lips. “I think I know what I want for dessert tonight.” He laughs. “But first, work!” He pats my cheek once more and leaves.
I stand in the kitchen, letting the quiet wash over me. There are three more bites of eggs left on his plate. My stomach screams at me.
It would be against the rules, so I grab Papa’s plate and scrape the food into the garbage before I can convince myself to rebel.
I’ve beaten the wicked notion this time. Pushing my hunger away from my thoughts, I get to work on cleaning the kitchen. A walk sounds good this morning, and I want to get outside before it gets too chilly.
Gripping two bundles of Aster I pulled from the small patch of garden Papa lets me keep for flowers, I make my way toward the far corner of the property. I don’t know how far our property actually goes, but I’m not allowed past the tree line. There are dangerous animals in the woods on this mountain. I’m safe on our property. Straying into the forest is against the rules.
I stop walking after a bit and look back at the house. They’re all still up front working on the broken posts. Smoke billows from the smoking shed off to the left of the house. Papa didn’t mention he got a kill when he went hunting the other day, but it’s not my business to question him. He’ll tell me when it’s ready.
I hope it’s venison. We haven’t had any in a long time. It would be a nice change from the pork we’ve been eating. But even that’s almost gone, so whatever is smoking is well received.
I continue walking toward Mama and Grandma, my breath playing with the air before me. Winter could roll in full-force soon. Papa might take the boys hunting next week, maybe I should ask him—not because I’ll be glad for the quiet or it’s my place to know what they’re doing. I only want to know so I can pack what they need, get it ready.
My shoulders slump. That’s the proper answer, but I’m lying to myself. I’d never be so stupid to say it out loud to any of the boys, even Elijah, but if they go off hunting, I’ll be left alone for at least a day. I’ll still have plenty of chores and work to keep me busy, but I won’t have to take care of them.
Mama’s place comes into view, and I make my way to her first. When I was little, she used to read to me as I fell asleep. I was nearing eleven when the reading stopped. Instead, she’d come into my room, lock my door, climb into my bed, snuggle me to her chest, and cover my ears while rocking me. Sometimes, she’d hum; other times, she’d sing.
Papa would try to come in on occasion, and she’d beg him to go away. He’d get real angry, and she’d have to open the door. I tried not to be scared, but when I saw his eyes—black and full of rage—I couldn’t help but cry. He’d tell me to go to bed and grab Mama by her hair, dragging her out of my room. I wouldn’t see her for a few days after that. Papa made her stay in the shed to teach her lessons.
But she didn’t learn.
She broke Papa’s heart.
I place the first bundle of the purple flowers on the boulder Papa used to mark her grave. He painted her name on it. Next to her is another one with Grandma’s name. Hers isn’t painted; it’s etched.
Grandpa had chiseled her name into the stone after he had to put her down. Grandma never quite understood the rules. Even when she promised she’d try really hard to make the family happy, she started to rebel. Papa told us the wickedness inside her was too much for her to fight and Grandpa had to put her down. For her own sake—and the rest of the family.
I asked Papa once why Grandpa wasn’t with Grandma. All he said was Grandpa didn’t have to be put down. He passed away in his sleep one night in the middle of winter. I still don’t understand the difference.
The cold bites my skin. I rub my hands up and down my arms, looking behind me, expecting to see Elijah or Mark coming with the rake, but there’s nothing. I try to kick some of the leaves away, but there are too many. It won’t