'Big Girl' by T. L. Sherwood

The farmhands were young that year, facial features soft and yearning. I could see myself falling in love with one of them. In the back of the house, the one with feathered hair helps me move the mops and brooms propped against the door to keep in the evil. “Must have fallen over,” I muse, dreading the doorknob. It’s turning. If the farmhand sees it, he doesn’t say; he doesn’t acknowledge the screams.

“Can I get some light in here?” He asks.

No, I plead, but only in my head.

The fob on the chain swings, a lazy arch shadow, reminds me of jumping rope at dusk. The now quiet baby in the highchair has rolled her head to the side in sleep. One eye pops open, then the other. The farmer picks her up; my possessed sister coos.

“Nothing wrong here.” He kisses the forehead, presses his unwashed thumb into the baby’s mouth. “Teething is all.” He takes the baby to the crib and looks at me. “I know you miss your Ma, but you’re a big girl now. You can do this.”

I shake.

“I’ll see if my Jenny can’t come by tomorrow and help you out.”

I find myself stroking the hair of the last doll my mother gave me before the baby drove her out. The plastic smile isn’t reassuring. I don’t remember picking it up.

The beautiful man leaves. Through the kitchen window, I watch him, shoulders slumped, trudging up the hill. I pick up the dishcloth, turn on the water.

The doll beside me says, “You’re a big girl now,” but I’ve never pulled that string.