I hadn’t planned on homeschooling the kids. At first, a flare of panic lit up in me at the thought of another role to fail at—mother, wife, homemaker,teacher—but then I remembered the money and relaxed. Teachers were cheap. We’d find room for one in the budget.
“Fine,” I said. “We can hire a teacher. I’m sure there’s some sort of curriculum package online that we can order.”
He considered this. “Can I choose the curriculum package?”
“Sure. You can choose the curriculum package.” So this was how it felt: marital compromise in action.
“Oh,” Caleb added, “And also: no cattle.”
“But it’s a cattle farm.”
He shook his head firmly. “We’ll grow vegetables.”
“Vegetables?”
“Do you know how cows feel when they die, Nattie? Terrified. So what do you think you’re eating when you eat beef?” Meaningful pause. “Terror. You’re eating terror.”
I stared at my husband. I couldn’t even begin to think of a coherent yet gentle rebuttal to that claim; I wasn’t even sure if I needed one. Wasn’t this the man who had happily eaten a hamburger three days ago? How many videos had he watched today, anyways?
Caleb nodded decisively. “That’s what we’ll be known for. Nutritious, organic,non-terrifiedsustenance. And also, all good ranches have some sort of name. We’ll have to think about what we name ours.”
“Actually,” I said sweetly, “I already have a name in mind.”
25
Morning, again.I open my eyes and realize, with fathomless relief, that I made it through the entire night without waking up once. No nightmares. No insomnia. Just sleep.
A miracle: for the first time in days, I’m not crippled by terror. My thoughts are still jerky and loose-limbed, my mind humming along nervously, but the panic is softer now, less urgent. After three days of exposure to the light, my fear has grown a layer of peachy fuzz. I can hold it in one hand.
I can manage this.
A moment later, like clockwork, Maeve is in the doorway. “Mama?”
This time, I’m ready for her. I’m not afraid.
“Hello, darling,” I say lovingly. She lights up in response, leaps into bed, nuzzles her head into my neck.
Mamamamamamama, you’re back.
When Maeve and I walk into the kitchen, Mary is sitting at the table, stitching a piece of clothing. “Good morning,” I say brightly.
Mary stops sewing and looks at me, her expression frankly critical. “Good morning,” she says. “Did you sleep well?”
“Yes.” I look around at the kitchen and feel a sudden rush of amazement. This is incredible. A feat of engineering. It truly feels like I’m living in the pioneer days!
I turn back to Mary. “Can I—shower?”
Mary looks at me for a long moment. Then she sets the fabric down.
Together we walk outside to one of the tin wash basins set by the porch stairs.
“Wait here and I’ll get the water,” Mary says.
It’s a brisk autumn morning. The sky is bottomless and blue. You can feel it, the promise of winter in the air, but the sunlight cuts through and warms my skin. In the distance, the cragged peaks of the mountains are so sharply vivid it feels like I could reach a finger out and prick myself on them. I feel suddenly and deeply alive.
I stand there by the washbasin while Mary pulls the nightgown over my head, then slowly unwraps my ankle bandage. The skin underneath is—well. From the quick glimpse I manage before casting my gaze just as quickly back up to the sky, it looks like a pair of lips have been sewn bloodily shut.
“Lean on me,” Mary instructs, and I do, a hand on her shoulder as she places a wooden children’s stool in the washbasin, then helps me hop awkwardly in. I sit down on the stool. My bad foot stretches awkwardly out in front of me. I stare firmly past it while Mary talks above me, a series of chiding little comments that are delivered in a gentle tone, how it’s very inconvenient for me to bathe on a separate schedule than the family, it’s so much less work when the boys are around to haul buckets of water from the well for all of them to use in one single go of it, and Maeve isn’t nearly as strong as her brothers, so we’ll have to be patient with her bringing back half-filled buckets of water every five minutes, really, the girl always finds a way to dilly-dally …
