Sophie's Dilemma (13 page)
He picked up their cases and nodded for her to go ahead. ‘‘Don’t worry. Mrs. Soderstrum will love you immediately.’’
Ordering her stubborn lips to smile, she blinked away what must have been raindrops and opened the gate.
Here we go, Sophie Knutson . . . no,
Sophie Bjorklund
. She sucked in another breath and followed the brick path to the front porch. An oak door with an oval cutout stood as the next barrier. But before Hamre could put down the bags and open the door, it flew open and a rounded woman, who looked so much like her grandmother Bridget as to make Sophie catch her breath, threw wide her arms and enveloped Sophie in a hug that smelled of flour and vanilla.
‘‘Ja, you come. Velkommen to my boardinghouse. Hamre, bring her in. This must be your Sophie, ja?’’
‘‘Mrs. Soderstrum, I want you to meet Mrs. Hamre Bjorklund, my Sophie.’’
The way he said ‘‘my Sophie’’ brought more of those threatening raindrops to her eyes. ‘‘I am pleased to meet you. You look so much like Bestemor Bridget in Blessing that I almost thought I was home.’’
‘‘Ja, that is good.’’ She stepped back. ‘‘Come in, come in. You want some help with those bags?’’
‘‘No, I’ve got them.’’ Hamre picked up the one he’d set down. ‘‘Have there been any messages?’’
‘‘Ja, I put them in your room. You go on up, and I bring hot water.’’
‘‘Mange takk.’’ Sophie smiled at the woman and then followed Hamre up the dark oak staircase.
I must look like a bedraggled chicken,
she thought as she admired the striped wallpaper and the pot of ferns on the landing. Mrs. Soderstrum knew how to make a house look like a home.
Hamre already had their bags on the floor of the room that was first on their right.
A bed with a crazy quilt took up much of the room, with braided rugs on both sides to warm feet against the dark painted floor. A tall narrow window with white starched curtains invited Sophie to cross and see what she could see. Perhaps one day there would even be sun shining through the sparkling clean panes.
‘‘Welcome home.’’ Hamre’s deep voice made her turn around. He stood at the end of the bed watching her.
‘‘Ja, home.’’ Sophie forced herself to look past the bed to the man standing there. The bed was huge. She traced one of the nine patch squares in blue and white with one finger. Quilted, not tied. She could feel Hamre’s gaze on the top of her head. Funny how her dreams of being married had never included a bed until just a few minutes ago.
October
‘‘
Y
OU GOT THE JOB, didn’t you?’’ Helga asked.
Garth nodded to his sister. ‘‘It will be a good thing. Perhaps you and Dan might like to move there too, if I can put him to work at the mill. Blessing is a nice little town and growing.’’ Garth steeled himself for Helga’s refusal. He knew that Dan was happy with his job at the Pillsbury ‘‘A’’ Mill, the same place Garth had worked until just an hour ago, when he had turned in his notice.
Rather than letting him work the two weeks he volunteered, they said he needn’t come back. So much for trying to be honorable and polite. He stared at his sister. ‘‘You had your baby.’’
‘‘Ja, the day you left. A boy. This morning Dan brought your daughter here.’’
‘‘Are you sure you should be . . . ?’’ At the scowl she gave him, he changed gears. ‘‘How are the little ones?’’
‘‘All sleeping soundly for the moment. Nursing two babies uses up a lot of my day.’’
‘‘What happened with the woman the midwife found? You didn’t have to bring the baby here so soon.’’
‘‘It seemed best this way.’’
She looked haggard. But why wouldn’t she when she’d just had a baby? While her first son, Nathan, was two months older than his son, Grant, Helga had volunteered to take his two in and nurse his baby along with hers. The baby. He had yet to even name her.
Why did you
have to go and die, Maddie? How can I manage? How can I live without
you?
Returning to Minneapolis had ripped off the scab he’d laid over his sorrow and brought it all back. When he closed his eyes, he could see the blood all over the bed, Maddie’s gray face, her transparent skin, her cool body. Without his ever saying anything to her, not that she could have heard anyway. The midwife had waited too long to come for him. How would he ever forgive the woman for that?
‘‘Garth.’’ Helga laid her hand on her brother’s arm.
‘‘Ja.’’ He knew he spoke too abruptly, but all he wanted to do was go out the door and keep on walking. Anywhere.
The hurt on Helga’s face lanced the boil of his anger. He backed away, fearing to spew the poison he felt on her. ‘‘I-I have to leave. I’m sorry.’’ He spun and was out the door before she could get over her shock to respond. He heard her call from the doorway and, shaking his head, flapped a hand at her. ‘‘Later.’’
Where to go? Not back to his own house next door. Not to the cemetery where they’d buried that box holding his life. Not to the local saloon; he might never come out. Instead, he pounded the street down to the river whose rapids powered the mighty wheels grinding the grain from across the Midwest into flour. The river walk had been one of Maddie’s favorite places. She loved the cool spray from the falls, the roar of the water, the sunlight dancing on the swirls and deeper pools. Today would have been one of her ‘‘gifts from God,’’ as she called the sunny fall days of October. With the leaves exploding in all shades of red, rust, and orange swirling down the river, she’d dreamed of following the water all the way to the Gulf of Mexico one day.
‘‘No-o-o, it’s not fair! Not Maddie!’’ After roaring at the falls, he glanced around, hoping no one heard him. But the shocked look on an elderly woman’s face said she had. She nodded and turned away. At least she hadn’t run screaming like he wanted to do. He turned back to the falls to hide the tears that now gushed like the water between the rocks.
When he finally had himself under control again, he walked the mile back to his house and stared up at the blank windows. How could a house look so desolate in such a short period of time? One month since Maddie died. Weeds greened her flower beds. She’d pulled them all out just before . . . He could see her if he narrowed his eyes. . . .
‘‘What are you doing?’’ He’d hurried up the walk, ready to lift her bodily.
‘‘I’m getting the flower beds ready for winter. What does it look like?’’ Instead of kneeling, which was impossible with her girth, she sat on a low stool and dug out weeds and the annuals finished with blooming. The full basket attested to her efforts. ‘‘Grant is sleeping, so I snuck out here.’’ She lifted her face to the evening breeze. ‘‘Don’t worry, I checked on him just a minute ago and left the windows and door open so I could hear him.’’
‘‘It’s you I’m worried about. Didn’t the doctor say to take it easy?’’
‘‘I am taking it easy, just sitting here on the stool. I could be scrubbing the floors, I suppose.’’
He couldn’t resist leaning down to kiss her laughing lips. Never had she looked so beautiful. He’d heard of women who blossomed when they were with child, and his Maddie was one of those. She admitted to loving being pregnant, over and over saying they would have six children, three of each.
‘‘Your supper will be ready in three shakes of a lamb’s tail.’’ She held out her hands for him to pull her up. ‘‘But you better brace your feet before lifting this elephant.’’
He pulled her up and into his arms.
‘‘Garth, what will the neighbors think?’’ But she laid her cheek against his chest for just a moment before straightening.
‘‘They’ll pretend to be horrified at our show of affection, and inside they’ll be jealous.’’ He tucked her hand through the crook of his arm, snagged the stool with the other, and handed it to her while he carried the full basket. ‘‘Let’s go around back, and I’ll dump this on the pile.’’
She told him all the day’s happenings as they strolled through the side gate and into the backyard. ‘‘Oh, there is Grant. Hear him?’’
Garth paused. Sure enough. A small voice was calling, ‘‘Ma?’’
‘‘Out here, son. We’ll be right there.’’
‘‘Now he’ll probably not want to go to sleep when he should, but I just wanted to finish a few things around here before the baby is born.’’
That was before the baby was born. When the world stood still. And collapsed around him. When the baby was born—and she left.
He dashed the tears away again and mounted the three steps to the front porch. Her fern hung in dead sticks with dry brown leaves. No one had bothered to water it and bring it inside like she always did before the frost. He’d been gone to North Dakota less than a week, but he’d not been back to the house since Helga came to take the rest of Grant’s things and he’d gone along to her house.
A faint coppery scent still hung on the still air. The smell of blood and agony refused to be banished no matter how much the cleaning woman had scrubbed both the room and the linens. With his eyes straight ahead, he mounted the stairs to the second floor, retrieved a small trunk from the closet, and emptied the drawers from the chest into it. He added work clothes from the closet, a suit and shoes, and slammed the trunk closed. Their wedding picture occupied a prominent place on the dresser, but instead of packing it, he laid it face down in the empty top drawer. He hauled the trunk up to his shoulder and made his way down the stairs and out the door, locking it behind him. Helga could come get whatever else she needed for the children, if she hadn’t already.
‘‘Surely you will stay the night?’’ Helga insisted when he walked back to her house to tell her he was leaving.
‘‘If you’d like to move into the house—well, it might be a good idea. It is bigger than yours, and since you are renting, it would save you some money.’’
‘‘Garth, please wait until Dan comes home so the two of you can discuss that.’’
He shook his head. ‘‘I cannot.’’
If I see the children . . .
He swallowed hard. ‘‘It is better this way.’’
‘‘But Grant asks for his pa.’’
‘‘Once I am settled there, I will come for them. And you too, if Dan agrees.’’
‘‘We need a name for the baby, Garth. You have to give her a name,’’ Helga implored.
‘‘You name her. What are you calling her now?’’
‘‘Baby.’’
‘‘Choose whatever you want.’’
‘‘She should be baptized.’’
‘‘Go ahead.’’
I cannot. If I get started on what I think of God right
now, all those pious church people will go running for the doors
.
All the way to the station and through the long night as he dozed on the hard bench, he castigated himself for not visiting his mother, for not showing Helga his gratitude, for not being the man he thought he was. The next morning he bought a cup of coffee and a slice of bread before boarding the train.
With each clack of the train wheels, he left his life behind. Staring out the window into the early morning darkness, he promised himself,
I will no longer dwell on that part of my life. It is over. Someday I will
have my children with me again, but now I must look forward
. It was a good thing he needn’t say his vow out loud, for the rock in his throat prevented any sound.
When he stepped off the train, dry-eyed and dryer of soul, he made his way back to the boardinghouse. The proprietress greeted him as if he had come home.
‘‘Thank you. I’m hoping you rent one of your rooms on a monthly or long-term basis.’’
‘‘Ja, we do that. Meals are included.’’ She named a price that seemed to him an undercharge, but he smiled gratefully rather than suggesting she raise her rates. He stared at the book as he signed where she pointed. Was he doing the right thing? Maybe he should just . . .
‘‘Mr. Wiste?’’
Her gentle voice with the heavy Norwegian accent brought him back to the present with a start.
‘‘I-I’m sorry, what did you say?’’
‘‘I asked if you would like us to pack you the noon meal or if you would plan to return here to eat.’’
‘‘I don’t . . . I . . .’’ He scrubbed a hand across his face. ‘‘May I make those arrangements after I see how things will be going at the mill?’’
‘‘Of course.’’ She named the hours when meals were served and handed him a key. ‘‘We change the beds and clean once a week. If you want it more often, there will be an extra charge.’’
‘‘No, that will be fine. Do you do laundry for your guests also?’’
‘‘You are the only one staying here for an extended time, so we could do that for you.’’
‘‘You have my eternal gratitude, Mrs. . . .’’ He paused. ‘‘I don’t remember your name.’’
‘‘Mrs. Aarsgard. Bundle your clothes to be washed on the day we clean your room. That will be Mondays, I believe.’’
‘‘And my mail will be brought here?’’
‘‘You can make arrangements for a box at the post office. It is in the same building as the bank. The new one just up the street.’’
‘‘I’ll take my things on up, then.’’ He nodded and failed at encouraging his lips to smile. Climbing the stairs with his trunk on one shoulder and his bag in the other hand, his feet weighed half a stone each. By the time he reached the second floor, his lungs pumped like bellows, forcing him to stop and inhale deeply, letting the air out on a whoosh. Was his trunk that heavy or was it life in general?
Once in his room, which overlooked the street in front of the boardinghouse, he set the trunk down and surveyed his new quarters. A quilt in shades of browns and yellows covered the bed; a rag rug in similar tones lay by the bed to protect his feet on a cold morning. A five-drawer dresser against one papered wall, a stand with pitcher and bowl, a line of hooks taking the place of a closet or chifforobe—all the comforts of home. The last put a cynical twist on his face and in his heart. Home. Would there ever be a home again? He threw himself across the bed and covered his eyes with the back of his arm. Loneliness with sorrow behind rode him with quirt and spurs.
By the next morning when he could think again, he figured that with his lodging and meals taken care of, he would have sufficient money to send home, or rather back to Helga for caring for his children. He’d even thought during the long sleepless night that he should ask her to take them permanently. She and Dan could become their real parents. But that thought had brought on the struggle to dam the tears.
Lord, what are you asking of me?
He cut off the prayer like he’d cut off the tears and snorted as a Bible verse he’d once memorized floated through his mind.
God will never give you more than you can
endure
. What a pack of lies. If God was the loving God some claimed Him to be, why would He take a mother from her babies and a wife from a husband who adored her?