What Once Was Lost

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  Mrs. Beasley’s scowl deepened as she scanned the kitchen. “She’s not back yet?”

  Cora inwardly groaned. Now Miss Willems would get the sharp side of Mrs. Beasley’s tongue for sure. Couldn’t she ever do things right? “Meetin’ with them board fellas must’ve gone longer than she thought.” She squared her shoulders. “She’s gotta get things settled. Get the rebuildin’ started.” Even though Wes had said the mission men didn’t intend to rebuild, Cora had to hang on to hope. Where would she go, what would she do, if they closed the Brambleville Asylum for good?

  Mrs. Beasley huffed impatiently. “She’s turned out to be more trouble than she’s worth with all the runnin’ around she does. Checkin’ on this person, checkin’ on that person, meetin’ with people …” She pointed her finger at Cora. “I hope you’re gonna be able to get supper on the table on time all by yourself. Else the two o’ you are gonna have to find some other place to take you in. I’m not runnin’ a charity here, you know.”

  There couldn’t be a charitable bone in Mrs. Beasley’s body. Cora wanted to say so, too, but Miss Willems’s instruction to repay evil with good helped her hold the words inside. “I’ll have supper ready.”

  “You’d better. An’ it better taste good, too.” Her nose in the air, she departed.

  Cora wilted into the chair and pressed both palms to her stomach. Did she only imagine it, or was a small bulge starting to form? She jolted upright and finished chopping the potatoes. As she layered slices of salt pork in a skillet, she looked again at the clock. Five twenty-five. Her pulse stuttered. She could get supper on the table on time without Miss Willems’s help. But smiling and being pleasant while she served, the way Mrs. Beasley expected? Impossible. Too many troublesome questions plagued her mind. She feared she wouldn’t be able to hide her worries any better than she would soon be able to hide her swollen belly.

  Levi slid his tin plate onto the table, then scooted up his chair. His fork lay on the edge of the plate, waiting to be used to stab bites of steaming corned beef hash. Levi grabbed the fork, but instead of plunging it into the mound of hash, he held it in his fist like a spear and stared at the empty chair across from him.

  Nine days. Only nine days of sharing this table with someone. How could he have gotten used to having someone in the house—how could he have gotten attached to someone—so quickly? When dishing up his supper, he’d come close to pouring a glass of milk. And he didn’t drink milk. Nine days, and he’d set a pattern for himself.

  “Narr …” He flayed himself with the word his father had often muttered to himself, feeling every bit the fool for getting entangled in that boy’s life. Now the boy was gone. Time to forget him. To forget the past. To focus on what waited around the bend.

  He jammed the fork into the hash and lifted a bite. He chewed, his thoughts rolling onward. Only one more week and March would arrive. He swallowed. Took another bite. That meant spring. The river would thaw, the water would flow, and the mill would run again. So it was a good thing Miss Willems had fetched Tommy. Once the mill was running, he couldn’t have a blind boy wandering around, maybe getting hurt. He tried to swallow, but the food stuck in his gullet. He slapped the fork down so hard his plate jumped.

  No longer hungry, he snatched up the plate, marched to the kitchen, and dumped the contents back in the pan. Maybe he’d eat it later. But for now … With a determined stride he returned to the table, hooked Tommy’s chair, and carted it to the corner. Plopped it down the way a frustrated mother might disgrace a naughty child. There! No empty chair gawking from across the table, no reminder of a sightless boy who’d somehow ignited a spark in the center of Levi’s chest. Now he could forget.

  Christina glanced at her watch as she bustled in the back door of the boardinghouse. Six fifteen! So late … Two battered tin plates holding chunks of buttered potatoes, thin slices of fried pork, and a pile of greens dotted with onions sat on the little kitchen worktable. The food smelled wonderful, and Christina’s stomach lurched in desire to sit down and partake. But they needed to serve the boarders first as Mrs. Beasley had instructed.

  She whipped off her hat, scarf, and gloves, tossed them on the bed, then clattered back to the kitchen in time to see Cora step from the dining room doorway. Christina offered her most apologetic look. “I had a dreadful time with Tommy at the Tatums. He didn’t want me to go, so I had to stay until he calmed down. What can I do now that I’m here?”

  “Just sit down an’ eat before the food gets cold.” Cora moved past her to the stove and lifted the green speckled coffeepot. “Food’s on the dinin’ room table, an’ folks are eatin’. I’m gonna take the pot in there an’ serve ’em all a second cup, then—”

  “I’ll do it.” It was the least she could do after leaving the entire supper preparation to Cora. “You look peaked. I shouldn’t allow you to work so hard.”

  “Not sure Miz Beasley would approve of me slackin’ off.”

  Christina grimaced. “Has she been fussing again?”

  Cora shrugged, a feeble attempt to appear unconcerned, but hurt glittered in her eyes. “No worse’n usual.” She flapped her hands toward the dining room. “Best get that coffee in there. I noticed Ol’ Miz Perkins had already drained her first cup.”

  Bracing herself for a verbal barrage the moment she entered, Christina carried the pot through the short hallway leading to the dining room. Mrs. Beasley shot her a sour look as she circled the long walnut table refilling cups with the steaming black liquid, but the woman kept her lips clamped together.

  With everyone’s china cup filled to the brim, she placed the pot on an iron trivet in the middle of the table and scurried back to the kitchen. Cora stood at the stove, ladling hot water from the reservoir into a washbowl. She caught Cora by the waist and pushed her gently aside. “These pots and pans will keep. Let’s sit together and eat.”

  For a moment it seemed Cora would argue, but then she released a little sigh. “I am hungry.” She sank into one chair, her shoulders slumping. A wide yawn stretched her mouth. “And tired, too.”

  “Well, I’ll do all the cleanup tonight so you can turn in early. Bow your head.” Christina spoke a brief blessing for the meal, then said, “Amen.” She examined Cora while she ate, noting the dark circles beneath her eyes and the pallor of her skin. She set her fork aside. “Cora, are you ill?”

  Cora jolted. The potato she’d stabbed fell from the tines. “Wh-why do you ask?” She cupped her stomach with one hand, and her fingers trembled.

  Christina’s concern heightened. “You look pale, and you’re so tired all the time. I know you’ve had”—she lowered her head for a moment, not wishing to embarrass Cora—“some difficulty holding down your food.”

  Pink splashed Cora’s cheeks, and she fiddled with her fork. “I’m not sick, Miss Willems. Honest.”

  “Are you sure? We could take you to the doctor. Ask about a tonic …”

  A strange smile quirked up one side of Cora’s mouth. “Ain’t no tonic that’ll do me any good.”

  Fingers of trepidation stole across Christina’s scalp. “Cora, you don’t … You aren’t—”

  “Miss Willems!”

  Mrs. Beasley’s screech startled Christina so badly she nearly upset her chair. She bounced up and scurried to the dining room. “Yes, ma’am?” she gasped out between breaths.

  “We’re ready for our dessert. And we need more coffee.”

  Given the stridency of the woman’s tone in summoning her, Christina had at least expected to find a spider descending from the ceiling. She clamped her hands over her pounding heart to keep it from escaping her chest. “Did you say … dessert?”

  Mrs. Beasley huffed. Christina had never met anyone as adept at expelling mighty breaths of air as this woman. “Yes, dessert. Didn’t you bake pies this mornin’ like I told you?”

  Christina moaned. Just as she was setting out the ingredients to roll the crusts after lunch, the boy from the telegrapher’s office had summoned her to the train s
tation to meet the mission board representatives. “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Beasley. I was called away, and—”

  “An’ you neglected your duties here.”

  Eight pairs of eyes stared at Christina—one furious glare and seven gazes ranging from disappointed to embarrassed. She squirmed, as uncomfortable as she’d been when Mr. Regehr had mentioned Ham Dresden’s accusations. She couldn’t easily change Mr. Regehr’s opinion of her, but perhaps she could mollify the sweet-toothed boarders and their irascible hostess. “What if I whip some cream and put it over sliced peaches? Would that suffice?”

  One of the women boarders licked her lips, but Mrs. Beasley blew out another noisy breath and flapped a hand in dismissal. “I suppose.”

  Christina turned to go.

  “But we’re gonna have us a talk this evenin’.”

  Chapter 12

  “Miss Willems, can I talk to you … about somethin’ important?”

  Caught in that hazy place between dream and sleep, Christina snuffled. “Did you say something, Cora?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” The bedsprings creaked as Cora repositioned herself. “Can we talk?”

  Truthfully, Christina had no desire for another chat. Her meeting with the mission board representatives hadn’t gone well, she’d had a distressing back-and-forth exchange with Levi Jonnson, followed by Tommy’s heartrending pleas for her to stay—something she couldn’t possibly do—and then the day had ended with her listening to Mrs. Beasley’s diatribe and veiled threats of expulsion. Could she take one more piece of bad news without falling apart? Probably not. But how could she refuse Cora? Obviously the young woman held a grave concern.

  Christina forced her bleary eyes open and rolled in the bed to face Cora. A scant amount of moonlight slanted through the lace-draped window, creating shadows in every corner of the small room. Christina focused on Cora’s pale face, only inches from hers. “What is it?”

  “Wes came by this afternoon, an’…”

  Christina stifled a groan. Another failed conversation.

  “He said the mission men aren’t gonna give you money to build the house back. He said the mission men want somebody else to run the poor farm.” Icy fingers found Christina’s arm and dug in, the grip desperate. “Miss Willems, what’ll we all do if the poor farm doesn’t get built again? We can’t stay here for … forever.”

  According to Mrs. Beasley, they might not even be able to stay until Christina located a large enough house to accommodate all her charges. Assuming she could secure funds to purchase another house. Worries attacked, tempting her to dissolve into tears. But Christina couldn’t allow emotion to buckle her. She drew a fortifying breath.

  “I never intended for us to stay here forever. Just until we get our house back.” Wherever that house may be. “I don’t want you to worry, Cora. God will take care of us.” The words slipped effortlessly from Christina’s lips. How many times had she heard her father say the same thing? Papa’s faith was so strong. He’d expected Christina to be strong, too. She wouldn’t disappoint him.

  “You keep sayin’ that, but Wes said …” From the other side of the mattress, Cora paused, her eyes wide. “He said the mission men wouldn’t let you be in charge anymore because there was some man at the poor farm before I came. Some man who … who …” She gulped, the sound loud in the nighttime silence. “Did he woo you?”

  Christina raised up on one elbow. The bedsprings twanged in protest. “Absolutely not!”

  “N-no?”

  If Christina hadn’t known better, she would have thought Cora sounded disappointed. “Of course not! Why, I would never … never … engage in anything less than an acceptable relationship with a man. And certainly not with someone who resided beneath my roof!”

  “I … I see.”

  Recalling Cora’s odd statement at the supper table, Christina touched her shoulder. “Cora, was there something else you wanted to tell me?”

  “About what?” Defensiveness colored Cora’s voice.

  Christina pinched her brow, worry striking anew. Oh, how she hoped Cora wasn’t seriously ill. Years ago, even before Mama died, a man had come to her parents’ house to spend his final days in order to spare his family the painful task of watching him succumb to an incurable sickness. Perhaps Cora faced a similar fate. Using her gentlest tone, Christina asked, “About why you’ve been so tired and wan of late?”

  Cora rolled the opposite direction, pulling the pile of covers up to her ear. “No, ma’am.”

  “Are you sure? You can talk to me, Cora. About anything. Anything at all.”

  Very slowly Cora turned her head and peeked at Christina with one brown eye. A tear glistened. Tousled brown hair fell across her lashes, flicking with each blink. “You say that, but …”

  Christina grazed Cora’s shoulder with her fingertips. “I say it because I mean it. I’m here to help you. I want to understand.”

  Cora’s eye squeezed shut. The tear slipped free, leaving a silvery trail down Cora’s pale cheek. “No way you can understand. Not somebody like you, who …” She released a shuddering breath. Flopping fully on her side again, she faced the wall. “I’m tired, Miss Willems. Good night.”

  “Good night, Cora.” Christina lay back down and pulled the covers to her chin. Warm and snug, tired and in need of rest, she waited for sleep to claim her. But blessed rest eluded her. Cora certainly carried a heavy burden, yet she refused to share it. All the day’s failures washed over her.

  Papa would have convinced the mission board men to provide funding.

  Papa would have spoken firmly yet kindly with Mr. Jonnson.

  Papa would have reassured Wes and helped Tommy understand why the Tatums’ house was the best temporary shelter for him.

  Papa would have managed to lead Cora to a place of peace and comfort.

  The tears she tried valiantly to hold at bay filled her eyes. She wanted so much to emulate her dear, steadfast father. Dear Lord, why must I always fall short?

  After cleaning up the breakfast mess, Christina instructed Cora to rest, slipped paper and the stub of a pencil into her coat pocket, and then set off for the livery. Wes always drove out to the poor farm midmorning to see to their animals, but she hoped she’d catch him before he left. She wanted to ride along today. The ride would give her and Wes a chance to talk, but she’d also be able to examine the house at her leisure, perhaps make some sketches of the damage to share with the mission board. And she intended to visit Papa’s grave. How she longed for her father’s sage counsel.

  By the time she reached the livery, her nose felt frozen. Snowflakes danced in the air. Apparently Jay Creeger’s prediction of another snowfall prior to spring had been accurate. Christina raised the collar of her coat around her jaw and hurried the final few yards to the livery’s wide opening. As she stepped inside, she called, “Hello? Is anyone here?”

  From a shadowy stall at the back, Wes emerged. One of the things Christina had always liked about Wes was his ready smile. Although learning didn’t come easily and people sometimes tormented him, the young man had always possessed a cheerful outlook. It pierced her to see him frowning as he trudged across the floor to meet her.

  Christina forced her quivering lips into a smile. “Wes, I’m glad you haven’t left for the poor farm yet. I’d like to ride out with you today.”

  “Why?”

  His blunt response was a knife in Christina’s breast. The fire had damaged much more than the house—it was eating away at the once easy, comfortable relationships she’d shared with the residents. “So we can talk. I’m sorry I missed you at the boardinghouse yesterday.”

  Wes dropped his gaze and drew arches in the dirt with the toe of his boot. “Me, too. I won’t bother you there again.” He sent a brief look in her direction before examining the ground again. “That lady, she’s real noisy.”

  Christina took a forward step and placed her hand on Wes’s forearm. “I’m sorry if she hurt your feelings.”

  He shook his head,
shrugging. “Didn’t hurt my feelings. Just scared me. I didn’t like her.” He looked Christina full in the face. “Cora doesn’t like her either. She wants to leave that place.” A hint of accusation colored his tone.

  Christina sighed. “Wes, will you believe me if I say I’m doing everything I can to bring us all together again?”

  He offered another slow shrug, his gaze angling to the left.

  Christina squeezed his arm. “Have I ever lied to you before?”

  “I dunno.”

  His response hurt. Yes, the fire had certainly stolen something precious—Wes’s trust. She injected as much confidence in her voice as her tight throat would allow.

  “I can’t make promises about what will happen, because I don’t know for sure what the mission board will choose to do. But I promise to try to convince them to rebuild or, at the very least, to allow me to purchase another property where you, Tommy, Herman and Harriet, Alice and her youngsters, Joe and Florie, Cora, Rose, and Louisa can all live together again.” She tugged at his arm until he met her gaze. “Do you believe me?”

  Wes turned his head slowly, almost imperceptibly, until his puzzled gaze landed on Christina’s face. “What about you?”

  “Me?”

  “You gonna live there, too?”

  Oh, how Christina wanted to remain with the others! They were her family—without them, she was as useless as a boat without oars. But the men had been adamant about not putting a woman in charge of the poor farm. “I-I don’t know, Wes. I’ll try, all right?”

  He heaved a giant-sized sigh. “All right, Miss Willems.” A sad smile quivered at the corners of his lips. “Your pa told me enough times when I was thinkin’ I was too dumb to do something, ‘All a fella can do is pray an’ try.’ I reckon that’s all you can do, too.”

  “Pray and try.” She’d heard the advice so many times. She could still see her father’s tender expression as he’d uttered the words. “Thank you for the reminder, Wes.”

  “Well, you ready to go on out?” Wes’s face crunched into a look of abject sympathy. “That cow’s prob’ly ready to burst by now.”