Yesteryear: A GMA Book Club Pick: A Novel by Caro Claire Burke - 17

Maeve and I bring the basket of eggs inside. I stand, holding the basket, while she marches around the kitchen, getting a bowl and then guiding me to the kitchen table. She climbs onto a chair and then cracks the eggs one by one and begins to stir. Mary is by the fire, carefully pushing a covered pot into the coals, positioning it until it’s surrounded by embers, but not actually touching flames. Biscuits. My stomach growls. For pretty much the entirety of my twenties, I never thought about food. I was a woman of discipline, not cravings. Now I’m constantly hungry in this world.

While Maeve carries the bowl of scrambled eggs to Mary, I sit down at the kitchen table, exhausted.

“We need the frying pan,” Mary says to Maeve. “I’ll get it.” She crosses the room, throwing me a dirty look as she passes. “Well, don’t you look cozy.”

“What? Isn’t breakfast about to start?”

“Breakfast won’t be for another hour.” She grabs the frying pan from the counter and returns to the fireplace.

“What should I do until then?”

Mary looks back at me with an unnerving maturity. Fifteen, going on fifty. “You should get to work.”

I look around the kitchen, my gaze coming to rest upon a half-full container of flour on the kitchen shelf. “Do we need bread?”

Flour, salt, water. A jar of sourdough starter. At the sight of those simple ingredients lined up in a row on the countertop, I feel an unfamiliar pressure building behind my eyes. I’ve never been one to cry, but right now, I could.

Hello, old friends.

The jar of starter is surprisingly well-kept. No crust around the rim, and the starter itself looks bright and airy, not the dark color of jaundice that happens with even a week of neglect. Not surprising, I suppose, given how militant Mary is with housekeeping. She must be keeping an eye on this little yeast ball, along with everything else in this house. I wouldn’t be surprised if the girl does chores while the rest of us sleep.

As soon as I dive my fingers into the wet jar, a calm falls over me. I scrape as much of the bubbling starter out as I can, then drop it into the bowl. I pour three cups of flour on top, then add a sprinkling of sea salt. Then I begin to knead, my fingers digging deep into the dough in a quick, restless pattern.

The trick to baking a good loaf of bread is to build tension. You have to fold and press the dough in on itself, just enough to lock air within the layers of flour. Too much kneading, and it becomes a rock. Not enough kneading, and it comes out mealy. As I work the dough into a tight, springy ball, I remind myself that I am being watched. I lovingly pat the ball of dough, then place it into a bowl and spread a towel over it to let it rise, right as Old Caleb steps inside and hands Mary a large steel bucket. She takes it carefully. It looks heavy. As she walks over to the kitchen sink, taking care not to slosh the liquid inside, I peek into the bucket. It’s raw milk. A delicacy, I used to tell my followers, a medical marvel, capable of curing any known ailment, except this bucket is smeared with cow shit. Mary takes out a gray rag and wipes down the sides of the bucket in a businesslike fashion, then takes the bucket and carefully begins pouring it into two pitcher-like containers. Then she turns to me. “I think we should change your dressing.”

I feel the blood leave my face. “No, thank you, I think I’m fine—”

Two minutes later, I’m sitting in a kitchen chair, my foot in Mary’s lap while she carefully unwraps the bandage, revealing something that looks more like a pickled chicken foot than any leg I’ve ever seen. The skin is yellow and wrinkled and streaked with dry blood, and the stitching looks like a beginner’s crochet project gone awry, and—my God, the little flecks of hardened muscle that got caught on the wrong side of the seams—

I cast my gaze quickly to the ceiling.

Frankenstein’s monster. That is what I feel like. I close my eyes as Mary begins to apply the ointment. I twitch at her touch, and she says, “Oh, stop being such a baby. Look how it’s already begun to heal!”

No, thank you. I’m all finished with the looking part of this assignment. Instead, I keep my gaze trained on the kitchen window, which, from where I’m sitting, offers a portal into a clean square of blue sky.

My foot jerks uncontrollably again.

“Stop moving!”

I find the little microphone in my pocket and hold it tightly in my grip.

Hello, America.

Are you watching me, right now?

Are you entertained?