Revival Season - Monica West (10 ebook reader .TXT) 📗

it whizzed through the air before zinging my shin. I winced as the strap bit into my flesh, but I kept the tears at bay and fixed my gaze on the storm that brewed behind his eyes as he raised his right arm higher than last time. He grasped my forearm tighter to hold me in place, and the belt sliced into the skin at the tops of my thighs, reopening some of the cuts that the pajama pants covered. It felt like I was naked as the belt shredded into me. My knees buckled, driving me onto the floor in front of where Papa stood, his belt swinging overhead like a sickle.

“You are no healer, Miriam.” Globules of sweat formed at his hairline and slid down his puffed-up cheeks as he delivered the proclamation again. My legs screamed as I placed my hands on the carpet and rose, returning to face him even as my body ached to stay in the fetal position. I heard the slap of another blow as it landed on my right thigh—a sharp pain radiated outward to parts of my body that he hadn’t even hit, driving me back to the divot in the carpet that I had just left. My muscles burned as I pressed my lips closed, inhaling deeply and releasing short puffs. I shook everywhere as I stared at him from feet below, unable to stand anymore. I gritted my teeth as the belt’s edge sliced my legs several more times.

Above me, he slid his hands onto his knees—his belly heaved in and out with his panting, straining the buttons on his dress shirt until they almost broke. The belt flopped against the floor, an accusing tongue. Small details came into focus—the position of Papa’s watch hands at nine and four, the diagonal rays of light that hit his chrome belt buckle and made a glinting pattern against the wall, the slight dark-red nick on his neck that must have come from shaving. And then he was gone.

Silence. Stillness. It was over. Cries finally emptied from my stomach and spilled out of my mouth onto the carpet. I kept my eyes closed—somehow it seemed to lessen the pain just a little bit. I lay on the floor, writhing and squirming as minutes turned into hours. Eventually, I pulled myself onto the bed.

Hours later, my head was under the pillow, unable to block out all the light that flooded into the room in the middle of the afternoon. The bedroom door opened. Finally, Ma had come. I wanted her to tenderly lift the legs of my pajama pants and apply ointment to my welts, silently, methodically. Wanted her to cradle each foot in her palm and inspect my legs—Mary Magdalene at Jesus’s feet—working her way up to my knees. I wanted her to apologize for staying downstairs, wondered if the same horror that had passed through me when I’d heard him hitting her had passed through her as well. If her fear had immobilized her the way mine had.

“Here.” It wasn’t Ma’s voice; it was Caleb’s. I opened my eyes and moved from underneath the pillow to see him standing by the door. He was holding a flattened tube of ointment and a bag of cotton balls and looked almost scared to get too close to me. Every inch of my skin throbbed as I tried to sit up.

“Don’t move.” He took tentative steps closer to the bed, placing his offering near my hands.

“Thanks.” His good deed complete, I expected him to turn around, but he stood there and examined my legs.

I squeezed a line of ointment onto the cotton ball. My hand trembled, unable to get more than an inch away from the welt.

“Let me.” Caleb took the cotton ball away and pinched it between his thumb and forefinger. I couldn’t look at him, ashamed of the deep cuts furrowing my legs that would no longer be my secret. When the cotton ball finally grazed my skin, I closed my eyes, focusing my energy on keeping still.

“It’s okay. I think that was the worst one.” Caleb inspected his handiwork and the rest of my legs. He didn’t ask about the jagged, gaping gashes that had nothing to do with Papa’s belt.

“I think that’s it.” He screwed the cap back onto the tube. “You hungry?”

I thought about the breakfast I’d left untouched on the table, the lunch that Ma must have also served between now and then, and nodded.

“I’ll be right back.”

I didn’t want him to leave, not even for a second, as he slipped through the door and closed it behind him. It felt like he was gone for hours when he returned with a plate—a hastily made sandwich comprised of two end pieces of bread, some slices of turkey slipped in the middle, and mustard oozing from the edges. He shrugged as he handed it to me, as though he was embarrassed about his offering.

“Thanks.” I held his sandwich to my chapped lips. He stood in the doorway, shifting his weight from one foot to the other while I took one bite and then a second. On the third bite, the sandwich was gone, and only crumbs remained on the plate.

“Do you need anything else?”

I tried to think of something to ask him to do, something that would keep him in my bedroom. But my mind was blank. I shook my head. He waved and turned to go, pulling the door closed.

“Caleb,” I called before the door shut all the way. He put his head back inside.

“Can you stay?”

He stood at the door for so long that I thought he didn’t hear me. But then the door swung open all the way; he came over and sat on the bed.

We didn’t say anything, but it was enough to feel his weight on the mattress, to hear the slow cadence of his breathing next to mine. He didn’t ask the questions that I expected him to: Why did you do it?