“There was so much blood. So much.”
Frida took his arm and guided him to the living room sofa. “Sit down, Mr. Bridger.”
“It was my fault.”
“No. It was an accident. You must not blame yourself.”
“It was my fault.”
“Hush, you must not say that.”
It didn’t matter if he said it or not. It was true. It was his fault. Because he’d never told Inga he loved her. Because he’d been too blind, too stupid, and too selfish to see it for himself. He’d fallen in love with his wife, and he’d never told her so. Now it might be too late.
“Mr. Bridger, I am going to take Martha and Suzanne home with me for the night,” Frida offered gently.
He glanced toward the oversized chair where the girls were sitting, watching him with wide, frightened eyes. Then he nodded, the lump in his throat making it too difficult to speak.
“Sven will take care of the milking. You must not worry about anything.”
He looked at his neighbor. What would he have done without the Gerhards? First Sven and Frida had helped out when he’d been hurt. Now they were doing even more because of Inga’s fall. They’d gone beyond neighborliness. They’d been true friends to the Bridgers.
Frida squeezed his shoulder. “We are glad to help.” She smiled sadly. “You’ve had much to bear. You and the children. But I’m sure Inga will be all right. You’ll see.”
He closed his eyes, remembering again the scarlet stain that had soaked Inga’s skirts. How could she be all right, losing so much blood? And what was taking the doctor so long? Why didn’t he tell Dirk anything?
“I’m going upstairs.” He started to rise.
His neighbor gently pushed him back down. “The doctor asked you to wait here.”
Frustrated and anxious, he raked his hands through his hair as he stared toward the living room doorway.
If only he’d sent Clara away when she’d first arrived, this wouldn’t have happened. If only he’d made it clear sooner that she wasn’t wanted or welcome. If only he’d told her he didn’t want her bringing him coffee or sitting by his bed, talking about long ago. He didn’t even know who that young man was, the one she’d kept talking about. It wasn’t him. Not anymore.
Clara was góne now, of course. In a rare display of decency—or maybe it was only out of humiliation because she’d failed to entice him away—Clara had left the Bridger farm as soon as her driver returned from fetching the doctor. Without a word to anyone, she’d simply gotten into her fancy carriage and departed the Bridger farm. Dirk wouldn’t have known at all if Martha hadn’t seen her go.
But what did it matter? The damage had already been done, and it was his fault. He couldn’t blame Clara, as much as he wanted to.
Why didn’t the doctor come down and tell him what was wrong? How much longer was it going to take?
My fault.
He hid his face in his hands. If only he’d told Inga how he felt about her, she never would have misinterpreted that moment when she’d seen Dirk and Clara together. If she’d known he loved her, she wouldn’t have run, wouldn’t have tripped, wouldn’t have fallen down the stairs.
The instant he heard Dr. Swenson clearing his throat, Dirk was on his feet. “How is she?” he demanded as he stepped toward the physician.
“Sit down, Mr. Bridger.”
“I want to see her.”
“Not yet.” Like Frida Gerhard had done a short while before, the doctor placed his hand on Dirk’s shoulder and gently forced him to be seated. “I have given her something to make her sleep. She won’t awaken for quite some time.”
There was a hollow feeling in the pit of Dirk’s stomach.
Behind him, he heard Frida say, “Come, children. Let’s go into the kitchen.”
The doctor sank onto a chair opposite Dirk. He removed his glasses and cleaned the lenses with a white handkerchief. Only when the spectacles were back in place did he speak again. “Your wife suffered a severe hemorrhage. The next twenty-four hours will be critical. If she makes it through them, then I believe she will have a chance of returning to good health.”
“Thank God,” Dirk whispered, grabbing hold of the doctor’s words of hope and forgetting the words of caution.
“I would like to bed down here so I might monitor her condition. If you could set up a cot in her room?”
“Of course.”
“Mr. Bridger, you must have guessed the fall induced a miscarriage. It is my opinion that—”
“Miscarriage?” He straightened with a jolt. “She was pregnant?”
“You didn’t know? Ah, well.” Dr. Swenson shook his head. “It was early yet, of course. She was probably waiting until she was sure. She might not have realized it for herself. Young women often don’t.”
She’d been pregnant.
With his baby.
His baby.
He groaned as he hid his face in his hands.
“Mr. Bridger…Dirk…There is more.”
More? He raised his head, met the doctor’s gaze.
“There must have been serious internal tearing. It is why she hemorrhaged. Because of that, you see, it is unlikely she will be able to carry a child again.”
It shouldn’t hurt so much. He’d never wanted a wife and family. It shouldn’t hurt so much.
“Are you sure?” he asked after a lengthy silence.
Dr. Swenson nodded. “Reasonably sure, yes.”
“Does Inga know?”
“Not yet.”
This time when he stood, no one tried to stop him. “I’m going up to sit with her. I want to be with her when she wakes up.”
“She will sleep a long time. Through the night, most likely. Rest now while you are able, Mr. Bridger. You will need your strength.”
“I’m going to sit with her.” He glared at the doctor, a challenge in his eyes.
“Very well. I will pour myself some coffee.”
Dirk climbed the stairs, his footsteps heavy and slow. He was tired, but he doubted it had anything to do with his own health and recovery. It had everything to do with the way he had failed Inga.
He opened the door to their bedroom. The curtains had been pulled, but the doctor had left a lamp burning on the bedside table. It was turned low, barely shedding any light. Inga lay on the far side of the bed, her slight form seeming even more slight beneath the quilt that covered her.
Dirk strode to the stool beside the bed, settled onto it, stared at his wife. She had always been fair-complexioned. Now her skin seemed translucent, as if she might fade away, vanish before his eyes. Her satiny hair lay limp against the pillow. Her bow-shaped mouth—usually pink and moist, always so sweet when he kissed her, always so ready to speak a word of praise or comfort—was a gray-blue color now.
She cared for him. He knew that. He’d always known that. Might she have loved him if he’d been the least bit lovable? He’d like another chance to prove to her he was worthy of her love. If only it wasn’t too late.
“I’m sorry, Inga,” he said after a long silence. “Sorry about everything. I’d make it up to you if I could. What a mess I’ve made of it. If you weren’t so kind-hearted, you wouldn’t—” The word choked off, silenced by an excruciating pain in his heart. Tears welled in his eyes.
He laid his forehead against the quilt—one of her beautiful quilts, made lovingly with her own hands—and did something he hadn’t done since he was eight years old.
He wept.
Nineteen
Inga, don’t give up. You wouldn’t let me. I’m not lettin’ you do it either. Wake up, Inga. Come back to us. Martha and Suzanne and me, we all need you. Nothing else matters except you gettin’ well.”
You don’t belong here, Dirk.
There was pain.
You can’t be happy here.
Always so much pain. Like something clawing and white hot tearing at her insides.
Come away with me.
Why wouldn’t it stop? Why wouldn’t the p
ain go away?
Remember what it was like.
And why wouldn’t that voice stop? Why did those words keep repeating? Over and over and over again.
“I cannot answer your question, Mr. Bridger, because I do not know. There is much we doctors have yet to understand. We can only wait and see. The bleeding has stopped, but if she does not wake up soon…”
“Aunt Inga? Suzanne and me, we’ve come t’see you. You gonna wake up now? You been asleep a long time…How come she doesn’t wake up, Uncle Dirk?”
“I don’t know, moppet. I don’t know.”
You don’t belong here…
“I’ll make it up to you, Inga. I don’t know how, but I swear I will. Just don’t die. I’ll find a way to make you happy. You’ll see.”
You don’t belong here, Dirk…Come away with me…
You don’t belong here, Dirk…Come away with me…
You don’t belong here, Dirk…Come away with me…
Come away with me…
Come away with me…
The sun hurt Inga’s eyes. It spilled through the windows, warm and yellow, casting its brilliant glow throughout the bedroom and blinding her.
She couldn’t believe she had overslept. Not so late the sun was up already.
She sat up and swung her legs over the side of the bed, then stood. The floor seemed to vanish beneath her feet. The world spun out of control and darkness surrounded her as she crumpled downward with a pitiful cry of alarm. She thought she heard someone shout, “Mr. Bridger!” but she couldn’t be sure. The voice seemed to come from so far away.
It was Dirk who drew her back from the dark void into which she’d fallen. “Inga, what have you done?”
She recognized the warmth and strength of his arms as he lifted her into the safety of his embrace. She was disappointed when he lay her on the cool sheets and left her there. With enormous effort, she opened her eyes and looked at him.
He was leaning over her, his hands braced on the mattress. He was unshaven. A dark, unkempt beard hid much of his handsome face from view. She frowned. Why hadn’t she noticed he was growing a beard? She wasn’t sure she liked it. If he was growing it to hide the hollowness of his cheeks and the dark circles beneath his eyes, he had failed.
“You are unwell.” Her words came out half whisper, half croak. “Why aren’t you resting?”
He gave her a hint of a smile but didn’t answer her question. Instead, he said, “Frida, would you send Sven for Dr. Swenson?”
“Of course.”
Inga turned her head on the pillow—something it took great effort to do—and focused her gaze on her neighbor.
“It’s good to have you back, Inga,” the woman said softly.
Back? She didn’t understand. Back from where? She looked at Dirk again.
“You don’t remember what happened?”
She shook her head. “Nej.”
A dark and worrisome expression passed over his eyes. “It doesn’t matter for now.”
“But what—”
“We can talk about it later.” He touched her lightly on the shoulder, then took his hand away. “Do you think you could eat something?”
She didn’t feel hungry, but he seemed to want it. “I suppose so.”
His smile was more earnest this time. “Good.”
“I will get it,” Frida offered. “And then I will send Sven for the doctor.”
“Dirk?”
“Hmm?”
“Have I been ill a long time?”
Again that shadow across his face. “Yeah, a long time.”
“How long?”
He hesitated, then answered, “Almost two weeks.”
She frowned. It was odd not to remember, to have two weeks of her life simply disappear. She grasped at memories. “You had pneumonia,” she said.
“Yeah, but I’m okay now.”
“You look tired.” She paused, frowned again. “Did I have pneumonia, too?”
He shook his head.
“Why can I not remember?”
“I don’t know, Inga.”
She closed her eyes and sighed. “You would think I could remember.” She felt herself being tugged toward sleep.
On the thin edge of unconsciousness, she thought she heard Dirk whisper, “And I wish I could forget.”
That was a strange thing for him to say.
Dirk leaned on the corral fence and watched Orient trot around the muddy enclosure, shaking her head and flicking her tail, occasionally giving a little kick with her heels.
He was going to have to send the filly back to Kentucky, of course. He wasn’t sure why Clara had left her behind. Probably because she’d been in such a hurry to get away from the farm. She’d just forgotten in her haste. Whatever the reason, Dirk wasn’t about to let the horse stay. Orient could only be a reminder of what had happened to Inga—and he didn’t need any more reminders of that.
He turned his back toward the corral and gazed at the house. Dr. Swenson’s black buggy stood near the back door. The doctor had chased Dirk out of the bedroom over half an hour before while he examined Inga. Dirk’s endless pacing in the kitchen had caused Frida Gerhard to send him outside.
Was Dr. Swenson telling Inga now that she’d lost her baby, that she would never be able to have a child of her own? Would she tell the kindly old physician what she had seen, why she had fallen down those stairs? Would she hate Dirk now? He’d deserve it if she did. It was all his fault. His own fault.
The kitchen door opened. “Dirk!” Frida waved to him. “The doctor says you should come in now.”
His stomach felt hollow. His feet felt weighted. Guilt walked beside him as he moved across the barnyard.
No more babies.
Inga knew that’s what the doctor had told her, but it didn’t seem real.
No more babies.
She supposed she should cry. Dr. Swenson seemed to expect her to cry. Why didn’t she?
Come away with me…You can’t be happy here…
The memory of that moment had returned, and she was sorry it had. She remembered them, standing close together, Clara’s hand on Dirk’s bare chest. Clara—beautiful, rich, sensuous Clara Keene—and Dirk, so handsome, so strong. They’d looked perfect together.
Would Dirk have agreed to go with Clara if Inga hadn’t happened upon them?
Nej, she answered herself. He wouldn’t have gone. Dirk might be unhappy, but he would never turn his back on his responsibilities. He had promised to raise his nieces, and he would keep his word. He was a man of honor, Hattie Bridger had said, and it was true. No, Dirk wouldn’t have deserted the children—or Inga—for Clara, no matter how much he might have wished he could. She knew he would leave one day, but it wouldn’t be for Clara, and it wouldn’t be by stealth.
So why had she run when she’d seen them together? Why had it hurt so much, like a knife plunging into her heart?
Probably because she believed Clara was right. Dirk didn’t belong on this dairy farm and he didn’t belong with her. He couldn’t be happy here.
If I had not run, I would not have lost the baby.
The baby. Dirk’s baby. She would have had his child when he went away. Now she would have nothing except memories.
No more babies. Not ever. She felt empty, hollow, useless.
Did Dirk know? Would he care?
As if summoned by her wondering, Dirk appeared in the bedroom doorway. He looked haggard, so worn and thin. He hadn’t been eating right. Who was cooking for him and the children?
“How are you?” he asked as he approached the side of the bed.
“Better, I think.” Her voice sounded raspy, unlike herself.
Dirk knelt beside the bed and took her hand in his. “I’m sorry, Inga. I’ve made a real mess of things.”
“You need a shave.”
“It was my fault. You could have died, and it would’ve been my fault.”
She looked toward the window. “Let’s not talk about it.”
&nbs
p; “All right. We won’t for now.” His hand tightened on hers. “But we’ll have to eventually. There’s a lot I have to tell you, Inga. I’ve made so many mistakes.”
“I do not wish to talk about it now,” she whispered, wishing she would cry. Crying would be preferable to this hollowness.
“Inga—”
“Frida said it is almost April. In Jönköping the first wildflowers are out. The coltsfoot are showing their little yellow faces amidst the brown, dry grass. Soon they will be finding blue hepaticas in the birch tree groves. And nettles, too. Mamma always picked the sprouts of nettles for her nettle soup.” She closed her eyes. “I wish Mamma was here.”
“Me too.”
“I would like to sleep.”
“Sure. We’ll talk later, Inga.”
But they didn’t talk later. Inga wouldn’t let them. She retreated from him in the days that followed. She retreated from everyone, locking herself behind some invisible wall. Physically she improved much more quickly than the doctor had expected, but emotionally she shut herself off from the world.
Dirk recognized what she was doing. Probably because, in his own way, he’d done much the same thing in the past. Only he’d used bitterness as his wall of defense. Inga was using indifference and silence.
She resumed sewing. For hours on end, she sat in the bed, pillows at her back, and stitched on a quilt, this one made only with red and white bits of fabric. It wasn’t like her usual quilts. There were no individual panels telling a story. Dirk hated the predominantly red quilt, although he couldn’t say why.
The Linbergs returned from Minnesota, but even Inga’s teasing, laughing, smiling sisters seemed unable to draw her back from that quiet place of refuge she’d found. She listened and watched and nodded, but she never actually participated. She was there, but she wasn’t.
Dirk watched Inga and knew fear. He was helpless. There was nothing he could do, nothing anyone could do, but watch and wait and pray. And Dirk had never been much good at prayer.
Inga awakened with a start, a baby’s cries echoing in her ears.
She glanced toward her left side. Dirk lay sleeping beside her, his profile kissed by the silvering light of the moon. Carefully, so as not to awaken him, Inga slid from beneath the covers. Her legs were weak and unsteady, but she managed to rise and stay upright. She reached for her robe, slipped her arms into the sleeves, then walked to the door of the bedroom.
Robin Lee Hatcher - [Coming to America 02] Page 20
