Unlike God’s, her replies to my prayers were straightforward. Very good, she’d say. Again.
And then, mercifully, the long-awaited day came. I dressed in a new dress; I appeared in the church as I once had, my mouth uncovered. I stood before the pastor and repeated the prayers in a steady voice. And then he said, Body and blood of Christ, and he dipped the bread in the wine and put it on my tongue.
And then it was done.
I went back to my seat next to my family, as the pastor’s wife made her unsteady way through the introit. I turned to see my mother, her head bent low but her eyes on me, and my father smiling. But my brothers, they stared at me as if my troubles might come for them.
I took the hymnal, flipped it open, and began to sing. I hadn’t sung in so long, the noise of my voice startled me, but it was there, not only undiminished, but perhaps even changed into something more powerful than before. I wanted more than anything to use it, but instead I held it back, tightening my throat slightly. I made a deliberately thin, weak noise that blended quietly, like the noise of another girl.
I could tell, for all I was trying to blend my voice, that my mother heard my every effort. I stood out even now. But as the second chorus began, she looked over at me and nodded her head, pleased at last again.
A few days later, I took one of our horses and rode to the farthest edge of our property, past the long fields of new rye and hay, until I reached a long hill that sloped down sharply and hid everything below. I tied the horse carefully to a tree and walked down until I was sure I was out of sight.
This was my favorite place.
I wanted to hear my new voice. I was angry at being punished for what I was sure was God’s only gift to me, and yet I was ashamed still to sing in front of my mother, afraid the pleasure I took would be seen as pride. And as I often sang when I was sad as well, I could not even console myself as I once had, not in the house.
So here I was.
The song I chose for my test was a song my father sang often, a sea chantey. I later learned there was more to it than this, but this was the fragment he sang over and over.
What will you do, love,
when I am going,
with white sails blowing,
the seas beyond?
I liked to imagine my young father, pacing the deck at night on his crossing, singing this song. I sang it to myself there and then sang it again, falling into it, wandering into the woods as I did so. I imagined leaving my family, leaving the town, leaving it all and never returning. I saw their sad, empty days without me. When they missed me, they’d be sorry for how they’d treated me. My mother would cry for having made me wear that gag.
When I came out of the woods, I began to head back to the horse when I heard it whicker and looked to see my mother at the top of the hill.
Is it to make a fool of me, then? she said.
No, mother, I said, as unhappy to have been caught as I was to have made her sad. For she looked as though I’d insulted her.
I can’t have you running off like this, she said. You’re not a child anymore. You have responsibilities. We’re to be making your trousseau, in case you forgot.
I protested, but she would have none of it.
After that, as punishment, I was to wear the gag for another week.
All the time? my father asked of my mother that night back at the house. We were eating dinner.
All the time, she said, except at meals. Her voice has gone to her head, and that will be trouble.
Ah.
The other children say she’s possessed, my little brother said; Frank was his name. That if we hear her sing we’ll all be possessed as well.
Is it true, then? Thomas, the older one, asked.
It’s just foolishness and gossip, my mother said. Don’t repeat it. Or I’ll make a gag for you as well.
My parents left then to speak with each other out of our hearing.
Is it true? Thomas repeated to me.
I glared. And then nodded. The boys leapt up and cleared the table.
Now, if I wanted to scare them, I had only to make as if I were going to pull down the gag and look at them meaningfully. And while I hated not being able to speak, I enjoyed their fear. I liked how at church the other families stared at me, liked that the boys who once chased me now stayed back, afraid. But this was also pride. My mother noted it, and then said, One more week.
I don’t like it, my father said to me the following week as we washed our hands for dinner. It’s not right. I’m working on your mother. But she has it in her head that this will cure you, though I’m not sure how we’re to know you’re cured.
I started to cry when he said this.
Can you take it off at night? he asked me.
I nodded.
Well, then, I suppose that’s a blessing at least.