Dear James,
It’s been a few weeks since I last wrote. I’ve been trying to adjust to the routine here.
It starts before dawn – well, it’s supposed to, but I often sleep in and I’m usually late before the day even begins. I’m so tired, but I find it so hard to sleep here. The mattress is old and uncomfortable and I’m so heavy now. And although I feel hot, so very hot all day, at night the rooms aren’t heated and I have only one blanket. I seem to fall asleep most often in the early hours of the morning and then I struggle to get out of bed when the others do, but even the few extra minutes of sleep I’ve been taking end up costing me my shower. That is a price I can’t really afford, because I desperately need one after spending all day in the heat.
Breakfast is at 6.30 a.m. sharp. We start by bowing our heads to say grace, although we aren’t allowed to actually say it, we just listen while the nurse on duty does the talking. She thanks God for the day, then usually she spends a little while telling God how lucky we are to be in the home, with a roof over our heads and food in our stomachs in spite of our sinfulness. At first, I thought about this a lot. It doesn’t make any sense, does it? Doesn’t God already know? Isn’t He the reason we’re in so much trouble . . . that what we’ve done has so offended him? Why remind Him every single day?
I’ve realised now though that this whole ritual is not for God . . . it is most definitely for us, to make sure that thoughts of our transgressions are never far from our minds. The nurses always finish the prayer by almost begging God – and us – that we will do the right thing for our babies; that we will find a way to be selfless, and to make amends for what we’ve done to our families and our community.
I am sure that the nurses just love that our first thoughts for the day are of shame, but whenever I hear them praying for us to do the right thing for our babies, I wrap my arms around our baby and I agree with all of my heart.
I’ll find a way to do the right thing for him, James. I haven’t figured it out yet, but I’ll get these letters to you sooner or later so that you can come and take us home. There is not a single ounce of doubt in my mind; that is the right thing for our baby.
After breakfast we go to work, and I’ve already told you what that’s like. Some days we work in silence, but some days there’s quiet chatter between the other girls. I haven’t really talked to them much yet, except for a few words as we walk to the laundry or as we sit to eat our dinner. At work, it’s just too hard to raise my voice loud enough to be heard over the machinery. When I try, I stutter so badly that I may as well not have bothered.
While I work now, I try to cast myself forward to the time after the baby is born, when we can all be together. My mind is back at the farm setting up our home in the cottage and raising our baby with you. That’s how I’m keeping myself sane.
I miss home, James. I miss it so much and that surprises me. You know how busy and chaotic my family is, and how frustrated I get with the younger kids. All I ever wanted was peace and quiet to read and study in, and now I’d give anything to hear the bustle of it all again. I even miss the way Kasia snores at night . . . it’s such a gentle little sound, compared to the way Tania’s snores echo around our room and keep me awake. I miss the scent of garlic and butter in the air whenever Mama is cooking. I even miss Tata. I miss the way he made right and wrong so crystal clear, and how safe I felt living under his roof. I miss that sense of Wyzlecki common-ness. Whatever that thing is that makes a group of people a family – and I feel it with you too, so I’m certain it’s more than just blood and genes – I’m missing it desperately now. Sometimes these days I wonder if the opposite of ‘home’ isn’t actually ‘away’, but ‘alone’.
That’s why I spend so much time thinking myself away from here. I’ll be back in the embrace of my people when you come for me. I’m sure I’ll still miss the Wyzleckis, but you and our baby will be my family soon enough.
Love,
Lilly