“She should rest on her own, readying herself for the morning,” James argues.
“I have everything needed to clean the wound in my room. I’ll ensure she gets some sleep.”
James pauses at the bottom of the stairs, and I think, for a moment, he’s going to ignore our mother, perhaps remind her that, now he’s of age, she holds no power over him.
He sighs, then strides up the stairs and into our mother’s bedroom before laying me down on the soft hand-sewn patchwork quilt.
He runs a hand through his short dark hair. “Do as he says, Eleanor. Be meek. Good.Obedient. Do that, and you might survive this.”
Survive what? Marriage to a man who answers to no one? Whose word is absolute, and nobody dares to question his actions? James spins on his heel and strides out of the room, barging past my mother in the doorway without a word or backward glance.
She shakes her head as she enters the room and closes the door behind her, before busying herself at my side and wetting a washcloth. She turns to me with her lips pressed together, narrowing her eyes in determination.
“Lift your gown, Eleanor.”
The white cotton is stained crimson over my hip and sticks to the wound. I hiss at the sting as I peel the fabric from my burned flesh to reveal the blazing mark. My mother’s throat bobs as she squeezes her eyes closed.
“I should have recognized the signs he was going to do this tonight.”
What difference would knowing have made? What benefit would have come from me trembling in fear for hours?
She presses the warm washcloth to the wound. My head jerks back, and I hiss at the pain, bowing off the bed, free to finally truly feel my pain.
“We can use this,” she mutters.
Use it? Blearily, I glance at her ruddy face. My mother is talking nonsense. She grabs a new rag, dipping it in the bowl of steaming water, and repeats the cleansing.Why isn’t she rinsing them? Seems such a waste.She picks up a brown bottle, and a strong sterile scent fills the room.Oh no.
“Deep breath. It will hurt, but it’s necessary.” Then she douses the wound in the burning liquid. My back arches, andI grit my teeth. “There, my love, all done. That should prevent infection.”
“Thank you,” I whisper, sweat beading across my forehead.
She shakes her head as she applies a dressing to my hip and secures it with tape. Her gaze burrows through the dressing as she swallows before tugging my nightgown down. She hands me a small plate filled with cheese, bread, and grapes.
“Eat. You are going to need your strength for the night ahead.”
I stare at my mother as she shuffles around the bedroom.
She means day. Jonathan won’t return tonight. Evenheadheres to some of his rules.
“I’m not hungry,” I whisper.
She sighs. “Eat, Eleanor. Now.”
She grabs a drawstring bag and places the bloody dressings inside. My stomach flips, my mind convinced I am not seeing the truth. That’s odd. We normally burn such items. I nibble on the food as she shuffles around the bedroom, my gaze tracking her behavior with interest. My normally unflappable mother is spiraling. I should get James. He could calm her down. I’m a terrible comforter. All I’ve ever done is make Mama’s brow furrow and turn her cheeks pink. She places two rucksacks on the end of the bed, my feet nearly touching the worn cloth. They appear stuffed full. With what? She blows out the candles illuminating the room and hovers near the window, her body stiff. A howl splits the air, making a shiver race down my spine. Jonathan’s dogs are loose, protecting us from the outside world and warding off sinners.
My mother moves away from the window as I finish the last of the food. She pulls out a set of clothing from the rucksack and tosses them on the bed next to me.
“Get changed, Eleanor.”
I glance at the pile of black clothing, then back at her. “But they are forbidden.”
Children and unmarried women wear white. Once wed, we graduate to gray. A dreary color, but never black.
“Now, Eleanor. There’s no time to explain, but if you want to live, you will follow my instructions to the letter.”
I blink at the vehemence in her voice. “Okay, Mama.”
I slide off the bed and pull the nightshirt over my head. She snatches it from my hand and puts it in the drawstring bag with the bloody rags. I pull on the unusual clothing; a pair of soft but tight pants that hug my thighs and waist and a black long-sleeved shirt. The band on the pants tugs against the dressing, reigniting the pain. My mother pulls on a matching set of clothing, her hands trembling as she pulls her shirt over her head. Her eyes fall closed, and she draws in a deep breath before opening them again. She cups my face and places a kiss on my forehead, her lips lingering longer than they ever have.
