Yesteryear: A GMA Book Club Pick: A Novel by Caro Claire Burke - 44
“We need to talk,” Mary says. She’s standing by my bedside. I groan and pull the quilt higher over my shoulders. You would think the benefit of being stuck on a ranch in the middle of nowhere would be a little bit of peace and quiet, but no. A child is a child is a child. In every world, in every po...
“We need to talk,” Mary says.
She’s standing by my bedside. I groan and pull the quilt higher over my shoulders. You would think the benefit of being stuck on a ranch in the middle of nowhere would be a little bit of peace and quiet, but no. A child is a child is a child. In every world, in every possible scenario, they are programmed to drain you.
Unfortunately for Mary, I’m not in the mood to be drained today. Yesterday was terrible, one of the worst days in recent memory: something got into the chicken coop and killed all but one of the chickens. Abel thinks it was a fox. Noah thinks it was a wolf. Regardless: Captain Eggerton was the lone survivor. When Maeve and I arrived in the morning to collect eggs, the sad little chicken squawk-waddled straight into Maeve’s arms. Poor terrified thing. And Maeve—the way she looked around the mangy coop, the shivering bird in her arms, all the blood and the feathers and bits of guts and muscle reflected in the whites of her eyes—and the scraps of fabric from the custom hats—
I don’t think I’ll forget that look for the rest of my life. Little girls should not be required to be so brave.
Between that, and the dinner with the neighbors, and the realization that Mary is on the precipice of departure: I’ve decided I’m going on strike. Forming a one-woman union with myself. Not leaving bed until prospects improve. I think I have a very good chance of getting my demands met—the demands in question: to be left alone—and I think I can do so without getting the shit kicked out of me, since Old Caleb is so busy rebuilding the chicken coop right now.
“Maeve is sick,” Mary says now.
“She’s not sick,” I say patiently. “She’s mourning. All her friends are dead, Mary. Have a little respect.”
“She’s been coughing nonstop!”
“Give her one of your strange little tonics, then.”
“They’re not working. What if she got some sort of infection from the chickens? From all that…blood?”
“That’s not a thing,” I say, though I have no clue if it is or is not a thing. This bed is fundamentally incompatible with the notion of coziness, but I find if I keep myself warm enough and still enough, I can imagine I’m somewhere else. Buried beneath down comforters at a five-star glamping resort. Yes, that’s where I am. Dozing away at some Ritz-Carlton in Montana, not engaging in a conversation about the relative infection rate of poultry blood on a decrepit homestead.
Mary’s voice takes on a note of suspicion. “What’s wrong with you? Are you sick, too?”
“I’m fine,” is all I say. What I am not going to say to Mary: In a few weeks, it will be deep winter, and I will be stuck here. Stuck on this ranch while my belly grows, and grows, and grows, until it’s impossible to hide anymore. Which means it’s time to go.
Sorry, Lord, I tried my best, but I can’t do it any longer.
Yes. Instead of Mary leaving and me staying, I will jump the gun. It will be me who leaves, and she who will stay.
That’s the real goal of my little bed strike, if you want to know the truth: I’m shoring up energy. Thinking through my strategy. Gearing up for one last great magnificent escape. My ankle is stronger now. The skin is mostly healed. The scarring has marbled into soft, raised veins of pink.
“She’s going to be fine,” I say. “You take excellent care of her. You don’t need my help one bit. You’ll do just fine without me.”
I roll onto my side and close my eyes, waiting for her to leave.
All of you will do just fine without me when I’m gone.