Twelve candles burned in front of her, the only candles the family owned. They’d become something of an heirloom, having been used over and over again for birthdays for almost a year now. At each party, Katherine would light the candles and then the birthday boy or girl would blow them out. Then Jotham would trudge over from the other side of the kitchen, pluck the candles from the cake, lick the moist crumbs from their bottoms and place them back in their box, to be used again soon.
Hanna’s stomach churned each time Jotham slipped the candles between his chapped lips and sucked each waxy bit before rubbing them against his unwashed shirt. Hanna knew it was wrong to feel this way. Her father had given her life. And he provided for her. Brother Paul taught that a father is a sacred role in a family, one of respect and, in Brother Paul’s words, “unequivocal authority.” Hanna should never have allowed such terrible thoughts to run through her mind. Still, she couldn’t help herself. After each birthday party, she would wait until night had fallen and the entire family had drifted off to sleep, before sneaking downstairs to wash the candles with soap and scalding hot water. It was the only way Hanna could eat a piece of pumpkin bread in Jotham’s house again. It was the only defiance—however silent—she found herself capable of.
She placed the children’s crown atop her head and took a deep breath. Hanna was about to make a wish she knew would absolutely never come true when she changed her mind at the last moment. She wished for her little brothers and sisters to be safe and content in this house once she was no longer able to watch over them, and then she blew out the candles to the children’s cheers.
Katherine and Kara set about slicing the cake and distributing it to nineteen separate plates. The family—adults and children alike—all waited for Jotham to select the first piece. He reached over Belinda’s shoulder and picked the slice with the most icing. Then the birthday girl selected a medium-sized piece for herself. The moment Hanna’s plate left the table, chaos erupted. The older children ransacked the table, sticking their fingers into the icing of the cake meant for the children too small to reach on their own. Three-year-old Ahmre erupted in tears.
Hanna stuck her fork into her cake, took a bite and felt the sugar cover her tongue like tiny malleable crystals. She went to take a second bite when little Ahmre appeared at her side. The child’s cheeks were red and puffy from crying, her eyes big and wide and pleading. Hanna handed Ahmre her plate and a clean fork. She removed the paper crown and placed it on the girl’s head and then stood up.
Before she could leave the kitchen, Jotham grabbed her wrist. His touch was sudden, his hand dry with calluses.
A scream rose in Hanna’s throat. For the first time, she wondered—what would happen if she let it out? If she screamed as loud and as long as she could? Hanna’s eyes darted around the room. Kara had already left the kitchen and Katherine was helping a child who’d dropped her fork. The little ones looked so content. She glanced down at Jotham’s hand. His grip wasn’t tight enough to hurt, but it was secure. Hanna had grown into a woman and still Jotham dwarfed her. She could pull with all her might and never escape. In the end, Hanna did what she always did. She gave in to his brute strength without a fight.
“It’s a special day for you,” he said, his mouth full of icing sugar.
“I know.”
“You have just a week left in this house.”
“I know that, as well.”
“You deserve some peace and quiet. Tonight, Jessamina will sleep with the children. And you will have her room alone,” he said.
“It’s not necessary.”
“I insist.”
Hanna searched Jotham’s face for some type of subtext, his true intentions. She saw only two days’ stubble. Sweat pooling at the base of his neck. The pain from his back echoing up into his eyes.
“Thank you, Father,” she said.
“Jotham. Call me Jotham.”
“Thank you...Jotham.” The word slipped from her tongue with great reluctance.
Jotham released her arm and took another bite of cake, his eyes still locked on her.
It took all Hanna’s strength to turn her head, to step away. She could still feel the imprint of his fingers, her veins throbbing where the blood had been constricted, the slight indent from his thumbnail.
Hanna took another step and suddenly she couldn’t move. A feverish heat overtook her. Hanna’s breath fell short and inside her ears rang a bombastic, serpentine laugh. Hanna hesitated, hoping the feeling might fade, when a terrible choking sensation encompassed her. It was like hundreds of hands were on her throat, on her chest, all over her body, wedging her in place like iron blocks.
Visions of the future beset her: Edwin gaping at her with those indecent eyes. His wives watching her every move. Edwin’s adult desires. His cravings. Being forced to lie in his bed. Hanna shackled to her oppressor, a man she’d known since her earliest days. Months passing. Years. Decades until she was an empty shell, hollow to the touch, until she wasn’t herself anymore.
“Hanna?” Jotham said.
She glanced upward. Hanna was standing perfectly still, one foot in the kitchen, the other in the hallway, half a yard from Jotham. For the life of her, Hanna couldn’t tell how long she’d been stuck inside her head, whether she’d said anything, what was real. She’d been rubbing her wrist and it was red now. Was it from Jotham’s grip? Or had Hanna rubbed it so hard in an effort to forget Jotham’s touch that she’d injured herself?
A line formed between Jotham’s eyes.
“I’m going to find my mother,” Hanna said.
“Perhaps it’s best you do.”
Hanna ran her hand along her wrist one last time and set off down the hallway, the sensation of being outside herself dissipating, an urge pressing inside her to feel her mother’s touch, to wrap herself in Kara’s safe, warm arms.
When she was young, as the day slipped into evening, Hanna would find her mother sitting in the front alcove on the sofa cushion nearest to the fireplace, drinking tea and watching the embers in the hearth pulse orange and red, the sparks dancing like fireflies. Hanna would crawl onto Kara’s lap and nestle in, her mother’s skin warm and inviting. As she grew taller, Kara would place Hanna on her side and lean Hanna’s head against her chest. She would stroke Hanna’s long blond hair and whisper into Hanna’s ear that she loved her.
Hanna found Kara in the same seat while the others were still eating their cake, and sat down beside her. Two logs were ablaze in the fireplace, strips of birch-tree bark smoldering in the corners. Along the far wall, Hanna saw the warped panel wood, the ever-widening cracks in the ceiling and patches of discoloration where water had seeped in from a leak in the roof. She and Charliss were supposed to climb on top of the house and plug the leak weeks ago, only the lingering frost and icy morning dew made the shingles too slippery, the rooftop too dangerous to scale.
She tucked her head into Kara’s shoulder and breathed in the scent of tea leaves and oranges from her mother’s sweater. For a moment, Hanna considered telling Kara what Jotham had said, where she would be sleeping that night. But the last thing Hanna wanted to do was dwell on Jotham and Edwin.
She wrapped her arm around Kara’s waist.
“Tell me the story again.”
“Again?”
“Please?” Hanna said. “I need to hear it.”
Kara tucked a stray hair behind Hanna’s ear. She glanced over her shoulder, to make sure the others couldn’t hear, that they had enough time.
“Okay,” Kara said and Hanna shifted to hear her mother better.
“Don’t leave anything out.”
“I won’t,” Kara said and set down her cup of tea.
Then she began.
6
“It was eighteen years ago, on the first real day of spring. Winter had finally passed and you could fe
el the warmth in the air. If I remember correctly, cherry blossoms had turned the trees pink and the grass was the color of emeralds and shamrocks.”
“What about the ocean?” Hanna said.
“Shh,” Kara said gently. “Of course there was the ocean. This happened far away from Clearhaven, in a hamlet by the bay—where the tides crashed in white foamy bursts against the shore, where instead of ravens soaring in the air, seagulls picked fish from the salt water. My mother and I lived in a small village, and I could see the water from my window.
“That day, as evening set and I turned in for bed, a noise struck. It was loud like thunder, but instead of rumbling, it came in one swift boom. I ran outside and saw the most incredible sight. Out of nowhere, the sky broke open. A white crack formed in the heavens above. At first I thought maybe it was a star speeding toward Earth or some massive fire. The longer I stared, the clearer it became. Somehow I just knew: I was looking up at God. If it wasn’t God Himself, it was Heaven. Hanna, the heavens opened up in the nighttime sky.
“If I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes, I never would have believed it. The villagers came out of their houses. Men, women and children—they all stared skyward, transfixed. We started walking toward the field where the light was the brightest, trying to get closer. The opening hovered for almost an hour and then, quickly, it started to grow. People became scared. Some fell to their knees and prayed. Others fled. Part of me wanted to run away. Only, I was mesmerized. I watched as the edges of the opening turned bright red and green. The colors were so clear, unlike anything I’d ever seen before, and in the center was a whiteness so magnificent, so stunningly pure.
“A tiny dot emerged from the white space. The villagers wondered out loud. Do you see it? What is it? Is it real? Within seconds, the dot left the light and started racing toward the ground. More people ran away in fear. Still others ran toward where they thought the object might land. I ran to it, Hanna. I ran as fast as I could. The thing, whatever it was, broke through the air at such a speed that it could never slow down before it reached the earth.
“Suddenly, the ground shook. For a second it felt like the world might split in two. I fell to my knees and then stood up with the others and pressed onward. No one said a word. The air was so quiet. The crickets weren’t chirping; the waves weren’t crashing against the rocks in the bay. There was just silence, like the rest of the world was frozen in place and we were the only ones moving. Then, in a single moment, the light vanished. As quickly as it appeared, it dissolved into a hazy afterglow and darkness overtook the sky. My eyes took a moment to adjust. Little yellow circles dotted my vision. I saw the men who’d reached the object first. One of them was holding a lantern and I ran toward the light and found a hole in the ground almost a yard deep.”
Hanna sat up on the sofa. She hung on Kara’s every word. Kara paused—a brief moment where her eyes lowered and she retreated inward, and Hanna wasn’t sure Kara could go on—before taking Hanna by the hands.
“Wisps of smoke trickled from the soil around the crater. Scorch marks blackened the earth. I pushed my way to the front where the ground felt hot under my feet and looked inside. It was like a dream, but a crystal clear dream where every little detail was magnified. Finally, I saw what had fallen. There, lying inside the crater, covered in fluid and crying out into the night, was a baby girl. Hanna, it was you. You fell from the sky and landed unscathed.”
“How loud did I cry?”
“Very loud. Although all babies cry out when they’re born,” Kara said.
“But I wasn’t like all babies, was I?”
“Of course not,” Kara said.
She kissed Hanna on the forehead, and then she leaned back and tucked Hanna’s head against her shoulder again. Hanna breathed in deeply, imagining the astonished looks on the villagers’ faces, the white light shining brightly in the night sky. She gazed out the window to see the soft, diffused light of nightfall had fallen prey to utter darkness. A low moan emerged, distant and indecipherable at first. Hanna thought it might be the wind gusting through the trees, perhaps a gale rising out of the marshlands. Then a second sound succeeded the first and Hanna knew it was no wind. It was the howling of wolves in chorus: alternately high-pitched and muted, sustained and doleful. Hanna thought the creatures were in agony. She imagined a pair of yellow eyes appearing in the window. Ferocious, snarling teeth. The brethren lurking. Her skin crawled at the thought that she wasn’t safe in Jotham’s home. Hanna wasn’t safe in the only place she’d ever known.
“Did you hear the wolves?” she said.
“They can’t hurt you right now,” Kara said, her voice cracking, the sound tinged with emotion. She took a deep breath to steady herself. Still, her shoulders trembled.
Hanna sat up. “What’s wrong?”
“It’s nothing.”
“It’s clearly something.”
For a moment Hanna thought Kara wasn’t going to speak. Then she brought her hand up to her cheek and said, “The days just passed. They passed by without me even realizing it. I’ve had eighteen years. There were so many things I could have done for you.”
Hanna took Kara’s hand, but it wilted in her fingertips. “Don’t say that. You’ve been a great mother. You are a great mother.”
Tears formed along Kara’s lower lids. Where they came from—regret, a deep-seated unhappiness Kara had never shared or the emotion of seeing her only daughter get engaged to a man more than twice her age—Hanna could only imagine. In the next room, the children had finished their cake and Hanna could hear Emily asking where she was. It wouldn’t be long before she found her big sister.
“You always think there’s more time,” Kara said, “that there will be another day, another tomorrow when life will finally start.” Her gaze drifted to Hanna’s forehead, to her mouth, to the warped panel wood in the far corner, anywhere except Hanna’s eyes.
A warm pit of worry swirled in Hanna’s stomach. Her mother never spoke in abstractions. She never avoided eye contact. Rarely, if ever, did she cry in front of Hanna.
“I don’t understand,” Hanna said.
“I should have done so much more.”
“Tell me, what could you have done?”
Before Kara could answer, Emily rounded the corner with three little ones in tow. She leaned against the wall with her hand on her hip. “You promised you would braid my hair.”
“Let us have two minutes alone first, please.”
Emily looked from Hanna to Kara and back to Hanna again. Her eyebrows raised. “What are you two talking about?”
Hanna waited for Kara to offer an excuse and send the children away, but her mother’s eyes were fixed on the fireplace, spellbound by the flames. Hanna stood and whispered in Emily’s ear, promises that soon she would braid Emily’s hair and help the little ones brush their teeth and change into their sleep clothes. Emily glanced at Kara and nodded. She took the young ones down the hall and Hanna sat next to her mother again.
Outside, the wolves’ howl had waned as the wind whipped the skeleton-thin trees.
“Mother, that story about me falling from the sky—is it true?”
Kara finally met Hanna’s gaze. The color had left her face and she looked exhausted, as though she was aching for a long rest. “What do you think?” Kara said.
“I wish it was.”
More children scampered through the hallway and Hanna wondered if this was the last moment she and her mother would ever share in this house alone. Kara’s breathing had steadied, the tremble in her shoulders diminished, and while Hanna had more questions, she didn’t want to say anything to further upset her mother. Over the years, Kara had told Hanna the story of her falling from the sky dozens of times. It was a bedtime fable that Kara told only to Hanna and Hanna alone. There were no special tales for the others—none for the toddlers or even Emily—and it made Han
na feel special. It made her feel unique. Tonight, however, the story didn’t just make Hanna happy. It didn’t just distract her from the tribulations of the day. Tonight—the way Kara told it, the wistful timbre in her voice—the story made her wonder, wonder about what the future held. About her past. It made Hanna wonder what exactly was true.
7
The noise through the wall was loud but muffled, her sisters’ voices indistinguishable behind the layers of wallpaper and plaster. Ten minutes earlier, Hanna finished helping the little ones wash their faces and made sure they used the toilet, before tucking Ahmre into bed and then retiring for the evening in Jessamina’s room.
For as long as she could remember, Hanna had shared a bedroom with her brothers and sisters. As the family grew, Belinda and Kara had constructed bunk beds out of lumber salvaged from old milk crates. They erected six such structures in the children’s room upstairs. Hanna slept on the bottom bunk across from the window. It was one of the better beds in that it didn’t wobble and the siblings above her rarely woke up in the middle of the night.
For years, Emily had insisted on sleeping with her big sister. The two of them would curl up under a wool blanket, the young girl’s back pressed firmly against Hanna’s chest, and drift off to sleep. Hanna could distinctly remember the smell of Emily’s hair when she was five years old, the way their heartbeats synced, Emily’s soft breaths an echo of her big sister’s. As Emily grew older, she became a restless sleeper and the two girls would shift during the night, a wooden plank on the side of the bed the only thing keeping them from falling to the floor. Each night they would end up with their blanket lost at their feet and their limbs entangled like a pair of newborn puppies.
When Emily turned eight, she declared she would be requiring her own bunk. Hanna knew it was selfish, but she felt wounded when her sister left her bed. It wasn’t just the girl’s warmth she missed. Hanna had been her sister’s protector since her frightening emergence from the womb. She could still remember that day: Katherine screaming, the gore of the blood, the panic all around. Hanna had long believed that if she could only keep Emily close, her sister would be safe and the image of how she came into this world might somehow fade from her memory.
Hanna Who Fell from the Sky Page 5
