Page 110 of Heartland
Thirteen people eat a lot of food. As time went on, I learned how to estimate the number of potatoes in the barrel with just a glance. I learned how to stretch a pot of soup by adding water and—this is crucial—more salt.
I learned how to stretch a single pound of ground beef into a triple-sized noodle casserole. And I learned not to report on the sad state of our vegetable inventory if my stepfather looked tired or crabby.
When I was sixteen, though, I did something unforgivable. I got caught kissing a boy. You may be tempted to laugh, but it was a big deal. The boy in question was excommunicated, which is a fancy way of saying that they whipped him, taped his wrists together, and threw him off of the back of a truck.
I got the whip, too. But they don’t throw away the girls. They only punish them. In my case, I was put on “probation” for six months. The timeline was to make sure that I wasn’t pregnant. It didn’t matter if I said that was impossible.
Nobody spoke to me for six months. I wasn’t allowed in the kitchen to make the noodle casseroles. I wasn’t allowed to serve the men their annual steak dinner.
I was useless, really. So I asked my stepfather if there was a job I could work that was off the compound property. And because he likes money more than anything, he actually said yes. He set me up with a job at a chain pharmacy. And I was ecstatic although I was never meant to see any of the money.
Even when my months of punishment were up, the other women still didn’t speak to me. It’s like they just forgot how. And none of the men wanted to marry me, because they thought I was “ruined.” Like a potato that nobody had stored correctly in the cellar.
The one role I never lost, though, was going down into the root cellar. For six months straight I think the only thing my mother said to me was “bring up another five pounds of carrots and taters.”
I always did as she asked. Even though I missed being someone who wasn’t shunned. I’d gone from being that brave girl to being that foolish one.
Eventually I figured out how to keep some of the money from my job. And that’s when I learned that money and secrets keep just as well underground as root vegetables. I saved my cash. Then I ran away and saved myself.
My own bravery feeds me better than my family ever did.
Thirty-Four
Dylan
It always happens this way.Every fall I drag my ass through the anniversary of my father’s death. I inevitably feel relief at having survived another October.
And then the holidays come around and sock me right in the gut.
Tonight, after arriving home, I’m supposed to help my mother put up the Christmas tree. That’s a job I used to do with my father. Everyone liked to hang ornaments, but just dad and I would cut down the tree and string the lights. Because I was the Shipley kid who loved Christmas most.
Not so much anymore. The next three weeks could be long ones. I’m bracing myself.
On the other hand, there’s a light snow falling as I drive the final few miles toward home. It’s sticking to the grasses at the side of the highway. Tomorrow, when I get up early for the milking, the distant mountaintops will probably be white. Even my damaged little heart isn’t immune to all this beauty.
Or the beauty drowsing beside me in the truck. Chastity pulled an all-nighter to prep for her Spanish exam, which she finished about fifteen minutes before getting into my truck for the trip home.
I hate to wake her up. She looks so peaceful. On the other hand, this might be the last time we’re alone together for a long time. So after I exit the highway, I reach over and lay my hand over hers, giving it a gentle stroke.
“I’m awake,” she slurs.
“Uh-huh.” I have to chuckle.
“Sorry,” she says, lifting her head off the window and giving it a shake. “I’m terrible company.”
“Don’t be sorry.” I like being the guy she trusts to get her home safely. “You are a genuine college student now. Passing out after the last exam is a rite of passage.”
She lets out a tired groan. “I can’t imagine taking five courses next semester. How is that going to work?”
I don’t have a solution for that, so I just squeeze her hand.
“Dylan,” Chastity asks. “Can I give you your present before I get out of the truck?”
“Sure.” Who am I to turn down a present?
“You can’t open it until Christmas.”
“Why not?” I demand. “I gave you yours early.”
