talking together. It looked like he wasn’t going to head my way anymore. Slowly the tension in my body disappeared and I stopped shaking. When I checked over my shoulder again I noticed that Reverend Bosch had stood up and was saying goodbye to Auntie. When he noticed that I was looking his way, he waved his hand at me in parting, but he didn’t come. I couldn’t blame him, I had offended him several times now after all, but I still felt an odd pain inside me when he simply left.
Stubbornly, I turned my attention back to the laundry.
All was well.
11
P regnancy is usually not a topic of conversation. Swollen bellies are kept hidden away with wide flowing dresses, and sore backs are only stretched in relief when no one is around to see it. The idea that something is growing inside me is becoming more real by the day, especially now that I’ve felt the life stir. I had become so used to hate it, that moving creature inside me that is the offspring of adultery and fornication, of weakness and hatred. But a new feeling has awoken and is slowly pushing out the hatred. Is it love? Can this love exist or will it be blown away by the very first gust of wind that will come? Will it be taken away by a fresh spring breeze, or blown away by a strong fall storm?
Auntie however talks about the pregnancy as if she has no concept of shame about these kinds of matters. Maybe it’s the farmers stock in her, or maybe it’s because it’s just us two women in this house. Maybe it’s in her character or maybe it’s simply because of the whole awkwardness of the situation.
I have fended her off, excluded her, hurt her. But how long will she be patient? When I see how she cares for the animals, I think her patience is unending and she has actually proven that already. She has been so very patient with me. Yet, I am not able to count on her love. I must not forget that there was, after all, once a time when I was a child who knew her father and mother’s love and who trusted in a loving God. But in the name of that same God, all the love I knew was taken from me.
And Auntie worships that same God.
I noticed that increasingly often my hands would linger on the swelling of my stomach. Every day there was some moment where I was newly struck by the sensation of life moving deep within me. Was it a hand, a foot, or a knee?
Auntie kept a close eye on me and smiled with a nod when she caught me mesmerizing. When that happened I would quickly return to the present and make my hands continue their task.
My hands had changed in the last while. The soft, preacher’s daughter’s hands had turned into the rough hands of a farmer’s daughter. The cuts I had suffered at the beginning had all healed and were replaced by tough calluses, my nails were cut short, and the palms of my hands were rougher than they used to be. It made me proud, they resembled Auntie’s hands more and more. They were hands that could love and care. Would my hands be able to do that?
It was solely for Auntie’s sake, because of her constant care and patient love that I had spent the last hour struggling to come up with words to put on the sheet of writing paper in front of me. Words that would explain nothing and at the same time say everything. I would add my sheet to Auntie’s letter. Right from the start she had insisted I would write to them. She never checked my letters, so she wasn’t aware that all I did was fill a sheet with lines, circles and scribbles, knowing full well that no one was ever going to notice. But now something had changed and I no longer wanted to deceive her.
The last thirty minutes I had been thinking of how to start the letter. Father and Mother was no good, since he wasn’t my father and never would be. Dear Sir, Mother also didn’t work, because I couldn’t call him ‘dear’. Dear Mother was a wish I didn’t dare write down, so in the end I decided to write no salutation at all. I wasted three sheets of Auntie’s expensive
Stubbornly, I turned my attention back to the laundry.
All was well.
11
P regnancy is usually not a topic of conversation. Swollen bellies are kept hidden away with wide flowing dresses, and sore backs are only stretched in relief when no one is around to see it. The idea that something is growing inside me is becoming more real by the day, especially now that I’ve felt the life stir. I had become so used to hate it, that moving creature inside me that is the offspring of adultery and fornication, of weakness and hatred. But a new feeling has awoken and is slowly pushing out the hatred. Is it love? Can this love exist or will it be blown away by the very first gust of wind that will come? Will it be taken away by a fresh spring breeze, or blown away by a strong fall storm?
Auntie however talks about the pregnancy as if she has no concept of shame about these kinds of matters. Maybe it’s the farmers stock in her, or maybe it’s because it’s just us two women in this house. Maybe it’s in her character or maybe it’s simply because of the whole awkwardness of the situation.
I have fended her off, excluded her, hurt her. But how long will she be patient? When I see how she cares for the animals, I think her patience is unending and she has actually proven that already. She has been so very patient with me. Yet, I am not able to count on her love. I must not forget that there was, after all, once a time when I was a child who knew her father and mother’s love and who trusted in a loving God. But in the name of that same God, all the love I knew was taken from me.
And Auntie worships that same God.
I noticed that increasingly often my hands would linger on the swelling of my stomach. Every day there was some moment where I was newly struck by the sensation of life moving deep within me. Was it a hand, a foot, or a knee?
Auntie kept a close eye on me and smiled with a nod when she caught me mesmerizing. When that happened I would quickly return to the present and make my hands continue their task.
My hands had changed in the last while. The soft, preacher’s daughter’s hands had turned into the rough hands of a farmer’s daughter. The cuts I had suffered at the beginning had all healed and were replaced by tough calluses, my nails were cut short, and the palms of my hands were rougher than they used to be. It made me proud, they resembled Auntie’s hands more and more. They were hands that could love and care. Would my hands be able to do that?
It was solely for Auntie’s sake, because of her constant care and patient love that I had spent the last hour struggling to come up with words to put on the sheet of writing paper in front of me. Words that would explain nothing and at the same time say everything. I would add my sheet to Auntie’s letter. Right from the start she had insisted I would write to them. She never checked my letters, so she wasn’t aware that all I did was fill a sheet with lines, circles and scribbles, knowing full well that no one was ever going to notice. But now something had changed and I no longer wanted to deceive her.
The last thirty minutes I had been thinking of how to start the letter. Father and Mother was no good, since he wasn’t my father and never would be. Dear Sir, Mother also didn’t work, because I couldn’t call him ‘dear’. Dear Mother was a wish I didn’t dare write down, so in the end I decided to write no salutation at all. I wasted three sheets of Auntie’s expensive
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