Mama, we’re having breakfast.
Go to the barn.
A good wife doesn’t speak to her husband that way.
Uh-oh.
It’s us, of course.
I’m your goddamn husband.
MAMA, 1855.
It’s hard to think right now. Literally. I can feel, actuallyfeel,the muscular effort of conjuring thoughts, as if every word is a rock I must find and then pull from the mud.
It must have been that man who carried me back to bed after he knocked me unconscious.Caleb,allegedly. An older version of my Caleb.Old Caleb.As I lie there on my side, I imagine him carrying me: touching my skin, tucking me into bed, doing God knows whatever else while I was passed out. It makes me want to vomit. Except it’s unlikely that I’llactuallyvomit; my stomach is growling and whining.
I roll onto my side, wincing as my body lights up in ten different locations. It’s not just the injuries. My body generally feels old and worn-out.
I pause. Blink slowly. Consider the parts of my body I can see readily. The backs of my hands, my forearms. It’s hard to consider the state of my skin when my body is streaked with grime and dirt.
There are no mirrors in this room, no way to see my own reflection. No way to reassure myself that I am, in fact, my actual self. Amazing, the things a person can take for granted. I’ve never once paused to think about the sheer miracle that is a mirror. I’ve never once considered there might be a day when I would be desperate to see myself, only to realize I was lacking the necessary tools to do so.
I close my eyes, try to cool down my overheating brain.
Calm yourself, Natalie.Regroup. Think. Think!
My brain weakly oozes little darts of panic in response.
“Mama?”
I twitch at the sound. Lift my head off the pillow.Ouch;a headache pierces the back of my skull like a surgical needle.
There’s that little girl, standing by the doorway. The same one who called for me earlier. She’s wearing one of those strange pilgrim outfits, hair fully braided. My heart squeezes in a sort of heartsick revulsion, the kind I felt in the early days of postpartum with Clementine. That innate instinct to love a child, especially one who looks like you, coupled with the overwhelming desire to kill the needful thing, to bash its head in and run.
The girl moves inside the room, her little hand trailing the wall. “It’s Maeve, Mama,” she says shyly. “It’s me.”
“Maeve,” I echo groggily, like some demented cavewoman. Ilove that name. It’s always been on our list, ever since the very first child. With each of our girls, we considered Maeve but never found a soul who seemed to fully fit the bill. This little girl, though, is a perfect Maeve. Soft and watchful and sweet.
I close my eyes. Paw roughly through my thoughts. Mumble, “Where am I, again?”
“Home,” she says immediately. She’s staring at the floor now. She looks upset, or maybe disappointed. Like she’s playing a game she doesn’t want to play.
A prickle of dread runs through me. A new thought rises to the surface, spiked with paranoia:She was trained to answer these questions.
“What day is it?”
She’s been slowly creeping along the wall toward me as we talk, in an incremental shuffle that feels less intentional than instinctual, like she’s magnetized by me. Like she loves me. Like I’m—my heart stutters a little bit—like I’m her mother.
She kicks softly at the nightstand, flicks her gaze toward me, flicks it away when our eyes meet. “Wednesday.”
My brain latches onto the information with such quick and immediate relief—this is a word we know; this is a day of the week where we arefrom—that it takes me a few moments to realize I can’t remember what my last day was back home.
What do I remember?
Such a simple question, and yet it feels impossible to answer.
I remember my mother and my sister. I remember marrying Caleb, I remember giving birth. I remember the email from Shannon.For the record, I don’t think you’re a bad person.Oh, and that hopeful look on my husband’s face when he said,It’s time torun—
