I didn’t have to look far for my mother in our tiny four-room house. She waited for me at the dining room table, which was in what was called our great room. It was the main area that included what could traditionally be called a living room-kitchen combo in the secular world. The other three rooms were my parents’, the boys’, and the girls’ bedrooms.
The only light came from the fire in the hearth and the candles on the table. Even if I hadn’t been there earlier, I wouldn’t have needed the light to remember what this place looked like. Built by my father’s hands and other members of the community, it was still solid and functional as the first day they’d moved in. Everything had its place. As sparse as it was, it was homey and more inviting than Lizzy’s parents’ posh apartment.
The timber used to build this place was kept natural, free of paint inside and out. The floors and ceiling boasted the same. A wood-burning oven was positioned on one side of the house and the hearth on the other. We didn’t have a refrigerator because our house held no electricity. We did have an icebox, which literally meant that a block of ice was used to keep the space cold. A few cupboards and a small worktable made up the rest of the tiny kitchen.
Two long sofas were fashioned from wood with handmade cushions set across from each other. The hearth created division between them. In the middle of the two rooms was the long table worn with loving nicks when as kids we played games and from accidental flicks of forks and knives. There at the end of the long table, perched like a king because he was head of the household, my father now sat.
He steepled his hands, the tips grazing his long fiery beard. Mother sat to his left. Her dark locks muted by time. Even in the candlelight, I could see time had been kind to them.
“Sit, Bailey,” my father commanded. I just complied. His instruction was always to be followed no matter what.
I sat across from my mother, meeting her subdued smile.
“Your mother very much wants to know how you’ve been.”
This was the test. He wanted to see how I’d answer these questions that would come up here at home and in the community. I understood my role not to poison anyone, including my mother, about a grand life outside of our town if one could call it that.
Looking into my mother’s earnest face, I knew I couldn’t be completely dishonest.
“Everything’s fine. I’ve been busy with an audit. Things didn’t go as planned and I had an opportunity to take some time for myself,” I said.
Mother reached over and covered my hand with hers. “I’m sorry for that, but I’m glad you’re here. Is your fiancé okay with you being gone?”
Of course, she’d think of that. I glanced away and muttered, “That didn’t work out either.”
“What did you do this time?” Father asked as if exasperated.
“What did I do?” I spat, keeping my voice low as to not disturb my younger siblings who were down for the night. “I said yes to the wrong man who couldn’t keep his hands to himself.”
“Is that a surprise?” he challenged. “Men like Scott Hayes, without faith, whose lives revolve around money, have no honor.”
It wasn’t a surprise to hear him recite my ex’s given name, as I’d written to my mother with the news of our engagement.
I almost laughed at the hypocrisy but managed to keep myself in check.
“I guess I would have been better off here, subservient to some man, spitting out babies as he decided whether or not one wife was enough,” I gritted out, unable to keep my mouth shut.
Everything went silent. Mother looked as though she held her breath, waiting for what my father would do next.
He didn’t even look mad. Calmly, he said, “You were never subservient, Bailey. From the moment you were born, you lived to defy me. As soon as you were able to walk, if I said go left, you would go right. None of your brothers or sisters ever dared to cross me, except you.”
“Is that why you hate me?” I asked, my voice trembling against my wishes.
When he didn’t answer, I almost got up. In a final act of some semblance of respect, I said, “May I be excused?” Though the words felt like lava in my throat.
My father pushed away from the table and stood, towering over us, making the point of who was in charge. “As I mentioned before, it’s best you not stay here after tonight.”
“Jacob,” my mother admonished, curling her hand around his forearm, trying to stop his edict.
“Catelyn,” my father said. His voice was softer yet still firm with her. “She can stay with Marigold.”