Always, the next morning, he would sheepishly ask that we start afresh. I hated that—that idea of starting over, that all the anger and sadness could vanish, like winter turning into spring.
But in spite of myself, I always forgave him. I forgave because it was easier than fighting; I forgave because it was easier than being constantly, endlessly afraid. I forgave because I told myself that it wasn’t his fault.
He’d always wanted a son, he’d loved my mother dearly, and to lose them both in childbirth like that had been a tragedy. I forgave him, because I remembered how happy they’d both been, how proud in the face of jealousy from the other townsfolk that his wife had fallen pregnant so late in her childbearing years, after so many seasons with naught but a daughter.
But without fail, despite all my forgiveness, the cycle would begin all over again. And because I forgave him, it always felt like my own fault.
If only I could stand up for myself, but no. I was a beaten dog, trying to take up as little space as possible and cause no trouble. But no matter how kind or helpful I was, it never was enough to stop his rage.
When my father had returned home to find me seated at the kitchen table, my leg elevated on a stool, he’d taken one look at the bandages and exploded at me about being a careless, stupid, idiotic girl. He went on and on about the farm income, about tenancy fees, about lost earnings. He talked about me the way most people talked about oxen.
And, I suppose, that was exactly how he saw me. A working animal, no more and no less.
While my father’s anger was no surprise, the difference between the way he treated me and how Randal had cared and quietly helped, made it all the more hurtful.
I might as well have been some poor creature that had been kept in darkness, only to get a chance to see the light that Randal emanated from his kind and lovely soul, but no sooner had I gotten a glimpse at it than I was shoved back into the darkness once again. I knew those feelings were dangerous.
Wanting, hoping, dreaming of something better? So foolish for a girl like me.
Even though I had been seated with my leg up when my father came home, he’d said, “Get up off your ass, girl, and stop being such a fat, lazy cow.”
It hurt so much to put weight on my leg, but I did so in spite of myself, in order to get his dinner ready. I knew from experience that the physical pain of preparing his dinner was much less of an inconvenience than the inevitable night full of drunken hollering there would have been if I’d refused. He had a way of getting under my skin and making me feel broken and hopeless; I had learned to do anything—everything—to avoid that kind of agony. I called those nights of anger the brutal tellings. He had a way of finding your softest spot and ripping it to pieces.
But now it was morning, thankfully. He was passed out and I was safe. I tried to cast off those thoughts and sat up, but as soon as I did, my leg throbbed with pain. Wincing, I gingerly slipped it out from under the covers, and saw that at least the swelling had gone down.
The bruises were still shockingly dark, but I was relieved to see it wasn’t worse than it had been the day before. Using the post of my small bed for support to stand, I sucked in a big breath of air and braced myself for the pain, placing my foot on the floor and slowly and shifting my weight onto my bad leg.
It hurt, but not nearly so badly as I expected. Though it made me limp quite a bit, I could hobble around my room. I breathed a sigh of relief as I looked out at the farm through my window. The drizzle was lessening, to show off a beautiful sunrise. And it wouldn’t be long before Randal would arrive to help me milk the cows.
Dressing quickly, I re-braided my hair and tied the end with my favorite dark green ribbon, before making my way softly and carefully into the kitchen. My father was sound asleep in his room and wouldn’t wake for hours.
It gave me time to do something nice for Randal without him questioning what I was up to. The very last thing in the world I wanted was for my father to see I’d packed anything extra. I could not have him knowing anything about Randal. I had never been courted by anybody, but I’d been through enough with my father to know that the prospect of losing me—his prize ox—would bring out his worst and most awful cruelty.