by Janette Oke
She missed the animals. The pair of sleek horses that had always stretched their long necks over the rails and greeted her with a whinny. The round, brown cows that placidly stood in the shade of the barn, mouths languidly working their cud. She even missed the chickens—their shed seemed strangely silent—empty—void of the squawking, clucking occupants.
Glenna was right, thought Berta. Our lives have changed. So much. Forever.
She shivered in the warmth of the afternoon.
She wondered if she should knock. After all, this was no longer her home. Yet to knock would have been to acknowledge further change. A painful change. She desperately needed to feel at home here. She needed to feel a part of this place.
She finally opened the door and stepped silently inside, letting her eyes travel over all the familiar things. Tears formed—unbidden. She wiped at them with impatience and straightened her back.
She could hear stirring in the kitchen. She knew her mother must be getting her evening meal. She did hope that the woman was still cooking properly. Was not eating store-bought crackers and calling it a supper, as Miss Phillips was likely doing at that hour.
She moved toward the sound and remembered that it would be wise to give her mother a bit of warning rather than startling her with a sudden appearance.
“Mama,” she called just before she stood in the doorway. “Mama—it’s Berta.”
Mrs. Berdette’s head came up and her eyes filled with pleasure. “Berta!”
Just the one word, but it spoke volumes. Berta’s eyes threatened to spill over again. She looked down and began to remove her gloves to cover up her intense feelings.
“I thought I should check on you—” she began quickly. She did not wish her mother to know that she herself needed the contact. Needed to come home.
There was no immediate reply, and when Berta lifted her head again to check out the silence she saw her mother brushing unashamedly at her eyes.
“I’m so glad you came,” she finally stated simply, and there was no apology for her emotion. “I’ve missed you.”
Berta turned to lay her coat over a kitchen chair.
“How’ve you been?” asked her mother, crossing over to place a hand on Berta’s cheek much like she had done when the girls were still children.
“Fine,” said Berta with too much force. “Just fine. And you?”
Her mother smiled. “Fine,” she said slowly—deliberately. “Lonesome—but fine.”
“You’re still here,” said Berta, moving toward the cupboards to give a hand with the evening meal. With relief she noted that her mother was indeed cooking—was preparing herself a decent supper.
“Granna’s a bit better,” replied her mother, as though to say that as long as she wasn’t really needed she would put off the move—would stay right where she was, where she was at home.
“Good,” said Berta. For one moment she thought about moving back home with her mother. But she just as quickly divorced the thought. That would be an admission of need. Giving in. Folks would think that she couldn’t live independently.
They worked in silence, dishing up the vegetables and meat.
“It looks like you were expecting company,” Berta commented.
Mrs. Berdette shook her head. “I just can’t seem to catch on to cooking for one,” she said, and there was wistfulness in her voice.
Then she brightened and added as she wiped her hands on her apron. “Well—tonight I’m glad of it. I won’t need to apologize for not having enough.”
“No,” said Berta as she set a heaping bowl of fluffy mashed potatoes on the table, “you won’t need to apologize.”
———
“I had another letter from Glenna.”
They had taken a second cup of coffee into the living room and were seated in front of the familiar fireplace. Berta had started the fire, though the night was not cool enough to really need its warmth. Still, the crackling flames were comforting, and it felt good just to sit together in companionship.
“How is she?” asked Berta, suddenly reminded that she had not yet answered Glenna’s last letter to her. She had wanted her sister to have to wait for her reply—to miss her a bit more. Berta flushed slightly at the thought and stirred restlessly.
“She misses us,” her mother was saying, “but she is full of praise and love for Parker. They have found a little church, and she has thrown herself into helping with the children’s work—to help her lonely hours, she says.”
“That’s nice,” spoke Berta, too matter-of-factly.
“She has also met a young woman—the wife of another medical student—and they have formed a friendship. That has helped.”
Berta nodded. At least Glenna had someone to talk to. Not a Miss Phillips who usually rebuffed every human approach.
“They have a very small apartment—so she doesn’t have many household chores,” Mrs. Berdette went on.
Berta looked down at her hands. They were clasped too firmly in the folds of her gray flannel skirt. Why was she feeling knotted inside—the way her tense hands appeared to be? Her mother seemed fine—almost at ease with her new situation. The reports on Glenna were—good. Was Berta the only one struggling with this—this drastic change that had affected the lives of each of them? And if so—why? Didn’t family matter to the others? Could they just pretend that—?
No. No, of course not. She was the one who had always held herself aloof—even from family closeness. They—her mother and Glenna—had always been the expressive ones. The ones who made a big issue of the family bonds. The ties.
Then how was it that the two of them seemed to be moving on with their lives while she stayed static? Knotted? Had she needed them far more than she had ever admitted?
Of course not. She—she was moving on—adjusting—just as well—maybe better—than any of them. It was just that she had—lost so much more. Her mother still had the house. Familiar things. She hadn’t had to move out yet. To sort through all of those memories that were stored in closets, the attic. Things that belonged to her father, that brought back pain—and joy.
No, her mother’s life hadn’t really changed that much—yet.
And Glenna—Glenna had her darling Parker. She hadn’t lost—she’d gained. Why should Glenna be sorrowing over lost home—lost family?
Berta moved restlessly again. She was the only one who had really been hurt by the change. The only one who had been made to suffer. It frustrated her. It angered her. It wasn’t fair. It just wasn’t fair at all.
A dark, deep bitterness began to seep into Berta’s soul. She did not voice her feelings. Did not even dare to put them into actual thoughts. But they were there. Quiet, intrusive, and affecting her whole being.
She had come to the farm because she had needed to find a bit of what she had lost. To escape the fate of what she might become. But she had not found the peace she had longed for. Had not found her familiar and comfortable niche. She was strangely afloat. On her own. Trying to find a new place in a heartless world. She didn’t like the feeling. Didn’t welcome it at all.
“I think I should be going,” she said, standing suddenly and placing her empty cup on the side table in one quick motion.
“Oh, but you just got here,” her mother protested just as quickly.
“I need to go,” argued Berta curtly.
“I thought you might stay—the night.”
Berta looked at her in surprise. The thought had not entered her mind, but once presented she was surprised at just how much she longed to do so.
“I brought nothing,” she managed at last, fighting off the desire to return to her familiar room.
“Do you have plans?”
The innocent question angered Berta even more, though she could not have explained why. Perhaps she felt that she was being questioned, threatening her independence. Perhaps she knew that the true answer would reveal just how empty—how lonely—her life really was. For whatever reason, the simple query disturbed her an
d made her answer in a way that she later regretted.
“Mama—I am no longer a child. I should be able to come and go as—as I wish.”
“Of course, dear,” replied her mother. She sounded a bit hurt and sad. Berta regretted her sharp retort, but she did not apologize.
“It gets dark quickly,” she said instead. “I do not wish to be tripping my way back to town.”
She bent to gather cups and saucers to return them to the kitchen.
“Just leave them,” her mother said. “I need something to do with my time.”
Berta heard the painful emptiness, the wistfulness in the words. She stopped—cups in hand.
“Why haven’t you moved?” she asked sharply.
Her mother sighed deeply and picked absently at her skirts.
“It’s hard,” she said at last, lifting her eyes to Berta’s. “I … I dread it. So much … so much change … so quickly. I miss your father.”
Her gaze dropped again and she toyed restlessly with a lace hankie.
“I miss you girls,” she continued as she lifted her face again.
Berta saw the tears. They made little wet trails down her soft cheeks and spread to moisten the creases by her mother’s mouth.
Berta didn’t know what to say.
Her mother finally spoke again, though her voice trembled.
“I know that I must—must prepare myself. Uncle John has found a buyer for the—our little place.”
Berta stared openmouthed. What right did Uncle John have to sell their little farm?
“I know it only makes sense. John has worked hard to find us the right buyer. He—he has a developer who wants our land. The city is growing—pushing out its boundaries. This man—buyer—will give us a nice price. More than I would have ever dreamed of. I—I thought we’d be able to share the money. If you—and Glenna wish your—own home, then you can—can afford to—”
But Berta stopped her.
“What are you saying?”
“Uncle John has a buyer.”
“I heard that. I mean, you don’t need to sell just because Uncle John—”
“I know, Berta,” cut in her mother, “but it does make sense. I can’t stay on here alone anyway and you and Glenna—”
“I’ll come back if I have to.”
“No. No I wouldn’t want you to do that. Wouldn’t want to impose. You have your own life … ”
If she only knew what a shallow life that is, thought Berta, but she did not voice her words.
“But I wouldn’t—” began Berta instead.
“No, I wouldn’t ask that of you,” her mother argued again. “You need your freedom to make your own decisions. You have cared for me long enough.”
“But—”
“Granna needs me anyway. I’ve put it off too long already.”
“But what about you—your needs?”
Her mother looked surprised. As though she hadn’t really stopped to consider her own needs. As though she had forgotten how to think of herself after so many years of thinking of the needs of others.
Then she smiled softly.
“My needs will more than be met,” she said at last. “The farm land will bring a good price. I will even have money to go visit Glenna.”
The words hit Berta like a hard fist. Her mother was grieving for Glenna. She was willing to trade the farm for a visit to her younger daughter.
Berta straightened and went on to the kitchen. The teacups and saucers were set down on the hardness of the wooden countertop with a clatter.
If that’s the way it is, then, so be it, she reasoned inwardly. Why should I grieve over what will never be again if Glenna and Mama can just sail merrily on?
Berta grabbed her wraps from the kitchen chair and hastily put them on. She was tempted to just leave by the kitchen door, but good sense prevailed and she did go back through the living room to place a cool kiss on her mother’s cheek and bid her a reasonably civil good-night.
Chapter Ten
Adjusting
It was a long, thoughtful walk back to town and her small boardinghouse room. Berta tried to sort through her troubled thoughts. She couldn’t go back, could she? She found herself with a strong inner longing to do so. It would be all right, she argued further with herself, for Mama and I to just stay on at the farm.
And then she remembered her mother’s information that the farm was to be sold. Uncle John, bless him, without even an advanced warning or discussion with her, had convinced her mother that the thing to do was to sell the farm. To a developer. A developer of what? she wondered. Why should their father’s little “hobby” farm be sold off to some stranger? It was his pride—their home.
For a moment Berta felt a flash of responsibility for this turn of events. If she hadn’t been in such a hurry to be off on her own—to prove her independence—then this might not have happened. Well, there was no going back. But she did wish her uncle John had just kept his nose out of family business.
Berta’s steps had quickened with her agitation. She purposely made herself slow down again. She needed time to think. Time to work things through while she could still get a breath of fresh air. The closeness of the little boardinghouse room did not lend itself to clear analysis.
She suddenly felt impatience with her small room. She didn’t like it. Didn’t like it at all. At times she felt she would suffocate there—all shut up by herself with the four close walls, dull wallpaper, and heavy curtains. Even her books could not give her the space she needed.
A house? Of her own? Yes, that was what Mama had said. The farm price was to be divided. If she wished her own house then—it was an enticing thought. Yes. Yes, she would like her own house. A small cottage—somewhere along a nicely treed street. With a yard—and a spot for roses. A walk. Perhaps bird feeders. A kitchen of her own where she could prepare her own meals. Her own cozy fireplace with a crackling log.
Her step quickened again, but this time she did not check her pace. Her little room no longer filled her with the previous sense of confinement. How long? she wondered. How long until the farm would be sold and she would be free to be on her own?
Surely with the sale would also come a great sense of release. She would be able to settle in and find peace with life at last.
Berta was feeling anticipation and hope. She now wished that the farm sale would take place quickly. She wondered if she should lend her urgings to those of Uncle John.
I do hope that Mama doesn’t dawdle, she found herself fretting. She might delay until the buyer chooses land elsewhere. The thought worried Berta.
But no, her mother was anxious for the sale as well. She wanted to go visit Glenna.
That thought did not please Berta—but at least it might serve her purpose, she reasoned. With her mother longing to see her younger child, the farm was bound to get sold.
In spite of herself, Berta smiled. Her step quickened. As she continued on down the street she found herself looking at the houses along the way with new interest. Which one would she like to own? What would she look for? A single bedroom? No, perhaps two. Her mama might wish to visit….
The night was softly gathering in about her. Streetlights lent their glow to guide her steps. Muted lamplight spilled out from windows. Wispy smoke curled upward from lit fireplaces. An occasional fragment of conversation carried out to the street. All of these things spoke to Berta of home. A home. It would be so nice to have a home again. A real home. That was what she was missing. That was why she felt so disconnected from life. So restless and dissatisfied. Once she had her own home she’d be able to settle in and find her rightful spot in the world. She would feel whole again.
She smiled again to herself in the darkness.
A porch swing, she mused. I’ve always wanted a porch swing—like at Granna’s.
Yes, she would have a porch swing. That was one thing she would insist upon.
————
It was hard to wait. Mrs. Berdette did not seem to be able to b
ring herself to actually leave her little home. Berta chafed. Then fall moved into another winter, and Uncle John insisted that his sister not spend the cold gray months alone.
Still she did not accept the offer of the developer. Nor did she have her yard sale and pack up her treasures. Eventually she took only personal items and allowed herself to be moved in with Granna.
“I’ll take care of things in the spring,” she assured Berta, but Berta secretly wondered if her mother would ever be able to break her ties to the farm.
The winter was an especially cold one, and Berta found herself feeling more and more confined in her little room. At times she even considered joining the family for meals in the big dining room, but in the end she continued to deny herself that small pleasure. It would be admitting defeat—and need. Berta’s pride would not allow her to do that.
Stubbornly she carried on. She wondered if she was becoming more and more like her fellow worker. She arrived in the morning, said her curt “good-day,” walked through the hours in silence and solitude, said her “good-evening,” and went on home with a book tucked under her arm.
But Berta did make one resolve. She would not become a total hermit. She would at least seek some release from her self-inflicted prison on Sundays. And she would insist on tending to her own physical needs by eating properly and getting some exercise.
Berta assigned herself some blocks to walk even on the nippy days. She made the walks more interesting by studying the houses as she passed briskly by. When winter finally ended—as winters always must—she knew every residential area of the town and had already picked five small houses as “possibilities.”
She began to secretly hope that one of those families would decide, for one reason or another, that a move was in their best interest.
Why get anxious? she reprimanded herself. Mama still hasn’t parted with the farm.
She wondered if she would have to add her voice to her uncle John’s and try to get her mother to make the proper decision.
————
One afternoon Berta looked up from her desk at the library to find her mother standing mutely before her, looking cautiously around as though she might be escorted away if she dared to open her lips within the hallowed halls.
