The Grave of God's Daughter by Brett Ellen Block Page B

was going back to the outhouse, but my stomach had begun to ache. I was trembling from the fright and the cold, which made the need to urinate even more urgent. I scanned the room, searching for some sort of inspiration, and my eyes caught on the kitchen sink. Martin was asleep just feet away, so I opted to go into the washroom instead.
    A single bulb was the only illumination in the washroom and it was controlled by a pull chain that was long gone and had been replaced by a length of twine. I stood on tiptoe to tug on the light, then quietly closed the door behind me and studied the basin, unsure of exactly what to do. The white porcelain stood out against the sink’s rusting underbelly. The tiny teacup of a basin was hardly built to accommodate an adult pair of hands let alone someone sitting on it.
    I hoisted up my nightdress and pushed myself up onto the sink’s edge. The porcelain was like ice on my skin, but that made it easier to go. Relief swept over me. My heartbeat slowed and mymuscles began to relax. Then, without warning, the door to the washroom opened. It was my mother. She was in her nightclothes and robe, long strands of hair framing her face. Her expression upon seeing me was pure shock.
    “What are you doing?” she demanded as I clambered off the sink, desperately yanking down my nightdress.
    I couldn’t explain myself. My cheeks burned with embarrassment. She looked beyond me and into the sink.
    “I had to. I couldn’t go outside. There was a rat. I’m sorry. I couldn’t…” I was stammering, near tears, and a drop of urine was slowly running down my leg.
    My mother was staring at me as if she had never seen me before, as if I were an uninvited guest who had barged in on her. She snatched a rag from behind the tub’s faucet and hurled it at me. “Clean yourself up.”
    “I’m sorry,” I said. “I—”
    “Don’t you ever do that again. Ever. And clean up the mess you made.”
    She left, shutting the door behind her resolutely. Then the tears came and wouldn’t stop. I ran the water to wash away any trace of urine from the sink and scrubbed the basin with soap and the rag she had thrown at me. I scoured the sink for what seemed like hours, rinsing it again and again until my hands throbbed from gripping the rag. When I allowed myself to be finished, I looked up and found my reflection in the mirror again. My eyes were red from crying and my face was flushed with the heat of my mortification. Not only did I fail to resemble my family, I now failed to resemble even myself.

 
    T HE FOLLOWING MORNING , both my mother and I tried to act as if nothing had happened, but I still couldn’t bring myself to look at her directly. To make matters worse, my father hadn’t come home again. Martin kept a constant vigil at the window waiting for any sign of him. Even when my mother ordered him to the table to eat his breakfast, Martin positioned his chair to face the door and could hardly concentrate on his food. My father never arrived. We got ready for school and my mother prepared to go to work as usual. She tied on her apron, a plain linen one that Father Svitek had purchased for her, then wrapped her hair up in a thin, flowered kerchief.
    “You’re going to get him, right?” Martin asked.
    My mother took her time to respond. “No,” she said. Her voice was bitter, but her expression wavered. I couldn’t tell if it was from disappointment or resignation.
    “But—” Martin began.
    “Get your things,” my mother ordered, cutting him off. “I have to be at the church early today.”
    Martin waited for me to back him up, but I dodged his glance and busied myself making our bed. He accepted that his argument was a lost cause and did as he was told. After I’d finished making the bed, I noticed my mother gazing at the spot where the Black Madonna had hung. Her lips were moving in silent prayer and she was blinking hard to keep from crying. It was the one time I’d ever seen my mother close