Shattered Trail

Chapter Three

Poppa only ever deliberately physically hurt me twice my entire life. The rest of the times were accidents, like the hand on the stove incident.

I suppose eventually I’ll have to share those two times. The first one is the hardest to tell, but the second one is easier- as long as I don’t give too much information. I guess I’ll start there.

The second time Poppa ever hurt me because he wanted to was the summer of 1843, when I was fifteen. I was sad and lonely. Rosalind had left months before that, and Momma had virtually stopped speaking. I vomited every morning, making me dizzy and unstable. My hormones were wild, crazier than they’d ever been, and finally I felt like enough was enough- I needed to do something.

So when Momma and Poppa went to the store and I was alone, I took Momma’s sewing scissors and cut all of my hair off until it was as short as a boy’s. When they came back, Momma seemed to barely notice, but Poppa was livid. Roaring, he took me out to the backyard, screaming that Lemuel would never want me again (which, of course, was untrue), and I would never have a husband when I was already fat and now I looked like a boy.

Although I was much too old, Poppa took off his belt and stuck me across the back with it again and again. This was the way a man might punish his seven-year-old son, a naughty little boy, not his fifteen year old daughter

I crouched low to the ground, careful to not let any of the blows hit my stomach. Since my back wasn’t bare (I still had my dress on), the pain wasn’t unbearable, but I still cried out. The one hit that hurt the most was when the belt struck the back of my neck, the only place that was bear. I still have a scar.

When he finished, he grunted, turned around, and strolled into the house. When I looked up, Momma was staring at me through the window. I tried to meet her eyes, but as soon as I did, she looked down.

I coughed once and struggled to my knees. Once I was up, it still hurt, but not as terribly as before. I slowly walked inside. Momma was now starting to prepare supper, and Poppa sat on his cot, glowering at the wall and facing away from us. No one spoke.

Walking over to the water bucket, I picked up a rag and wet it. Gently, I slid it along the cut on my neck. It stung horribly, but I scrubbed at the cut until it felt clean. When I pulled the rag forward to look at it, it was covered in crimson blood.

Poppa chose that moment to turn around. His eyes fixed on me and the rag. “Now look what you’ve done, you stupid girl,” he growled. “You’ve ruined one of your mother’s rags.” He walked over, knocked it out of my hands, and stormed out of the house.

I stood there, staring at the bloodied rag on the floor and trying to make sense of the whole situation. When I heard a small clang, I whirled around. I’d forgotten that Momma was there, making supper. I stepped over to the stove. “Momma.”

She glanced up only for a second. I tried again. “Momma.”

Without looking up at all, she finally spoke. “Your Father was feeling generous today in the store,” she muttered, her voice rough from not using it in so long. “He let me buy a new bolt of cloth. I’m going to make you a dress to fit your stomach.”

I glanced down, and, indeed, my dress was straining to fit across my belly. “Thank you,” I whispered. But Momma was already turned back to the stove, in her own little world.

Maybe it would have been better if Momma had never spoken at all, because my naïve fifteen-year-old self let myself believe that maybe, one day, she would get better and talk normally again. My hopes were dashed very quickly when she didn’t speak again for weeks.