What makes you so sure there even is a God, Miss Linberg?
Because I can hear my Lord’s voice in the wind and see his love all around me.
He felt the breeze brushing against his face as he closed his eyes. He was strangely warmed by it. “Jesus, she needs help,” he said softly, “and I don’t know how to help her.” More softly, “She always believed in you, and I reckon I’m just comin’ around to believing myself. Only…we need help. The both of us.” He opened his eyes, looked toward the house where soft lights glowed in the windows. “I love her. More than I thought possible. But I can’t help her without you, God.”
It surprised him, the sense of peace that came over him as he stood there. He didn’t know when was the last time he’d felt this way. Maybe he never had.
He walked on. When he reached the back door, he opened it slowly, quietly, and looked inside. Inga was washing the last of the supper dishes. Martha was drying them.
His heart seemed to swell in his chest. He supposed he didn’t deserve to be this fortunate. He’d resented all that his brother’s children had represented when he’d come to look after them, and he’d married Inga for all the wrong reasons. Yet here he was, part of a family. Ma had been right. He had been looking happiness right in the face.
He opened the door farther. Inga glanced over her shoulder and saw him. For an instant, the corners of her mouth curved in a smile. Then it was gone.
Whatever’s causing her to be so afraid, let me help drive it away, God. Let me love her the way she’s meant to be loved.
Maybe a walk wasn’t such a bad idea.
He stepped up to the counter. “It’s a nice evening out. How ’bout a stroll, Mrs. Bridger?”
She gave her head a tiny shake.
“Come on. Whatever reason you’re gonna use to refuse me will still be here when we get back. Mending and sewing and washing. Whatever. It’ll be here.” He lightly touched her elbow. “Walk with me, Inga.”
He’d wasted a lot of time, all those weeks they were together as man and wife. He’d even fooled himself into believing desire was all he’d felt for her. But he knew better now, and he didn’t want to waste any more time.
“Walk with me, Inga. Martha’ll keep an eye on Suzanne. Won’t you, Martha?”
“Sure, Uncle Dirk.”
He held out his hand. Wordlessly, Inga stared at it for several moments, then dried her hands on her apron before placing her palm in his. Dirk grinned as he led her across the kitchen.
“Grab your shawl,” he said when they reached the door. “I don’t want you getting cold.” He lowered his voice. “Unless you’ll let me keep you warm.”
A blush pinkened her cheeks, telling him she wasn’t averse to the idea. Nonetheless, she took her shawl from the rack and wrapped it around her shoulders while Dirk opened the door. Then he tucked her hand into the crook of his arm, and the two of them walked across the barnyard and down the drive.
The evening sky had grown darker while Dirk was inside, and now hundreds of stars were blinking down at the earth. The scent of new-turned earth drifted to them on the breeze. A meadowlark trilled a good-night song.
“I have been in America one full year,” Inga said, a note of surprise in her voice.
“I’m mighty glad you came.”
There was a pause before she said, “As am I.”
“Are you?” He paused, then asked, “Why?”
She seemed to be holding her breath.
“Maybe you’re glad because of me?” he suggested.
“Ja, perhaps,” she whispered.
He stopped, turned her toward him. He wished he could see her face, but a moonless night had arrived in earnest. “Inga, you know that Clara…that I didn’t have any interest in her, don’t you?”
Again, it seemed she held her breath. After an endless moment, she said, “You did once.”
“I was different then.” His hands tightened on her arms. “Everything was different then.” He raised his voice slightly, needing her to know his words came from his heart. “I want you to listen good. There’s something that’s been stewin’ in my mind for weeks now, and it’s time I got it said.”
He wanted to draw her close again. He wanted to hold her head against his chest and stroke his hand over her silky hair.
“A lot’s happened since I asked you to marry me. Things aren’t the same anymore. I guess I knew they wouldn’t be, even back then.”
He felt her stiffen slightly. He kept talking.
“When I first left Ohio, all puffed up with big ideas of where I was gonna go and what I was gonna do, I thought nothing would ever make me want to settle down. It’s true, what you’ve been thinkin’ about Clara and me. We were more than just friends. She was more than just my employer.” He swallowed, hating to speak the words. “But there wasn’t any love shared between us. I’m not proud of it, but it’s the truth. I thought that’s all I’d ever want from a woman.” He paused, then softly added, “Until you.”
Her gasp was nearly inaudible.
“Inga, I was angry and bitter when I came to the parsonage looking for help last December. It seemed nothin’ in my life would go right or had ever gone right. I felt like I’d been forced to live my brother’s life. Oh, sure, I knew I was fond of the girls, but I didn’t cope good with ’em. Leastwise, I never felt like I did.” Again, he added, “Until you.”
It was hard, finding the words. His whole future—their whole future—rested on his ability to say the right thing.
He turned toward her, leaning his shoulder on the fence, staring at her shadowed profile. “When I asked you to marry me, it’s true all I thought I wanted was somebody to look after the kids. It’s true I didn’t plan on stayin’ when they were grown. But it’s not true any longer.”
“You hate this farm.”
“I used to.”
“You hate the cows.”
He chuckled. “Guess that’s still true.”
“What about traveling the world? Your dreams—”
He drew her back into his embrace. “You gave me new dreams.”
“But—”
“What I’m trying to say is, I love you. I don’t want to go anywhere without you.” He sealed the words with a kiss.
Inga’s emotions tilted crazily, swinging from joy to terror. She’d never heard anything more wonderful than Dirk’s profession of love. Still, she couldn’t escape the fear that she was being punished for wanting more than she was meant to have.
Dirk released her mouth but kept his face close to her own. She could feel his warm breath on her skin as he said, “I want us to make this a real marriage.”
Inga wanted it too, only—
“Till death do us part,” he added.
“Nej!” she cried, pulling away from him. That was it! That was how she would be punished. By Dirk’s own words, he’d foretold the future. Unless she acted quickly, that’s what would happen. Death would separate them.
Holding her skirts out of the way, she ran toward the house, failing to hear him calling her name above the fearful beating of her heart.
Dirk pursued her. He would have followed her right up the stairs and into their bedroom, except he saw the alarmed expression on Martha’s face when he entered the kitchen. So he pretended nothing was wrong, telling his niece her Aunt Inga was tired and had gone to bed. Then he suggested the children do the same. It took a while. He’d learned in recent weeks that bedtime was never uneventful, not with an inquisitive six-year-old and a willful four-year-old who often decided they weren’t sleepy yet.
It was Inga who had shown him the importance of spending time with these children. It was Inga’s influence that had taught him to treasure little moments, like reading a bedtime story or tucking the blankets snugly beneath Suzanne’s and Martha’s chins. He’d even learned to look forward to this time of the day.
But tonight, he wanted the ritual over so he could be with Inga. Most of all, he needed to understand what was causing her to run from
him.
And he needed her to understand he had no intention of letting her run away. Not ever.
Inga stood at the window, staring at the star-studded heavens. If only she could pray…
Tears of frustration and fear ran down her cheeks. All her life she had wanted to be different than what she was. Others had looked at her and thought she was the perfect daughter for a minister, kind and thoughtful. Pappa had thought her the most intelligent of his daughters. Her sisters had said she was levelheaded. But she had known she was plain and ordinary. She’d pretended to be satisfied with what she was. She’d pretended to be content with what others expected her to be.
But God had known her heart. God had known she was filled with envy. She’d wanted to be like others. She’d wanted to have what others had. Look what had happened because she hadn’t been satisfied with the life God gave her. See what had happened because she had a rebellious spirit, a greedy heart, stubborn pride.
“Inga…”
With a gasp, she whirled toward the door. She hadn’t heard Dirk enter.
Take anything I have, she had prayed that day. Anything.
“Inga, can’t you tell me what’s wrong?”
Do not take his life, she had pleaded. Take me instead. Take anything I have…I will never ask for anything else if only you will spare his life.
He crossed the space that separated them. “Inga?”
“You must not love me, Dirk,” she whispered. “It is my fault. My fault.”
“What is your fault?” He cupped her chin, lifted her face toward him.
“The baby.”
“It was an accident. You fell down the stairs.”
She began to sob. “You…do not…understand.”
“Don’t cry.” He kissed one tear-moistened cheek, then the other. “I can’t bear to have you cry. I love you. Do you hear me? I love you. It doesn’t matter if we can’t have children. We’ve got Martha and Suzanne. We’ll be a family, the four of us. It’s enough. I love you.”
“You must not say that.” She hiccuped over another sob. “Something terrible will happen.”
He drew her close, pressed her cheek against his collarbone, rested his chin on her head. “I don’t understand,” he said as he stroked one hand up and down her spine.
How could he? How could he possibly understand?
Let him love you, a small voice said.
“Inga…” He cupped her face between his hands, tilted her head back, brushed his lips across hers. “Whatever is wrong, we can face it together. No matter what.”
“I should go home.”
“You are home, Inga.”
She looked at him, repeating, “You do not understand.” Tears glittered in her eyes. “I do not belong here.”
“Of course you belong.” He tightened his arms around her. “I love you.”
“You should not.”
“Why shouldn’t I? I’m your husband.”
She bit her lower lip, and Dirk knew she was fighting for control of her tears.
“Inga, I promise you, things will be different now. Maybe I didn’t say it right earlier. Maybe you think I’m still just looking for somebody to take care of the girls. But that’s not true.” He lowered his voice. “When I was drownin’, my last thought was of you. That was the moment I knew I loved you and didn’t want to be without you.”
She lost control over her tears. They streaked down her cheeks, and in her eyes, he saw the devastation of her soul.
“What can I say to make it better?” he asked, his voice breaking. “To make you believe me.”
“I cannot believe, Dirk. I want to but I cannot.”
“Why?”
She pulled from his embrace, and once again gazed out the window. “If I do not leave, something much worse will happen.”
“Something worse?” Frustration burned in his chest. “What’re you talking about? You keep saying that, but I don’t understand.”
“I was never satisfied with what God made me. I did not want to be the sensible elder daughter, the one who was always with her pappa, out doing good works. I wanted to be pretty and sought after and…and desirable.”
“You are!”
She continued as if he hadn’t spoken. “Usually it did not matter. Usually I was happy. I liked helping Pappa, and I loved listening to God’s voice when he spoke to my heart. But there was always that seed of dissatisfaction with who I was and what my future would be.” She clenched her hands together. “When I…I married you, I stopped asking for guidance. I only wanted what I wanted. That’s all I cared about.”
“That’s not true,” he argued. “I saw how much you cared for Ma and the girls. And for me, too.”
She looked into his eyes. “I told God to take anything of mine as long as he saved your life. It’s my fault our child will never be born.”
It took him a moment to understand the import of her words. When he did, he leaned closer. “You can’t think that’s how he answered your prayer?”
“I was not supposed to want so much. I was envious. I should have been content with what I was, with what I had.”
He grabbed both of her hands, pulled her toward him. “Look at me, Inga.” When she did, he continued, “I’ve never been a religious man. I was angry and bitter ’cause life didn’t go the way I thought it should. I figured God didn’t care much about me. But I was wrong. He cared. You showed me that. In a thousand different ways, you showed me that. I may not know much, but I know the Almighty doesn’t take unborn babies because of a wife’s desperate prayers for her husband. God doesn’t punish us for wantin’ things either. I don’t believe it, and neither should you.”
“If I do not leave, something worse will happen. I can feel it.”
Dirk wrapped her in his arms, held her close against him, wondered what he could say to reach her. He should have realized her sorrow went deeper than mourning the loss of a baby. He thought of that scarlet quilt and knew it stood for much more than a miscarriage. It represented all the guilt she was carrying on her narrow shoulders.
She choked on a sob, then whispered, “I cannot pray.”
“Then I’ll pray for you, Inga.” Gently, he guided her toward the bed. “You’ll see. It’s gonna be all right.” With patient hands, he disrobed her, then slipped her nightgown over her head. “You’ll see,” he continued to croon as he helped her into bed, tucking the covers around her. “You’ll see.”
God, help me, ’cause I don’t know what to do.
Twenty-two
Reverend Linberg steepled his fingers beneath his chin and closed his eyes. “I didn’t know it was so bad with her. She seemed too quiet when I was last out to the farm, but I thought time would take care of it.” He shook his head slowly, then nodded. “To be honest, Gunda tried to tell me. I guess I didn’t listen.”
Dirk sank onto the chair opposite Olaf. “I couldn’t think of anything else to do except bring her here. Every day I feel her pulling a little more away from reality. She seems so fragile. She kept saying she wanted to come back to the parsonage.” Despair washed over him. “Maybe she’s right. Maybe this is where she ought to be. For a while. Until she’s better.”
Olaf shook his head slowly. “Oh, Inga. My sweet girl.”
“I was planning a trip to Des Moines, once the doctor gave his okay for her to travel. I thought it might cheer her up. I think she’d even come to like the idea. But then, a couple days ago, she just seemed to…” He let his words trail off unfinished.
Silence filled the room, made it seem small and closed in. Hot. Stuffy. Airless.
Dirk bolted out of his chair and strode to the window. He opened it and took a deep breath of fresh air. Then, chagrined, he turned to face Inga’s father again. “I love her, Reverend, but she’s getting worse instead of better, and nothing I say seems to help.”
“Where is she now?”
It was Bernadotte who answered from the doorway. “She’s upstairs. In her old room.”
“You heard?
” the pastor asked his wife.
“Ja, I heard. I think you should go to her, Olaf. It is always you she’s listened to best.”
With a nod, Inga’s father rose from his chair and left the room, an unusual weariness in his step, an uncustomary sag in his shoulders.
Dirk leaned against the windowsill, raking the fingers of both hands through his hair while staring at the floor. “I feel so helpless.”
“Fa, it is often so. To be human is to feel helpless at times.” Bernadotte crossed her husband’s study and stood beside his desk. “But when we are helpless in ourselves, then we remember to look to the one whose help we need. When we are yoked with Christ, he will carry our burdens.”
He met his mother-in-law’s gaze. “That sounds like something Inga used to say.”
“Ja.” She smiled sadly.
“It’s like she’s there with me, but not really there. She’s doing her chores, taking care of the girls. She cooks our meals and cleans the house and sews on her quilts. She does all that, but she’s not really there.” He paused, then asked, “Does that make sense?”
Again she replied, “Ja.”
The curtains were drawn, and the room was shadowed. Inga sat on the edge of her bed, staring at the things around her without seeing them. She was tired. It was a weariness of the soul. She understood that, but she felt too far away—removed, remote—to try to change. It was as if she were watching herself from a great distance.
The door opened, and her pappa entered. She met his gaze, tried to smile at him.
“Dotter.”
“Pappa.”
He sat beside her on the bed and took hold of her hand. “Your husband tells me you wish to come back to the parsonage.”
“I must come home, Pappa.”
“Why?”
Why? The question repeated again and again in her mind, but she couldn’t find the answer. She knew there was one. She knew that not to go home meant something horrible would happen, but she couldn’t remember the reason. It seemed so long ago since she could grab hold of a thought and hang on to it.
“Inga, it is hard to lose a baby. I know. Your mamma lost three. Do you remember?”
Robin Lee Hatcher - [Coming to America 02] Page 23
