bathroom, and poked my arm with a pin six times. She is not here now but she is coming, I told myself as I pressed the needle into my skin.
I am Mrs. Monroe and I am having a houseguest. A good friend. We will share our secrets and laugh over tea. I will make her some of my famous raspberry tarts, and she will never want to leave.
“I’ve invited Eliza Harding to come visit,” I told Will when he came home to find me setting up the guest room with clean bedding. I’d told him nothing about the death of poor little Martha at the hotel or Eliza’s consequent unraveling. He knew we exchanged letters often and told each other about our gardens and sewing projects and favorite recipes. Such simple creatures he must think we are!
Will gave me a strange look. “Are you sure that’s a good idea? Having a houseguest now? You’re so caught up in the foliage festival. I don’t want you to overtax yourself in your condition.”
“Nonsense,” I replied. “A visit from Eliza is just what I need. And she can help with the festival. She’s ever so organized. Just think of all the work she’s put into that rose garden, everything she does to help keep things at the hotel running smoothly.”
He nodded. “If it will make you happy,” he said.
“Oh, it will,” I said, throwing my arms around him, kissing his neck. “Ever so happy!”
This afternoon, I finally received a letter from the hotel! But when I looked at the return address, I saw that it was not from Eliza, but from her husband, Mr. Benson Harding.
Dear Mrs. Monroe,
I’m afraid I write with terrible news. I regret to inform you that my wife, Eliza, drowned last week on the grounds of the hotel. As you can imagine, I am at an absolute loss.
I must also confess that she was not of her right mind in the weeks leading up to the accident. Please disregard anything she might have written to you in recent letters.
Sincerely,
Mr. Benson Harding
The Brandenburg Springs Hotel
Will came home and found me, face puffy and tearstained. I’d scorched the squash soup and burned two loaves of bread. The kitchen smelled like singed and ruined things. He asked me what on earth happened. “Is it the baby?”
I started to cry. I opened my mouth to tell him, but I could not. Perhaps saying the words would make them too real? No. I wanted to protect him. I didn’t want him to know such a terrible thing had happened at a place so special to us; the place where our child was brought to life. “The baby’s fine,” I said. “I was just feeling a little sorry for myself for no reason. And dinner turned into a disaster. I’m so sorry, Will.”
He wrapped me up in a tight hug. “You’re overdoing things,” he said. “Working day and night on this festival. And I know you haven’t been sleeping well, you toss and turn. You need rest, Ethel.”
He tucked me into bed, slipping a little white pill under my tongue. “This will help you relax.”
I closed my eyes and dreamed I was back at the springs with my newborn baby. Eliza Harding came up from underwater. But not the Eliza I remembered—she was pale with a green cast to her skin. Her hair was full of weeds, her breath was sharp and metallic. Her lips were blue. And her eyes, they were two dark pools, as black as the water itself.
She reached out from the water, her arms impossibly long, tendril-white fingers that turned to claws, and snatched my little girl. Just before pulling her under, Eliza said to me, “Don’t you understand? She belongs to the springs.”
