rising

Sometimes Isaac used to look up at the night sky until his neck was straining, and his hands got pins and needles and the arms propping him up were shaking with fatigue. And then he kept looking up for just that little bit longer. Until something closer to the horizontal plane demanded his attention and he was rudely hauled back into the real world. He’d trudge back to the farmhouse, as slowly as he dared, as slowly as he possibly could without going backwards, and begin his daily penance.

But the next night, the sun would go down again and he’d sneak out to stare up at the stars. It was a part of life he could control, one he could understand; whatever his parents thought or did or said, they couldn’t stop the sun from setting and rising again. The world went on regardless. Their iron will could not stop the sun and stars. His parents could rage and shake but the sun would not cower like he did. The sun would pay no heed, just do its work and then hand its shift to the stars.

Although he loathed every little thing about his home, the house they lived in, the town five miles away where they went for a weekly church service, certain supplies and a generous helping of judgement, the wide-open sky that their corner of the South offered was a blessing Isaac was thankful for each day. It was the only thing he said in his prayers; keep me safe, Lord, and leave me the sky. The hill at the edge of the farm, just above the field of sheep he could pretend to be watching over, had a view that Isaac imagined was powerful enough to swallow him up. He knew skies didn’t really do that, and that his rescuer wouldn’t be some force of nature, or something otherworldly, deep down he knew he would have to save himself. 

Isaac knew he could stand it; not flourish, not ameliorate but he could cope, he would weather. It meant making himself smaller, packing who he was into a compact box but it was possible. Then, at fourteen years old, when he was already looking out beyond the horizon, when he was drawing up very real plans to leave, to escape, to run into the sky and never stop, his mother fell pregnant. She was long past the age where it was expected and even past the time where it was appropriate, but she was young enough when she had him that it wasn’t scientifically impossible. And now Isaac couldn’t leave, he wouldn’t let a new life into this house without some sort of help, some kind of protection, even if it was just him standing in front of the tank.

The only mercy came in the last few months when his mother’s burden became obvious and ugly, and his father left well enough alone. He drank more but mainly outside the house, returning late, too drunk to anything more than scream for dinner and collapse onto the couch. Of course, his father’s absence only encouraged his mother’s cruelty, and it came as final and undeniable confirmation to Isaac that she hadn’t been doing it for effect, or for his father’s affection, but her own satisfaction. Still, one person’s unkindness is easier to bear than two, and she tired easily, using each afternoon for a long nap.

Isaac worked harder on the farm than he had done before, the mailman even remarked in a way that he meant to be kind that he was showing a real talent for husbandry. His mother snorted but she never really showed her true colours in front of company, she would have thought it uncouth. The mailman showed his misreading of the entire situation by adding that Isaac must be very excited about becoming a big brother. Isaac gave him a strange, sad look, thanked him for the mail and wished him a good day. Although he could neither explain nor justify his parents’ behaviour, sometimes he understood the outside world even less. But then again, strangers had potential; rather than fear, his desire to come to know them filled him with excitement. Sometimes he would vibrate with the tension of fleeing versus staying, and the tether of loyalty to that life force growing inside his mother would tug, and he would return to the house again.

On the night of the birth, Isaac realised he knew nothing, had planned nothing and thought they could be in real danger if things went wrong. After all the nights when he thought his dad would never let up or his latest punishment for Isaac had been crueller and more unusual than before, Isaac would be damned if the first thing to die in this house was a screaming baby that hadn’t yet had the chance to live. He called the doctor, and asked for guidance down the phone, knowing that in this weather, the doctor wouldn’t be keeping his promise to be there. The doctor sounded relieved, as if he had been waiting for an excuse not to return and the deluge provided a biblical sign and practical reason to justify his non-attendance.

Isaac fetched clean towels, hot water and fresh sheets; he held his mother’s hand, mopped her brow and whispered encouragement as she pushed. His mother was weak enough to let the whole thing pass and Isaac found himself feeling some kind of fleeting affection for her, maybe even a patch of pity, but the thoughts passed quickly as if they were part of some half-remembered fever dream. Isaac’s sister was born at 3am during that spring thunderstorm, while his father roamed the barren land on his tractor, drinking moonshine, reaping nothing, and sewing nothing in return. His mother screamed and screamed but the thunder was louder; Isaac stuck his head out the window and stared and stared up at the sky, although the sun had long since left it, and he couldn’t even see the stars.