Seemingly at a loss for a response to this admission, Janey puts her hands in her lap. Silence thickens the air between them while Amanda struggles to think of what to say.
“At first, I was scared when I wasn’t pregnant,” she says finally. “I was married, and that’s what comes next, you know? It’s what I was supposed to do. I didn’t want to be a disappointment. I didn’t think at all about having a baby. I mean, I know that’s what happens after a pregnancy, but I forgot about it somehow.”
Janey nods. Encouraged, Amanda continues.
“Then I got pregnant, and I felt so sick. I was so tired, I couldn’t eat. But it seemed more like an illness than that I was going to have a child. I was so jealous of the other children. The ones who could run around with their bodies neat, without all these…” She gestures at her upper torso. “All this extra. When I was a child I never thought about it, but I was never lonely. Even with all the awful things about childhood, things I would never go back to, I wanted my body to be like a child’s. I wanted to run like a child, have a child’s summers.”
“But you got away from your parents,” says Janey. “That was always what you wanted.”
“And then the baby started moving and I realized that I have a child inside me that’s going to come. I was so hoping for a son, but I did the ritual, and I’m going to have a daughter, she’s going to be mine, and I can’t—I can’t do this to her.”
“Do what?”
“I can’t make her go through what I did.”
“As a girl, you mean? But what you went through wasn’t unusual,” says Janey. “I mean, your mother is terrible. But it’s the way things are, we—”
“No. I, we, need to get away,” Amanda croaks, her voice harsh and desperate and spiking through the dim room.
“Where would you go?” asks Janey innocently.
“Off the island.”
Janey frowns. “What, you want to swim away?” She snorts.
“Janey, listen to me!” Janey’s lips tighten, and she looks down. “Don’t you understand? I can’t stay here!”
“Why not?” says Janey. “All the others have.”
Amanda starts to cry softly, her mouth gasping and twisting and her brows knotted into a tangle, hating herself for looking weak and foolish. “Janey, I can’t do it again. I can’t watch her go through everything I went through. When I married, I thought, okay, it’s over, I’m free. But I’m not free. She’s pulling me back. Seeing it happen to her will be ten times worse than going through it myself. And you know I barely made it through myself.”
“Everyone makes it through,” says Janey softly.
“I hate it,” says Amanda savagely, clenching her fists in the cloth of her dress. “I can’t even look at little girls sometimes, knowing what’s happening to them. I’m so tired of what they do to us.”
“What do you mean?” asks Janey carefully.
“You know what I mean! Since I was a girl. The love, the love that felt…wrong. It made me sick. Mother hating me, blaming me like it was my fault! The first time it happened, I hurt so badly I thought I was going to die. I thought he was killing me, that I’d done something terrible and was being punished for it. I didn’t know what I had done. And then it was over, and I realized I would live, and I thought, at least I’ll never have to do that again. And then every night. Or almost. The nights it didn’t happen, I wondered if I was dead, if I had finally been able to die. There was nobody to help, nobody to save me. It became normal, like putting on my shoes or washing my face. And yet every time I lay down I would remember the first time, and I would freeze, and shake, and stare at the ceiling crying, and he didn’t even notice. And then I realized that it happened to others—that it was supposed to happen, that it wasn’t a punishment for anything, it was just how things were. And nobody else even seemed to mind, the girls, they didn’t seem to care. And so I started running away, so I didn’t turn into them. So I didn’t stop caring, because that just felt…wrong.”
Amanda wipes tears from her eyes with the heels of her hands and dares a glance at Janey. Janey’s eyes are sharp and clear, but her dirty face is lined and heavy, like an old woman’s.
“They care,” Janey whispers.
“I saw how different it could be during the summer of fruition, I thought okay, now I’m free. It’s over. It will never happen again. And then I did the ritual and found out it’s a girl. And I’ll have to watch, and to know. Maybe I can slip her a sleeping draft or try to distract Andrew but not all the time. I love him.” Amanda is sobbing so hard she can barely speak. “I love him and I’m going to hate him, or worse I’ll love him and hate her, and this man, this good man is going to turn into…turn into Father…” Her voice trails away in hysterical crying. Taking a deep breath, she tries to halt her sobs. “I love her—I already love her, I don’t even want to but I do, and I can’t stop it.”
“So you want to leave?” asks Janey, staring intently at her.
“Maybe to the wastelands. I know they’re terrible and burning and whatever Pastor Saul says. But they have to be better than here.”
“But how?”
“I don’t know,” she says, starting to cry again. “If I had a wanderer father, or knew somebody, someone. I know there’s a ferry, that has to mean something. Maybe we can swim, who knows? Nobody’s ever tried. But one thing is certain, I’m leaving. And I want you to come with me.”
“Amanda, I can’t leave Mary.”
“So bring her with us.”
“I know you want to leave, but—”
“I will leave. I don’t care what I have to do. I’ll kill people if I have to. I’ll kill the ferryman. And if I can’t find a way, I’ll kill her. And myself. I don’t care.”
“Amanda,” says Janey, suddenly stern, like she is the adult and Amanda is a wayward child. Amanda looks at her stubbornly. “You will not kill yourself, or your baby.”
“No,” whispers Amanda. “I’m too scared of the darkness below.” She laughs mirthlessly. “Everything I’m saying would put me there anyway. But I’m still scared. Isn’t that stupid?”
Janey sighs. “I don’t know what to tell you.”
“Will you help me search? For a way out? I don’t care what I have to do. I’ll threaten the wanderers, talk to their wives. Someone must know something. Will you help me?”
After a pause, Janey nods.
Leaning forward, Amanda kisses Janey, like she is placing an imprint on Janey’s dirty lips; a seal or some kind of vow. Janey sits up straight, her eyes turning to dark gray, flickering in the candlelight. Then suddenly they are black pits as her pupils dilate in alarm. Someone is there.
Amanda hears footsteps. A cough, a shuffle, the thump of something being dropped. Terrified, she leaps up from the table and runs into the main room. There is a pile of wood on the floor—a delivery for Andrew. She can smell unfamiliar masculine sweat, sawdust, leather boots. Dashing to the door, she sees a man in netting jogging away from the house.
“Janey?” she calls in a sudden panic. “Janey, it’s not Andrew. Someone’s been here, someone…” She trails off, and hears only silence.
Breathing quickly, she runs to the kitchen, but Janey isn’t there. Through the window she can just make out a tall, gaunt figure blending deeper into the night.
Chapter Seventeen
Amanda
One day toward the end of summer, Amanda is standing in the kitchen when she hears someone run up, panting, and slap something against the door. When she cracks the front door open, four or five mosquitoes hum in before she snatches the scrap of paper and slams the door shut. The note is written on the terrible, flaky paper they have this year. From the way it’s falling apart, she can tell it’s already passed through a number of hands. Squinting, she moves to a window to read the smudged charcoal.
Friends, let us meet before we die of loneliness. Bring something to eat. Wednesday at five in the afternoon. Come to Mrs. Betty Balthazar’s. Chaperoned by Mr. Balthazar. Pass to your
nearest neighbor.
It’s Wednesday at four. The invitation must have taken a couple of days to make its way to Amanda. She can’t be too upset, because it takes a lot of courage to go outside at the moment. Andrew is mostly busy from dawn until dusk, since even a tiny chink in the roof means swarms of mosquitoes. Amanda found the netting barely tolerable when she went to find Janey, but the thought of spending yet another day entirely alone with her constantly whirling thoughts makes her want to scream.
Sometimes in the warm days of spring or the crisp days of autumn, the women will organize get-togethers where they move from house to house, never going above the proscribed maximum of three women in one room without a man present. They are enjoyable, breezy, slightly drunken affairs, festivals of quick, pleasant conversations. In the summer, the mosquitoes render these roving gatherings impossible. So far Amanda has ignored the few invitations she’s received; since nobody’s going outside, she doesn’t need to explain her lack of attendance to anyone. Amanda has spent most of the three weeks since she saw Janey brooding and alone. They haven’t spoken since, and Amanda wonders if she should venture outside and try to find her again.
But for now, being left in the house by herself has become so stultifying that even the thought of a gaggle of women touching her belly and gossiping doesn’t deter her. Maybe they’ll understand how she’s feeling, without her having to say anything.
Mrs. Balthazar’s is quite a walk away, and so, sullenly wrapping herself in her layers of netting again, Amanda totters out the door. Sliding her feet one after the other in the mud, she finds a rather peaceful rhythm, warm muck collecting between her toes and falling away with each new motion. Bursting into Mrs. Balthazar’s house, Amanda holds her belly and pants with effort. She spins out of her netting, shaking out her dress and turning around in a frenetic little dance just in case any mosquitoes infiltrated. Amanda heaves a big sigh and looks up to see Mrs. Balthazar smiling at her.
Mrs. Balthazar is quite old—nearing forty—and her granddaughter is only a little younger than Amanda. Because her husband has remained a useful carver, she has been allowed to stay alive along with him. Most elderly people on the island seem to be constantly angry—either at their failing bodies or at their impending death—but Mrs. Balthazar smiles serenely like a woman who has never known fury.
“Thank you so much for inviting everyone, Mrs. Balthazar,” Amanda says as Mrs. Balthazar takes her hands.
“Please call me Betty,” replies Mrs. Balthazar, the skin around her eyes wrinkling. Betty glances over her shoulder and then reaches out a hand to touch Amanda’s belly. “May you have sons,” she murmurs kindly.
The place is packed full of twittering women standing in circles, packed onto furniture, even sitting on the floor. Amanda gazes around for the chaperone and sees Mr. Balthazar seated at a lavishly carved table, looking annoyed at being pressed into service as the required overseer. Chaperones usually act in one of two ways. The first kind circles like a gull, immediately sliding over to bursts of laughter or enthusiasm in the hopes of catching something improper or blasphemous. The other kind can’t stand being surrounded by a flock of women and often dozes off in self-defense. Mr. Balthazar is already blinking heavily.
There are a few children crawling around, those too young to emerge into summer. They cling to random legs and skirts to steady or amuse themselves, and at a sharp cry a pair of motherly arms will reach down and bounce, kiss, or feed one of them until they quiet down.
Amanda sees Pamela Saul, whom she hasn’t encountered since the ritual. Peering at her, Amanda tries to make eye contact across the room, but Mrs. Saul gazes resolutely at a cup of tea in her hand. She looks sad, with deep lines wearing into her face; Amanda wants to go to her, but quails, remembering herself naked and bloody and weeping in the older woman’s arms.
Dejected, Amanda spots Denise Solomon sitting in a chair, nursing her son. Amanda and Denise had their summer of fruition together, which always creates a bond, barring any squabbling over men. They hadn’t spoken much that summer; Denise got pregnant almost immediately and was exhausted and puking the whole time. That baby, born in the depths of winter, was a defective. Amanda can’t remember exactly what was wrong with it, but it was something like no head or no face. The next baby was healthy and sound, and is now busily drinking from his mother’s breast, but Denise isn’t looking at him—she’s gazing at the wall.
Amanda remembers hearing from Andrew that Denise’s younger brother, Steven, died right before summer started, of some sickness—Andrew wasn’t sure of the details. It felled Denise’s father too, and he had to take to his bed right as Steven died, although he survived. Given the mosquitoes and the possibility of infection, Steven’s body was put in the fields quietly and without ceremony.
On an impulse, Amanda kneels next to Denise and takes her free hand. Denise jumps in her seat and then smiles faintly. “Hello, Amanda.”
“Hello, Denise.”
Denise touches Amanda’s belly and murmurs something inaudible. Amanda sees that below Denise’s close-set eyes are swaths of darkened, paperlike skin, like she hasn’t slept in months.
“I’m sorry about Steven,” Amanda says. “I remember him.”
Denise nods, but Amanda isn’t sure if she really heard her. Then she asks, “Amanda, after you left home, did Elias complain of anything to you?”
“Complain of anything?” Elias, mimicking his mother, always viewed her with simmering disdain, and she can’t imagine him seeking her out to say anything.
Denise shakes her head. “Never mind. Forget I asked.”
“Why?”
“Father made me swear.”
“But John is the one you have to listen to, now,” Amanda reminds her.
“John would agree if he knew.” Her voice quavers.
“Knew what?”
Denise shrugs. She switches her son to the other breast, leaving her left one open and exposed, hanging there like a white bulbous fruit. Across the room, Mr. Balthazar looks more awake, and stares at Denise’s breast until she folds the cloth up.
“What was going on. Amanda, I’m not sleeping, between the mosquitoes and this little one, I can’t think straight. Fuck, I just…Please don’t ask me questions I can’t answer.”
“I’m sorry.” They both sit silent and glum. “But why did you ask about Elias?”
“I was just wondering.”
“What was Steven complaining about?”
“Impossible things. It doesn’t even make sense. I don’t see how it would…” The baby falls asleep. She puts her other breast back into her dress, hikes him to her shoulder, and starts patting his back. “He died so suddenly, just like that. He wasn’t even sick, just alive one minute and dead the next. I never saw his body. What happens to the sons, when the daughters leave?”
Amanda forces a laugh. “Is that a riddle?”
“A riddle? I think it might be. I don’t want to talk about this anymore.” Denise gives a small, mirthless chuckle and shifts her baby to her other shoulder. “Tell me how you’re doing.”
“Me? I’m…pregnant.” They both sigh, and start talking about the small annoyances of pregnancy. Amanda can’t help but worry that she’ll have a defective, but she’s not going to say that to Denise.
Eventually a couple of other women join them, trading home remedies and ideas for sick babies, and Amanda breaks away and heads for the food. Betty has made her famous honey cake, although the whipped cream on top has quickly melted into a gooey mess. Amanda takes a huge piece and eats it messily from her hand. The sweet richness is heavy and intoxicating, flushing her body with satisfaction.
“Amanda.” Betty comes up and puts a hand on her shoulder. “I’m so glad to see you well and breeding. Remember what a terror you were your last summer with the children? You were almost as bad as Janey Solomon. You broke Margaret’s nose, remember that?”
Amanda blinks. “No.”
“Well, how is your first summer as a woman? Mise
rable, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” Amanda says gratefully. “I don’t know how I’ll do it. Why can’t we cover ourselves with mud and go run around?”
Betty laughs. “No running with that belly. I do understand, though. We’re trapped in our houses, and the children get to run free. I suppose we had our time, though.”
“I suppose.”
“At least we know autumn is coming.” The season that used to be Amanda’s biggest torment has quickly become a promise of relief.
“And a winter, and a spring, and then another summer.”
“It can’t be any other way,” says Betty, laughing again.
A few women, picking at honey cake and talking with their mouths full, move toward them.
“Denise, Amanda,” says Alicia Saul. “Your first adult summer.”
“It’s terrible, isn’t it?” says Isabel Joseph, and they both chuckle.
“How is your Frieda?” Betty gently asks Isabel. She sighs.
“She was still having trouble before summer started. Crying all the time, not eating. Summer came just in time; she took a whole plateful of bread and cheese that I put out when I saw her creeping around the garden.”
“You can’t run about like that and not be hungry,” says Alicia.
“It’s his fault for waiting,” says Isabel. “He waited a long time, and she had to be sent home from school, she was so upset, remember? It’s best started before they’re old enough to really understand it. Then it’s just part of life.”
“Oh, I completely agree.”
“I can’t believe Rita isn’t having her summer of fruition right now,” says Anne Abraham, who has wandered over. “She gets the pains, the moods, everything except actual bleeding.”
“She’ll be one of the older ones next summer, then.”
“Oh, yes, that’s always good, she’ll have another year of being a child. As long as when the blood does come, you know…the shalt-nots are respected.”
“Well, of course they would be!”
Gather the Daughters Page 10