Four in the Attic, One in the Kitchen

An Addendum

SERIOUS NOTE: This chapter includes non-explicit descriptions of potentially upsetting/triggering topics including rape. If this is something you don't feel comfortable reading, I'll be providing a chapter summary at the end for this one so you don't miss anything.  

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Momma didn't come home from the honeymoon until the Friday before Thanksgiving. Three full months had passed since I'd heard from her, let alone seen her, but her sun kissed skin spoke of afternoons in the sun of Spain, the beaches of Italy. She'd decidedly bought souvenirs for everyone; I received a gown from France and a few leather bound editions of Charles Dickens and Shakespeare from London. The way I was presented them felt more like obligation on Momma's part and not kindness. In fact, she seemed much more tense than normal. Bart seemingly didn't notice; was he accustomed to this? Had she been this way their whole honeymoon? If I were him, dealing with a new spouse constantly jumping at each noise and seemingly paranoid, I'd hate being married. He seemed happy, though.

Over the months, I had been socialized with my suitors more, mostly small parties each weekend, on a few occasions weeknight excursions. Obviously, each event was heavily supervised and much less dates and more so like a childhood play date. My grandparents wanted me to pick a suitable husband but weren't making it easy in any sense. Grandmother always diverted conversation to topics she approved of. God forbid talking about school or hobbies or books; I was instructed, in essence, to advertise myself as an obedient housewife. I silently decided it was her parent's methodology when finding her husband, my Grandfather. It barely felt like I was allowed a personality. Then again, it seemed my suitors were in the same boat. Their fathers insisted on their end of conversation focus on business. How they'd be great providers for me and our future family.

The idea of having children with any of these men sickened me. I wanted nothing to do with any of them. Actually, at this point, the idea of having children at all sickened me. Perhaps it was a result of the things I'd gone through the last two years, but I feared bringing up offspring in the world of cruelty and repression my family's circle succumbed themselves too. Oftentimes, when I was alone, I'd close my eyes and try to dredge up memories from when I was young, the twins' age, when all I wanted to do was play with my dolls in their little wooden house. I had had an active imagination, making up stories of princesses trapped away in a spare room until their princes came and saved them, and how they'd live happily ever after with their clothespin children. I'd make it theatrical, like the movies I'd seen where the charming beau swooped in, defeated the evil stepmother, awoke his love from a magical slumber, or climbed her yarn-hair, or fought the mammoth dragon for her hand. The stories lost their appeal to me now, for the obvious reasons. Being trapped in a faraway tower wasn't all the Brothers Grimm had cracked it up to be. In any case, the possibility of parenthood was not only terrifying, it was something I likely couldn't bear. I wasn't given the best upbringing, how could I myself provide one to a child of my own?

Grandfather was getting worse and worse. In fact, this time, we were sure he wouldn't make it until Christmas. I was silently reminded, however, that even if he'd died that very minute, I had at least three months until I could be 'me' again in theory. Grandmother's will was strong, she would not relent in keeping me underneath her thumb as long as possible. If it took me being married off the day of my birthday, she would have it done. Luckily for her, I wouldn't be able to marry until I graduated, which gave a small leeway between February and May to be a young adult and taste independence.

On Saturday the twenty first, I brought him breakfast. Sausage, eggs, toast. Before I could excuse myself, he took me by the forearm and forced me to look him in the eyes.