“I know with everything I am that Mrs. Gaskin is sitting right now at the very feet of Jesus and the angels are singing glory hallelujahs because she’s come home.” The doctor’s gulping sobs tore chunks out of her heart. She held her dear mentor and friend in her arms while he sobbed like a small child.
When the storm passed, he drew himself upright and, taking a handkerchief from his pocket, mopped his face. “Thank you, my dear. You are an immense comfort. I thought putting Helen here in the parlor was better for those who ask to see her.”
“You could have waited for some of us to help you.”
“I know, but . . . it was just something I had to do. The funeral will be tomorrow.”
“All right.”
“I will be either upstairs or out in the garden with Tom. His gentleness is such a comfort, and I think he loved her as much as I. Call me if you need me.”
Elizabeth wiped her eyes and took in a cleansing breath. “I will.” But inside she knew only someone bleeding to death on his porch would merit that call.
She spent the morning comforting callers and sending a few who needed to see a doctor across town to the new man, Dr. Johanson.
Her father was the only one she sent out to the garden to visit with Dr. Gaskin.
Gifts of food covered the counters in the kitchen and filled the icebox. One of the church women volunteered to stay and manage the kitchen, to keep the coffeepot simmering and plates filled with cookies, cake, and sweet breads.
Everyone who came brought something—a jar of jam or pickles, fresh-baked bread, hot dishes, and salads—enough to feed a platoon of hungry soldiers.
As the flow of grievers trickled off in the afternoon, the women sent some of the food to the neighbors’ iceboxes to wait for after the funeral. What they could serve, they did.
Elizabeth made her way out to the backyard as the late afternoon sun sent long shadows across the lawn and flower beds. Two men sat in the gazebo set near a small pond.
“Have you two eaten?” she asked as she drew near.
“No, but maybe we could take a little somethin’ now.” Tom looked to the doctor for confirmation. At his nod, Elizabeth smiled.
“Good.” Inside she rejoiced at how much better he looked. Color had returned to his face, his eyes weren’t as red as before, and his appearance was not so ghostly. “I’ll bring you each a plate.”
“H-how’s it going in there?” Dr. Gaskin nodded toward the house.
“We have enough food to feed half of Northfield, but we’re taking care of it. Mrs. Warren chose to stay and help. There are flowers all around the parlor. Pastor Mueller sent a message to say he wants to come by later.”
“Good. Helen had the service all planned. I found it in the box she always told me to look in if she died.”
“That sounds like her, always making things easy for others.” Elizabeth turned and blinked several times, forcing the tears back where they lurked, ready to spring forth at the least provocation.
“She even wrote me a letter.” The doctor shook his head. “Wrote it a couple of years ago.” He looked up to Elizabeth. “You think she had an idea this might happen?” He jerked his head. “If she was sick, she should’ve told me. After all, I am a doctor. I could’ve helped her.” Frustration coated with anger made him clench his teeth. He pounded one fist into the other palm. “She should’ve said something.”
“I don’t think she knew. I think she just wanted to be prepared.” Elizabeth tried to think of something comforting to say, but no wise words made their way to her tongue. She shook her head. “No, I don’t think she had any idea.”
He acts like he is angry, Elizabeth thought on the way back to the kitchen. Surely he isn’t. All his dear wife had done was to make things easier for him, just as she had done all her life.
Choosing from the wide variety of food in the kitchen, Elizabeth fixed two plates and, setting them on a tray along with coffee, rolls, and a plate of desserts, headed back out the door. Like the men, she’d rather be out here in the peace of the garden than in the parlor where more tears were being shed.
When she finally went home later that evening, she could hardly make herself climb the stairs to her room. Moonlight streaming through the sheers at her window painted squares of light on the floor. Thoughts of the doctor pacing around that big house all by himself made her eyes smart again. While she’d suggested he drink a glass of wine to help him sleep, she doubted he would.
Lord, take care of Dr. Gaskin tonight. Let him know you are with him and that Mrs. Gaskin is in heaven with you. Please help us all get through tomorrow. While Elizabeth had been to funerals, none were for someone as close to her as this. She’d thought of staying at the doctor’s house during the funeral tomorrow to help prepare for the repast to be served after the burial, but when he’d asked her to sit with him in the front pew, what could she say?
Lord, that’s the last thing I want to do. She sighed and turned on her side. I know they both looked on me as a daughter, but, God, right now I’d rather be in Africa.
She turned again and reached for the glass of water that always waited for her on her nightstand. One thing for sure, crying so much made her very thirsty.
The morning dawned bright with sun, but the house as well as her heart felt like rain. She donned the black dress her mother had hung on the armoire door. Freshly brushed and pressed, nevertheless, the black silk looked like what it was, a dress of mourning. Rows of pin tucks fitted the bodice to the waist, and mutton sleeves puffed at the shoulder and fitted from elbow to wrist. The skirt fell straight to the tops of her shoes in front and gathered in the back to a small bustle. The black hat with a small feather and full veil sat on a form on the side of her dressing table.
“I hate wearing black,” she told the pale face in the mirror. “I look bad enough this morning without unrelenting black.”
“What’s that, dear?” Annabelle stuck her head in the doorway. “I was just on my way to wake you.”
“Nothing.” Elizabeth knew that complaining would do no good. One wore black for mourning, and that was that. No sense in starting a scandal. If she wore anything but black her mother would be mortified, and while her father’s eyes might dance in delight, he’d never admit that he liked it.
The organ was playing as they entered the church—sad, dark music that managed to even take the color out of the sun streaming through stained-glass windows. Long faces, handkerchiefs held to sniffing noses, dark clothing—all the accoutrements of sorrow.
Boughs of cherry blossoms filled large vases and pots, bringing not only a burst of pink and white to the darkness but also a cool fragrance as Elizabeth made her way down the aisle and slid into the first pew next to the doctor.
He took her hand and shook his head at her whispered question asking how he was.
The service passed. That was about all she could say for it. Her throat clogged so badly on the hymns that she could not sing. From the sounds of the standing-room-only congregation, others were doing no better than she. Only by keeping her gaze on the empty cross above the altar could she keep from breaking down.
After the benediction Elizabeth and the doctor followed the pastor out the side door and into the cemetery. A mound of dirt was piled by the oblong grave. Men from the congregation, including Phillip Rogers, carried the coffin to its final resting place under the spreading boughs of an ancient maple. A sob broke from Dr. Gaskin’s throat, but he never said a word, even when they lowered the casket into the hole in front of them. Her fingers felt about to shatter from his grip on her hand as the pine box disappeared. Elizabeth let her own tears flow unheeded.
Back at the house she stood beside the doctor, greeting the mourners as they arrived. Ladies of the church directed visitors, served the food, and made sure there was plenty of coffee.
“You don’t have to stay here with me,” Dr. Gaskin murmured to her when there was a pause in the line of mourners.
“I know. But I want to.” She bit her
lip against the lie. No, she didn’t want to, but she felt she should.
When the last person left, she wandered out to the garden, where Tom and her father were in deep discussion by the roses. She angled away from them and took a seat in the gazebo. She and Mrs. Gaskin had sat there so often, talking about everything from the doctor’s cases to Elizabeth’s latest beau. Or imagined beau. She’d scared most of them away with her talk of medicine. True, that wasn’t the most ladylike topic of discussion, but it was what interested her.
She smiled to herself. One time she’d asked a young man how his gall bladder was. She’d never heard from him again, but then, that was the purpose of the question. He’d been so full of himself she’d wanted to stick him with a pin to burst his bubble. The question worked equally as well.
Ah, Mrs. Gaskin, why’d you have to go and die like this? No wonder your husband is upset. We fight for life, and you just left it.
It had to have been her heart, she reasoned. Perhaps it surprised her as much as it shocked us. After all, think of going to sleep thinking of all you had to do on the morrow and instead waking up in heaven.
Father God, that’s the only good thing about all this, knowing that our life continues in you. If I didn’t feel so sure I’d see Mrs. Gaskin again, I’d . . .
I’d what? She didn’t know. The thought of no heaven was too excruciating.
Swallows dipped and swooped over the pond, snatching their evening feast of bugs. Two frogs croaked from the cattails, a tenor and bass duet.
Somewhere in the near distance, a child laughed and shrieked, “Higher, Daddy, higher.” A dog barked, announcing an unwelcome visitor.
Elizabeth leaned back against the cushioned bench. Slight movement on the railing caught her attention. Two ants carried bits of something, maybe crumbs dropped by a grieving guest.
Life went on in spite of sorrow.
Would tomorrow be just another day? she wondered.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Blessing, North Dakot
Thorliff took the letter from his mother’s hand. He glanced at the return address and felt his heart ricochet off his ribs. “From St. Olaf.”
“Ja, aren’t you going to open it?”
He nodded and dug in his pocket for his knife. He held the letter with his teeth, using both hands to open the blade, then slit the envelope along the top edge. His hands shook enough that it took both of them to shut the knife. Letting it slide back to nest next to an arrowhead he’d found in the field, he took out the paper and leaned closer to the lamp to read it. When he looked up, he held the letter out to his mother. “I’ve been accepted.” At the same time he shook his head. “But where I’ll find the money, I sure enough don’t know.”
“Don’t you worry about that.” Ingeborg folded the letter and tapped the edge on her finger. “The money will be there when you need it.”
“But if we have a drought again . . .” Thorliff inhaled enough to stretch his chest. “I know Far is worried.” Thorliff used Far and Mor and Pa and Ma interchangeably, being totally comfortable in either Norwegian, his native tongue, and English. While he still spoke with an accent, he no longer felt concern that people might not understand him.
“Instead of worrying, we must trust that God will take care of us. He always has. Why would he stop now?”
“But what if Far says no to my going? He’s not been agreeable so far.”
“When the time comes, he will do what is right and best.”
Thorliff cocked his head. “So how does one know what is right and best?”
Ingeborg tapped him on his chest. “You listen to your heart. That’s where God speaks to us. Haakan knows how much you want to go to school, how much you need to go away to school. He will come around. You just be patient and keep praying.”
“But what if God says no?” Thorliff clenched his fists in his pockets. Please, God, you’ve got to say yes.
“If God says no, sometimes He means not yet. Waiting is hard but good for building character.”
Thorliff groaned. Surely I have enough character. “I know.” His shoulders slumped, and he stared at the floor. When he looked up again, his voice broke in the middle of the question. “So what do I write back to them?”
“That you are looking forward to attending St. Olaf and thank you for the acceptance.”
“Really?”
“Ja. Really. If something happens, we can always cancel.”
“Thank you, Mor.” Thorliff picked his letter up from the table. “I’ll answer this tomorrow.” On the way up the stairs he thought back to the afternoon fishing at the river. If he went clear to Northfield, Minnesota, for school, there would be no more fishing, hunting, riding, or working with the men. And there would be no Anji. That thought made him clunk the toe of his boot on the riser and stumble. While he often tried to convince himself they were just good friends, none of his other friends made his heart race or his tongue get tangled in his teeth. When he walked with her, he knew he could wrestle a buffalo to the ground if need be. Not that he’d ever seen a live buffalo in the area, but he had picked up a wagonload of bones.
He hung his shirt and pants on the pegs lining the wall and crawled into bed beside his sleeping brother. Hands locked behind his head, he lay listening to the night noises. A nighthawk screeched. An owl hooted up the river. The curtains rustled in the breeze, puffing out like white clouds, then falling straight again. The house creaked. Andrew snuffled as he breathed. Crickets sawed their summer medley. Home sounds, comfortable like the down-filled pillow he rested his head on. Would he miss all these things too, or only his family and friends in Blessing? Surely there were crickets and curtains and peeper frogs in Minnesota too.
But no Anji or Andrew or Astrid. No Mor and Far and Tante Kaaren. Sadness bit his tongue like vinegar.
Breakfast the next morning was nearly over with, the cows already milked, and the rooster still crowing when Haakan gave his sons their chores for the day. “Thorliff, you go on over and help Lars today. Andrew, you can help the girls in the garden.”
Andrew groaned. “I could help Onkel Lars.”
“I know, but you’re better on the hoe.” Haakan leaned over and tousled Andrew’s hair.
Andrew rolled his eyes and propped one hand under his chin. “How come the weeds grow without rain and the corn and beans don’t?”
Haakan looked to Ingeborg and shook his head. “I don’t know. Ask your mor.”
Ingeborg shrugged. “That’s a good question for Pastor Solberg. But I do know that weeds even grew during Bible times.”
“Tante Kaaren said a weed is just a flower in the wrong place.”
Astrid looked up from spooning oatmeal into her mouth.
“Tell that to the pigweed and thistles.”
“I heard down in Richland County the thistles are so bad they have to wrap canvas around the horses’ legs and bellies to keep them from being cut up.” Haakan drained his coffee cup. “Sure am grateful that’s not the case here.”
“How come there were no thistles when we came here?”
“The prairie sod was so thick nothing new could grow. And before you ask, the thistle seed came mixed in with the seed wheat. Weeds don’t need much invitation to take over.” Haakan thumped his young son on the shoulder. “That’s why we hoe the garden. If we don’t get rain soon, we will have to haul water from the river again for the garden. Can’t take a chance on our well going dry.” He pushed his chair back. “Takk for maten,” he said to his wife.
The boys echoed him as they followed his broad back out the door.
“Velbekomme,” Ingeborg called after them.
That evening when the chores were finished, Thorliff wrote his letter to St. Olaf and slid it into the envelope. He’d washed before climbing the stairs to his room. With Andrew downstairs playing checkers with Astrid, he’d finally had a few minutes to himself. The letter was simple, but his dream wore shadows. How could he possibly take money from his family in a drought year to go to scho
ol? He could always wait another year. Postponing didn’t kill dreams.
As Mor said, sometimes God answered with wait, not yet. He eyed the story he’d started about a young man who came to this country and made mistakes with the language. Something he knew a great deal about.
But instead of writing, he changed clothes, slicked his hair back, and letter in hand, descended the stairs.
“I’m taking this over to be mailed.”
At his announcement, Astrid looked up from the checkerboard. “You sure are dressed up to walk to the store.” Her merry grin told him more was coming. “Thorliff ’s going courting, Thorliff ’s going courting.”
“Hush with teasing your brother.” But the smile on Ingeborg’s face made Thorliff ’s go from warm to hot. “I have some quilt pieces to send to Agnes if you would please take them.”
Now his ears felt on fire. “Ja, I will do that gladly.” He shifted from one foot to the other as he waited for her to find the cloth bits and roll them together to tie with a scrap of cloth.
Giving him the packet, she patted his arm. “Don’t stay out too late.”
“I won’t.”
Freedom was running across the prairie with the moon rising behind him and throwing long shadows from every post and weed stalk. It was feeling his hair flopping in the breeze and shouting, “Anji! Anji!” with no one to hear. He slowed his pace to catch the breath cramping his chest, then shot off again, leaping a ditch, feeling pride at his long strides, wishing to dart and dip like the bats skimming the air for their evening bug feast.
He dropped his letter into the mail slot at Penny’s store and headed back to the Baard farm. The dog barked at his arrival, then wagged himself nearly in half, as if apologizing for not recognizing the guest.
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