Free Miss Emily by Nuala O'Connor

Mammy always took it in the weeks after birthing, and she swore it was why she got back to herself so quick.”
    â€œHow thoughtful,” Sue says. “I thank you.” She places Martha on her shoulder and rubs her back to soothe her cries.
    Ada lingers by the parlor door, and I can see that she is itching to speak again.
    â€œYes, Ada?”
    â€œCould I lift the baby? It’s just that I miss my sisters, and . . . well, I’d like to hold her for a moment, if you didn’t mind, Miss Susan.”
    â€œOf course, dear.”
    I have Ada sit in Father’s wing chair, and Susan places Martha in her arms. The baby stops whimpering and looks up into Ada’s face. As Susan walks back toward me, I see Ada spit on her finger and rub a cross onto the baby’s forehead. She lifts Martha close to her face; they stare at each other like two old friends getting reacquainted after a long separation. Ada puts the baby to her shoulder and strokes her back, up and down, eyes closed; she looks content and whole, every inch the little mother. Martha emits a long, gurgling belch, and we all three laugh.
    â€œWell now,” Ada says, “you have room in there for more, MissMartha.” She stands up, carries the baby to her mother, then leaves us.
    â€œI am sure that is the happiest I have seen Ada since her aunt died,” I say, to fill the silence that she has left in her wake.
    â€œThat girl makes me shiver somehow,” Susan says, lifting Martha to her other breast. “Does she quite know her place?”
    I look at my friend and will myself to defend Ada vigorously. The best I can manage is, “Yes, she does. And she is lovely, truly,” to which Susan shrugs.
    Sue is a puzzle to me sometimes. We are sisters, and we love each other, but she does not always see the world as I do, and often this takes me aback. Foolishly perhaps, I want those I love the most to be as I am, to see everything as I do. And, therefore, to like all of those who are dear to me, which now must include Ada.

    â€œMartha is a good, solid name,” Ada says, lining up our jars of quince jelly, ready for the cellar. The jelly is amber-colored and nicely set, a successful batch.
    â€œYes, it is. A bequest from the Bible. But I think Ada is the most perfect of names. A palindrome, complex in its very simplicity.”
    â€œMiss, you may as well be talking gibberish for all I understand you.”
    â€œYour name is the same front and back: A-D-A.” I draw a line in the air first forward, then backward. “A-D-A.”
    â€œBut sure I know that,” she says. “Come on, get the basket, and we’ll bring these jars below. It gives me the all-overs going down there by myself.”
    I stack the jars into the big wicker, and we take either side of the handle and shuffle down the back stairs.
    â€œWhy were you named Ada?”
    â€œWhy is a fly a fly? Why were you named Emily?”
    â€œFor my mother, of course.”
    She stops, and we set down the basket. “Mrs. Dickinson is called Emily, too? Well, my goodness, I never knew that.” She shakes her head. “It certainly gives the lie to the name suiting the wearer.”
    â€œI can’t imagine what you mean,” I say, but I elbow her in the side, to let her know that her meaning is very clear to me.
    We stack the jars of quince and go back up to the kitchen. Ada moves slowly and stops often to take a moment of reverie. I sit at the table and watch her adding sticks to the stove. She squats, feeding twigs one by one, watching them crackle and flame.
    â€œWhat is it, Ada?”
    She sits back on her hunkers. “Miss Emily, how well you know me. I’m glum in myself.”
    â€œIt is hard to lose a beloved relative.”
    â€œWell, it’s not only that, miss. Father Sullivan says I’ve to leave my uncle’s house in Kelley Square, and my cousin Annie says she can’t take me in—with her