“Because sometimes it feels like Ingrid loves us more than our own ma did,” Agnes blurted out. “I know what you’re gonna tell me—that I shouldn’t say things like that.”
Despite his promises to answer any question she asked, he did not know how to answer this one. The truth was, Diantha had reminded him of a ginger-colored barn cat he had owned that had given birth to a healthy litter but had walked away from the mewling kittens and had never gone back. They would have starved had not another mother cat who had given birth a few weeks earlier adopted them.
The ginger cat had gone feral soon after, stalking small prey in the woods, avoiding the other domestic animals in the barn. He had only caught rare glimpses of her from time to time as she had flitted from tree to tree—until she disappeared entirely.
In a way, that described Diantha’s behavior too the past few years. It had been the strangest thing to watch this pretty, feminine woman slowly going feral.
He saw other women having child after child and caring for them like lionesses—but not Diantha. When she was in her darker moods, sometimes she went for walks and left the children, no matter how young, to fend for themselves.
Then she would come back, her pockets stuffed with hickory nuts, or wintergreen, or an apron full of blackberries. She would act as though she were slowly coming out of a fog when she arrived home, as though she had forgotten she even had a home, or children, and had somehow wandered into someone else’s cabin by mistake.
He often feared that she would forget to come home entirely, that she would simply merge and blend into the shadows—like that feral cat—until he never saw her again.
On her good days, Diantha kept them fed and clothed. She even put up food and gardened, but her emotional detachment when they were hurt or sick was disconcerting.
How could he possibly explain this to his daughter when he didn’t understand it himself? There was one thing he did understand—Agnes deserved and expected the truth, not some platitude.
“You were right back at the cemetery,” he said. “Your ma did the best she could, but she had a greater struggle with being a mother than most women.”
“That’s kinda what I thought too.” Agnes nodded her head. “Pa, I know the only reason you married Ingrid was because it was the only way that the judge would let you keep us—but there’s something I think you need to know.”
“What’s that?”
“Ingrid always acts like she loves us—even when you aren’t around to watch.”
It was such a strange thing for a child to say, but then, Agnes had never really been a child. She had become a sort of surrogate parent long before her mother’s death.
“The day after Ingrid came to live with us,” Agnes said, “she told me that it was all right for me to be a little girl—and that I didn’t have to do the laundry. She told me to just . . . go play.”
Joshua felt a lump forming in his throat. “And did you?”
“Yeah, Pa. I did. And it felt real good.”
“Did you find something?” Mary called.
Ingrid carried the pillbox out of the bedroom and handed the pills to Mary.
Mary adjusted her glasses, peered at the bottle label, and read out loud: “Graves Pills for Amenorrhea.”
“What is this big word mean?”
“I have no idea.” Mary began to read again. “These pills have been approved by the M.R.C.S. of London, Edinburgh, Dublin as a never-fail remedy for producing the monthly flow. Though perfectly harmless to the most delicate, ladies are earnestly requested not to mistake their condition, as miscarriage would certainly ensue.”
“What all these words mean?” Ingrid asked.
“I’ve seen advertisements for this kind of medicine in the newspapers,” Mary said. “Some say they are to be used to unblock menses.”
“Unblock menses?” Ingrid said. “How menses get blocked?”
“The only way I know of is with a baby. I overheard two of Barb’s friends talking about it. One said that she took something called ‘Female Regulator Pills’ every month just in case she and her husband had created another baby.”
Ingrid was appalled. “Women do such a thing?”
“It appears so.”
“What is in these pills?”
“Poisons of some kind. Roots. Herbs. They can cause a woman to lose her baby if it doesn’t kill her first. They were advertising these things even back when I was a young woman, but it was never a temptation to me. I always wanted more children than the two boys I had.”
“How you know all this?”
“That’s why Barb began to hate me so much,” Mary said. “I saw the pills. I knew what they were for and I told Zeb. They had a terrible fight about it. It’s hard for young women to have one baby after another . . . I know that.” Mary stared down at the box she was holding. “But I couldn’t stand by and keep quiet. My grandchild had already quickened within her. Barb was three months along.”
Ingrid glanced out the window. “Quick. Give box. Joshua is coming!”
Mary handed it back to her. “Are you going to tell him what you found?”
“I not know.”
“It could be the reason Diantha died.”
“Diantha kill self, getting rid of baby? This hurt Joshua so bad, he cannot stand it. I think I need hide it.”
Ingrid hurried into the bedroom and buried the pillbox deep within the straw along with the diary. Then she tugged the large trunk outside into the front room and opened the lid. When Joshua and the children came through the door, she had pulled one piece of fabric out and was measuring it on the table with Mary’s rapt attention.
“You have nice picnic?” Ingrid asked, trying to look as innocent as possible.
When Joshua and the girls entered the cabin, the first thing he saw was that Ingrid had managed to open the trunk.
“You found the key. Where was it?”
“In drawer.” She seemed distracted by some yellow material. “Mary, you hold this end, please?”
“Was there anything else in there?” he asked. “Besides all that fabric?”
She dug the last piece of material out of the trunk and brandished a hand over it. “All empty.”
Agnes pounced on a length of lovely dark rose. “Could you make me a dress out of this one, Ingrid?”
“Ja. I make you fine dress soon.”
He thought he caught a look of guilt on his mother’s face, but dismissed it. His mother would certainly have nothing to feel guilty about.
Mary held some dark lavender material close to Ingrid’s face. “This would be a lovely color on you.”
“Very pretty! I like.”
Pleased that his mother and Ingrid were getting along so well and obviously enjoying themselves, he grabbed his hat and headed out to the barn. He had spent most of the morning with his daughters, but it was time to get back to work. With Ingrid in charge of his home, he was getting more accomplished than ever before. He had finished planting all the corn and managed to get all his spring wheat planted. Today, he was hoping to start claiming another acre or two of virgin soil with his new John Deere plow.
Hopefully he would get it finished soon enough to have the time to smooth out the newly plowed acre with the metal teeth of his old spike-toothed harrow before starting to put up hay for the winter. He didn’t have the money for more seed to plant the new ground now, but if this year’s wheat, corn, and oat crop did well, next year he should have enough to plant every inch of his tilled land.
His head was filled with ideas for improving his land now that he was free to work without constantly worrying about and checking on the children. He had never dreamed that having Ingrid beneath his roof would give him so much freedom or heart for the future. As he hitched one of his horses to the plow, he was whistling.
Later that night, after the children and Mary were all in bed, Joshua went out to check on their cow that was ready to calf. Ingrid went into the bedroom, closed the door, and quickly changed into her ni
ghtgown. This gave her a few stolen minutes to examine Diantha’s diary.
She sat on the floor on the far side of the bed and dug Diantha’s diary out of the mattress. Beneath the oil light, she closely examined the unfamiliar handwriting. It was slanted so far to the left Ingrid had to cock her head to read it. The words started out with no preamble, nothing except a date and Diantha’s stark words.
December 2, 1870
The snow is high. Up to the windowsill. Too much snow for this early in December. Joshua has shoveled a path to the barn for me and suggests that I wrap up in something warm and come out with him for a breath of fresh air.
I don’t want to go to the barn. I don’t want to breathe frigid air. I want to stay in my bed forever. If it were not for these children, I would not have to stir, but they are greedy little things who demand to be fed. Sometimes I get up and cook just to make them be quiet.
I see Agnes looking at me with critical eyes when she has to fix breakfast for the other girls. I see Joshua trying to wash dishes, doing my work for me, because I no longer care if the dishes get washed or not.
His devotion sickens me. His constant determination to get me out of this “mood,” as he calls it, irritates me. The “winter doldrums,” he says, as though it is a disease that can be cured with the coming of spring.
Perhaps he is right, but it is a long time until spring, and there is yet another baby to birth before then. I don’t mind the carrying of the baby—it gives me an excuse to stay in bed. And I don’t mind the birthing of the baby—that part is easy for me. But oh, how I hate the thought of taking care of it!
Joshua thinks it strange that I care so little for our children. He has not yet realized that it is foolish to care—that caring only makes things worse when you have to bury them—as Mama did, and as I will probably have to. We did everything we could to save the little ones, Mama and I, and nothing made any difference. Nor did we have any control over the deaths of my two brothers. It bothers Mama so that their graves are not graves—but pretend graves where their bodies should be, instead of where they are, moldering away in some Southern state. I am glad I don’t care much for my own. It will make burying them, when the time comes, so much easier. I refuse to be like Mama and spend the rest of my life grieving.
I wish I had never laid eyes on Joshua and his never-ending expectations. I wish I never had to see disappointment in his eyes again. I look back and wonder who that girl was who married him. It certainly was not me. I cannot imagine ever having enough energy to care that much.
It is interesting to me that Mama gave me this diary book for my birthday. She said I could keep track of my children’s accomplishments and funny things the little ones say. She says it will help me remember these sweet moments later in life.
I doubt she intended for me to use it as a way to drain the poison out of my brain. Someday, when this book is filled, I will bury it somewhere no one will ever find it—but for now, it is the only place I can say what I want without doing any more damage than I already am.
There was a polite knock on the door.
“Are you decent?” Joshua asked. “I need some clean rags. She’s going to have that calf any time now.”
“One little minute,” Ingrid said.
She quickly stuffed the diary back into the straw and opened the door so that Joshua could get whatever it was he needed. She was shocked nearly speechless by what she had just read. What kind of a woman deliberately chose not to love her own children simply out of fear of losing them? What kind of woman, expecting a baby or not, allowed her twelve-year-old daughter to take over the cooking for the family and allowed her husband to take over the household chores when there was nothing physically wrong with her?
Ingrid could not imagine ever wanting to stay in bed all day when there were so many interesting things to do. Diantha could have used some of that beautiful fabric to make clothes for her children. She could have sung to them, played games with them, and enjoyed them. She could have spent time with Joshua, who adored her. The whole thing was incomprehensible, except for one thing she knew for sure: Joshua did not deserve to read these terrible things that his wife had written.
With a heavy heart, she went to find her husband an old towel with which to welcome the little calf when it came.
17
December 5th, 1870
The babe is here. A boy. Joshua is ecstatic. The girls are thrilled. My mother—poor, besotted fool—can barely bring herself to lay the baby down.
And I feel nothing.
Joshua wants to name him Bert, after someone he knew in the war. I don’t care what he calls it. I just want to be left alone, but the more I want to be left alone, the more everyone seems determined to talk to me. Joshua keeps bringing the baby in to me, wanting me to admire the little fingers and toes, etc.
And I continue to feel nothing. Except sleepy. Sometimes I feel like I could sleep for years. I will have no other children. I am finished. Joshua has his boy now. I will not give birth to one more thing I have to care for.
Ingrid glanced at the clock. Joshua had been gone a long time. The cow must be having a difficult time.
So was she. It hurt to read these terrible things, and yet she could not stop. The diary drew her with an almost sick fascination. It also helped her better understand this family she had taken on. No wonder Agnes had talked and acted like a thirty-year-old woman when Ingrid first came! It also explained why the girls accepted her so quickly, even though she was a stranger and a stepmother. They were starved for a mother who would actually love and take care of them.
March 11th, 1871
I went for a walk in the woods this afternoon. I know Joshua thought it was a good sign. He was thrilled that I had actually gotten dressed and left the cabin. He probably thinks my “mood” has taken a turn for the better. Little does he know that what I really want is to start walking and never stop. It was everything I could do to make myself return to this place. I stayed out until dusk, even though I knew the nighttime predators were already out hunting. I stood at the edge of the woods for a long time, trying to pull myself together enough to go back inside the house.
It appears that I have merely exchanged one obsession for another. Whereas I could hardly make myself leave the cavern of my bedroom this winter, now I can barely force myself to go back inside at all. It made me physically ill to see the lights in the windows and know that people I care nothing for are waiting for me to come in and take care of them. I am so tired—of Joshua, of the children, of the drudgery. Even though I rarely lift my hand anymore, the work is still there, nagging, nagging, nagging, like a bad toothache.
Today, my mother asked what was wrong. She is a timid soul around me these days and afraid of offending, especially now that I am her only living child. It took great courage for her to even ask me such a question.
I told her I thought all I needed was a spring tonic.
She was thrilled with that answer. Within the hour, she had dug and washed the fresh roots of a sassafras tree, steeped the thin orange-colored shavings into a pan of boiling water, and came to me bearing sugar-sweetened sassafras tea—my spring tonic—which will presumably fix me right up. The tea did, at least, taste good. I shall have to remember to pretend to be refreshed and happy the next time she visits.
The real answer to her question is that I know there is something wrong with me, but I don’t know what it is. I don’t know how to fix it. I know I’m not normal. I know I’m not a good wife or a good mother—but I don’t know why.
I’ve tried to figure out how other women do it—how they manage to find pleasure in their lives, and I think I have finally figured it out. They are too stupid to know any better. They are like cows munching grass while their calves nurse—no thoughts in their heads except for the next mouthful of grass.
I have many thoughts in my head. Too many. Sometimes it almost feels as though there are voices in there too. This is new. These voices-that-are-not-voices call me from the dark
woods around our home and tell me that it would be good to start walking and not stop.
I have tried not to obey these voices-that-are-not-voices, but they continue to call. Sometimes that call is louder than others. Sometimes I sit on the porch and strain to hear them. I get annoyed when Joshua talks to me. I would rather listen to the voices. I tried to ignore them at first, but lately, I find them much more compelling.
This is my secret. I have told no one. I know if anyone found out what is inside my brain, they would take me to the insane asylum in Kalamazoo and lock me up. So I am very careful around Joshua, since he is the most likely to realize that there is something wrong with me. He is the one most likely to sniff out my secret.
I force myself to smile and nod and pretend I’m listening to him even though I am not. Joshua sees what he wants to see—the lovely young girl he married. Men are so easy to fool. There is nothing he can say that interests me—but the voices have much to say that interests me . . .
Ingrid slammed the diary shut and stuffed it deep beneath the mattress. She had never read such terrible words in her life. Diantha had not loved Joshua. She had not even loved her own children. She had preferred listening to her pretend voices rather than the sound of her own husband’s voice, or her children’s. It was obvious the woman was sick in the head—how could Joshua not have seen?
The answer came to her in a sudden flash of understanding. Joshua had not wanted to see. He had loved the young Diantha he had fallen in love with so much, he could not accept the reality of the sick woman she had become.
Ingrid did not know what to do with the diary. If she gave it to Joshua, it would break his heart. If one of the children ever read it, it would break theirs. And yet it did not seem right to destroy it.
She walked into the sitting room and listened. There were no sounds coming from the upstairs except Mary’s snoring, so the girls were all asleep. Bertie was out for the night in his cradle here beside her bed. She had never seen such a good baby. How much Diantha had missed!
A Promise to Love Page 16
