Edward points to a grassy field just beyond the corn shoots. “See that stretch of land over there?”
“The field where we used to play Kings and Castles?”
His grin is lopsided and bashful. “That’s the one. My father says he’ll give it to me so I can build my own house, start my own family.”
I should hand the joint back. Instead, I take another hit and let the smoke hang in my lungs, let it burn and burn.
“I’d like to start my own life,” he admits.
My mouth is dry and I roll my tongue around looking for sustenance that isn’t there.
“Picture it,” he goes on. “A saltbox house. Just like the Pembery House in town. White maybe? With black shutters? Or red with white shutters? A red barn to match. There’s enough land there for a garden too. I know how much you love your poppies. We could plant a whole garden of them if you wanted.”
I hand the joint back. He pinches it between his fingers and lets it smoke out.
I sense his excitement. The hot, rolling wave of it pressing against my skin.
I know what he’s going to say before he says it.
I do not feel excitement.
There is only dread.
“Marry me, Dutchie,” he says.
I meet his eyes. His earnestness makes me want to scream.
He asks me to marry him at least once a week. Sometimes twice. But it’s never been attached to a vision of the future with a house and a barn and a garden.
I could love him, in my own way. But is it enough? Is it ever enough?
When I think about a life with Edward, I feel empty inside.
The guilt returns.
“I can’t leave Uncle Henry and Aunt Em,” I tell him, which is what I always say, which is true. But sometimes, I wonder about who I was before I came here. I wonder about my parents and if they’re alive. I wonder about the woman who is always shouting in my memories but never heard.
Who is she?
And better yet, who am I?
When I turned eighteen, I started looking into my past. I started with newspaper clippings from the storm that tore through Kansas the year I arrived. I scoured birth records, asked around at local hospitals.
There was nothing. Not a shred of information. Which can only mean I haven’t looked far enough.
I won’t abandon Em and Henry, but marrying Edward means I will never truly leave. And if I can never leave, there will never be the possibility of learning who I am. That emptiness will never be filled.
Edward reaches over and squeezes my hand. “Em and Henry will be right next door.” A very good point.
“But that’s ten minutes—” I argue.
“Seven by the field.”
“And if something happened or if a cyclone came through…” I trail off.
He sets the joint in a nearby canning jar. “You make me happy, Dutchie. I could make you happy too.”
I look out over the barnyard, then to the field of corn. The perfect rows. The leafy shoots.
