The Hired Girl(5)

Then Matthew and Luke were there, and Mark said I ought to have a doctor, and Luke took off like a shot to bridle a horse, and Matthew went to catch Cressy. Mark took me inside and tried to stop the bleeding with a rag dipped in cold water. Even though I was in pain and terribly frightened, I remembered I’d left my diary on the table. I made Mark wash his hands and hide it under the dish towels.

When Dr. Fosse came, the wound was still bleeding. He wanted to stitch it — Dr. Fosse’s a great one for stitching — but I couldn’t bear the thought of a needle so close to my eye. Dr. Fosse said not to make a fuss, and he told me how earlier this week he put fifteen stitches into the arm of a seven-year-old boy, and the boy never shed a tear. That shamed me, but I still couldn’t stand it. Luke held me down with one knee and Mark held my head still, and Dr. Fosse stitched me up, and all the while he was going on about that seven-year-old boy and asking why I couldn’t be brave like him. With all my heart, I hated that nasty, unnatural, unfeeling little boy. But at last the stitches were all done, and Dr. Fosse wiped my face clean and checked to see if my toes were broken. None of them were.

Afterward, I was horribly ashamed that I yelled so loud. Luke said I bawled like a heifer. I have always thought that if something dreadful happened, I would be very brave, but when someone has a needle next to your eye, it’s different. I might have been brave if it hadn’t been my eye. All the same, I was mortified because Rebecca in Ivanhoe wouldn’t have carried on like that, and I don’t believe Jane Eyre would have, either. But Florence Dombey would’ve. She cries her way through all eight hundred pages of Dombey and Son. Just because she’s unloved.

After the doctor left, I went to my room and slept a short while, but then Matthew rapped on my door. He said it was suppertime and they’d all agreed to make do with a cold meal, because of my eye. He seemed to think that was handsome of them, which aggravated me. I thought about not answering, pretending to be asleep, and not coming down. But then I remembered last winter, when I had the grippe and couldn’t get out of bed for four days. The men made an awful mess of the kitchen. They left the dirty dishes in the sink, and everything was sticky and greasy and crumby by the time I was well enough to come downstairs. And in four days they never once cleaned the privy. Oh, dear heavens, that is vulgar again! But how am I to be anything but vulgar, living in such a house?

I went downstairs and sliced ham and bread and cheese and made sandwiches. I put out jelly and pickles and cold baked beans. I couldn’t chew, because my face was too sore, but I had a glass of milk and some of the beans. Father looked at me and said, “That eye’s near swollen shut. Maybe that’ll keep you from reading instead of doing your chores.” How heartless he is! He was vexed with Mark for sending for the doctor, because the wound might have mended without stitching, and now there’ll be a bill to pay.

All through supper, Father reminded Mark of the expenses we’ve had this spring. Mark didn’t answer back. He just shoveled in his food. Every now and then Father would fall silent, and we’d think it was over, but then he’d start up again.

It was an unpleasant meal, even for Steeple Farm. But the men ate just as much as usual. When I stood up to clear away the plates, I felt frail and shaky. I wondered how much blood I’d lost and if it was enough to make me faint. I wished I could faint, right in front of everyone. But I didn’t. I cleared up the dishes and slipped my diary out from under the dish towels and brought it upstairs.

I looked at myself in the mirror, and oh, I wanted to cry. My face is all swollen and out of shape, and bright purple, and then there are those four black stitches, each one crusted with dark-red scabs. I thought about praying, but I wasn’t sure what to pray for because what’s done is done. I said, “Dear Mother of God,” and for a moment I imagined the Blessed Mother shifting the baby Jesus into the crook of her arm, so that she could reach out and lay her soft hand on my cheek. I imagined her saying, “There, now,” the way Ma used to do, and all at once I missed Ma so much I couldn’t stand it.

Then I was very pathetic. I went to my chest and took out Belinda, the rag doll Ma made for my sixth birthday. I crawled into bed with Belinda in my lap and rocked her. When I was six, I thought Belinda was the most beautiful doll in the world, better than any wax or china-faced doll. Now that I’m fourteen, I wonder how Ma managed her. Belinda’s pigtails are merino wool, and Ma made her wig so beautifully you can’t see her scalp through the yarn. And Belinda’s dress is silk, which Ma embroidered with flowers. The silk must have been a remnant, but even so, Ma must have spent a lot of her egg money to buy it. All the time that went into making me that doll — her petticoat is trimmed with three rows of ruffles, and there are more ruffles on her apron. Oh, Ma loved me; that much is sure and certain.