LITTLE WILD FLOWER
Book Four
UNTO * OTHERS
WRITTEN BY
SAMANTHA JILLIAN BAYARR
Copyright © 1995 by Samantha Jillian Bayarr
Cover/internal design © Livingston Hall Publishers
Smashwords Edition
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This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and are therefore used fictitiously. Any similarity or resemblance to actual persons; living or dead, places or events is purely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or publisher.
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All scripture references in this book used from New International Version of the Bible and King James.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Samantha Jillian Bayarr
Little Wild Flower
ISBN 1453602968
151 p. TXU001026312 2002-01-09
Also by Samantha Jillian Bayarr
Amish Romance
Little Wild Flower Book I
Little Wild Flower Book II
The Taming of a Wild Flower
The Quilter’s Son: Liam’s Choice
Little Wild Flower: The Series
General Fiction
The Apothecary
The Darkroom
Me and My Shadow
The Scarlet Bridesmaid
Grave Robbers
Romance Novella Collection
Milk Maid in Heaven
A Secret in the Attic
The Anniversary
The Fountain of Youth
Young Adult Fiction
Raven Finch and the Curse of the Dead Woods
Raven Finch and the Curse of Mooreloc’s Crystal
TABLE OF CONTENTS
ONE……….………..…Hiding Places
TWO…….……………..…Little Scars
THREE….………..The Fear of Dying
FOUR….…....…….Sticking Together
FIVE….……....……...Growing Pains
SIX….……......….… Finding an Ally
SEVEN…...…..…..….. Hard Lessons
EIGHT…..…….….Enough is Enough
NINE…….…………A Shift in Power
TEN………...…...A Change of Venue
Warning: Contains some mildly unsuitable language and disturbing situations in order to maintain the authenticity of the story of Jane’s stormy childhood.
Discover the events that brought Jane and her family to the Amish community so many years ago, and see how the power of forgiveness brought this family to the God-centered lives they live today…
The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. 2 He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters. 3 He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name's sake. 4 Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me. 5 Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over. 6 Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.
Psalm 23, KJ
ONE
HIDING PLACES
The alley was always a safe place to hide whenever the witch was calling for me. It was fall, and her screams blended with the wind, blowing through the dry leaves on the trees that lined the alley. Long branches hung low with the force of the wind, scraping them against the worn, brick road. The constant rustling of the leaves helped to soften her screeching tones, providing me with an alibi for not heeding her warning. Within the row of trees, the leaves on the branches blocked out just enough sun to give the appearance of a long, dark tunnel. At first glance, the alley might have seemed like the setting of a child’s nightmare. For me, any place so devoid of the witch could only be a haven.
I walked slowly toward the house, trying to remain in my sanctuary a little longer. At this close range, even my own thoughts couldn’t block out her angry words.
“Jane, you little blond-headed bitch, where are you?”
Every time she spoke to me in such a cruel manner, it made me cringe with hatred for my own name. I forced myself to move forward, knowing that stalling would only make things worse. With my older siblings back in school, my defense was gone, so I used the extra time to prepare myself for battle against her anger.
When I reached the tall, snowball bushes toward the house, I could see my mother standing on the back stoop. Anna Mae Reeves was short and grossly thin, with black hair and deep circles that surrounded her eyes. The cigarettes and alcohol seemed to age her far beyond the twenty-eight years that she was.
As I tried to get a closer look, I could see her cat, Fluffy, at her feet as usual. The way the cat stood at my mother’s side as though to guard her always gave me a sick feeling in my stomach. I always hated the cat, mostly because my mother babied it so. But after all, in my opinion, it was befitting for all witches to have dragons, and the overstuffed cat with its mean temperament fit the part well.
As I approached the house, I could see more easily the impatience in the lines of my mother’s face as she waited for me with a wooden spoon in her hand. My thoughts turned to panic, when I realized I was going to get hit for something, regardless of whether I was guilty of it or not. I cowered behind the bushes, watching her tapping of her foot against the wooden slats of the porch; it sent an unspoken message that I was going to get hit a lot worse if I didn’t hurry. It even seemed as though the dark cloud that hovered over the house was waiting to strike me with its fierce lightning on her command if I got any closer. I dawdled just a bit more, letting my vision blur, and all the while wondering what it would be like to be rescued from this terrible witch who calls herself my mother.
There was no use putting off the pain that was to come for whatever I had or hadn’t done wrong, so I went to her, hoping to get it over with. As I stood before her, I stiffened my stance in preparation for her to hit me, but she began taunting me instead.
“You blonde-haired little witch, I would like nothing more than to kill you right now. Give me a reason. Just give me one good reason why I shouldn’t.”
She shook her finger at me. “I only let you live for one reason—to clean my house. When I was five, I did twice the work you do. You give me no other choice but to take you out of my misery. So what’s it going to be?”
I wasn’t quite five yet, but I knew better than to talk back.
The smirk on her face served as proof that my grave anticipation of her wrath was pleasing to her. Somehow, I managed to dodge her first swing at me, and I knocked over her bottle of beer that rested on the top rail of the porch. I watched in shock as it rolled down the steps in slow motion, leaving a trail of beer over each step. As it hit the concrete, it echoed a grinding roll before breaking, allowing the remaining beer to escape through the cracks. At that moment, her face began to curl up as I pulled in a deep breath and held it.
“Look what you’ve done. You’re going to pay for that beer, you little brat.”
Before I had a chance to get away from her, she managed to grab hold of me, and started hitting me in the head with the wooden spoon. My hands went up to soften the blows to my head, but my knuckles got hit when she swung the spoon without a single pause. She retained her grip on my arm as I doubled over slightly from the sting, trying desperately not to cry. The pounding in my head continued in such a constant rhythm that I closed my eyes tightly in an attempt to block out the pain.
“Why haven’t you done the dishes yet?” she demanded.
Her face was close to mine, and I breathed in the sour smell of the beer on her breath as she spoke.
I shrugged my shoulders. Experience warned me not to speak, but I was angry.
“I could’ve done ‘em if ya…”
“If I what?” she interrupted.
“If ya didn’t lock me outta the house,” I stammered.
“I don’t lock you out of the house. You are a liar.”
I tried to pull away from her, but she was stronger than me. “I don’t lie and Mitchell says you pass out on the sofa.”
My brother Mitchell told my sister and me that she passes out from all the beer that she drinks every day. He also filled my head by convincing me she was a witch with a crystal ball, and she could see everything I did. I reasoned that explained why I could never get away with anything.
She let me drop out of her grasp and I fell to the ground. “Get up, you pathetic child, and do what I told you to do.”
Instead, I slipped inside my own thoughts, the very thoughts that separated me from my gross reality.
The witch used her weapons to torture me, and the dragon scratched up my flesh with its sharp claws. I was bruised and bleeding and hated.
The beating had finally come to an end, and as I tried to focus on my mother’s face a little, I realized she had been yelling at me—most likely for some time.
“You’re a worthless child, and I don’t know why I let you live. If you don’t get those dishes done before your father gets home, I’ll make you clean the litter box with your bare hands again,” she said.
She always made certain that I did my chores before my father got home from work. I often overheard her lying to him, saying that she had done all the work that I had done. I hated her for threatening me and lying to him. I didn’t understand why my father took her side on everything, unless he was afraid of her too.
I struggled to regain my footing in spite of the many bruises I could already feel. I tried not to cry aloud as I wiped blood from the scrapes on my arms and hands, knowing that it would anger her even further.
After straightening my tattered shorts that I’d soiled in the struggle, and pushing my tear-dampened hair behind my ear, I moved slowly through the screen door and into the kitchen. My mother had suddenly vanished without my knowledge of her whereabouts.
I didn’t want to be the witch’s slave anymore. I was much too small to scrub the over-sized pots which she used to cook her poison. The witch left the dragon to guard me, and I feared another attack if I didn’t do as I was told.
Once inside the damp, dark kitchen, I slowly began to take on the large task that she had demanded of me. My swollen, bleeding knuckles stung under the stream of hot water that filled the sink, and I began to cry quietly. I held my hands under the dishwater as I watched the dirt under my fingernails disappear. With each dish that I picked up, came a clanging of hurtful words, repeating like the constant drip from the water faucet. As hard as I tried, I could not empty my head of my mother’s cruel words or violent outbursts.
Why doesn’t she love me? I asked myself as I wiped my tears on my dirty shirtsleeve.
When I had finally put away the last plate and replaced the rickety step stool, I knew by my mother’s silence that she had drifted off to sleep again. I eyed the loaf of bread on the counter, considering if it was worth the risk of trying to steal a piece before sneaking outside to Peppi’s doghouse. Though my stomach grumbled its protest, I left the bread where it was, aware that my mother made it a point to count everything. Walking away from the temptation, I pushed open the screen door as quietly as possible.
Outside, the sun was bright, causing me to squint. I swiped at a bead of sweat that threatened to roll in my eye as I climbed into the doghouse that my father had built into the garage wall. Once inside, I was comforted by the thought that my mother was too tall to fit through the door. Although it made a great escape route whenever she was after me, I usually had to stay in there for a while. After enough time passed, she would forget that she was mad at me, and I could emerge from the overcrowded space. Being a large collie, Peppi made it difficult to maneuver around him.
It was much cooler in the shade of the doghouse with soft hay on the floor to lie on. “Next time,” I confided in the dog, “I’m going to be brave and kill that dragon with a big sword. Oh Peppi, don’t let that witch hurt me anymore.”
I held the dog and cried, knowing he would keep my secrets. He didn’t even seem to mind sharing his dog food when my mother wouldn’t feed me. When I spoke to him, I called him “my good friend boy,” for I knew that no matter what, I could count on him to be my friend when no one else was. He looked at me and licked the fresh tears from my face. In my mind, I knew it meant that he loved me.
Sitting there for so long got me thinking about what it would be like to go to school like my brother and sister did. I wouldn’t get to go for another year, even though Nadine showed me how to read and write my name over the summer. Nadine was six and Mitchell was eight, but for me, being not quite five, wasn’t the easiest thing to deal with.
I felt sad remembering all the fun Nadine and I had all summer. I quickly laughed, though, when I thought about how much trouble we had gotten into when we polished Great-Grandma’s hardwood floors with black shoe polish. Grandma Annie was my daddy’s grandma, and since his momma died, we spent a lot of time with her. We were lucky she never told my mother, although she did make us scrub her floors until they were spotless. It was hard to picture Nadine in her Pixie-like innocence doing such a deed. Being a foot taller than me made her look more grown up, certainly above such a thing. But I knew better. In spite of her dainty features, her dark eyes and chin-length brown hair gave her a look of spunk that only I saw.
We didn’t speak of it at the time, but we only did such a harsh thing to the old woman because we didn’t like her being crabby with us every time we went to visit. But because our arms hurt so much from all the scrubbing, we made a pact that we would never again try to get back at Grandma for being crabby. We were actually grateful for the visits because we knew that being left at Grandma’s house was much better than being at home—almost like a vacation.
Some time later, I became alarmed when I realized that I had fallen asleep in the doghouse and so much time had passed. The air had begun to darken, and the oversized harvest moon had spread its radiance over the edge of the horizon. I had taken quite an interest in the changes in the moon after seeing the astronauts land on it over the summer. My father had made us watch it on the television, saying that someday we would be thankful that we had seen such a great event in our history. I wasn’t too concerned with the statements that he had made that night; I was inspired by the thought of being so far away from the world and all the hurt that came along with it.
Noticing that my father’s car was in the driveway, I knew it was too late to think of a good excuse concerning my whereabouts for the past several hours. As afraid as I was to go back in the house, I knew I had to, even though I never looked forward to dinnertime in that house.
Just before I reached the back door, I paused for a moment to push the sleep from my eyes. I wondered if it was safe to go in the house yet, but I couldn’t tell from where I was standing since I couldn’t hear anything going on in the house. I didn’t want to go in yet, but I was severely hungry. And it seemed that no matter what the circumstances, I managed to get into trouble nearly every night during dinner.
It was always the same hateful chain of events. My mother would either poke me in the back of the hand with her fork if I put my elbows on the table, or she would pull on the tablecloth so my milk would spill. It made me angry that my father never saw her do it because he always had his nose stuck in the newspaper while we ate—he never seemed to notice us at all. On the occasions when he did poke his head out from around the paper to see what the commotion was, my mother would make up some excuse. Or she’d tell him that I spilled my milk on purpose. This would allow her the opportunity to pull my hair and throw me on the floor, once my father resumed his reading. I made up my mind right then to start saying “No thank-you” for milk because I never seemed to get the chance to drink it anyway.
When I finally got up enough nerve to walk through the door, I could smell something burning. The pot on the stove was smoking and bubbling, and although I could hear my mother, she was nowhere in sight. The fear that I felt, as I sneaked through the house, forced my thoughts further away from reality.
I walked softly through the witch’s castle; feeling terrified that I might disturb her or her fire-breathing dragon with its huge claws that I knew could rip me apart. As I climbed the stairs to the tower, I pushed my way through the cobwebs, being careful not to step on the skeletons of the small creatures that the dragon had slain. The foul smell coming from their bodies mixed with the stench from the pot of boiling brew that bubbled over the fire. The witch carefully stirred the poison that she used to make me ill each time she fed it to me.
When I came to my senses and realized where I was, I considered myself lucky to have gotten all the way upstairs without being spotted. It would appear that no one even knew I had been gone all day, which suited me just fine. I quickly washed my hands and rinsed the muddy splatters down the sink the best I could, hoping it would prevent me from getting into trouble for getting the bathroom dirty. When I returned to the top of the stairs, I stood there listening cautiously for a minute before going down. My parent’s voices were elevated, making it obvious that they were arguing—a usual occurrence. Nadine was screaming at my father because the cat had left dead mice on the stairs again, but no one stopped to listen to her.
I waited, my heart pounding heavily, until it quieted down some before I went down the stairs. As I stepped off the landing at the bottom, the entrance to the dining room came into view and I spotted Mitchell on top of the dinner table. For some reason, he was spinning in circles and crying, while he repeated over and over; “I will not tease Nadine, I will not tease Nadine...”
Sweat dripped from his face and dampened his black hair in the front. He stumbled a few times, and looked as though he were going to throw up. His dark eyes displayed a hint of hatred in them, and I wondered why he had submitted to such a punishment. Upon further observance, I could see that Mitchell was getting dizzy. He was making me dizzy, and his chanting annoyed me.
It was obvious to me that my father had issued the unusual punishment because he was sitting in the side chair in the corner of the room watching over my brother from atop his newspaper. I couldn’t see the expression on his face, but rather the constant stream of smoke rising from his cigarette that twisted and turned high above the newspaper that he held in front of his face. Only his eyes shone as he quietly observed my brother’s every move.
I didn’t dare to look around the newspaper to satisfy my curiosity. The rough looks my father would give, together with the dark, slicked-back wave to his hair made him resemble Elvis in his tough exterior. Occasionally, he would act out the part of a lighter side of “The King”, with a wooden spoon for a microphone while he and my mother played records from the collection of 45’s they had saved from their “dating years”. My entire family could be easily entertained by his comical routine. For me, it seemed to be the only real time we had any genuine laughter in the house. This, however, was not one of those times.
Mitchell’s persistent whining seemed to be unbearable to my mother. She sighed heavily, dropped her head down on the table, and cupped her hands over her ears as though to guard them from the noise. I sat down in the chair across from my mother and looked up at Mitchell.
“You need to shut up and stop bein’ so annoying,” I said.
Mitchell ignored me and continued chanting through his tears, while my father lifted an eyebrow toward him from over the top of his newspaper.
My mother lifted her head from the table and looked at me. “You need to mind your own business because your father is punishing him.”
She flashed an angry look toward my father, then got up and pushed her chair back behind her. I swallowed hard when I realized she was headed toward me. Her eyes followed mine as she walked around the table in my direction, and I didn’t dare blink. When she made her way over to me, she stood there in silence for a minute while I shook with fear, hoping my father would notice and save me from whatever it was that she was about to do. With one swift movement, she shoved me off my chair and onto the floor.
“You have a lot of nerve expecting to eat dinner when you have so much work to do in your room. You get upstairs this minute and take care of that pig-pen you call a bedroom because you can’t have dinner until it’s clean.”
My father mumbled from behind his newspaper.
“Mind your mother.”
He didn’t look up even once.
As I got up from the floor, I stubbornly told myself that I didn’t care about the punishment. What she was calling “dinner” smelled awful. And though I hadn’t eaten anything but a small handful of dog food all day, I convinced my growling stomach to be grateful not to have to choke down whatever she was burning on the stove.
Immediately after I left the room, I heard my father yelling. “Damn it, Anna. Why do have to burn dinner almost every night?”
“Just shut up and eat it,” she fought back.
“I’m not gonna eat this slop. You burn dinner half the damn week. Can’t you do anything right?”
I paused for a moment to listen to him ridicule her because I enjoyed hearing her getting into trouble for a change. The threat that a fight between them was sure to follow caused me to walk slowly and quietly up the stairs, suddenly unaware of my surroundings.
As I stood before the damp stairwell that led to the tower, I could hear the giant’s mighty roar. He was fighting against the witch, but I feared it would not be long before she made him her slave by casting her spells upon him.
Just as I suspected, when my father’s ranting ended, I could hear my mother trying to get in the last word. “If you don’t shut your mouth, I’ll hit you over the head with this cast-iron pan, you rotten S.O.B.”
I knew that was my cue to leave the area, so I ran up the remaining stairs and stood at the entrance of my bedroom.
Looking around the oversized room, I struggled to remember if I’d even been in the room since earlier that morning. How could my half of the room get so messy nearly every day while I was locked out of the house? Mitchell and Nadine told me that my mother makes the messes so she would have some reason to punish me. I was so angry regarding the mess that I started yelling as loud as I could, forgetting that I had just gotten into trouble a few minutes before.
“I’m not gonna clean this room anymore b’cause I never mess it up,” I shouted.
I flung the door open as wide as it would go and the sound of plaster dropping down behind the wall filled me with panic. My mother came up the stairs after me, and although a flash of fear came over me, I decided to stand my ground in the same way my father had a few minutes before. I felt fearless with my hands on my hips, looking her straight in the eye.
“How’d my room get so messy again?” I asked.
“Don’t sass me you little tramp, and don’t act so stupid because you know exactly how it got messed up. We go through this every time!”
The corners of her mouth turned up as she tried not to smile.
“I do not know,” I challenged her.
She pursed her lips and gritted her teeth.
“I will not allow you to talk to me that way, you little blonde-haired witch.”
Before I could say another word, she grabbed me by the arm and pushed me into the closet, closing the door behind me.
“Momma, please!” I begged. “Don’t leave me in here again.”
I heard the lock turn, and my mother’s footsteps faded as she walked out of the room.
“I can’t find the light,” I screamed, as I felt around in the dark for the pull string.
I began to pound on the door and scratch at it with my fingernails. “Let me outta here. I don’t wanna die. Please Momma, please. I promise I’ll be good.”
The pull string brushed against my cheek as I stepped back, and I grabbed it in desperation, pulling the light on. I took in a deep breath as I leaned backward and slid down the wall, examining my bleeding knuckles until I reached the floor. Pulling my knees to my chest, I cupped my hands over my ears, hoping it would quiet the sound of my mother’s voice that still haunted me.
Mitchell’s explanation for my mother’s harsh treatment suddenly came to mind. He repeatedly taunted me, saying that my mother hated me because I looked exactly like my dead grandmother. “She hung herself when mom was pregnant with you,” he said one day. “And mom hates her for it. All you do is remind her of someone she hates.”
Even though Mitchell was only my age when he had attended the funeral, he said he would never forget the way my mother screamed when they put her momma in the ground. Mitchell said my mother claimed hatred toward me from the minute I was born because of my fair skin and blonde hair. I was already aware that I was the only member of my family with blonde hair and blue eyes, and I didn’t think it very fair that I should be hated for it.
With a sigh, I rested my aching head on a pile of dirty clothes, letting my thoughts wander to pass the time.
As I looked around me, the dim light of a single bulb cast eerie shadows upon the damp dungeon floor. The witch had trapped me for good this time. I looked around me for something I could use to pry open the huge door, but there was nothing. Two spiders were crawling up the wall, and my eyes followed them all the way to the back of the dungeon. It was very dark away from the light, but I could still see the spiders as they did a little dance, and then, surprisingly, disappeared between two of the boards where the plaster had been pushed through. I put my hand in the small space, hoping that the spiders would know I was their friend and wouldn’t bite me. With my other hand, I picked up a stick and scribbled an SOS in the dirt.
The sound of a fire truck somewhere off in the distance, jolted me back to reality. I panicked at the possibility of my own house being on fire, thinking that no one would find me locked in the closet. Ignoring the sirens, I smoothed out a crumpled wad of paper and wrote on it with a crayon. Most times when I got locked in the closet, I would write a note asking for someone to help me and I would push it down the hole in the wooden floor at the bottom of the closet. As far as I knew, it was my only avenue for sending a message to the outside world. There used to be a knot where the hole is, but I pushed it through the floor the previous summer. From that day on, I pushed all the broken crayons and pieces of toys down there whenever I cleaned the closet. As I pushed the note into the small opening with a slightly shaky hand, I made a wish that someone would find all of my notes asking for help so I would be saved from my mother—the woman I truly viewed as a witch.
When the sound of the sirens became faint, I decided to put away all the things that I could reach, hoping it would make the time pass more quickly. Then I returned to my spot on the floor and began twirling my shoulder-length hair as I prayed that the light would keep from burning out. I had to pee badly, so I sat on my feet and rocked back and forth slightly, to keep myself from wetting my pants.
After a while, I reached up and tried to turn the handle, but it was still locked. The door had a funny lock on it that Mitchell said must be opened with the skeleton key that my mother always kept in her apron pocket. I began to wonder why it was called a skeleton key, and if that meant that I would die if I got locked in there for too long. My crazy thoughts scared me, so I began to pound heavily on the door again, yelling for help.
Finally, the door opened.
My mother stood in the doorway, and I looked up into her mean face.
“I guess you took too long to clean, and now it’s past your bedtime,” she sneered.
I didn’t want to go to bed; I was starving, and my mouth was dry. While she struggled to close my jammed window, I stole the opportunity to run to the bathroom. I knew that once I was in bed, I didn’t dare get up because she would hear me. As I washed my hands, I leaned my head over and stuck my mouth under the faucet, gulping down as much water as I could, knowing it would fill my empty stomach and ease the hunger pangs enough to allow me some sleep. I knew better than to drink too much for fear I would have to get up during the night to use the bathroom again and risk waking her.
Once I was back in the room, she turned off the bedroom light as I was putting on my nightshirt. When she left the room without saying another word, I got a running start and took the same flying leap to the bed that I did every night. My mother repeatedly told me there were monsters under the bed waiting to get bad little girls like me when the light was off. Every night, I slept with my back touching the wall that my bed was pushed up against, just so I could keep watch while I tried to sleep.
When I laid down, I positioned my hands carefully across my throat and stomach like I did every night. Occasionally, I would wake to find my mother at my bedside, trying to choke me or punching me in the stomach. Most nights, I spent more time awake than asleep.
I curled up on the bed, watching the shadows on the wall from the tree outside my bare window. As the tree moved more swiftly, it formed images like monsters trying to grab me. With my eyes bulging, I pulled the heavy, woolen, surplus blanket over my head, hoping they wouldn’t find me. I must have fallen asleep before Nadine went to bed because the morning came much sooner than I expected.
I awoke to the sound of heavy rain hitting the window beside my bed. A chill hung in the air as I looked out at the gray clouds pushing their way across the sky as though they were in a hurry. I was cold, but in spite of the itchy, waxy smell of my wool blanket, which caused me to feel nauseous, I was too hungry to stay in bed.
As I sat up on the edge of my bed, I could hear Mitchell and Nadine down in the kitchen, fighting over the cereal box like they did almost every morning. Their bickering usually put my mother in a foul mood and I was afraid of her taking it out on me. I felt weak and groggy from lack of food as I walked down the stairs to the kitchen, still in my nightshirt.
At the little Formica-topped table in the kitchen, there was an extra bowl and spoon waiting for me, so I sat across from Nadine and started to pour myself some cereal. I pretended not to notice my mother making a pitcher of Tang at the sink, but she stepped away from the counter and stood behind my chair. I swallowed hard and quickly replaced the box on the table nervously, not daring to pour any milk on my cereal for fear that I might spill it. I sat motionless, except for the shaking that my heavily beating heart caused, while Mitchell and Nadine practically buried their faces in their bowls trying to keep from drawing attention to themselves.
“Don’t you dare take one bite of that cereal until you take your vitamin,” she demanded.
As hard as I tried every morning, I couldn’t swallow the vitamins. They were too big for me swallow, but she wouldn’t let my father get the chewy ones for me. She made the three of us take a vitamin every day because my father got them for free from the pharmacy where he worked. My mother lectured us almost daily about not wasting good money to take us to the doctor if we got sick. Mitchell and Nadine tried to teach me the art of swallowing the large, yellow pill, but all they did was make me gag. Normally, I would hide it in my pocket whenever she was not around. Or, I would wrap the pill in a piece of chewed-up toast in my mouth to get it down, but there didn’t seem to be any toast around this morning. I was trembling and breathing with great difficulty as she continued to stand behind me.
With a shaky hand, I lifted the vitamin toward my mouth. After gagging on it twice, my mother grabbed me by the hair, pulled my head back, and shoved the pill down my throat.
“There now, that wasn’t so difficult, was it?” she asked through gritted teeth. “Now eat your breakfast.”
Panicking, I swallowed several times, forcing the pill to make its way completely down my throat so I could breathe.
In the meantime, my mother lifted the bottle of milk from the table and poured some in my cereal, then, put it away. I tried to eat, but, my throat felt scratchy, and my breakfast tasted bad with all the tears dropping into it.
My mother quickly disappeared, and Mitchell and Nadine got up to leave for school. The lump in my throat grew larger when they left me in the kitchen all alone. Before I finished my cereal, I could hear them in the laundry room asking my mother where the umbrella was, and I could smell the spray starch that she used when she ironed my father’s work shirts. Since I wanted to see Mitchell and Nadine before they left, I tossed my bowl in the sink and followed the smell of the starch into the laundry room. My mother gave me a dirty look as I entered the room, letting me know that I had interrupted her when she was trying to speak. Then she turned her attention back to Mitchell.
“Forget the umbrella,” she said. “It stopped raining a little bit ago, and the sun is coming out. I don’t think it’s going to rain any more today, and if you don’t hurry, you’ll be late for school....”
Her voice seemingly trailed off when Mitchell ignored her and headed for the door. He and Nadine walked out; leaving me wishing that summer hadn’t ended. Instead, they left me behind to do battle with my mother as usual.
I watched my older siblings through the window, while my mother resumed her ironing.
Almost immediately, I became startled by the scream that came from my mother. I slowly backed away from her when I saw that she had burned her finger on the iron.
“This is all your fault,” she said, looking at me. “If you hadn’t put me in a bad mood this morning, I would have been able to concentrate on what I was doing. All you do is make me nervous.”
Tears filled her eyes and I struggled with my thoughts, trying to remember if I had bumped her, but I was certain I had not.
I tried ignoring her as my eyes focused on the tiny breach in the drapes, enabling me to concentrate on the dust floating in the sunlight that had found its way into the small room.
Once again, my mother’s screaming startled me.
“Maybe I need to show you how it feels to be burned with an iron.”
I continued to back away from her as I shook my head.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you,” I tried pleading with her.
My mother suddenly lunged toward me, grabbing me by the arm. She tried dragging me in through the doorway, as I pressed my feet to the floor to try to hold myself back. My feet slid across the floor, and she managed to push my hand onto the hot iron. I screamed and tried to force myself from her grasp, so she pressed my hand on the iron with much more force. My hand felt hot, then strangely cold, and finally numb. When she let go, I caught a glimpse of my red and blistered hand. It stung, and I was crying so hard and so loud that she dragged me outside by the arm, and forced me down on my butt on the back stoop. The remaining rainwater on the wooden slats of the porch was visibly rising due to the heat of the sun, and it dampened my panties.
“You stop that crying right now because you got what you deserved,” she insisted.
When I continued to cry, she dragged me into the back yard and pushed me to the ground.
“You can’t come back in the house until you can learn how to behave,” she screamed. As she started walking away, I realized that I was sitting on an ant pile. They bit my legs and I slapped at them furiously.
I tried getting up.
She returned, pushed me back to the ground, and held me there.
“I’m sittin’ on an ant hill. Let me get up,” I tearfully begged her.
She looked down at me with an unmerciful grin that widened with every scream I made. I blocked out her laughter, changing it to muffled echoes as my thoughts took me to the courtyard of the castle where the ants had become the witch’s army.
The witch’s army stabbed me with their sharp, tiny spears, for I was being tortured for something I didn’t do. I couldn’t defend myself against the witch or the strength of her army. As I surrendered to their torture, I could see that even the sun would not shine upon this land, since it was much too evil of a place.
“I hope you get eaten alive,” she said, turning her back, then walking away abruptly.
When she was completely out of sight, I got up. Quietly, yet desperately, I slapped the ants toward the ground. Though I hadn’t dressed myself yet, Mr. Monnakee’s house was the only place I wanted to be at that point. I left the yard against my mother’s wishes, for I knew Mr. Monnakee would have a remedy for this, in the same way he fixed up most of what my mother did to me.
I wish he could make me stop hurtin’ from all the names she calls me too, I thought.
Mr. Monnakee was as old as my grandfather, with white hair and wrinkled skin, just the same. He lived at the end of the alley, and I enjoyed going to his house because he would give me rhubarb and other tasty things from his garden. I was grateful for his kindness since I would often resort to eating Peppi’s dog food if I got hungry enough. Since my mother locked me outside nearly every day, I became quite resourceful when I got denied food, and Mr. Monnakee’s garden was always waiting for me.
When I entered Mr. Monnakee’s back yard through the hedges, he walked up to see what was wrong.
“My goodness, little girl, what have you gotten yourself into this time?” He examined my red and puffy skin briefly and frowned. “Hold on a minute, and I’ll get some things to fix you up as good as new again.”
When he returned with what he had promised, he put his hand under my chin to make me look at him. As I lifted my damp, swollen eyes to meet his, he began talking to me in a gentle, soft whisper.
“If you don’t feel like you can talk about any of this, you don’t have to,” he began. “Just remember I’m here if you need me, and I’ll help you in any way I can. You remind me so much of my granddaughter Macy.”
I thanked him for the well-meaning offer, but my mother had often warned me that she would kill me if I ever told anyone about the way she hurt me. Even at such a young age, I truly believed my silence was the only thing that was keeping me alive.
TWO
LITTLE SCARS
For the next several days, I knew I had to keep my hand hidden from my father; if he found out, he would say something to my mother and she would punish me for ratting on her. One time I made the mistake of telling him she locked me out of the house. After he questioned her about it, she pulled me aside and threatened me that if I ever told on her again, she would take me to the woods in the car and push me out the door. She made a point to scare me into believing I’d never find my way back home before a bear attacked me or a snake bit me and killed me. At the time, I wasn’t sure which was worse, but I was sure that I didn’t like the idea of being lost in the woods when it was dark. After many similar threats, I knew it was best to keep silent about everything.
As the days went on, my hand healed somewhat, but I could tell it was going to leave an ugly scar. Though it felt a little better, it still had little circle burns on it from the iron. One morning, after finding my red-fringed, plaid poncho, I headed downstairs for breakfast. My father was in the kitchen reading the newspaper, and my mother was serving him eggs and bacon, so I tucked my hand under the table and sat down. My father pushed a piece of bacon and part of his scrambled eggs onto the plate in front of me and smiled. Being right-handed, it was difficult to eat with the left, while keeping my burned hand out of sight. It seemed that the more I tried to hide it, the more obvious I became, and the more the suspicion showed on my father’s wrinkled brow.
“What’re ya hidin’ under the table?” he asked.
I swallowed hard and slowly put my hand in plain view. I tried to speak, but instead, my mouth opened enough to let out a cracking sound. Before I could say anything, my mother entered the room.
“Your hand is healing nicely, Jane,” she said to me, then turned to my father. “I told her not to put her hand on the iron, but she wouldn’t listen when I told her it was hot. She’s way too old to do such a stupid thing, but I think she did it just to spite me.”
My father’s eyes returned to his newspaper without saying a word. My own eyes flooded with tears as I got up abruptly, grabbed my poncho, and ran outside, letting the front door slam behind me. I sat on my tricycle on the front walk, feeling angry that she had lied to my father and he believed her like he always did. I thought about taking the bike down the steps of the stone wall to the sidewalk below. The stones enclosed the entire front yard and led down to the alley and the front walk. Many times, I thought of riding down the street, away from the alley, but I had no idea what was beyond my boundaries. My anger and hatred took over my thoughts, taking me further into my imaginary world where I’d come accustomed to escaping.
The giant had done nothing to help me escape the witch’s anger. The drawbridge was now closed and my horse couldn’t jump the large stone wall that enclosed the castle grounds.
I heard the squeak of the back door and the sound of my father’s car starting. After shaking off my confusing thoughts, I got off my tricycle and ran to the edge of the stone wall on the alley side so I could wave good-bye to him. My heart pounded in my chest as I watched him drive away, and I knew better than to hang around the house any longer. My mother would soon come after me for letting my father see my burned hand, and I knew I needed to leave as fast as I could.
My feet felt like they were encased in cement blocks as I headed down the alley, aware that I would have to stay away long enough for her to forget what I had done. I could never understand what made her mad, or why she would forget things the way she did, although Mitchell told me the beer made her forget.
There were times when I would feel sorry for her because she was sad more often than I was. One time when she was crying, I tried to hug her, but she pushed me away and told me to leave her alone. I knew by the way she acted that she didn’t love me, but I often pretended to myself that she did.
When I reached the abandoned house at the end of the alley, I climbed on the doghouse that sat on the edge of the property. As long as I had lived here, there had never been a family on the property. It seemed sad that no dog had enjoyed such a wonderful spot which I occupied to sit and think.
In the midst of my thoughts, I looked toward the ground and was surprised to see a giant grasshopper due to the cold weather that had come on so fast. I jumped off the doghouse in a hurry so I wouldn’t lose sight of it. I chased after it, calling him as though he could understand me. When I finally caught up to him, he was difficult to hang onto because he was nearly as long as my hand. I told him not to worry because I meant him no harm. Then I found a large blade of grass and began feeding him. Brown spit poured from his mouth as he munched the large morsel I had picked especially for him.
Mr. Monnakee poked his head over the leafless hedges and called me from across the alley. I opened my hand, letting the grasshopper jump out. Then I walked across the alley to discover that Mr. Monnakee had set up a morning snack for us.
“Ya didn’t have to make me a snack,” I said. “But it looks yummy, thanks.”
He motioned for me to sit at the little garden table on his back porch.
“You looked so hungry when I first saw you sitting on that doghouse that I thought you might like to have a little something.”
I was very hungry indeed, but I would never tell anyone about my hunger. Mr. Monnakee looked at me funny when I began to stuff my mouth, so I slowed down a bit.
“You need to tell your mother to get you some shoes, young lady,” he said. “It’s gotten chilly and you should have some shoes on those feet.”
Truth was, I hadn’t had a pair of shoes that fit since the previous winter. If I had to go somewhere, I squeezed my toes into the worn pair and didn’t dare complain. I didn’t like the way my mother yelled at Mitchell when he needed a new pair and I wasn’t about to ask for any—I would just as soon stay home.
Mr. Monnakee talked consistently between bites, and I listened intently as I paced my eating. I loved listening to his stories about his children and grandchildren though it was odd to me that he was all alone. I’d seen their pictures, but had never seen them visit. They were all scattered around among several states and usually sent him train tickets to visit them.
“Well I need a nap, young lady,” Mr. Monnakee said as he finished his wedge of apple. “I apologize for talking so much, but it’s lonely living all by yourself at my age.”
Though I didn’t say it out loud, I would have gladly taken his place, if not for the part about being old. I got up and pushed in the heavy, wrought iron chair.
“Thanks for the snack.”
We waved to one another as I skipped back toward my house.
Mitchell’s army men and tanks lay in a pile by the front porch, so I dragged them underneath and began to play with them in the shade. My heart jumped when I heard my mother calling for me. Out of instinct, I lay down on my stomach while lining up the large toy tanks so I could crouch down under the porch and cower behind them before she found me.
In spite of the terror I felt, the drawbridge came down and the witch stormed across, calling me to her in a sweet, deceiving tone. In the moat around the drawbridge, the alligators all lined up to shelter me from her sight. They were prepared to fight to the death against the witch and her fire-breathing dragon. I was prepared to stay put until the danger of battle had subsided.
As the day wore on, I knew that my mother had given up looking for me, so I crawled out from under the porch. Mitchell and Nadine were coming up the front walk from school, and I was able to follow them into the house undetected by my mother.
With each new day that passed, I became more nervous than the day before. My anticipation of my mother’s anger toward me to reach its peak was almost unbearable. The only thing I looked forward to anymore was the story of “Uncle Wiggly,” which my father read to me most nights before bedtime.
Sometimes, if my mother wasn’t around, he would make Nadine and me say our prayers before we went to sleep. I never quite understood the prayers, or even why he prayed with us, but I knew he was sad a lot, and it seemed to lift his mood a little. “Your mother has a will so strong, even a lion tamer can’t tame her,” he would often say. The way I understood it, nothing could convince her to stop being so mean. When it came time to bless our family, I always skipped my mother, believing even God couldn’t tame her.
Before I knew it, more than a week had passed, and I thought I was in the clear and that my mother had forgotten all about the iron incident. After breakfast, I found myself sitting on my tricycle on the front walk once again. Breakfast had been uneventful for a change, and Mitchell and Nadine were leaving for school. My father had left a little earlier than usual to get to a meeting, which seemed to bother my mother.
I looked up as she walked out, calling after my siblings to have a great day at school. A sense of fear swept over me as I watched them leave. My mother seemed anxious about something, and I could feel that it had everything to do with me.
When Mitchell and Nadine were clearly out of sight, my mother turned to face me. Her untamed expression turned to that of a savage. The look in her eyes let me know that she had not forgotten that I nearly got her into trouble with my father. My sudden urgency to remove myself from her destructive path was too strong to ignore, but I was frozen with fear and couldn’t move. My thoughts deadened as she began her interrogation.
“You let your father see your hand on purpose last week, and you did it just to get me into trouble,” she insisted. “If you think you’re going to get away with it this time, then you’re dumber than I think you are.”
As she spoke, she put her hands on the front of my tricycle with a firm grip.
Before I realized what was happening, I began to apologize repeatedly, but she continuously refuted my apologies. She called me a liar and started jerking the tricycle, until finally she pushed me backward on it. My body stiffened as I tried to put my feet down to stop myself from rolling backward, but the tricycle went downhill with the yard. The tricycle kept going faster out of control, until I had bumped down each step of the stone wall and landed on my head on the sidewalk below. The sky went black, then blue again. I gasped for air, trying desperately to roll on my side, pulling in very little air with each breath. When I tried to get to my feet, everything around me was spinning and I threw up, most of it landing on the front of my shirt. My mother rushed down the stairs, speaking to me in her warning voice.
“Get in the house before the neighbors see you.”
My thinking became muddled as I staggered toward the steps that led to the front porch. My mother urged me forward, causing me to fall and cut my shin on the cement. I somehow managed with great difficulty to make my way into the house. It took serious effort to crawl up the stairs toward my room on my hands and knees, while my mother screamed and swore at me from behind.
When I finally reached the top step, my mother shoved me toward the bathroom, causing me to fall again. Picking me up by the back of my hair, she ordered me to take off my shirt and rinse off the vomit in the sink. My eyes kept closing, as I struggled through the gruesome task. When I’d squeezed out all the clean water from my shirt, I laid it over the edge of the bathtub, and then steered myself in the direction of my room. Walking upright was so troublesome that I stumbled and lost my balance, then fell on the end of my bed. I grabbed my pillow in desperation, lying my head down on it and crying out for relief. I wanted to sleep until the pain went away, but my mother startled me by placing a cold, wet rag on my face as she instructed me harshly.
“You need to stay awake, or I’ll have to take you to the doctor. I’ll bet you don’t want me to have to explain to him how clumsy you are, do you?” she teased.
I’m not clumsy. You pushed me, you mean old witch.
“You know better than to tell lies, so you better not tell anyone about this or I will beat you within an inch of your life. Now let this be a lesson to you,” she sneered. “Your headache will remind you”.
“I’m sorry momma. Can I have some aspirin?” I begged her.