Until We Reach Home (37 page)

The door chimes jolted her out of her reverie. When she opened the door, the lone gentleman standing on the front step looked familiar. It took her a moment to realize that he was the man who had heard her crying at the boardinghouse last week and loaned her his handkerchief.

“Oh! It’s you! . . . Um, Mr. Lindquist, isn’t it?”

“Yes.” He frowned, as if trying to place where he had seen her, his pale eyebrows furrowed in thought. They were several shades lighter than his sandy hair and mustache. Kirsten hadn’t taken a very good look at him on the day they’d met, but now she noticed the fine lines around his eyes and realized that he was at least ten years older than she was.

“Ah, yes,” he finally said. “You’re the young lady from the . . . you’re Mrs. Larson’s niece, aren’t you?”

“Yes.” She looked down at the floor, embarrassed for losing her composure in front of him. “Please, come in. I’ll take your hat and coat.” He removed them, and she draped the coat over her arm. “Come this way, please. Mrs. Anderson and her guests are in the salon.”

“Don’t bother showing me. I’ll find it.” She watched him stride away and noticed how nicely dressed he was. His leanness made him seem even taller than she remembered. She thought it was curious that he had arrived alone, then realized that if he had a wife he wouldn’t be living in Aunt Hilma’s boardinghouse.

As Kirsten lifted his coat from her arm to hang it in the closet, something fell from his pocket and dropped to the floor. She picked up a palm-sized leather folder. Inside was a photograph of Mr. Lindquist posing with a woman and a small child. The woman was very pretty, with white-blond hair and delicate features. The little boy, who was about two years old, bore a strong resemblance to his mother, including his pale hair. Mr. Lindquist must be living in the boardinghouse while waiting for his family to arrive from Sweden.

The photo brought tears to Kirsten’s eyes, reminding her once again of Tor and of the child he didn’t know he had fathered. They should all be together, forming a family like the one in the picture. But it was impossible. Her dream of a life with Tor would never come true. She quickly dried her tears and returned the photo to Mr. Lindquist’s coat pocket.

Meeting him a second time had rekindled Kirsten’s grief, reminding her of the day she’d received the terrible letter from Tor’s father. She closed her eyes and drew a deep breath to compose herself. She needed to get through this evening without breaking down. She could let her tears fall freely when she was alone in her bed later that night. That was when she always wrestled with the question that still had no answer: What was she going to do about her baby?

Eventually the party moved into the dining room, and Kirsten concentrated on serving dinner to Mrs. Anderson and her eleven guests. Her biggest fear was that she would spill something on one of the visitors and ruin their evening. The elaborate meal progressed slowly, taking several hours, and she eavesdropped on the dinner conversation while she worked. She learned that Mr. Lindquist worked for the Swedish language newspaper that Mrs. Anderson’s husband had founded and that her son now managed. In fact, most of the dinner guests seemed to have some connection to the newspaper.

By the time Kirsten served dessert, her feet ached, but at least the work had kept her mind off her sorrow. “These are the last of the dessert plates,” she announced as she pushed through the swinging door into the kitchen. “I think they’re ready for—” She stopped short. Sofia had changed into the new skirt and shirtwaist that she and Elin had bought at the American department store. Elin had helped her pin up her hair. Today was Sofia’s seventeenth birthday.

“You look beautiful,” Kirsten told her. “This party should have been for you.”

“We’ve been so busy with the dinner preparations,” Elin said, “that we haven’t had time to do anything to celebrate. We couldn’t even shop for a gift.”

“That’s all right,” Sofia said.

“I promised her that she could buy a treat for herself on her next day off,” Elin said.

“But I don’t need anything. These new clothes are the most wonderful birthday present I’ve ever had.”

The long dark skirt was simple, yet elegant. The white silk blouse had rows and rows of tiny pleats and delicate ruffles that made Sofia look like a princess. But her face looked as white as her blouse.

“Are you all right?” Kirsten asked. “You look like you might faint. Maybe you’d better lie down for a minute.”

“She can’t,” Elin said. “It’s almost time for her to sing.”

“I feel like I can’t breathe. I don’t know how I’ll ever be able to sing.”

“I didn’t lace you up too tightly, did I?” Elin asked.

Sofia shook her head. She looked frightened to death.

“Don’t worry,” Elin said. “All the guests seem like very nice people.”

“Except for her daughter-in-law, Bettina,” Kirsten added.

“Well, yes. Except for her. But hear them laughing? Everyone is having such a good time. I don’t think you need to worry. You have a beautiful voice, Sofia. They’ll be thrilled to hear you.”

“What are you going to sing?” Kirsten asked.

Sofia held up their mother’s hymnbook. “Some of these songs. I dug Mama’s book out of the trunk.” Her hand shook like a branch in a windstorm. Kirsten could think of nothing to say to calm her sister’s fears, so she simply pulled her into her arms and hugged her.

When it was time for Sofia to join the guests in the salon, Kirsten took her arm and walked with her to the door. “Close your eyes and pretend that you’re singing to the man you love,” she whispered.

Sofia nodded, then drew a deep breath and walked into the room.

Kirsten and Elin stood listening outside the doorway as Mrs. Anderson introduced Sofia. She made no mention of the fact that Sofia was her maid but simply stated that she was newly arrived from Sweden and was going to sing for them. One of the female guests agreed to play the piano for her. The room grew hushed the moment Sofia began to sing. She had a truly remarkable voice, and her singing sounded so effortless that no one would ever guess how nervous she was. The beauty of it sent shivers through Kirsten.

Sofia was so young and innocent and beautiful. She had her whole life ahead of her, filled with promise. But her future was going to be ruined when everyone found out about Kirsten’s baby.

“Kirsten, you’re crying,” Elin said. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” Kirsten lied as she wiped her eyes. “I’m just so proud of our little Sofia. She looks beautiful, doesn’t she?”

Kirsten wondered how much longer she could hide her despair. Day after day, her thoughts were filled with the baby and with Tor and with her impossible situation. Her sisters had begun to notice her gloom and had heard her crying in the night. They were asking too many questions. Even though the truth was a heavy burden to carry alone, she couldn’t bear to tell her sisters. After reading Elin’s diary, Kirsten knew how much pain her sister had endured already. Now Elin and Sofia would suffer more scorn once the truth became obvious. If only she knew what to do.

Mr. Anderson and her guests applauded when Sofia finished. They requested song after song, all the traditional Midsummer’s Eve folk songs. Kirsten peeked into the room and saw that Sofia had begun to relax. Her shy smile told Kirsten she was enjoying herself.

“Is she available, Silvia?” one of the guests asked Mrs. Anderson. “I would love to have her sing for one of my parties.”

“She’s another Jenny Lind, the Swedish Nightingale,” someone else said.

Shortly before the guests began to leave, Kirsten raced up to the third floor and retrieved Mr. Lindquist’s handkerchief, which she had laundered, starched, and pressed. She handed it to him as she gave him his coat.

“Thank you so much for your kindness the other day, Mr. Lindquist.”

“It was nothing.”

He slipped his left hand into his pocket as he put on his coat and his pale brows arched in surprise. He quickly searched his other pocket and Kirsten saw his relief when he pulled out the leather folder. She had put it in the wrong pocket. He gave Kirsten an odd look as he transferred the photograph to the other side. She quickly turned away to retrieve another guest’s coat from the closet as Mr. Lindquist bid his hostess good-night.

By the time Kirsten and her sisters finished cleaning up and washing all of the dishes, it was after midnight. Exhaustion numbed Kirsten, and she struggled to hold back her emotions. But Sofia beamed with happiness as she changed into her nightgown upstairs in their room.

“You were wonderful,” Elin told her. “I wish Mama could have heard you sing tonight.”

“Maybe she was listening up in heaven,” Sofia said.

“She would have been so proud of you,” Kirsten said. “I know I was proud of you.”

“Tomorrow is my morning off,” Elin said, “but I think Sofia should take it. It wasn’t fair that you had to work on your birthday.”

“You and Kirsten worked a lot harder than I did. Besides, I’d rather have the evening off that Mrs. Anderson assigned me this week so I won’t miss my English class.”

Kirsten knew Sofia was trying to learn English so she would be able to converse with the man she’d met on Ellis Island. Sofia still believed that he would be coming to find her, even though three weeks had passed. Kirsten had tried to warn her about the pain of heartbreak, but she hadn’t listened. Now, as Kirsten imagined Tor dancing around the maypole tonight with another girl, her thoughts spiraled into despair.

“Kirsten?” Elin had been speaking to her.

“I’m sorry. What did you say?”

“I said you should take tomorrow morning off and go to church. You’ve seemed so sad these past few days.”

“I’m not
sad
,” she said irritably. “Why are you trying to make everyone go to church in your place? Why don’t
you
want to go?”

“Because I think the party exhausted Mrs. Anderson, and I should stay home and take care of her.”

Kirsten punched her pillow a few times to take out the lumps—and her frustrations—then climbed into bed. “Fine. If you are foolish enough to give away your time off, then I’ll be glad to take it.”

Kirsten didn’t really want to go to church the next day, but she dressed in her Sunday clothes anyway and left the house. She could let her tears fall freely while she walked there, and afterward she could go to the little park a few blocks from the church and sit for awhile. She needed to figure out what to do.

Maybe she should take all of her money on their next payday and run away until after the baby was born. But where would she go? How would she live? She had no idea.

Kirsten reached the church and walked blindly up the steps, deep in thought. Someone held the door open for her.

“Good morning, Miss Carlson.” She looked up in surprise. Mr. Lindquist again. “I enjoyed your sister’s singing last night. She has an exceptional voice.”

“Yes . . . thank you for saying so,” she mumbled. She hurried inside. Kirsten recalled the picture Mr. Lindquist carried in his pocket, and she hated him. Why couldn’t Tor love her the way he loved his wife, carrying her picture everywhere he went? Why couldn’t Tor be a loving father?

She couldn’t sing any of the hymns. She barely paid attention to the liturgy. When she did bring her wandering attention back to the service, she saw that the pastor was preparing to baptize a baby. She gazed at the young, happy couple and could no longer hold back her tears. It had been a mistake to come here.

Kirsten stood and rushed out of the pew, not caring whose toes she stepped on as she fled from the church. She walked down the street blindly, letting her tears fall, not noticing or caring where she went. Without a surname or a father, her baby would never be baptized by the church. She would be excommunicated when they discovered the truth. She had ruined her life—and her sisters’ lives.

Kirsten trudged onward as if plowing through deep snow in a blinding blizzard, with no hope of ever reaching her destination. She understood her father’s despair, how he could feel so distraught that he no longer wanted to live. She didn’t want to live, either.

She should end her life right now, while her sisters weren’t there to stop her. All she had to do was step in front of a streetcar and her misery would end. She and her baby would die together. Tor and his family didn’t want either of them.

She would act quickly, without thinking about it. Papa had tried to make his death look like an accident, and she would do the same. The streetcar rode on rails like a train, but it traveled right down the middle of the street alongside all of the horses and carriages. It couldn’t swerve to avoid her. She saw one coming and stepped off the curb, closing her eyes as she walked straight into its path.

But instead of the vehicle’s crushing impact, Kirsten felt hands gripping her waist, pulling her to one side. She lost her balance and fell facedown, landing hard on the cobbled street. The person who had saved her landed on top of her.

She felt stunned and bruised . . . and very disappointed to be alive. She spit dirt from her mouth and tasted blood where she had bitten her lip. Her hands and face were scratched and stinging from the brick cobblestones.

“Are you all right?” her rescuer asked in Swedish. “Did I hurt you?” She looked up as he struggled to his feet.

Mr. Lindquist.

“Oh no,” she moaned.

He stretched out his hand to help her, but she covered her face instead. He bent down to lift her to her feet, then led her back to the sidewalk, reassuring the crowd that had started to gather. He spoke to them in English.

Kirsten began to weep. She longed to sink down in the middle of the sidewalk, but Mr. Lindquist wrapped his arm firmly around her and propelled her along, holding her upright. She couldn’t see where they were going through her tears. Thankfully, he didn’t say a word to her.

They finally stopped when they reached the little park near the boardinghouse. Mr. Lindquist led her to a bench and made her sit down. Kirsten knew she should thank him for saving her life, but she wasn’t thankful. Her pain would have ended by now if she had died.

“Why did you follow me from church?” she asked when she was finally in control of her emotions.