Page 5 of Liar Byrd
Outside, the screams and laughter of the children die down. The sounds of men and women clearing their throats and coughing take over as they slip into the cabins.
Shadows stretch across the wooden floor as the sun sets, yet Jeremiah remains silent, not uttering a word of his prayer.
When he puts his hand on my thigh, I know exactly what it means.
The only thing it could mean.
He wants me for a wife.
I lift my head.
He smiles. “The women have been deciding on a husband for you.”
“Yes, Jeremiah.” His hand is heavy like a dead thing on my thigh.
His silver eyes gleam with fierce intensity. “But they don’t know you’re mine. An answer to my prayer. A sweet, pure, flaxen-haired girl with midnight blue eyes. I dreamed of you, Byrdie, and then your mother brought you to me.”
All I hear is my heartbeat pounding in my head. I can't catch my breath, and I’m not sure I want to if my future is going to be Jeremiah’s sixth wife.
I swallow hard. “Yes, Jeremiah,” I say, but inside, I’m screaming.
“We will pray together.”
I have no idea what he prays about. My focus is on his hand burning through the thin linen of my skirt, my heart race like a thoroughbred, and above all, terror.
Stark terror that I will be trapped here forever, bred and bred again until Jeremiah replaces me with a blonder, younger new arrival.
Feigning calm, I stand the moment he lifts his hand from my thigh, and I walk outside, my steps steady, unlike the racing of my heart.
Mom is sitting beside the fire with a Bible open in her lap, reading.
I close the door behind me with a trembling hand. The cabins here are too close together, and loud voices spread, so I whisper, “Mom, we have to leave.”
She raises her head, frowning. “Leave?”
I hush her, shooting a worried glance at the door. “Jeremiah…” I swallow hard, rubbing my fist against the front of my thigh, wishing I could erase all memory of his touch. “He wants me as a wife. We have to go.”
I drag our one old bag, the only thing that survived Mom gutting nearly everything from our past, from under her bedand grab clothes at random. A pair of shoes for both of us, one of those hated dresses, and a sweater. There’s little else of the things that were ours when we arrived.
Jeremiah likes everyone to leave their past lives behind.
Food?
I shake my head. It's not important. We preserve our food, and glass jars won’t survive us running for our lives.
Luckily, we have our own small cabin to call home. It has two small bedrooms near an open-concept kitchen, dining area, and bathroom. Other unmarried women live in a separate building, and so do the men.
I didn’t know why Jeremiah wanted Mom and me to live separately. At the time, I was grateful to have our privacy. Now that I know what he wants, I can’t believe I didn’t see where things were headed before.
I have never liked or trusted the men my mom falls for. It’s the ones who sense her desperation that flock to her, and once they’ve gotten their fill, they leave me to pick up the pieces.
I used to see her as a fragile 1950s housewife who can’t seem to function without a husband. Or doesn’t want to. She can’t be single, never wants to be alone, and always is on the hunt for something better—something more—than she has.
She’s as hungry for love as she is for attention. Maybe that’s why I shy away from it, a direct response to her want.
Jeremiah had seemed so kind when we first arrived. He kept his distance, allowing us to wander the compound and ask as many questions as we wanted. It had felt more like an idyllic rural commune in the desert instead of the cage I now know it to be.
I start to panic that I’m forgetting something.
