by Amy Lukavics
“Old Griz!” he says affectionately to the hairy pile as Ma unties the strips. “I was wondering when you were going to come out to play.”
She rolls out the grizzly-bear rug that Pa made for her when they were young, his first bear killed on a hunt and a permanent member of the Verner family ever since. The massive head clunks over the hollowed floor like a rock, and the claws scrape lightly across the hardwood while Ma adjusts the rug’s position.
Because of all the fuss, dinner consists of dried meat, dried fruit and nuts. The children sit in a circle on the floor with Emily while I play a tickling game with Hannah, who is more than happy to notice that I no longer hesitate to touch her or be within reach of her chubby little hands.
“I can’t even hold her like you are, Amanda,” Pa admits from where he sits in the floor, cleaning his rifle. “It’s like you’ve put her under some sort of spell!”
“There will be no mention of spells or black magick in this home,” Ma says as she rocks before the glowing fireplace, her Bible in her lap. “This is a home of the Lord, and we will treat it as such.”
“Oh, you know what I meant.” Pa sighs and peers into the barrel of the gun. “I’m just impressed is all. Amanda sure has a way with our Hannah.”
This is the first time that Pa has spoken to me with tenderness in his voice for nearly a year. It fills me with a joy that I didn’t know I wanted, a sort of cozy familiarity that I didn’t realize I was missing.
“It comes naturally to you, certainly,” Emily says, her voice flat. She rips a piece of dried meat with her front teeth. “You seem to have a gift with babies.”
I shoot her a look. She raises an eyebrow at me and takes another bite. Perhaps she is still grouchy over the absence of Zeke. He hasn’t come once for water like he promised he would, and I can’t help but feel a very sick satisfaction over it. If she’s going to continue treating me like an acquaintance, I don’t want her to have anyone else to be close with either. Let her see what it’s like to be alone, let her be the one pushed to the realization that she and I need each other.
“Well, it doesn’t surprise me that Hannah has taken so well to Amanda.” Ma smiles at me from the rocking chair. “You are sixteen after all, and by God’s grace becoming more and more of a woman every day.”
Hannah squeals in glee as I clap her hands together, but my stomach turns. I know what’s coming next, and as much as I wish to stop it I know what Ma is about to say.
“Someday sooner than you think, you may find yourself married with your own family to take care of in such a loving manner.”
I start to rest my hand over my stomach when I jump at the sound of someone knocking on the glass window from the outside—tap tap tap! I look to the window in alarm, only to see nobody.
“What is it, daughter?” Ma asks.
“Didn’t anybody hear that?” I say. “Someone knocked on the window.”
Emily tries to hide her excitement, but I see right through the attempt. “Perhaps it’s the Jacobson boy coming for his water?”
The Jacobson boy? Does she really think she sounds less giddy than if she had called him Zeke? And if he hasn’t come to collect any water until now, I have a feeling that our well pump isn’t the only resource they have. Still, it is odd that he came in the night.
Pa looks up from his rifle. “Really?” he says. “I think I missed it.” He stands and disappears outside. We all sit by in silence, listening to Pa call out hello? into the dark prairie, waiting for someone to answer him. The sound of his footsteps moves in a slow circle around the cabin, and before long I see the top of his head flick by the window. He comes back in and shuts the door behind him.
“You imagined it, daughter,” Pa says, a touch aggravated at being pulled away from his gun. “I knew I didn’t hear anything.”
“I did hear it,” I say fiercely, irritated that nobody else heard it and nervous as to who exactly is out there knocking on windows at night. “I did.”
“Nothing to cause a fuss over,” Ma croons from her chair. “Mistakes happen. Our lives are going on just fine.”
“It wasn’t a mistake—”
“Amanda.” Pa raises his voice as he looks at me from across the cabin. The tenderness he had for me a moment ago is gone. The light of the oil lamp causes his beard to cast a ghostly shadow over the rest of his face. “There wasn’t anybody there. Or if there was, they sure ran off in a heartbeat.”
I imagine Zeke Jacobson tearing through the dark prairie, with only the light of the moon to guide him back to the forest. What would he do once he reached the trees? The moon wouldn’t help guide him through those.
When everybody is finished eating, Ma strokes Emily’s freshly brushed hair while she reads through the book of Ephesians in a silky voice. She reads over the verse she quoted to me earlier today, the one about forgiveness, and slows her tone to emphasize the words as she speaks them.
If Emily absorbs the message, she doesn’t show any signs. She’s probably mad at me for making her think that Zeke was here. She probably thinks that I did it on purpose to torture her, that I’m so miserable I can’t stand the idea of her being happy, that just because I ruined my own life I’m somehow expecting her to take away some of the pain, whether it is her responsibility to or not. That is the kind of person my sister thinks I am.
“I’m going to fall asleep early,” I say and change into my nightshirt after Pa goes outside to smoke tobacco from his pipe. “I’m exhausted.”
“I’m sorry, dear.” Ma stops reading and places her finger on the page so she can look up. “Was the baby too much for you today?”
“Oh, no,” I insist. “I enjoyed it, really. It was just a big day is all, with moving everything into the cabin.”
Ma thanks me for what seems like the hundredth time and begins reading again. I pause before crawling beneath the thick quilt on our old mattress, savoring the fact that at least I will no longer be sleeping on the ground. It was bad for the baby, I’m sure of it. The bed is more wonderful than I remember, and I exhale deeply as I close my eyes and turn to face the wall. My body sinks into the soft mattress, cradled, and I want to stay in bed forever.
Phantom sounds aside, the first night in my new home feels admittedly more comfortable than I ever could have hoped. No more worrying about snakes, no more pretending to ignore the stagnant presence of a blood-soaked cabin.
Mistakes happen, like Ma said, and once my big one is brought into the light, our lives will continue to go on, right? Why couldn’t they? I will repent for my sins, I will use this to become stronger, I am changed. Maybe tomorrow I can try to talk to Emily, fix things between us.
Maybe tomorrow my fresh start can really begin.
The pain strikes me with an intensity that almost causes me to scream into the night. It is below my belly, deep inside of me, and feels like a knife cutting through all my muscle and gristle like they are nothing but butter left out in the sun. I throw my hand over my mouth to conceal the gasp, stand and stumble to the door, slipping out carefully as to not make a sound.
The dark sky of the prairie is streaked with early morning dim blues and yellows, something that would usually take my breath away with its beauty, but I hardly notice it now as I try to get as far away from the cabin as possible so I can howl into the back of my sleeve without waking anyone. I run for what feels like miles through pebbles and grass and flowered weeds before I collapse in another wave of pain.
I feel a terrible rush of wetness and grab beneath my nightshirt, in between my legs. My hand comes back covered in blood, thick and rich and disgustingly fragrant in the cool morning air. Even as the tears pour down my hot face and I stifle another scream with my clean hand, I know what has happened.
You got what you prayed for.
I sob into my skirt, holding my shaking and bloodied hand as far away from me a
s I can.
No, no, no.
With each wave of searing pain I see Henry’s face. How it studied mine with such curiosity the first time we met, when I came to the mountain town with my pa. How it twisted in pleasure while he rode me in the woods behind our cabin with animalistic urgency. How it gazed upon me in disgust when I told him I carried his child.
The agony continues longer than I could have ever imagined. I hear someone behind me before I see them. In my delirium of pain I assume it’s Ma or Pa, come to find me out and bash my head in as punishment. When it’s Emily who sinks beside me and pulls my head into her chest all I can think is, at least there’s that. Then I hear my own screams and mistake them for my baby’s and pray that I die anyway.
I sit with my sister, wailing into her lap, while she rocks me back and forth, and my baby gushes from my body and soaks into the earth.
When the bleeding finally stops, the sun is dangerously close to peeking up and over the horizon of the flatlands. My sister knows that we have very little time.
“We need to move,” she whispers into my hair, after my cries have died away. “I’m so sorry, Amanda, but we need to move now.”
So I frantically rub my hand, still coated in the terrible crimson, against a slew of dried grasses before wiping away the excess muck on a clean spot of my nightshirt. After hiding the blood-soaked shirt underneath a divot in the earth that is covered by dense growths of waist-length grass, Emily asks me if I’m all right.
“I do not know,” I say in a shaking voice as I stand naked before her. The insides of my thighs are still smeared with the heavy blood. “My baby is dead, Emily.”
“Yes,” she says and puts her hand on my shoulder. I wish she’d say more on the matter. “I need to get you some clean clothes while you wash yourself at the pump, before they wake up.”
My shock makes the world feel unfamiliar and new. I wish she’d tell me if this was a good thing or a bad thing, if God did this on purpose, if he suddenly realized Oh, my, well, isn’t this a big mess for poor Amanda Verner, or if it was even God that did it at all. I want her to tell me if this terror was carefully thought-out and written into my plan, or if I’m some sort of error of the Lord’s nature that has broken through the barrier and spiraled straight into Satan’s claws.
You prayed for this.
The blood drying on my legs is unclean, excess sin that stinks of a much different future than what I’ve prepared myself for in the past months. Still, I feel heavier instead of lighter, and sick with lingering cramps as we walk back to the cabin in silence. Emily wraps her arms around my shoulders so I can lean on her as we make our way to the well pump.
“Wait here,” she whispers when we get close. She disappears around the corner of the cabin to go inside.
Once she’s returned, Emily helps me finish splashing water from the pump over myself. It runs red over my calves and feet, then pink, then clear. The water is shockingly cold, but I don’t allow myself to flinch. You deserve much worse than cold water.
Ma and Pa awaken only minutes after I wiggle into the clean underwear, skirt and blouse that Emily fetched me.
“What are you two doing up already?” Ma’s voice calls from outside the front end of the cabin. “Is everything all right?”
“Everything’s fine, Ma,” Emily bellows back from where we stand near the pump, as she scours me from head to toe for any signs that might have been left over. “Amanda felt slightly overheated this morning. She just needed a moment to splash some water on her face.”
“Amanda?” Pa barks from inside the cabin, his voice smoky and hoarse in the early hour. “Is that true?”
“I’m feeling better,” I say with as much enthusiasm as I can manage, but my voice sounds fragile, dangerously close to breaking. Luckily, neither of them take further notice. When we go back inside, Ma calls for Emily to help her with breakfast and hands Hannah to me so she can fetch some water for the oatmeal. She just plops the baby onto my hip, like it’s nothing, and turns away. Hannah smiles and grabs on to my braid.
Suddenly my knees are shaking and feel as though they are about to give out, and I sway with the baby’s added weight. I hear Ma outside, using the pump, standing in remnants of her own grandchild, and I have to sit down with Hannah on the spot to keep from fainting. My baby sister clings to me, all but asking for me to return the affection, but I just look down at her as the world descends into madness around me.
My heart feels cold.
I don’t tickle her, or kiss her neck, or hum against her body, and I suspect it’s the reason her tiny hands act mopey and confused as they rake over the wooden floor to feel around for Joanna and Charles’s jacks. She periodically reaches out to grab my leg, to make sure that I’m still here, but I can hardly bring myself to do anything more than give her a weak nudge in assurance. Her dark little eyebrows furrow around her still, gray eyes.
Emily watches me very closely throughout breakfast and cleanup. When I go to wash the oatmeal pot outside, she puts her hand on mine to stop me.
“We can trade days,” she offers with a weak smile. At least it’s a smile, and at least it’s for me. “You just sit and take in the morning, sister.”
It almost sickens me that I had to miscarry my baby for her to offer me smiles and kindness again, but I don’t have the mental or physical energy to become bitter over it now. More than ever, I need my best friend. Without another word, Emily and I hug each other tightly.
“I’m here for you, sister,” she whispers. “And I am so sorry.”
I knew ever since I was seven years old that Emily was meant to be the big sister, and I was meant to be the little one, following and pestering and making things difficult when really they were quite simple. God must have mistaken our souls for one another, sent them to the wrong bodies. An understandable mistake, since certain pieces of us might as well be one of the same.
“They never have to know,” Emily murmurs, and she uses my shoulder to soak up a tear that has run down her cheek. “I’m certain the Lord would understand.”
“All right.”
I haven’t cared if the Lord understood me since last winter.
“I see you two have finally made up.” Ma beams from the doorway. “It’s about time. Nothing in this world is powerful enough to tear two sisters apart.”
Neither Emily nor I bother to correct her.
Everybody seems eager to spend some time out of the sun and inside the cabin, and I find myself grateful beyond words that the room is large enough for everybody to live comfortably and spread out with their own amount of personal space. If I had to endure this torture in the tiny mountain cabin, I would have lost my mind again, without a doubt.
The children immerse themselves with their newly unpacked playthings in one corner, while Ma reads from the Bible and Pa gets geared up to go into the forest for some wood. I sit pretending to draw, my back against the hard rough wall of the logs, and Emily eyes me from where she goes through her button collection nearby. Thank you for giving me space without making me ask for it, I want to say.
“I’m going to take Rocky and the cart so I can load up a bunch at once,” Pa says before stepping out into the sun. His rifle lies across his back, and deerskin gloves peek out from the top of his breeches. He places his hat over his head and looks back at us all, sitting comfortably in the home that he made for us. His face is lit up with pride. “I’ll see you all in a few hours.”
Once Hannah wakes up I avoid her altogether, and pretend that I need to relieve myself when she reaches away from Ma and starts to wail and search for me. I can hear her cries from where I lean against the back of the empty wagon outside, low pitched and warbled and ugly, and I feel as though I would do anything to silence her. My fingers curl into my palms until the nails create crescent-shaped slashes, stinging with blood, and I clench my teeth until I fear t
hey will crack.
I hardly make it to bedtime without screaming.
Then, in the night, I hear the sound of the crying infant again, right outside the end of the cabin, around where the well pump is. I’m still groggy from sleep, and something in my head tells me that it’s my baby crying for me, that I have to get to it, but once I stand up and awaken a bit more I realize that it isn’t possible, that my baby died early this morning and there shouldn’t be any sound outside the cabin at all.
Yet the crying carries on, loud enough to wake everybody up, and my family continues to sleep as though it isn’t happening. I refuse to accept that the Lord would mock me in such a way. I walk outside and around the corner of the cabin, stubborn and sure, the moonbeams casting a silver glow over the prairie. With each step I challenge the sound of the crying to carry on.
There’s no way that I am going to see a baby lying on the bloodied ground beneath the pump when I turn the corner. It simply isn’t possible. Yet the sound continues, growing louder as I approach the back of the cabin. I continue holding my breath, even though my chest is beginning to hurt, and step into the back clearing.
The crying stops instantly. As if to confirm my victory, I walk up to the well pump and rest my hand on it. There’s nothing out here; like I suspected, there are only the sounds of my mind. But why have I heard the cries twice now, once before I lost my baby, and once after?
It’s like a follow-up to a warning I never understood. Did my mind know the miscarriage was coming somehow, somewhere deep down in the subconscious? Was it trying to warn me beforehand? I go to turn back for the cabin, but something catches my eye in the distance, a tiny flash of metallic green light in the shadows.
Up ahead, right around the spot where Emily found me collapsed in the dirt, I can see the piercing reflected shine of what looks like a pair of animal eyes peering at me through the darkness. They are so low to the ground that they can’t belong to a coyote, but are large and still enough not to be a jackrabbit’s. I strain my eyes, willing the moon to help me make out the creature, and slowly but surely a shape comes into view. I freeze, suddenly terrified that I am out here alone, suddenly understanding why I will never come out at night again.
