Her Mother's Hope (34 page)

“Oh, Marta.” Papa sounded so weary and defeated. He couldn’t fight back anymore.

Mama’s arms dropped to her sides. “It’s what she’s always wanted to do, Niclas. You said it was what God called her to do. Maybe it was for such a time as this. Tell him, Hildemara.”

Hildie heard the pleading in Mama’s voice and saw the telltale brightness in her hazel eyes. Papa looked crushed in spirit. “I didn’t want to become a burden, Marta.”

“You’re not a burden, Papa, and I’d have been hurt if Mama hadn’t called and someone else tended you. Life is short enough as it is for all of us. Time is the most precious thing we have, isn’t it?” She took his hand between hers. “There’s no place I’d rather be than right here.” On the bus ride to Murietta, she had buried and mourned all the might-have-beens.

He looked into her eyes and went very still, comprehending. “We don’t have much time, do we?”

“No, Papa. We don’t.”

Turning away, Mama gripped the sink. Her shoulders sagged and shook, but she didn’t make a noise.

* * *

Hildemara lay awake inside the screened porch bedroom, listening to the crickets and a hoot owl in the bay tree near the tree house. She prayed for her father. She prayed for Trip. She prayed God would give her the strength she would need, knowing each day would become more difficult.

When she finally slept, she dreamed of long, polished corridors. Someone stood in the open doorway at the end, surrounded by light. She ran toward him and felt his arms go around her. She heard his whisper against her hair, inside her heart, not in words but in rest.

She awakened when a rooster crowed. The back door opened and closed, then the screen door. Sitting up, Hildie watched Mama cross the yard to feed the chickens.

Hildie went into the bathroom built by the Summer Bedlam boys and showered, brushed her teeth and hair, dressed, and went into the kitchen. She poured coffee and sat at the kitchen table reading her Bible. Covering her face, she prayed for Mama and Papa and the days ahead. Then she thought about Papa standing beneath the white almond blossom canopy in spring, singing a German hymn. She thought of him sharpening tools in the barn, digging irrigation ditches, sitting in his wagon loaded with vegetables from Mama’s garden.

Today, Lord,
she prayed.
Give me strength for the day. This is a day You have made and I will rejoice in it. I will. God, give me strength.

When Hildie heard Papa groan, she went to him, prepared to play the role God had given her.

* * *

Dear Rosie,

I do not know if you will receive this letter with all that is happening in Europe, but I must write. Niclas has cancer. He is dying. I can do nothing for him but sit and try to make him more comfortable.

I had no choice but to ask Hildemara to give up her life and come home. He needs a nurse. He worsens by the day and I can’t bear to see him in such pain. She is a great comfort to us both.

Niclas still insists on listening to the radio, and all the news is depressing and frightening. As you know better than I, Hitler has gone mad with power. He will not stop until he has the whole of Europe in his hands. My old friend, Chef Warner Brennholtz, returned to Berlin several years ago. No word from him for two Christmases. And now London is being bombed. I fear for Lady Daisy. I pray the mountains will protect you and yours.

All these terrible things that are happening only deepen my worries over Niclas. I must be strong for him! Bernhard and I must continue the work around the ranch or Niclas worries everything will fall apart. I tell him that will not happen, not while I have strength in my body. But he has always been able to read my thoughts. He understands me too well. He sees too much.

A world at war mirrors the state of my heart, Rosie. I am at war with God. My soul cries out to Him, but He does not hear. Where is God’s mercy? Where is His justice? Niclas does not deserve such suffering. . . .

34

Each evening after Papa had gone to bed, Hildie sat at the kitchen table with Mama. She read her Bible while Mama wrote letters. She had been writing to Rosie Brechtwald for as long as Hildie could remember. All Hildie knew was Mama and Rosie had been schoolmates. Mama had written to others over the years, and she received responses, usually around Christmastime, from Felda Braun, Warner Brennholtz, and Solange and Herve Fournier, all in Switzerland. Mama used to cut off the stamps and give them to Bernie. Her brother asked once why Mama wrote to people she’d never see again. “I see them here.” She pointed to her head. “And here.” She touched her heart.

“And God willing, we’ll see them again when the last trumpet blows,” Papa added.

Hildie and Mama didn’t say much to one another. Before Hildie went to bed, she put her hand on Mama’s shoulder and said good night. Sometimes Mama answered.

Hildie got up early one morning after she’d been home for about a week and sat waiting for Mama at the breakfast table before the sun came up. “I’m going into town and see Dr. Whiting, Mama.”

“Why? He’ll be out the end of the week.”

“Papa needs pain medication.”

Mama poured herself a cup of coffee and sat at the table. “He won’t take it, Hildemara. He said he doesn’t want to spend his last months on earth too drugged to think clearly.”

“He may change his mind.”

Mama bowed her head. “You know your father.”

“I need to be ready, in case.”

“You can take the car.”

Hildie chuckled. “I would if I knew how to drive. I’ll walk.”

“Why didn’t you ever learn? A nurse makes good money, doesn’t she? Clotilde bought a car the first week she lived in Burbank and got that apprenticeship making costumes. Even Rikka knows how to drive.”

“I lived a block from the hospital, and if I wanted to go anywhere else, there was always a city bus going the same direction. One of these days, I’ll learn.”

“I could teach you.”

“Now isn’t the time.” Hildie clasped her cup in both hands, staring at her coffee as she spoke. “We’ll have to work together, Mama, and make him as comfortable as possible.”

Mama set her cup down forcefully. “I don’t want him comfortable. I want him to live.”

“I’m a nurse. Not God.”

“Did I say you were? Did I ask any more of you than what you’ve been trained to do?”

Hildie pushed her chair back, picked up her cup and saucer, and set them on the counter. “I’ll wash them later.” She headed for the back door.

“Where are you going?”

“To see Dr. Whiting.”

“It’s not even light yet.”

“It’ll be light enough by the time I get there.”

“For heaven’s sake, sit down and I’ll fix you breakfast.”

“I’ll eat at the café.”

“You can be such a fool, Hildemara!”

Shaking, Hildie stopped and looked at her from the doorway. “Be angry, Mama. Be raging mad! But aim it at the cancer!” She closed the door as she went out.

Hugging her coat around her, Hildie walked to town. She took her time, drinking in the fresh morning air, the smell of damp sand and vineyards, the sound of water churning at Grand Junction, the scent of eucalyptus. She stopped by the site of the house her brother and Fritz had burned down. Someone had bought the property and built a new house and barn.

The café lights were on. She recognized the waitress. “You’re Dorothy Pietrowski, aren’t you? You graduated with my brother, Bernie Waltert.”

“Oh yeah.” The plump, dark-haired girl grinned. “I remember him: big, good-looking, blond guy with blue eyes. All the girls were crazy in love with him. Elizabeth Kenney has all the luck.” Her smile flattened. “I don’t remember you.”

“Few people do.” Hildie smiled, extended her hand, and introduced herself.

Dorothy seemed in no hurry to take her order. “Your father’s sick, isn’t he?”

“How did you know?”

“People talk. My dad has a lot of respect for him even if he is a—” She blushed crimson. “Sorry.”

“A Hun?” Hildie laughed it off. “We’re all naturalized Americans and proud of it. We even have little celebratory flags and documents to prove it.”

“People can be so stupid.” Clearly, Dorothy didn’t include herself. She shrugged again. “What can I get you this morning, Hildemara?”

“The farmer’s special.” Eggs, bacon, sausage, hash browns, toast, orange juice, and plenty of hot coffee.

Dorothy laughed as she stuck her pencil behind her ear. “It’ll be right up.”

Hildie remembered Mama and Papa talking about the war to end all wars. She remembered the year the Herkners’ bakery burned to the ground. It hadn’t just been about business. People didn’t come home from fighting a war and get over it in a day or even a year. To some, it didn’t matter how long a family had been in the country or how long since they’d passed their citizens’ test. All that mattered was where they came from. And Papa came from Germany.

Dorothy came back with several plates and set them down in front of Hildie. “It’s a wonder how you can be so thin.” She came back to replenish Hildie’s coffee. They talked each time she did. Finally, Dorothy slipped into the booth and told her how Murietta never changed. Maybe that was good; maybe it was bad. Hildie told her about nurse’s training, her job at Samuel Merritt, and the people she had met. The only one she didn’t talk about was Trip Arundel. The bell jangled.

“This is when it gets busy.” Dorothy slipped out of the booth. “It’s been good talking with you.” She picked up the coffeepot. “I hope you’ll come in again.”

“I enjoyed it, too, but I think this is the last time I’ll be out of the house for a while.”

* * *

Dr. Whiting had tears in his eyes as he sat behind his desk. “He’s a proud man, Hildemara. And a stubborn one, too. Of course, I’ll give you whatever you need. The cancer is going faster than I expected, but maybe that’s a good thing, if you understand what I mean.”

Hildemara nodded. “It won’t be long, Dr. Whiting.”

“I imagine you’ve seen enough dying in the hospital to recognize the signs.” He tented his hands and sat silent, thinking. Hildemara didn’t press. The doctor got up and went out. He came back a few minutes later and put a small box on the desk between them. “Morphine. Enough dosages to last a week under normal circumstances. I’ll order more. Your father is going to refuse it at first, Hildemara. When he does, you ask him how he’d manage to watch someone he loves die slowly and in excruciating pain. Once he has the first injection, he’ll argue less the next time. He may even come to ask you. It’s one of the most addictive substances we know, but that doesn’t matter under these circumstances.”

Blinking back tears, Hildemara rose. “Thanks, Doctor.” She took the vials. “What dosage do you prescribe?”

“I’m leaving that up to you.” Dr. Whiting cleared his throat. “You give Niclas as much as you think he needs. I promise when it’s all over, I won’t question your judgment.”

It took a few seconds to realize what he meant. She thought her legs would go out from under her. “I can’t do that.”

“You say that now.”

“I won’t!”

Dr. Whiting stood and came around the desk to embrace her. He patted her back as she cried. When she managed to regain composure, he opened the door and walked her through the waiting room. “I’ll come out at the end of the week.”

Hildemara walked home, feeling like she had a hundred-pound weight in her purse rather than a small white box containing vials of morphine.

* * *

Mama sat with Papa in the afternoons. Hildemara knew they needed time to be alone and went to visit with Elizabeth. The cottage Papa and Bernie had built had a concrete foundation and indoor plumbing. The kitchen had a big white stove with counters built on both sides for work space. It had a refrigerator instead of an icebox, a bathroom with sink, toilet, and tub with a shower overhead. The living room wasn’t big, but cozy with a love seat and chair, a coffee table, side table, two lamps, and a radio, which Elizabeth had playing. Except for having only one bedroom, it was similar in size to the house Hildie had shared with Boots.

“It’s perfect for us, now.” Elizabeth looked around, still glowing like a new bride. “But we’ll need more room when we have children.”

Hildemara looked away. “You have a green thumb. All those flowers in the flower boxes and the flats.”

Elizabeth laughed. “Who would have guessed I’d be good at something as worthwhile as growing things?” She grew serious. “I can hardly wait to be growing a child.” She blushed, lowering her eyes. “We’re trying. We were hoping to have good news before Papa . . .” When she looked up, her eyes were glassy with tears. “A baby would cheer him up, don’t you think?”

Hildemara looked down into her coffee.

Elizabeth leaned over and put her hand on Hildie’s arm. “I’m so glad you’re home, Hildie. I’ve missed you.” She squeezed and let go. “I know this is an awful thing to admit, but I was scared to death your mother might expect me to help take care of Papa. I don’t know the first thing about nursing, and frankly, Mama can be a little intimidating at times.”

Hildie smiled at her. “A little? At times? She still intimidates me on a daily basis!”

“Your mother is amazing, Hildie. She knows as much about running this place as your father. She gave Bernie a list of what has to be done, when and how, who to contact when the almonds and raisins are ready for market. She had it all written in her journal.”

Hildemara knew Papa had no worries about the farm. He had said the other day he had full confidence that Bernie could run things for Mama, if Mama allowed. Now she couldn’t help but wonder if Mama was already making preparations for Papa’s passing, but she didn’t dare ask.

* * *

Boots wrote.

I saw Trip the other day. He asked about you and your father. He asked if you planned to come back to Merritt. I told him I didn’t know, and you probably didn’t either. You should write to him, Flo. The poor guy looks like a lost soul.

Hildie gathered her courage and wrote to Trip. She kept the letter short and focused on Papa and Mama, Bernie and Elizabeth, what it felt like to be home after four years away, how little her hometown had changed. One page. A week later, her letter came back marked
No forwarding address
.

* * *

Papa lost his embarrassment as the weeks passed, and Hildemara took over washing him and changing sheets. She gave a pattern to Mama for a hospital gown. “It’ll make things easier for him and for me.” Mama got to work right away. The flannel kept him warmer. So did the soft socks Mama knitted.

Papa took her hand one morning and patted it weakly. “God made you a nurse just in time, didn’t He? He knew I’d need you.”

She kissed his hand and pressed her cheek against it. “I love you, Papa. I wish you didn’t have to go through this.”

“I know where I’m going. I’m not afraid. Mama is going to need you, Hildemara Rose.”

“I’ll stay, Papa.”

“For a while. Not forever.”

* * *

“Morphine puts you to sleep. I don’t want to spend the little time I have left in the arms of Morpheus.” But when the pain grew unbearable, Papa finally relented and allowed Hildie to give him an injection.

She called Cloe. She came home two days later and dumped her suitcases in the screened bedroom they had shared as girls. After an hour sitting by Papa’s bed, she came and found Hildie. “He’s asking for you.”

Hildie prepared the morphine injection.

Mama came and went from the bedroom. She had stopped sleeping with him. “Every time I roll over or move, I’m hurting him.”

When Papa cried in pain, Mama would become agitated. She’d pace, ashen, biting her thumb until it bled. “Can’t you give him something?”

“I have, Mama.”

“Well, it wasn’t enough. You should give him more.”

“Marta . . .” Papa’s voice, barely above a whisper now, always caught Mama’s attention. Glaring at Hildemara, she went back into the bedroom. Papa talked with her softly, in German. Hildie leaned against the sink counter, hands covering her face, trying not to sob.

“You never loved me, Niclas.” Mama spoke in a ragged, grief-soaked voice. “You married me for my money.”

Papa spoke louder this time. “Do you suppose there was money enough in the world to make me marry such an ill-tempered woman?”

Hildie went to the doorway, wanting to cry out to both of them not to waste time arguing, not now, not when it was so close to the end.

“You make jokes at a time like this.” Mama started to rise and Papa caught her wrist. She could easily have broken free, but she didn’t.

“Marta,” he rasped. “Don’t pull away. I haven’t the strength to hold on to you anymore.” When she sagged into the chair and began to weep, Papa turned toward her. “I wouldn’t leave you if God wasn’t calling me away.” He stroked her head, his hand trembling with weakness. When she looked up, he touched her cheek. “I’ve warmed myself by your fire.” He said more to her, softly, in German. She took his hand and held it open against her cheek. Hildemara stepped back and turned away.

How could Mama not know Papa loved her? Hildemara had seen him show it in a thousand ways. She had never heard either Mama or Papa say aloud in front of witnesses,
“I love you,”
but she had never doubted for one moment they did.

Mama came out of the bedroom and motioned Hildemara to go in. Hildie went.

Looking at her wristwatch, she held his hand and prayed until the time came to give him another injection. When she came out, Mama sat at the kitchen table, her head buried in her arms. Hildie didn’t know who needed her more, Papa or Mama. She knew how to tend Papa, how to comfort him. But Mama had always been a mystery.

That night, Papa lapsed into a coma. Hildemara stayed in the room, turning him gently every two hours. Mama protested. “What are you doing? Just leave him alone! For heaven’s sake, Hildemara, give him peace.”

Hildemara wanted to rise up and scream back at Mama. Instead, she went on with her work and spoke as quietly and calmly as possible. “He needs to be turned every two hours, Mama, or he’ll develop pressure sores.”