“. . . when you think about this, remember that it was done for your own good. It seems as though Brother Jacob has more work ahead of him.” What am I going to do? “Your willfulness needs continued correction.” Why are they doing this? “Remember this reminder was your doing and, as always, avoiding future reminders is your choice.” My hair! Jacob! “Prepare yourself for your husband’s additional correction when he returns.” Oh, please. This can’t be happening. “As you yourself said, you are his responsibility; only he can truly correct your behavior.”
Perhaps I was in shock, but I didn’t respond. There was nothing I could say as their accusations and warnings swirled through the air and my mind. The meanings of their words, the shock at my loss, and the promise of impending punishment paralyzed me. The weight of it all held me captive until their footsteps disappeared behind the closing door and the garage door went up and down.
Finally freed, I moved and took a ragged breath.
When I did, my entire body revolted. Shock waves swept through me from my head to my toes. The knotting in my stomach painfully twisted, propelling the remnants of my long-ago-eaten lunch upward. With perspiration dotting my brow, I hurried toward the bathroom. Falling to my knees, I emptied the contents of my stomach into the toilet. Over and over I retched until nothing but heaves racked my body. My clammy and trembling body, as well as the reality of what had happened and would happen, pinned me to the floor.
As the fog lifted, I remembered my ponytail. Panic erupted when I realized that in my desperation I’d dropped it. “No . . . no . . .” I cried, making it shakily to my knees and desperately searching the darkness. The strands were scattered, like the shards of my heart. With painstaking determination I gathered the pieces together. Once I had them in one place, I hugged them close. The uneven tips of my hair brushed my wet cheeks as I held my detached ponytail, pulled my knees to my chest, and cried.
Time lost its meaning.
Finally I made my way to my feet and the sink. After carefully placing my hair on the vanity, I cupped water in my hands, rinsed the awful taste from my mouth, and washed my tearstained cheeks. Slowly thoughts began to surface, reminding me of my choices. Brother Timothy had said it was my choice, and so had Jacob.
What if I chose to leave?
Obviously there wasn’t a lock on the door. I could leave. Tears resumed as sobs resonated from deep within. Instead of fear, sorrow overwhelmed me as my thoughts went to my husband. I recalled how he’d helped me wash my hair and the way he’d run his fingers through its length. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t make myself reach for the hair now dangling near my cheeks. My haircut of disgrace. Though my trembling had stopped, my rapid pulse remained.
Did I want to leave? If I did, where would I go? Would I take Jacob’s truck again? Was this why I’d taken it last time? Had it been because of fear? Had the fear been of Jacob or others? Driving wasn’t an option. I couldn’t see, much less drive, but I could walk . . . to where, to whom? Wouldn’t I have had the same questions before? Where had I been going then?
As I remembered the polar bears I heard the distinct sound of the garage door opening. With a heavy heart I knew . . . I knew with clarity that this time it was Jacob.
Clutching the remnants of my long hair, I debated my options. Go to the door, confess my questioning of Brother Timothy, and receive punishment, or stay in the bathroom, close the door, hide, and, of course, receive punishment. As I caressed the length of hair, I knew there weren’t options. Jacob might have said I had choices, even Brother Timothy had said the choice was mine, but it wasn’t. Like everything since I’d awoken, my fate would be determined by Jacob.
For the first time since Sister Lilith had taken the scissors and cut my hair, I dared to touch what remained. Placing the neatly gathered strands back on the vanity, I raised my fingers to the ends that skirted my cheeks. My empty stomach knotted as I followed them toward the back of my head. They were even shorter there than in the front. The tears and trembling I’d finally stilled bubbled, clogging my throat with an erupting sob. My sorrow wasn’t as much for what I was about to receive, as for what I’d lost.
Everything was happening in slow motion, even the closing of the garage door, but finally the sound stopped. With my chin to my chest, arms tightly wrapped around my midsection, and lip secured between my teeth, I willed my feet forward, through the kitchen, around the table where I’d been uncrowned of the glory Brother Timothy had determined I no longer deserved, and toward the door. Shame from my loss left a gaping hole as I stopped exactly where Jacob had told me to be. As the knob turned, my memories went to that afternoon when he’d reminded me where to greet him: even then he’d given me a choice.
No longer strong enough to face my husband, ashamed that once again he was about to suffer embarrassment at my hands, I chose the option that less than a week ago had seemed impossible. As the door opened, I sank to my knees.
CHAPTER 22
Jacob
With the doorknob still in my hand, I heard Sara’s sobs echoing throughout the dimmed room.
What the hell happened?