Broken Glass (The Mirror Sisters 2)

“You don’t want me to go, too, just to help choose things?”

“No,” he said sharply. He saw the look on my face and added, “Not yet.”

At least he believed there would be a time when he would let me out, I thought. I had to work for that.

“Tell me more about the farm,” I said. “You didn’t tell me enough about the outside.”

“I told you plenty.”

“I wasn’t concentrating on it. I was thinking too much about having my own home. You saw how excited I was about it, right?”

“Yeah. There’s not much to tell. It’s not really a farm anymore. I grow some vegetables, and we have two great apple trees in the back.”

“What was there? Cows, horses, chickens?”

“Years and years ago, all three. We had chickens when I was little, but one night my father butchered them all in a rage.”

“Why?”

“Drunk and unhappy about something at work. He didn’t like the mess and noise they made. I don’t remember him doing it. I was asleep, but I remember all the blood and feathers when I woke up and went outside to get some eggs for breakfast. My mother sulked in a corner in the living room all day, and later she made him clean it all up. But I don’t want to think about that. That’s why I don’t talk about the farm.”

“But you have acres, right?”

“Ten. Almost all overgrown. I’m no farmer, and my father certainly wasn’t. But we don’t think about what this place was. It’s what we’re going to make it now,” he said, rus

hing back excitedly to his vision. “We’re like Adam and Eve, aren’t we? Creating our own Garden of Eden, just like you said once. I liked that. You know what?” he said, an idea sparked in his head. “I’ll make a sign and put it on the house: Garden of Eden.”

“Who would see it?” I asked, as innocently as I could. “You said we were far from the road and there were no close neighbors.”

“Who cares? I’ll see it. We don’t do things for strangers or neighbors.”

“Will I see it, too?”

“I’ll bring it to you before I put it on the house,” he said. He nodded at the childish pictures on the wall. “As you can tell, I have a knack for art.”

I looked at the pictures and nodded. “When did you do them?”

“Oh, now and then,” he said. “My father thought they were stupid, but my mother liked them.” He stood up. “All right. You clean up, organize things, while I’m out doing some shopping and getting those catalogues.”

“I need clothes,” I said.

“You got clothes.”

“Things that fit better. I don’t look as good as I can. You want me to look good, don’t you?”

“You look good enough,” he insisted.

I was hoping he would go to a department store and attract attention by buying clothes for a teenage girl.

“Maybe later,” he said. “I don’t have time now. You women can nag.” He seemed to be taking on what he had said was his father’s attitude and demeanor. Then he smiled. “But I like it. Makes me feel . . . like I got me a woman who cares. So nag, nag, nag.”

He laughed and started for the door. Then he stopped and turned to come back to me.

“You always give your man a kiss when he leaves,” he said. He stood there waiting.

What do I do now? I thought. Do I continue to behave as though I agree with it all, or do I whine and cry and threaten? His moods changed as quickly as the snap of a finger. It took everything I had to do it, but I stood up obediently and offered him my lips. He leaned in closely, his eyes wide open, watching me suspiciously, so I put my hands on his shoulders, closed my eyes, and kissed him.

My stomach churned. I thought I would heave up what I had eaten, but I lowered my head quickly and turned away.