Rain Village - Carolyn Turgeon [27]
I walked back to Riley Farm and pushed through the front door. The house was silent. I tiptoed through the hallway, peered into the living room. My mother sat on the couch, working on the bright orange sweater she was knitting for Geraldine, who sat on the floor playing dominoes. The house was too quiet.
Then I heard my father behind me. “Let’s go, girl,” he said. I looked back at my mother, but she just stared at the orange yarn, moving the needles up and down.
I woke the next morning aching all over. My arms were tender and bruised. I tried lying on my back and then winced and sat up. The sun glared in. The night before I had thought I would never return to Mercy Library, but now I yearned for it so badly I was almost in tears. I was late for work already. I could not stay in that room, that house, another minute. I didn’t even wash, just pulled on a skirt and top. My heart thudded as I descended the stairs, but one glance out the back window proved that my father, mother, sister, and brothers were already in the fields.
The walk was slow going; every step hurt, moved my body in a dozen directions it didn’t want to go. A weight was pressing down on me, too, a deep sadness I had never experienced before. As I walked along the main road, past one of the neighboring farms, I looked up and saw Mary, bending back branches, ducking, and walking from behind a line of trees and into the road about a half mile down. She was wearing a bright red-and-white checked dress with a full skirt that fell to her knees. Her black hair tumbled past her shoulders. When she saw me, she waved and started running. I thought I was seeing things. I blinked, shook my head. Mary never came to this part of town, and would be way too busy opening the library by herself.
“Tessa!” I heard. I looked up and there she was, in front of me. “I was worried half to death.” She knelt down and threw her arms around me, and her scent of cinnamon and cloves made me start crying. Her arms pressed into my wounds. She leapt back, stared at me, frantic. “I didn’t know what to do. I wanted to come after you, but I didn’t want to get you into trouble. What happened?” She seemed to see me then, my wounds and bruises. Her face registered everything at once. I felt like she could see right through me.
“My father found a book under my mattress,” I said.
“Come,” she said gently, taking my hand. “Let’s go.”
I nodded, numb, wiping my face. “I’m sorry, Mary,” I whispered. “I didn’t mean those things.”
“I know, sweet child,” she said, squeezing my hand. “And if you had, that would be okay and we could talk. You know that, right? Nothing you could say could make us stop being friends.”
“Okay,” I said. “But I didn’t mean them.” The image of Mary on the bed flashed through my mind, pulling at my heart, but I blinked it away. “Really.”
She nodded. “Anything,” she said. “Don’t forget that. I’m your friend, Tessa. I love you. Okay? Even if I have other friends, it’s not the same. You and I are friends for life.”
Tears fell down my face, and I just let them. I clutched Mary’s hand, didn’t even care when we passed through the town square and people saw me crying. When we got to the library I saw that Mary had set a sign out in front, saying the library was closed until the next day. I looked at her, confused. “Come,” she said. She led me to the back of the library, to the kitchen. She pointed to the stool. “Sit.”
I watched dully as she opened the ivory box that sat on the table and took out two small pouches. Her face was serious, focused. She shook them up and measured about a teaspoon of powder from each one into her palm, then set a pot of water to boiling. She took a small vial from the box and poured oil into the powders in her palm. I smelled lavender, some type of flower scent, as she rubbed the powder through the oil. “Now just sit still,” she said. And then carefully, gently, she pulled off my top. I just sat there as she