That night her husband slept through the night without crying out or thrashing. She awakened once and found him so still, she feared he had died. She turned on the light and found his face at peace. He looked young again, as he had before he’d gone away to war. In the morning, he looked rested, but she knew the war had altered him in ways that would never be undone.
He and Rev. Mathias started meeting once a week for coffee just to talk. Even so, there were times when Hildie would see a look come into Trip’s eyes, and she’d know he was reliving the horrors again. Some wounds broke open and had to be stitched closed with patience and prayer. She mourned the loss of the young man he had been—carefree, easygoing Trip so quick to laughter. That man had disappeared on the beaches at Normandy, and in his place another returned hardened by war, cynical about the world, and with a fierce desire to protect her and Charlie from harm.
Trip excelled at the police academy. His college degree and science background made him a prime candidate for forensics. He agreed to a transfer to the new Santa Rita jail, where he would work in a laboratory, studying and sorting evidence.
Rather than be separated by the long commute, Hildie looked for a rental near the prison. They moved into a bigger house with a bigger yard not far from his job. Paxtown, a small farming community nestled in the East Bay Hills, sat two miles away with a grocery store, department store, and theater, among other comforting amenities, including a church.
The cyclone fences with concertina wire at the top and guards at the prison gate disconcerted Hildemara. Trip had seen them before. “This time they keep the bad guys in.” His cryptic comment gave Hildie her first insight into what he had seen, what had haunted his nights for so long. They never talked about those years he served.
The neighborhood women came over with cookies and casseroles and invitations to bring Charlie over to play with their sons and daughters.
Many of their husbands had served in the war, too. They talked about problems the way Mama and Papa had talked about crops, with camaraderie and hope for the future. Hildie and Trip attended block parties, barbecues, and card parties. Hildie invited women over for coffee klatches and teas. People often talked of “those dirty Japs,” and Hildemara talked about the Musashi family and Andrew and Patrick serving in Europe. Some of the women stopped inviting her to their homes.
“I wonder what they’d say if they knew my father came from Germany and my mother is Swiss.” If not for Mama’s correspondence with Rosie Brechtwald, they wouldn’t have known how the Swiss threatened to blow the main tunnel into the country if one German stood in the light at the end of it. But that didn’t stop them from making money off the war selling munitions to the Germans and transporting goods between the Third Reich and Mussolini. Rosie said it was the only way they could remain free. Mama grieved over freedom being purchased with blood money.
“Don’t tell them,” Trip ordered her. “It’s none of their business.”
Trip kept his police revolver loaded and high enough to be out of Charlie’s reach, but close enough to get to it fast. Hildie wondered if working homicides was good for him, but he seemed to relish the work of putting criminals in prison.
After looking at available land in the area, Trip became increasingly discouraged and despondent. “I’ll be retirement age before we can afford to buy property of our own!”
“We could save enough if I worked at the veterans hospital outside Livermore.”
Trip’s eyes darkened. “What about Charlie?”
“I could work a night shift now and then. See how it goes.” She didn’t tell him she suspected she was pregnant again.
43
1947
Hildie gave birth to their daughter, Carolyn, in the spring. Carolyn wasn’t as easy a baby as Charlie. She had colic and cried almost constantly. Hildemara almost felt relieved when she was able to go back to work after two months off.
At first, Trip protested. “Quit, Hildie.” He ran his hand over Carolyn’s downy head. “Think of the baby.”
“I’ll sleep late on weekends. We still need to save a lot more before we can buy land.”
“You’re exhausted.”
“LaVonne said she’d babysit Charlie and Carolyn a couple of days a week. I can change to day shifts. That will make it easier.”
“And when will we be together? Dinnertime?”
“I’m only working part-time, Trip.”
“And what about your health?”
“I’m fine, Trip. Really. I couldn’t be better.”
And it was true.
When she said it.
* * *
1948
Charlie, four years older, doted on his baby sister and liked to play with her. As Carolyn grew, she started climbing out of her crib at night and crawling into bed with Hildie and Trip. Hildie would have to get up and carry her back to her crib. “When is that child going to sleep through the night?”
Trip chuckled. “Maybe we should tie her in.”
They locked their bedroom door instead. Sometimes Hildie got up in the morning and found Carolyn curled up with her blanket outside the door.
* * *
1950
“You look pale, Hildie. You’ve got to get more rest.”
“I’m trying.” Still she couldn’t seem to catch up on sleep, even staying in bed on weekends.
Trip got a promotion. Now a lieutenant, he drew a higher salary. “Quit work. Stay home. We don’t need you getting sick again.”
She knew that better than he did. She might not make it out of the hospital this time. Heeding Trip’s appeal, Hildie resigned. She tried to get more sleep, but it seemed elusive in the face of rising fears.
As a nurse, she knew the signs, even if she’d tried to ignore them over the past months. She started losing weight again. It took a force of will to do even the easier household chores. She awakened with night sweats and fever. When the cough started, she gave up and told Trip she had to go back to Arroyo.
* * *
1951
Hildie had been at Arroyo two months and knew she wasn’t getting any better. Lying in bed at the sanatorium, she saw all of Trip’s dreams going down as her bills mounted. He had to hire a babysitter to watch Charlie and Carolyn until he got home from work each afternoon. He had to get Charlie off to school each day, cook and do the laundry, keep up the house, keep up the yard. Any time left over, he spent with her, leaving the children behind with LaVonne Haversal.
“If I’m going to die, Trip, I want to die at home.”
His face twisted in agony. “Don’t talk like that.”
The doctor had warned them both that depression would be her greatest enemy.
“I pray, Trip. I do. I keep crying out to God to give me answers.” And only one answer came again and again. It seemed a cruel joke.
Trip prayed and came up with the same solution Hildemara dreaded speaking aloud.
“She won’t come.”
“She’s your mother. Do you think she’d do nothing to help you?”
“I told her I’d never ask for her help.”
“It’s the only way to bring you home, Hildie. Or are you going to let your pride stand in the way?”
“She’s never helped me before. Why would she do it now, and under these circumstances?”
“We won’t know unless we ask.” He took her hands. “I think she’ll surprise you.”
Trip called Mama while Hildemara choked on her pride and wondered why God had brought her down so low. Trip thought she feared Mama might say no. Hildie feared Mama would say yes.
The moment Trip told Mama she was sick and asked for help, Hildemara knew whatever respect she had earned from her mother would be gone. Mama would think her a coward again, too weak to stand on her own feet, incapable of being a good wife and mother.
If Mama came, Hildemara would have to lie in bed and watch her mother take over her responsibilities. And Mama would do it all better than Hildemara ever had because Mama always managed eve
rything perfectly. Even without Papa, the ranch ran like a well-oiled machine. Mama would be the one to give Charlie wings. She’d probably teach Carolyn to read before she turned four.
Sick and helpless, Hildemara would have to watch the life she loved be taken over by her mother. Even the one thing at which she excelled, the one area of her life where she had proven her worth, would be stripped away from her.
Mama would become the nurse.
Part Three
Marta
44
Marta stood in the almond orchard beneath the white blossom canopy, the heady scent of spring in the air. Overhead, bees hummed, gathering nectar and spreading pollen, promising a good crop this year. Petals drifted like snowfall around her, covering the sandy soil, reminding her of Switzerland. It wouldn’t be long before new-growth-green leaves deepened into darker shades and almonds began to form in tiny nubs.
Niclas used to stand in the orchard just as she did now, looking up through the white-clothed branches to blue sky. He had always been thankful to God for the land, the orchard, the vineyard, crediting the Almighty for providing for his family. He’d never taken anything for granted, not even her.
How she missed him! Marta had thought the years would dull the pain of losing him; and in part, they had, just not in a way she wanted. She couldn’t remember every detail of his face, the exact color of his blue eyes. She couldn’t remember the feel of his hands upon her, the abandon when they came together as man and wife. She couldn’t remember the sound of his voice.
She could remember clearly those last weeks when Niclas had suffered so much and tried so hard not to show it because he knew she watched in helpless agony, anger boiling against God. As cancer ate away the hard muscle of his body and left him skin and bones, his faith had grown stronger and more unwavering. “God will not abandon you, Marta.” She believed it because she believed Niclas.
Though he hadn’t feared death, he hadn’t wanted to leave her. When she realized his worry, she had told him she had done very well on her own and she didn’t need anyone to take care of her. His eyes had lit with laughter. “Oh, Marta, Marta . . .” When she had wept, he took her hand weakly in his. “You and I are not finished,” he whispered, his last words to her before he fell into a coma. She sat beside him until he stopped breathing.
Niclas had been so vigorous; she expected they would grow old together. The children had grown up and gone out on their own. She thought she and Niclas would have many happy years together, alone at last, with limitless time to talk, time together without interruption. Losing him was hard enough without the awful cruelty of how he died. She had told God in no uncertain terms what she thought of that. A good, God-fearing and God-loving man like Niclas shouldn’t suffer like that. She had come out here and stood in this orchard night after night crying out to God in anger, hurling her questions at Him in fury, pounding the ground in her grief.
She hadn’t stopped with her complaints over losing Niclas, but had moved on to other pent-up grievances: her father’s abuse, her mother’s life of illness, her sister’s suicide. She dredged up every resentment and hurt.
And God had let her purge herself. In His mercy, He didn’t strike her down. Instead, she would feel the whisper of air, the silence, and would feel Him close, leaning in, His presence comforting.
Marta held to Niclas’s promise. How she loved that man still. And they would be together again, not because of anything she or Niclas had done in this life to make it so, but because Jesus held them both in the palm of His mighty hand. They were both in Christ and always would be, though she had to endure this physical separation for however long God decided. The Lord had already set the day of her death, and she sensed it would be a long time in coming.
After those first painful weeks following Niclas’s death, when she’d finally drained herself dry, she began to see God all around her. Her eyes opened to the beauty of this place, the tenderness of her family and friends who still offered aid and comfort, Hitch and Donna Martin, who shouldered the work. She took long drives to think and talked easily to the Lord while she did. She apologized for her unruly behavior and repented of it. While she had ranted, God had bestowed grace upon her. He had watched over, protected, and cared for her when she was at her worst.
She laughed now, knowing how surprised and pleased Niclas would be if he could see the change in her. She didn’t just pray over meals; she prayed all the time. When she opened her eyes in the morning, she asked God to take hold of her day and lead her through it. When she closed them at night, she thanked Him. And in between, she constantly sought His guidance.
Even so, loneliness sometimes snuck up on her as it had today, catching her by the throat, making her heart flutter with an odd sense of panic. She had never been one to cling or depend solely on her husband, but he had become integral to her existence. Niclas now stood in heaven, and she remained captive on this earth. Jesus was with her, but she couldn’t see Him; she couldn’t touch Him. Never one for hugs and kisses from anyone but Niclas, she missed human touch.
Why this restlessness inside her? Was she floundering or simply at a crossroads?
She missed so many things, like watching her children or the Summer Bedlam boys hunting for doodlebugs and horned toads or crossing the barnyard on stilts.
She missed the sound of their laughter and shrieks when they played tag or had one of their moonlight snipe hunts. Only the humming of bees filled the silence now. The air, cool and refreshing, stood still.
Marta admonished herself. She had no patience for self-pity in others. She despised it in herself. She had started her journey alone, hadn’t she?
“Look at the birds, Liebling. An eagle flies alone,” Mama had told her so many years ago. All right. Life wasn’t fair. So what? Life was difficult. It didn’t mean she had to become a grumbling old woman dragging her feet all day. She would mount up with wings as an eagle. She would run and not grow weary; she would walk and not faint. She would fly alone and trust God to keep her spirit airborne. Consider it all joy.
She had plenty of blessings to count. Her children had grown strong and flown off to build their own nests and families. Bernhard and Elizabeth’s nursery in Sacramento was doing well. Movie companies pursued Clotilde for her expertise in costume design. Rikka, dreamy and lovely as ever, still had Melvin dangling. How long before that poor young man realized Rikka loved art more than any man?
Only Hildemara still troubled her. Marta had no peace about Hildemara. Her eldest daughter hadn’t looked well the last time Marta saw her. And how many months ago had that been? Of course, everything could have changed for the better by now. Of the four, Hildemara shared the least about her life. She kept a distance. Or did Marta just imagine that?
She missed Hildemara terribly, but if her daughter wanted to keep a distance, so be it. Marta wouldn’t poke her nose in where it wasn’t wanted. At least Hildemara knew how to take care of herself, especially if she’d learned keeping up a house wasn’t as important as taking care of her health.
Shaking her head, Marta chuckled, remembering how Hildemara had come home from nursing school and spent her vacation scouring and scrubbing everything in sight—floors, walls, counters, shelves. She’d been obsessed with ridding the farmhouse of germs, as if that were possible. Marta had been insulted at the time, annoyed past enduring.
Her mind often went back to the day Hildemara had left home. Marta had pushed her hard that day. She’d hurt her girl and made her good and angry. Hildemara had never done anything easily, and stirring her anger had served Marta well in motivating the girl. If she got Hildemara mad enough, her daughter forgot her fear. But now she wondered if the anger lingered, even after the blessings became apparent. She hoped that wasn’t true.
Hadn’t anger had its way with her as well? Would she have left Steffisburg if she hadn’t been raging mad at her father? Or had it been pride?
Her girl had been a godsend during Niclas’s illness. Hildemara had proven her great worth
during those last difficult months. She’d been knowledgeable, efficient, overflowing with compassion. She hadn’t allowed her emotions to rule. She had been like the balm of Gilead in the house. Once or twice, she had stood up to Marta as she guarded her patient. It couldn’t have been easy on Hildemara to watch her papa die. Marta was proud of her.
It had been in the weeks that followed Niclas’s death that Marta had recognized the growing threat to both her and her daughter. Hildemara had remained to keep her company, to serve, and Marta had drawn comfort from it. She had become used to Hildemara doing for her. God had opened her eyes to it, and she’d been furious. Marta, who had sworn never to become a servant, was making her daughter into one. Her conscience rubbed her raw. Mama had set her free. Would she now cage Hildemara? What did an able-bodied woman need with a nurse? Mortified, she saw how Hildemara cooked and cleaned and fetched and carried. Only the constant activity and search for new things to do revealed the inner turmoil inside her girl. And it had come to Marta like a blow.
Hildemara doesn’t belong here! Cut her loose!
The more Marta considered the truth of it, the angrier she’d become—at herself, more than Hildemara. It shamed her now to remember how long it had taken to do what was right. She had pushed Hildemara right out the door. It broke her heart, but a good mother teaches her children to fly.
Some, like her sister, Elise, never even spread their wings. Others, like Hildemara, had to be shoved to the edge before they’d take wing. Marta regretted pressing her daughter so hard, but if she hadn’t, where would they be now? She, sitting like the queen of Sheba in her rocker, reading for the pure pleasure of it while Hildemara worked her fingers to the bone on that wretched rag rug? God forbid!