Oh, the laundry.
The laundry!
Even on a good day, the laundry threatens to drown me. If a person had told me, before I ended up here, that the simple act of washing clothes could take you hours, that it could cause your fingers to crack and bleed from the cold, I would’ve laughed and said they must be doing something wrong. I would’ve said thatIwould find a way to do it in half the time, and do you know what? I would’ve been fucking wrong.
Every few days, good or bad, rain or shine or frigid goddamn cold in the early afternoon, Mary positions me outside in front of three large aluminum tins of water. She hands me a broom, one of her homemade bars of soap, and a pile of laundry large enough to defy the senses. The soap is made with lye; my fingers begin to sizzle within minutes of use. First, I drop the laundry into the first tin, and then I scrub, scrub, scrub—sizzle, sizzle, sizzle—and then I use the broom to lift the hulking pile of soaked clothes into the next tin to wash the soap off. If I didn’t hate the clothing here enough before, I hate it doubly now. And so I have to sit all afternoon long and scrub, scrub, scrub, until my fingers become so burned and numb that they lose the ability to grip the washboard tightly, or until the clothes are clean. I have yet to finish the chore due to the latter reason; so far, it’s always been the former. I am waging a daily battle against the inherent dirtiness of this farm, and I am losing. The worst part (besides the bleeding fingers and the freezing water and the screaming pain in my lower back and the blinding fury I feel within fifteen minutes of getting started) is the location. By which I mean: the spot by the front porch where I do the laundry allows me a perfect view of Caleb and the boys whenever they’re working in the nearby fields, which means that I get to watch those fuckers in real time as they grow dirtier and dirtier throughout the day. I sit there and watch—with an outrage that froths and bubbles in all the ways that my sourdough starter now refuses to—as the boys wrestle oneanother to the ground, rolling around gleefully in the mud until their father picks them up by the scruffs of their collars and sets them back on their feet.
The long dresses I wear are heavy and thick. Poorly sewn and covered in stains. They make me clumsy; I trip and swear each time I step outside. I stub the toe on my bad foot and scream like I’ve been shot. I find myself caked in dirt by midday. The only remotely nice part of the day is evening time, when dinner is over and I get to sit by the fire with Mary and Maeve. I’m still required to be doing work, to be clear—but stitching up rips in clothing is a walk in the park compared to plunging my fingers into the frigid cold.
While they talk, I focus on the stitching in my lap. The topics they cover are sweetly inane. Maeve will ask Mary about her dreams, for example, and Mary will very obviously fabricate the kind of dream scenario that a child would enjoy.I fell into an ocean of pancakes and then syrup fell like rain.When they reach the bounds of their own impossibly limited imaginations, they talk about chores and weather and barnyard animals. I can feel myself getting stupider by the day.
Regardless, I stay silent. I sit in my chair and focus on my stitching and try to take solace in the warmth of the fire. I think, but don’t say,This life is an exercise in insanity.
I’m being watched, I remind myself, on good days and bad days, again and again. Like a mantra: someone, somewhere,hasto be watching me right now. They have to be. There’s no other option I can accept. And whoever’s watching me? I want them to see how helpless I am. How beautiful I can be, even in the ugliest-possible situation. It’s always the helpless and beautiful ones who are kidnapped, sure—but it’s also the helpless and beautiful ones who are saved.
28
“Now, Nattie,”my mother was saying, “I know you have so much on your plate right now, with the farm and the little ones, sopleasetell me if this is too much to ask—but Abigail was saying she’d love to come visit with the kids for the weekend, and I thought, what a lovely idea!”
“Oh,” I said. “What a surprise.”
I was holding my two-month-old son in my arms. Samuel. I’d been breastfeeding in the darkness in a barely furnished room when my mother called. It was technically Clementine’s room. It was her mattress in the corner of the room, her books arranged in a neat little pile on the opposite wall. We kept forgetting to order the rest of the furniture. The princess bed frame, the matching pink bookshelf. They were floating in my laptop, waiting patiently in an online shopping cart. I just kept forgetting to purchase them.
It was June. Our second summer on the farm. On the other side of this great nation, Reena was living in New York City as a recent graduate. I knew this because I checked on her Instagram account daily. I saw every highly unattractive selfie she shared of herself, raccoon-eyed on the subway at three in the morning, surrounded by young men and women who always looked like they were mid-conversation and trying to ignore her. I knew she hadn’t gotten a gig at McKinsey when she announced that she was working at some no-name mid-tier consulting firm that would require her to travelevery other weekend. She was flailing, obviously—and I, on the other hand, was thriving.
I just needed to remember to order that furniture.
“So what do you think?” my mother said. “Should we come this weekend? Now’s a good time for Abigail to travel.” Only my mother would describe an hour’s drive as traveling. Abigail was five months pregnant with her fifth child. She’d lapped me several times over with her children. I hated her for it.
“What do I think,” I echoed softly. WhatdidI think? Samuel snuffled in my arms, smacking his lips loudly. I stared at his little face in the darkness, smushed up against my breast. He was a sweet little boy, with none of the sharp edges of his older sister. I loved him effortlessly and distantly. When I held him, it felt like I was waving at a relative from very far away.Hello, there!Or maybe:Goodbye!
I’d opted for the anesthetic this time. I’d been miles away from this child even as he was making his slow exit out of my body.
Here is what I thought first:If they come for the weekend, they will see the vegetables and thehalf-tilled fields and the workers, clutching their ribs and laughing breathlessly at Caleb’s mangled attempts at Spanish.
Here is what I thought next:If they come for the weekend, Mother can hold the baby.
I let out a long breath. I kept forgetting to breathe these days. I was so tired. My son was so beautiful. I was so happy. Really, I was. Happy.
Two days later, my family and I stood in the driveway as Abigail’s junkyard minivan rolled up the hill. Little Samuel was in my arms in a brand-new blue gingham shirt. Clementine was standing stiffly at my feet, wearing a too-small dress in the same fabric as the baby. I’d gotten the outfits from a local children’s store in town months ago, certain that I could beat the pace of her growth spurt. Caleb was standing next to me, wearing a wide-brimmed hat.
“Well, aren’t you the perfect ranch family,” my sister said when she got out of the car.
Her children poured out of the van like termites. Brady, Brandon, Benjamin, Becky, each of them about fifteen months apart. The children went careening toward the fields, screaming about a game of tag. Clementine hesitated, then dropped my hand and began to walk slowly after them.
My mother got out of the passenger seat. “Goodness,” she said, “would youlookat those mountains.”
“Welcome, y’all!” Caleb brayed out suddenly.
All of us looked at him. He looked back at us with an expression of terrified confusion, like he’d just woken up and found himself here, mid-conversation. I sighed. It had been a mistake to tell my husband to pretend. He’d internalized it incorrectly and now managed the feat only in fitful spurts, which obviously defeated the whole purpose of performance.
I threw a holly, jolly smile onto my face. “Caleb’s becoming a regular cowboy these days!”
“Howmarvelous,” my mother said quickly, and rushed to hug my husband before he could humiliate himself further.
While Caleb talked my mother’s ear off about his wide-brimmed hat (Lord, give me strength), Abigail sidled up to me. “He’s beautiful,” she said softly, looking at Samuel. She touched his bald head with an index finger, and he let out a little squeak in reply.
I nodded at her kids, who were now teaching Clementine how to play tag. “The children seem well.”
