Her Mother's Hope

  “I hear it feels like you’re riding the wind!” Bernie couldn’t help himself.

  Papa snorted. “It’s more like death breathing in your face.”

  Mama laughed.

  “What did Mr. Kutchner want for the car, Mama?”

  Papa glared at Bernie. “Eat your supper! It doesn’t matter what Lucas wants. We’re not buying! We have two good horses and a wagon! That’s all we need.” Papa looked angry.

  Mama lifted her hands in a light gesture. “Why don’t we take a vote?”

  “Aye!” Bernie called out. Cloe and Rikka raised their hands, not looking at Papa’s face.

  “What about you, Hildemara?”

  She looked at her father. “I’ll abstain.”

  “You would.” Mama glowered at her. Sawing off another piece of meat from the chicken thigh, she lifted it toward her mouth. “Doesn’t matter. Ayes win without you.”

  “It’s only a democracy around here when you know which way the vote will go,” Papa grumbled. “I hope you don’t kill yourself or any of our children driving that thing.”

  * * *

  Lucas Kutchner came out to the farm after school on Friday, Mama in the passenger seat. Rikka climbed down from the front seat. Bernie and Hildemara ran into the yard to hear what Mama might say. Papa came out of the barn and stood watching, arms akimbo. Mr. Kutchner called out a hello, but Papa turned and went back into the barn. Wincing, Mr. Kutchner turned back to Mama as she walked around the car. “Well? What do you think?”

  “Niclas said you were a good mechanic.”

  “New tires, too.” He kicked one.

  “So I see.”

  “The price is good.”

  “The price is fair.”

  “It’s better than fair. This is the best deal you’ll ever make in your whole life.”

  “I doubt that. Just one last thing, Lucas.”

  Mr. Kutchner looked dubious and put-upon. “What now?”

  “You have to teach me to drive.”

  “Oh!” Mr. Kutchner laughed loudly. “Well, get behind the wheel! There’s nothing to it.”

  Papa came back out. “Marta!” he called in sharp warning.

  She slid into the driver’s seat and put her hands on the wheel. “Watch out for your sister, Hildemara, and stay back. I don’t want to drive over anyone.”

  “Marta!”

  “Go curry your horses!” Mama started the car.

  Cloe charged out the back door. “Is she going to do it? Is she?”

  “Stay back!” Papa shouted.

  The Tin Lizzie screeched in protest. Startled, Rikka covered her ears and screamed. Mr. Kutchner yelled something. The car jerked forward a couple of times and died. Papa laughed. “I hope you didn’t buy it!”

  Mama’s face reddened. She started the car again—more screeching and grinding. Mr. Kutchner called out more instructions. “Easy now. Let your foot off the clutch and give her some gas!” The car lurched forward and bounded toward the road like a jackrabbit. “Brake!” The car skidded to a stop at the end of the drive.

  Hildemara had never heard Papa swear before. “Marta! Stop! You’re going to kill yourself!”

  Mama stuck her arm out the window, waved, and turned right. The car lurched down the road; Papa, Bernie, Clotilde, and Rikka ran to the end of the driveway. Hildemara climbed the chinaberry tree, where she could keep watch. The car picked up speed. “She’s all right, Papa! They’re going over the hill right now. They’re still on the road.”

  Papa dragged both hands through his hair. He walked in a circle, muttering in German. “Pray your mother doesn’t kill herself!” He headed back for the barn.

  Bernie and the girls sat on the front steps, waiting.

  “Here they come!” Hildemara shouted from the top of the tree. Bernie and the girls ran to the edge of the lawn. Hildemara came down the tree fast and joined the others.

  Mama whizzed by, waving her hand out the window, Mr. Kutchner shouting. “Slow down! Slow down!” And off they went in the opposite direction.

  Hildemara raced up the tree again while Bernie and Cloe jumped up and down, cheering. “We have a car! We have a car!” Dash, confused, barked wildly.

  Standing on tiptoes on a high branch, Hildemara craned her neck, trying to keep the car in sight, afraid any minute Mama would drive off the road and Papa’s prophecy might prove true. “Here she comes again!” Hildemara made it down the tree and ran with the others to the edge of the grass.

  The car raced toward them. Mr. Kutchner, face white, was yelling instructions. Slowing, Mama turned in to the driveway, a wide grin on her face. Hildemara joined Bernie and the girls running for the yard.

  “Don’t get in her way!” Papa shouted. “Give her room!”

  Dash gave chase until Mama honked the horn. He let out a yip and ran for the barn, tail between his legs. The chickens squawked and fluttered wildly in the henhouse.

  “Brake!” Mr. Kutchner yelled. “Push the brake!” The car jerked to a stop, shook violently like an animal run hard and worn-out. Sputtering, it coughed once and died.

  Mama got out with a grin broader than Bernie’s. Mr. Kutchner got out on wobbly legs, wiped his perspiring face with a handkerchief, and shook his head. He swore in German.

  Mama laughed. “Well, there isn’t much to it, is there? Once you learn how to use the clutch, the rest is easy. Just push down hard on the gas pedal.”

  Mr. Kutchner leaned against the car. “And the brakes. Don’t forget about the brakes.”

  “I’ll give you a ride back to town.”

  Mr. Kutchner grimaced. “Give me a minute.” He ran for the outhouse.

  Bernie climbed into the car. “When can I learn to drive?”

  Mama grabbed him by the ear and hauled him out yowling. “When you’re sixteen, and not a minute before.”

  Hildemara felt queasy just thinking about riding in it. Papa came out of the barn, raked his hands through his hair, and went back in again.

  Mr. Kutchner returned and smiled tightly. “I think I’ll walk, Marta. I don’t want to take you away from making dinner for your family.”

  “Get in, you coward. I’ll have you in Murietta in a few minutes.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of.” When Papa came out of the barn again, Mr. Kutchner called out to him with a feeble grin. “Pray for me, Niclas.”

  “You had to do it, didn’t you?” He said something in German.

  “That’s no way to talk to a friend, Niclas.” Mama started the car. No lurching this time. She drove smoothly to the end of the driveway, stopped, and pulled out.

  Hildemara counted the minutes, praying Mama wouldn’t have an accident. She heard the car coming. Mama made a wide turn into the yard, and another to the right, heading straight for the barn. Papa let out a stream of German. The horses screamed and kicked at their stalls. Papa shouted again. The car sputtered and died. A door slammed and Mama marched out of the barn, heading for the house. “You’re not parking that thing in the barn, Marta!”

  “Fine! You move it!”

  Mama hummed while making supper. “Bernhard, tell your father dinner is ready.”

  Papa came in, washed, and sat, face grim. Bowing his head, he said a terse prayer, then carved the roast like a harried butcher. Mama poured milk for each, patted Papa on the shoulder, and took her seat. Papa passed the platter of mangled beef to Bernie. “I want that car out of the barn.”

  “It’ll be out of the barn as soon as you build a shelter.”

  “More expense.” He glared. “More work.”

  “The Musashi boys will be happy to help. Just tell them I’ll take them for a ride. We’ll have a shelter up by Saturday afternoon.”

  Hildemara watched the pulse throb in Papa’s temple. “We’ll talk more about this later.”

  Papa read the Twenty-third Psalm that night and then said, “Bedtime.” He usually read for half an hour, at the very least.

  Bernie came through the back door last, muttering. “Ring the be
ll. Round one starting.”

  Hildemara lay on the top bunk, listening to Mama and Papa fight inside the house.

  “What did you pay for that piece of junk?”

  “Less than you did for that second horse!”

  “The car stinks!”

  “And horses smell like roses!”

  “Manure is useful.”

  “And plenty deep around here!”

  Papa exploded in German.

  “English!” Mama shouted back. “We’re in America, remember?”

  “I’m going to tell Lucas to come and get that car and—”

  “Over my dead body!”

  “That’s what I’m trying to prevent!”

  “Where’s your faith, Niclas?”

  “This isn’t about faith!”

  “God’s already counted our days. Isn’t that what Scripture says? I’ll die when God plans for me to die and not before. You’re just afraid of driving it!”

  “I don’t see the sense in taking needless risks. People have gotten along without cars for this long—”

  “Yes, and people died younger in those days, too. I’m exhausted most of the time, walking back and forth to town. With that car, I can be home in minutes. And maybe, just maybe, I’ll have time one of these days to read a book just for the pure pleasure of it!” Her voice broke. She said something in German, her voice stressed and frustrated.

  Papa spoke more quietly, his voice a gentle rumble, words low and indistinct.

  Hildemara let out her breath slowly, knowing the war was over and they had negotiated a truce. Cloe snored loudly on the lower bunk. Rikka lay curled on her side looking like a little angel in blue flannel pajamas. They never worried about anything.

  Mama and Papa talked for a long time, their voices muffled. No more clashing swords, no more cannons firing. Only the low drone of two people talking out their differences.

  * * *

  The car did make life easier. It opened up the world for Hildemara. Every Sunday after church, Mama took them for a ride, packing a picnic and sometimes going as far as the Merced River.

  Papa never came along, but he stopped worrying. Or said he did. “Be careful.” He’d brush Mama’s cheek. “And bring them all back in one piece.” Papa liked being alone. Sometimes he’d go out in the orchard and sit under one of the almond trees, and read his Bible all afternoon. Hildemara understood him. She liked to hide herself away in the chinaberry tree and listen to the bees hum in the blossoms.

  The car came in handy when Cloe got sick. Mama loaded her in the car and took her to town. “She has mumps.” Hildemara and Rikki moved out of the bedroom, but not soon enough—they both came down with it, as did Bernie a few days later. He had it far worse than anyone. His face swelled so much, he didn’t look like Bernie anymore. When the pain moved down low in his body making him swell in places Mama wouldn’t talk about, Bernie screamed out in pain whenever moved or washed. He begged Mama to do something, anything, to make it stop. “Mama . . . Mama . . .” He cried and Hildie cried harder than he did, wishing she could take his suffering on herself. She climbed down from her bunk at night and prayed over him.

  “Stop that!” Mama snarled, finding her there one night. “You want him to wake up and see you hovering over him like the angel of death? Leave your brother alone and get back to bed!”

  Bernie got better, and Hildemara came down with a cold. It got worse, changing from sniffles and a sore throat to a chest cold. Mama moved Hildemara into Bernie’s room and Bernie into the living room. Mama made poultices, but they didn’t help. She made chicken soup, but Hildemara didn’t feel up to eating anything. “You have to try, Hildemara. You’re going to waste away if you don’t eat something.” It hurt to breathe.

  Papa talked to Mama in the hallway. “I don’t think it’s a cold. She’d be getting better by now.”

  Hildemara covered her head with a pillow. When Mama came in, she sobbed. “I’m sorry, Mama.” She didn’t want to be the cause of a quarrel. The cough started and she couldn’t stop it. The spasm lasted for a long time, deep, wracking, rattling.

  Mama looked scared. When it finally passed, Hildemara fell limp, gasping for breath. Mama felt her skin. “Night sweats.” Her voice had a tremor. “Niclas!” Papa came running. “Help me get her in the car. I’m taking her to the doctor now.” Mama bundled Hildemara like a baby.

  Papa carried her out to the car. “She weighs less than a sack of flour.”

  “I hope it’s not what I think it is.”

  Lying on the backseat, Hildemara bounced up and down as Mama drove to town. “Come on, now. Help me.” Mama pulled Hildemara into a sitting position and lifted her. “Put your arms around my neck and your legs around my waist. Try, Hildemara Rose.” She didn’t have the strength.

  She awakened on a table, Dr. Whiting bending over her, something cold pressed against her chest. Exhausted, Hildemara couldn’t keep her eyes open. She thought she could stop breathing and not even care. It would be so easy.

  Someone took her hand and patted it. Hildemara opened her eyes to see a woman in white standing over her. She dabbed Hildemara’s forehead with a cool cloth and spoke in a sweet voice. She held Hildemara’s wrist. “I’m checking your pulse, sweetheart.” She kept talking, quietly. She had such a pleasant voice. Hildemara felt as though she heard from a distance. “You rest now.”

  Hildemara felt better just listening to her. “Are you an angel?”

  “I’m a nurse. My name is Mrs. King.”

  Hildemara closed her eyes and smiled. Finally, she knew what she wanted to be when she grew up.

  25

  “The doctor said to keep her warm and get soup into her. She’s thin as a rail.” Mama sounded so grim.

  “I’ll set up a cot in the living room near the woodstove. We’ll leave the bedroom door open.”

  Mama aired out the back porch bedrooms, changed all the linens, and moved Cloe and Rikka back into the small bedroom. Bernie got to return to his own bedroom. Mama made milk soup with a little sugar and flour. “Drink it, Hildemara. I don’t care if you don’t feel like it. Don’t give up!” Hildemara tried, but coughed so much, she threw up what little she ate.

  Mama and Papa talked quietly in the bedroom. “I’ve done everything the doctor said and she’s still drowning in her own body fluids.”

  “All we can do is pray, Marta.”

  “Pray! Don’t you think I have?”

  “Don’t stop.”

  Mama gave a sobbing breath. “If she wasn’t so timid and weak, she might have a chance. I might have some hope. But she hasn’t the courage to fight!”

  “She’s not weak. She just doesn’t confront life the way you do.”

  “She just lies there like a dying swan, and I want to shake her.”

  Bernie, Clotilde, and Rikki went to school. Papa didn’t work outside all day like he usually did, but Mama went outside more. Sometimes she was gone for a long time. Papa sat in his chair, reading his Bible.

  “Where’s Mama?”

  “Walking. Praying.”

  “Am I going to die, Papa?”

  “God decides, Hildemara.” Papa rose and lifted Hildie from the cot. He sat in his chair again, settling her comfortably in his lap, her head resting against his chest. She listened to the steady beat of his heart. “Are you afraid, Liebling?”

  “No, Papa.” She felt warm and protected with his arms around her. If only Mama loved her as much as he did.

  Mrs. King came twice. Hildemara asked how she became a nurse. “I trained at Merritt Hospital in Oakland. I lived there and worked while studying.” She talked about the nurses she met and patients she tended. “You’re the best I’ve ever had, Hildie. Not one peep of complaint out of you, and I know pneumonia hurts. It’s still hard to breathe, isn’t it, honey?”

  “I’m getting better.”

  Mrs. Carlson, the seventh-grade teacher, came to visit, and she brought a get-well card signed by every member of the class. “Your friends miss you, Hildem
ara. You come back as soon as you can.”

  Even her Sunday school teacher, Mrs. Jenson, and Pastor Michaelson came to visit. Mrs. Jenson said all the children were praying for her. Pastor put his hand on her head and prayed for her while Mama and Papa stood by, hands folded, heads bowed. He patted Mama’s shoulder. “Don’t give up hope.”

  “I won’t give up. It’s her I’m worried about.”

  Hildemara didn’t know how many days passed, but one night everything had changed. A little spark flared inside her. Mama sat in Papa’s chair reading a book on American history, even though she’d already passed the citizenship test and received a certificate and small American flag to prove it. “Mama, I’m not going to die.”

  Surprised, Mama lifted her head. She closed the book and set it aside. Leaning forward, she put her hand on Hildemara’s forehead and let it rest there, cool and firm, like a blessing. “It’s about time you made up your mind!”

  * * *

  It took two months to fully recover, and Mama didn’t allow her to waste a minute of it. “You may not be strong enough to do chores or run and play like the rest, but you can read. You can study.” Mrs. Carlson had brought out a list of assignments and tests Hildemara had missed, and Mama sat down and worked out a plan. “You’re not just going to catch up. You’re going to be ahead of the class before you go back.”

  Mama didn’t just care about getting the right answers. She wanted penmanship that looked like artwork. She wanted spelling words written twenty times. She wanted sentences built around each and then an entire essay with every word woven in. She made up math problems that had Hildemara’s head spinning. “What kind of math is this, Mama?”

  “Algebra. It makes you think.”

  Hildemara hated being sick. Clotilde got to read magazines and cut out pictures of dresses. Rikka could doze by the radio, listening to classical music. Hildemara had to sit and read world history, American history, and ancient history. When she fell asleep reading, Mama prodded her. “Sit at the kitchen table. You won’t fall asleep there. Read the chapter again. Aloud this time.” Mama peeled potatoes while Hildemara read. Mama bought a world map and pinned it on the wall, drilling Hildemara in geography. “With cars and aeroplanes, the world is getting smaller. You’d better know your neighbors. Where’s Switzerland? No. That’s Austria! Do you need glasses? Where’s Germany? Show me England—England, not Australia!” She didn’t let up until Hildemara could point out every country without a second’s hesitation.