The Staircase Letters Read Online Free

abortion in the second month of her pregnancy, when she knew she had rubella (German measles). Despite learning that the baby, if ever born, would be almost certainly deafor blind or have serious heart damage, she insisted that life was important and she would try to carry the fetus to term. It was in the sixth month that the baby was stillborn, and the doctors thought seriously brain damaged. Although rubella was really the cause, Elma blamed herself. She had cut down on her drinking during pregnancy, but she now returned to alcohol in a yet more serious way and went spinning out of control. It was, however—so Martin told me later—because she recognized her own desperate situation that she started going to AA, and that led to her subsequent recovery. “The mind is its own place, and in itself can make a Heav’n of Hell, a Hell of Heav’n.” True enough, even when Milton gave the words to Satan. It’s the transforming mind that counts, and Elma’s mind was still capable of working, still transforming.
    So sleep really has been my major concern. But perhaps I should be less interested in being unconscious! I am now beginning to realize that, in my case, that “miraculous 1%” (inexplicable cure) translates into a very slim chance of living more than about six months. And with no way of knowing at all whenwhich or all of my mental faculties will go during that time frame, I must try to develop at least one new thing a day, rather than being concerned about sleep.
    I am a very happy woman, Carol, and bless you and all my incredibly supportive friends.
    Talking is usually much easier for me, but I don’t want to interrupt your work.
    Read about
Unless
. Great title. That story was the first I read in
Dressing Up for the Carnival
, and remains one of my favourites. I’m delighted you’re picking up that one— hope to get to read the book. All love,
    Elma
    P.S. I meant
this
week I had chemo Monday, etc., so I’ve had five straight days of chemo and then rad. stuff. See what I mean about sleep?
    The next day I responded to Elma’s letter to Carol.
    Dear E.,
    Last night I got what you had addressed to Carol and perfectly well understood. Howsensible you are becoming! Save your energies! Write only what you want and when you want to write it.
    Who was it who said—Arthur Koestler got it from someone else, I think—something about the best inspirations coming from the bus, the bath, and the bed? I hope that’s true, because in my morning bath a few minutes ago, I thought I should try, after all, to turn my Salvation Army novel into a play, which is what you suggested, and I even thought of an opening scene. The challenge would be to find a different way of telling the same story and not be reluctant to let go great chunks of the novel that won’t fit a format for the stage. If I ever do that, I’ll dedicate it to you—“For Elma, the brightest and best.”
    Ever … ever … ever …
    A.

    A few days later, I wrote again to Elma, knowing that she had been suffering regularly from insomniaand had asked Carol what her remedy was for getting to sleep at night. Carol’s answer was unfortunately lost in a later computer glitch, but it was so vivid and imaginative that I recall it clearly.
    Carol wrote that she would imagine herself standing at the top of a staircase, with as many stairs on it as there were years in her life. Sometimes it was a grand staircase, made of Italian marble, with banisters stylishly shaped and decorated with pieces of glass from Murano; sometimes it was humbler and made of wood or polished ebony; sometimes it was built of concrete, hard, durable. And, lying in bed with her eyes closed, she would start on the top step, a beginning that was also an ending.
    She would descend that staircase very slowly, each step a review of her life, stopping to feel each stair with her foot, appreciating its smoothness, its colour, and looking to see if it reflected light or not, if it had been created by an