Under Ground (4 page)

I’m swimming in deep turmoil, the
heat of all the mortification still burning my cheeks. The way Mrs.
Fox has treated me so far brings shame into my heart, mixed with
rage now compressing my chest. I clench my fists just enough that I
know I’m rebelling, but not enough for anyone else to
notice.

My mother indicates that I may be
seated, and the evening goes on. I'm stuck in a haze of sort. I’m
floating through it all like a ghost, a witness with no grip on the
actions unfolding around me. Small talk takes place while the staff
brings appetizers to the living room. Mr. Fox and my father discuss
the latest political news, and Mrs. Fox asks my mother questions
about me, my education, my tastes. Not once does she talk to me
directly. She acts like I’m a child who can’t speak for
herself.

When the meeting moves to the
dining room, I sit next to my mother. William is on the opposite
side of the table, which prevents me from approaching him in any
way. Something about him bothers me profoundly. He's mysterious,
fairly aloof—illusive even. I wish he were like his father, a bit
nicer, a bit more transparent and easier to read. But it’s obvious
his mother is the one who raised him and he's a lot like her. He
doesn’t even look at me during the whole dinner, which only upsets
me more and more.
Who is this man coming to my house, sizing me
up like livestock, and not even giving me enough importance to seek
conversation?

At some point, William’s mother
pays attention to me, and when I see the look she’s giving me, I
suddenly wish she weren’t paying me heed at all.

“So, Thia, what skills have you
been learning at school? Your mother just told me you're good at
writing. Quite a useless ability to have if you ask me! What’s the
point of writing? Just filling our young girls’ minds with idle
thoughts and beliefs.”

I didn’t hear my mother refer to
my writing, and I’m not sure how to respond to such a condescending
comment.
Is she expecting me to agree with her and acknowledge
how worthless my skills are?
Writing makes me feel good. It’s
the only escape I have from this place. In my verses, women are
free. They can make a life for themselves. I can live vicariously
through them and imagine my future the way I’d want it to be. Of
course, no one has ever read those poems. I only show my family and
teachers the sonnets that fit our society’s narrow-minded
beliefs.

“Thia writes poetry,” my mother
interjects, trying to save face, but burying me deeper instead. “It
is quite good. Though writing may seem useless, poems can brighten
a tedious evening and help entertain guests.”

I wish she would just shut up, but
she plunges the nail deeper, striking me like a hammer, as she
speaks the words I've been fearing, “Thia, why don’t you read us
one of your poems?”

I want to turn into a rodent right
now, go hide, and never come out again.
What is my mother
thinking?
I'll just humiliate myself even more than I already
have. I nod gracefully anyway and ask to be excused from the table.
I stand up and try to act normally in spite of my quivering. I walk
to my bedroom, grab my notepad, and head back to the dining room as
smoothly as I can.

My hands are shaking. I brush them
against my dress in a quick gesture to stabilize them. I breathe
deeply a few times, praying for the hundredth time tonight that I
won’t faint.

I hold myself straight, open the
pad, and look for the best sonnet I have. I start reading the
rhymes. My voice is shaky with tears threatening to emerge. I hope
they'll blame my emotions on the nature of the poem. I chose an ode
to my grandfather who passed away a few months ago. It’s beautiful,
I think, and I’m quite proud of it.

When I’m done, I hold the pad
between my hands and stare at my feet. I’m too scared to confront
the looks on their faces.

“Well, I do hope you'll have other
ways to distract William’s guests once you two are married,” Mrs.
Fox says with a snort.

Her comment doesn’t hurt my
feelings though; it infuriates me. I hold the papers more tightly,
out of anger, while trying to hide the frown forming on my face.
Who is this woman to dare judge the poem I wrote in honor of my
late grandfather?
I hold the pad tighter and tighter until it
twists between my fingers and my knuckles turn white.

I look up. My brother rolls his
eyes at Mrs. Fox, just once, before winking at me. Mrs. Fox has
returned to her meal and so have her husband and my father. My
mother though is staring at me with profound pity. There is
something else hiding in her eyes too, pride maybe? She throws Mrs.
Fox one quick look of disdain, so fast it almost never was. I’m
both surprised and shocked by it. My mother is not one to be
sentimental—especially not toward me. The disgust she just
expressed for Mrs. Fox, no matter how swift it was, is quite
unsettling. It’s such a small act of defiance, but the soothing
effect on my heart is strong all the same.

When I turn toward William, his
eyes meet mine. He's actually looking at me for once, and delight
flickers through his gaze swiftly—there one second, gone the
next—as if he were proud of me. Then his eyes shift to his mother,
and a frosty spark of irritation shines through them before he
looks back at his plate.

I resume my place next to my
mother, and Mrs. Fox's snotty comments never stop. William ignores
me for the majority of the evening, but his eyes keep on narrowing
a little bit more each time his mother throws a demeaning remark at
me, and the hope that he might like me is now growing inside my
heart.

Chapter 4

This morning, my
sheets are wet
with sweat
as I wake
to an intense headache and feelings of helplessness and dejection.
I’ve spent all night worrying that the union might not be taking
place, all the while hoping that the Foxes might reject me. I don't
want to spend my life obeying such an appalling woman as Mrs. Fox.
A pang of guilt stabs me upon wishing for this arrangement to fail.
I should want it to work, if not for myself, at least for the sake
of my family.

Emily walks in right on time, as
she does every day. I want to turn around and disappear. I wish to
hide in slumber, escape in dreams, and never face reality again. I
force myself to sit up and rub my eyes which are stinging from my
lack of sleep. The migraine pounding through my skull is making me
sick to my stomach.

As I walk downstairs, Emily
follows me while clicking her tongue. I ignore her foul mood and
pretend not to hear her disgruntled mumbles. Our cook has prepared
breakfast for me already. This time, she has made salted waffles.
Some yogurt is also waiting by the plate. The mere sight of this
meal turns my stomach and makes me gag. I sit at the table anyway.
I cut a piece, take a bite, chew on it, and try to ignore the
feeling in my abdomen. I swallow it down and take a few more bites
before pushing the dish away.

I tell Emily that I’m done. She
sends me a glance filled with irritation when she sees the plate
still covered with food, but she doesn’t say anything. Wasting food
is punishable by law. Any uneaten rations need to be refrigerated
and eaten later. Nothing can be wasted; nothing can be discarded.
Anyone caught throwing food away will see their resources cut down
drastically.

I stand up and the chair squeaks
as I push it. The sound alone costs me another glare from Emily—one
of the usual signs showing her annoyance at me. She’s extremely
professional; her snapping words and short, rapid movements are
never blatant enough to be called brazen or insubordinate. But the
jealousy still shines through her tiny brown eyes while she holds
her petite frame straight in disapproval of my attitude.

Emily and I live on opposite sides
of the same wall, both trapped by it, unable to understand each
other while looking for our way out. She's only a few years older
than I am. Her desire to get married has always been strong and
plain for all to see. Her situation saddens me, really. I'm sure
this was not the future she wanted for herself. I send her a tiny
compassionate smile, and when she responds with a frown, I go
outside to find Walter waiting to take me to school.

It’s a dark, rainy day. Walter and
I run to the station. The rain pours down on us until we reach the
train. We find our compartment and settle down. I rest my head
against the window and watch the raindrops roll down the pane.
Walter and I don't talk. The train reaches the school’s station too
quickly. I wish it didn’t. I don’t feel like talking to Melissa
about the meeting. I gather it didn't go so well; I don’t want to
acknowledge how I probably ruined my only chance to make my family
proud.

When I get out of the train, I
sigh and my shoulders slump forward. Walter has an umbrella ready
for me. I take it, thank him, and walk to school. I consider just
going straight to the bathroom to wait there until the bell rings
for first period. But I'm not so cowardly as to avoid my friend. I
join Melissa by my locker, and when she sees me, she jumps up and
down, waving her arms.

“Thia, hey! Tell me, tell me, how
did it go?”

I groan. My migraine is back, just
like that. “It went well, I guess.”

“Oh!”

She can read right through me. My
attitude is enough to describe the situation. No words are needed
to imply failure. But I need to blurt it all out, so I let it flow,
all the misery, all the shame, out, out, out of me like a river
soiled and polluted by those around me, tainting my soul with
embarrassment and disgrace.

“It was quite humiliating and
painful. William didn’t even acknowledge my presence, and his
mother had nothing nice to say the whole time,” I tell
Melissa.

“Oh! That’s quite normal,
dear.”

Out of everything she could have
said, I was not expecting that.

“Well, I guess William’s aloofness
is a bit strange,” she admits, “but it’s quite natural for his
mother to be harsh. They’re just testing you, trying to make you
crack under the pressure to see how much you really want the union.
John’s mother never treated me like that, but I’ve heard plenty of
stories.”

I sigh in relief, though I don't
feel much better about my promised fiancé.

“So, is William still
good-looking?" she asks. "I heard Mary-Alice got engaged to a
grouch who’s thirty years older than she is, the poor
girl.”

I’m not sure if that's supposed to
cheer me up. Knowing that the living conditions of another person
might be worse than mine doesn’t comfort me at all.

“No. William is actually really
quite gorgeous,” I reply.

"What's the problem, then?" she
asks, not even realizing how shallow her question
sounds.

Her words irritate me, but the
bell rings just then, saving me the trouble of explaining to her
how being handsome does not make a good husband. We head to our
behavioral class, where we usually learn how to conduct ourselves
like proper ladies worthy of the superior men who reign over our
lives.

The day drags on with a sense of
doom looming in the air and rain pouring down, anchoring the
overwhelming grief inside my heart. The sadness just stays locked
inside, refusing to come out through the relief of tears. And when
the day is finally over, I find solace in going home. I head
straight to my bedroom and spend the late afternoon sulking while
doing my homework. No one comes to check on me, and I’m just glad I
don’t have to feign happiness. Soon the Foxes will give us an
answer, and I will finally know if William has decided to give me a
chance or reject me and ruin my life for good.

Chapter 5 

It took two
weeks
for the Foxes to send us their reply under the form of
a letter—two weeks of me dreading a negative answer while hoping
for more than a life spent in Mrs. Fox's claws. Apparently, I made
a great impression on William and his father. They've decided that
I fit their status. This should bring me joy, but instead, it feels
like agony. Now I know where my life is heading, and I don’t like
the direction it’s taking.

We've met William’s family on
multiple occasions since their consent to hold the wedding. Though
they appreciate me, each meeting with them brings along its share
of heartaches and vexations. I have yet to hear Mrs. Fox say
anything nice or hear a single word from William's mouth. He just
sits by my side most of the time and observes me without ever
reaching out. If he likes me as I had first hoped, he's not showing
any sign of it. The cold wind of his attitude just blows my way,
and I can never warm up to him.

Today is just a typical day;
nothing warns me that it will be any different this time. William
has a football game that I am to attend as his promised fiancée. My
life is now punctuated by a series of outings and events. I am to
look pretty, make William shine, and seem obedient and polite. The
whole time, I feel like screaming and hurting myself, but that’s
just underneath it all. In appearance, I am calm, compliant, and
well behaved. The screams of protest fill my head, but they don’t
ever get out. I won’t let them. I just choke on them while my mind
slowly gives in to insanity.

I’ve never been to any of
William’s games before, and I don’t really care for sports. Such
events are meant for young socialites and families trying to
impress those around them—something I couldn't care less about, but
find myself forced into for the sake of my husband-to-be. I have to
pretend I’m enjoying myself the entire time. To others, it looks
like nothing could make me happier than to be here for William.
Inside, I wish I were anywhere else.