Rain Village - Carolyn Turgeon [36]
I had thought that the rope had burned the anger out of me, but in that moment, as exhausted as I was, as bloody and bruised and beaten, I felt like I could have ripped everyone in that room apart. It was unbearable, her being in that room. I couldn’t stand it. You bitch, I thought, trembling with rage.
“I was going to come back,” I spat. “I got sick. You didn’t have to come here. It’s no big deal.”
“I just didn’t know, Tessa.” I could see how much I was hurting her, but I didn’t care. Her being in that room made everything ugly and sordid about it stand out as if a spotlight had suddenly shone in. I was sure she could see what had happened just by looking at me. That she could take one look at my father and one look at me and know everything.
Geraldine gazed up at Mary in the most pathetic way, and I wanted to smack them both. My sister looked so stupid next to Mary, with her dull brown hair and huge white arms smeared with dirt. They were all dirty from a day in the fields, their faces smudged and worn, their work clothes stained, ripped.
And Mary like some kind of queen at the table, my father sitting just left of her, barely able to look her in the face. My mother standing by the stove, ladling out the stew. I could see how upset she was, the way the spoon shook in her hand. Next to Mary, she looked a hundred years old, a mass of wrinkles and sighs. They had set a place for Mary, I realized, and the idea of Mary at my kitchen table eating a bowl of brown stew while my sister and brothers just stared at her with bug eyes was too much for me to bear.
“Why don’t you just leave?” I said, and I could hear Geraldine gasp. My brothers stared at me, dumbfounded. At some level I knew my father would not scold me for my rudeness, not now, but, more than that, I didn’t care what happened. I just wanted Mary out of there as quickly as possible.
“Not so fast, young lady,” my mother said, throwing down the spoon and walking toward me. “You’ve been lying to us, too, and we want an explanation now. You contribute to this family and we rely on that contribution. If you’ve decided you no longer need to make a contribution, then that is something we’ll have to discuss further. Right, Lucas?”
My father stared into his stew, not making a sound.
“You’ll get the dollar from this week,” I said, before my father could answer. You could feel the shock in the room, and still my father just sat there, not uttering a word.
Mary stood up then. I saw her eyes taking everything in: the bruises on my arm, the scrapes on my hands, my split palms. I could see her struggling, trying to decide whether it was better to stay and try to help or whether that would make everything worse for me.
“Yes,” she said quickly. “Tessa will still get paid; there’s no issue with that. Whenever she is feeling better, she’s welcome back.” She looked at me, pleadingly. “I’ll see you soon, and we’ll talk more then,” she said, reaching out her hand to touch my arm. I pulled away. She was shaking, about to cry, but I stood motionless and watched her go.
“Lucas?” my mother repeated.
“Let’s leave it alone right now, Roberta,” he said slowly, almost under his breath.
The front door clicked shut. My mother pursed her lips and stormed out of the room, while my father just ate his stew as if nothing had happened. When I looked at Geraldine and Matthew and Connor, they just stared back at me. I almost laughed. For the first time I, little Tessa Riley, had rendered my loudmouthed siblings speechless.
I returned to the library the next day. I had no choice. I walked down the main road, through town, and then out past the lumberyard. I had no idea how Mary would react when she saw me, whether she would even talk to me or want me back. Rage and humiliation burned in my heart, and even though I knew she hadn’t done anything wrong, I could not make them go away. Part of me wanted so badly to see Mary and have her explain everything to me, yet I could not imagine telling