Inescapable by Nancy Mehl

refused to call me anything except Elizabeth. He never explained why, but to me it was just one more sign of his contempt for me.
    â€œMama, I need to go potty,” Charity reminded me. “Real bad.”
    â€œI’ll take her,” Mother said. “You warm up. We’ll be right back.”
    I watched the confusion on Charity’s face as my mother led her outside to the outhouse. The day was going to be filled with new experiences for my daughter.
    Some of the houses in Kingdom used generators to pump water through pipes, but my father had never seen the need to bother with that. Having to go outside on harsh winter nights was solved another way. I couldn’t help but giggle when I thought of trying to explain a chamber pot to Charity.
    A few minutes later they walked back up the path. Charity looked somewhat stunned.
    â€œMama,” she said with dramatic emphasis when she came inside, “the potties here are just like the ones at the lake.”
    I nodded, having forgotten the trip we took to a state park once. It had taken me a while to get Charity to use the outdoor commode. She’d had a hard time believing there wasn’t a regular toilet hiding somewhere nearby. “This is a bad potty, Mama,” she’d said, wrinkling her nose. “It smells bad, and you can’t flush it.”
    â€œYou two sit here,” Mother said, smiling. “I’ll get the cider on the stove.” She took an old pot from under the sink and filled it with cider from the propane refrigerator. Then she set the pan on top of the woodstove.
    Mother had been cooking on this stove ever since she and Father married. It had two dampers. One that moved smoke out of the house and another that controlled how much heat went to the burners. Even though I’d loved my electric stove in Kansas City, I had to admit that this ancient cousin did a fine job. Mother was a whiz with it, creating wonderful meals with a minimum of fancy kitchen equipment.
    I watched her as she worked. She seemed thinner. Mother had always been rather frail, but I’d never seen her back down from hard work. She was the kind of person everyone took for granted, because she never complained, never admitted to being tired or ill. Although I could remember her taking care of me when I developed colds or the flu, I couldn’t actually recall her ever being sick herself. Mother had quiet strength and a graceful, ethereal beauty about her. Her large blue eyes were certainly mirrors to her soul. I’d always been able to tell how she felt by looking in her eyes.
    â€œHow about some butter cookies?” she asked Charity.
    My daughter frowned. “I don’t know what those are.”
    Mother opened the old cookie tin on the counter and withdrew several cookies, which she placed on a plate. “You try these, Charity. I believe you will like them.”
    I smiled and nodded at her. “Your grandmother makes the best butter cookies in the world. Trust me.”
    Charity picked up a cookie from the plate, still unsure about this plain-looking treat. She gingerly took a bite, and her face lit up. “These are really good, Mama. I love them.”
    My mother pushed the plate toward me. “Here, Lizzie. You have some cookies too.”
    It didn’t take any additional prompting. I bit into one, the familiar taste igniting memories of sitting in this kitchen, warming in front of the stove, eating cookies and drinking cider before Father came home. The pleasant memory vanished at the thought of my father, and my stomach tightened the same way it had all those years ago when he returned from the shop or the church.
    â€œSo when will Father arrive?” I asked after finishing one cookie and as I reached for another.
    â€œHe should be home shortly.” She frowned as she ran a finger down the stitching on the tablecloth. “Kingdom is different now, Lizzie. Your father . . .” She sighed and