Until We Reach Home

  She felt stunned and bruised.. . and very disappointed to be alive. She spit dirt from her mouth and tasted blood where she had bitten her lip. Her hands and face were scratched and stinging from the brick cobblestones.

  "Are you all right?" her rescuer asked in Swedish. "Did I hurt you?" She looked up as he struggled to his feet.

  Mr. Lindquist.

  "Oh no," she moaned.

  He stretched out his hand to help her, but she covered her face instead. He bent down to lift her to her feet, then led her back to the sidewalk, reassuring the crowd that had started to gather. He spoke to them in English.

  Kirsten began to weep. She longed to sink down in the middle of the sidewalk, but Mr. Lindquist wrapped his arm firmly around her and propelled her along, holding her upright. She couldn't see where they were going through her tears. Thankfully, he didn't say a word to her.

  They finally stopped when they reached the little park near the boardinghouse. Mr. Lindquist led her to a bench and made her sit down. Kirsten knew she should thank him for saving her life, but she wasn't thankful. Her pain would have ended by now if she had died.

  "Why did you follow me from church?" she asked when she was finally in control of her emotions.

  "I could see that you were upset, and I had a feeling that you might ... well, that you might try to harm yourself. It seems I was correct."

  "How dare you!" she said angrily. "I didn't even know what I was going to do, so how could you possibly know?"

  He paused, then said quietly, "Because I once tried to end my life, too." He pushed back his coat sleeve and lifted his shirt cuff to expose a jagged, glossy scar on his wrist. "When you've been as despairing as I have been, you can see despair in others."

  "You should have let me die. My life is ruined. My sisters-" She couldn't finish. She covered her face again.

  He reached into his pocket, and she thought he was going to offer her his handkerchief. Instead, he pulled out the photograph that she had seen at the party last night and handed it to her.

  "This is my wife, Flora, and our son, Torkel. He's four years old now." Mr. Lindquist paused, holding his fist against his mouth as if trying to contain his emotions. "Flora died two years ago in Sweden while giving birth to our second child. The baby died, as well. I didn't think I could go on without her. I didn't want to try."

  "I'm sorry," she murmured.

  "After I tried to kill myself, my friends and family advised me to move to America and start a new life, get away from the memories. I am supposed to meet someone new and then send for Torkel to come and live with me once I am settled. But my grief is unending. I have tried to forget Flora, but I can't. I still love her." He took the picture from Kirsten and returned it to his pocket without looking at it. He kept his hand in his pocket.

  "I would like to send to Sweden for my son," he continued. "He's all I have left of Flora. But right now I'm not able to care for him as I should-and I don't mean just giving him food and clothing and a home. He needs love, Miss Carlson, and I have none to offer." He sighed and gazed down at his feet, waiting.

  Kirsten knew it was her turn to confess, but she was afraid to. A man who loved his wife and child as much as Mr. Lindquist did would be appalled to learn that she had chosen to kill her child along with herself. His wife and baby would have given anything to live. But Kirsten owed him an explanation after he'd saved her life.

  "I'm sorry for your loss, Mr. Lindquist. And when I tell you why I wanted to die, you will be sorry that you saved me." He waited, saying nothing.

  "I was in love ... no, I am still in love ... with a man from back home in Sweden. Tor said that he loved me, but it was a lie ... and so . . ." Kirsten couldn't bring herself to tell Mr. Lindquist about the baby. That secret was much too shameful. It was a moment before she could continue. She heard birds chirping in the trees and felt angry with them for being so cheerful.

  "I left Sweden because Tor's father wouldn't allow us to get married. He's an important man in our village, and my father ..." She stopped, unable to say the words out loud, especially when she had just tried to do the same thing he had done. "When Tor was forced to choose between my wishes and his father's, he cared more about inheriting his father's store than he did about marrying me."

  "I see," he said softly. "I will spare you the lectures about how young you are and how you surely will find love again, one day. I've heard all those assurances myself, and I don't believe a word of them, either."

  Kirsten drew a shuddering breath, then exhaled. "On the day we first met in the boardinghouse, I had just received a letter from Tor's father. I have been writing to Tor since leaving Sweden, but his father has been burning all of my letters without letting him read them. He told me to stop writing."

  Mr. Lindquist was quiet for a moment before saying, "I suppose I'm in no position to criticize you for walking in front of a streetcar. Nor will I lie and say that the pain of lost love will go away any time soon. But it is true that I now regret trying to end my life. My son deserves at least one parent. And I believe that in your situation, Miss Carlson, you will one day be glad that your life didn't end today."

  "You don't know if that's true," she said bitterly. "You don't know whether my life will ever get any better."

  "It's true, I don't. But I watched you and your sisters last night and I saw that you share a lot of love for one another. I believe it would hurt them deeply to lose you."

  Kirsten knew he was right. She and Elm and Sofia had wept at too many graves already. It would be hard for them to endure another loss. But if she lived, her disgrace would taint both of them.

  "Suicide is a sin against the sovereignty of God," Mr. Lindquist continued. "I believe that now. By trying to end my life, I was saying that I knew more about the future than God did. I was taking my life into my own hands when sovereignty over my life and death belongs to Him."

  "How can you still care what God thinks after He took your wife and child from you?" she said angrily. "He took my mother and father, too, and I still can't forgive Him!"

  Kirsten had never acknowledged her anger before, but she saw the truth of her words the moment she spoke them. And her anger at God was the reason she was now in this predicament. She had felt so desolate, so unloved after her parents died and her brother left home, that she had turned to Tor for consolation. All she had wanted was for someone to hold her and love her, so she could feel something besides grief and loss. Everyone around her seemed to be dying, and she had wanted to feel alive again. God had deserted her, but Tor hadn't. And so she had turned her back on Him and turned to Tor.

  "I won't say it has been easy to understand the Almighty," Mr. Lindquist said, "or to accept His will. But I do know that I must try. Life with God is often very difficult. But life without Him is unendurable."

  Minutes passed as Mr. Lindquist sat staring into the distance. When Kirsten glanced up at him she saw that his deepset eyes were filled with pain. They were such a pale shade of blue that it was as if his tears had washed all of the color out of them. She noticed that he kept his hand in his coat pocket-the one with the picture inside it.

  They would have to avoid each other from now on after confessing their secrets. It would be too embarrassing to face each other again.

  "I should go," she said. He laid his hand her arm.

  "Not yet," he said quietly. His hand felt warm and heavy.

  How long had it been since she'd felt Tor's touch? A single tear fell as she realized that no man would ever hold her or kiss her again. She waited. Mr. Lindquist finally lifted his hand and pulled his other one out of his pocket at the same time, folding them together on his lap. He drew a deep breath.

  "I would like to help you, Miss Carlson. I can see that you need someone to talk to and that you are unable to share your grief with your sisters. I can't offer any answers, but I am willing to listen."

  "But why? You don't even know me. I work as a maidservant; I'm nobody. Why would you want to listen to me?"
r />   "Because I would like to leave here today without worrying that you will attempt the same thing in the days ahead. God sent a friend into my life to listen to me after I did this," he said, pointing to his wrist, "and I've not felt the need to attempt it again."

  "I-I don't know what to say, Mr. Lindquist."

  "Perhaps you should begin to call me by my given name-Knute."

  "You may call me Kirsten."

  "I will meet you here whenever you have time off, Kirsten. You can rail at God and say whatever things you would like, and I assure you that I won't be shocked. I probably have said the same things-and worse. But it will help you to say them. It helped me. My anger is gone, if not my grief. When is your next day off?"

  "Thursday afternoon."

  "Good. I will take my lunch hour here on Thursday, weather permitting."

  Kirsten didn't know what good it would do to talk to him, especially when she couldn't share what was really bothering her. But she agreed, knowing that she could always send him a note to cancel their meeting if she changed her mind.

  "Whenever you're ready, I'll walk you home," he said.

  "But if you walk all that way, you'll miss Sunday dinner at the boardinghouse."

  He smiled faintly. "It's no great loss. And I'm still quite full from last night's meal."

  They sat together on the bench a while longer, saying nothing. Kirsten waited until she was certain her tears were spent and her emotions were under control before letting Mr. Lindquist escort her home. As soon as the mansion came into view, she halted.

  "I don't want my sisters to see us together. They'll ask too many questions."

  "I understand. I'll see you on Thursday. And in the meantime, promise me you won't do anything foolish?"

  "I promise."

  He tipped his hat. "Good day, then."

  That night in her bedroom Kirsten thought about Mr. Lindquist's offer. He had promised to listen to her troubles, but she didn't think she could ever bring herself to tell him the whole truth. Besides, he'd admitted that he might not have any answers.

  Across the room, Sofia was reading her Bible while Elin wrote in her diary. Kirsten quickly looked away, ashamed that she had read that diary. She recalled Elin's courage and determination in saving all of them from Uncle Sven, and she knew Mr. Lindquist had been right about the love the three of them shared. Love wasn't shown with empty words like the ones Tor had spoken to her. Love was demonstrated by sacrifice, as Elin had done.

  Kirsten was glad Mr. Lindquist had stopped her from killing herself. Her father's suicide hadn't fooled anyone, and hers wouldn't have, either. If she had died, Kirsten would have ruined her sisters' new life in America, just as their father's suicide had ruined their life back home. But she needed to figure out what to do about the baby soon, before that sin ruined their lives, as well.

  SOFIA HURRIED INTO the morning room on Thursday, wondering why Mrs. Anderson had called specifically for her rather than Elin or Kirsten. "You sent for me, ma'am?" she asked.

  The fairy queen lowered the newspaper she'd been reading and took a sip of coffee. "There is an article in here that you may be interested in seeing." She pushed a different section of the paper across the table to her. Sofia wondered if it was more news about Ellis Island. But the paper was folded open to the social page.

  "Go ahead and read it," Mrs. Anderson said, tapping one of the columns with her jeweled finger.

  Sofia skimmed the article. It told all about the dinner party Mrs. Anderson had hosted and named all of the people who had attended. Then Sofia read: The evening's entertainment was provided by a young Swedish nightingale named Sofia Carlson, whose astounding voice bore an uncanny resemblance to the legendary Jenny Lind's. We will be hearing much more about this phenomenal young talent in the months to come.

  Sofia looked up. She didn't know what to say.

  "The author of that article is a friend of mine. She was here the other night. She also sent me this thank-you note." Mrs. Anderson held a small white envelope aloft. "She would like you to sing for her son's engagement party next Tuesday."

  "I-I couldn't!"

  "Oh, don't be such a nitwit," Mrs. Anderson said impatiently. "She's willing to pay you, of course. I understand that the usual rate for something of this sort is around five dollars."

  "Five dollars?"

  "Yes. That's more than a week's pay, simply for singing a few songs. Does that change your mind?"

  "I ... I . . ." Sofia couldn't imagine earning that much money just for singing.

  "You're not going to give me a bunch of poppycock about having stage fright, are you? I could tell that you enjoyed yourself once you got started."

  "No, ma'am.... I mean, yes, ma'am. I did enjoy singing for your guests." Sofia's nervousness had faded once she saw her audience responding favorably, and she had gradually gained confidence. The people had responded to her the same way they had at Ellis Island when Ludwig played his violin. The idea of going to a strange house frightened her, but how could she turn down the chance to earn more than a week's pay in one night?

  "I will give you the evening off, of course," Mrs. Anderson said. "In fact, I will be attending the party myself. You may ride there with me."

  "I-I don't know what to say."

  "Thank you would be appropriate."

  "Yes, of course. Thank you." Sofia hated to miss one of her Tuesday evening English classes, but the prospect of earning so much money was too good to pass up. Before she could say more, the front door chimes echoed in the huge foyer.

  "That will be John Olson, my lawyer," Mrs. Anderson said. "Kindly send him in. And ask Mrs. Olafson to bring us some more coffee."

  Sofia did as she was told, then hurried out to the wash-house to tell her sisters the good news. They were heating tubs of steaming water to do the weekly laundry, including the linen tablecloth and dinner napkins from the party.

  "You'll never guess what Mrs. Anderson wanted! A friend of hers heard me sing last Saturday and wants me to sing for her party, too."

  Elfin dumped an armload of kindling into the woodbin. Her face wore a worried expression. "I'm not sure that's a good idea, Sofia. We need to be careful about going into strangers' homes all alone."

  Sofia tried to hide her hurt feelings. Why couldn't Elfin be happy for her? "The woman is Mrs. Anderson's friend, not a stranger. And Mrs. Anderson will be taking me to the party. Besides, you didn't even let me tell you the best part."

  Kirsten set down her laundry basket and draped her arm around Sofia's shoulder. "Tell us the best part."

  "She is going to pay me to sing. Five whole dollars!"

  "That's wonderful news," Kirsten said, hugging her. "We're so happy for you-aren't we, Elin?"

  Her sister nodded, but Sofia could tell that she wasn't. Why couldn't Elfin ever stop worrying? Sofia picked up the basket of wet linens and carried it outside to the clotheslines. Sofia loved working outdoors in the warm sunshine, hanging all of the linens on the line to dry. "Where are you going this afternoon for your time off?" she asked Kirsten as they worked side by side.

  Kirsten hesitated for a moment, then shook her head. "Nowhere. I've decided to just stay home and rest." She helped Sofia and Elin finish the laundry, then went upstairs to her room as soon as they finished eating lunch.

  "I know something's wrong with Kirsten." Elfin said as she and Sofia cleaned one of the many spare bedrooms that afternoon. "If you have any idea what it is, I wish you would tell me."

  "I don't know. And the more you nag her about it, the angrier she will get. She'll tell us what's wrong when she's ready to."

  Sofia heard footsteps outside in the hallway and looked up. Mrs. Olafson stood in the doorway, breathless from climbing the stairs. "There is a young gentleman at the back door asking for Miss Carlson. He-"

  "It's Ludwig!"

  Sofia flew down the stairs, racing to the kitchen door before Mrs. Olafson could finish speaking. Ludwig had arrived at last! She threw open the door with tears of joy in
her eyes-and could tell right away that the man facing the opposite direction, staring out at the huge lawn, wasn't Ludwig. He was much too thin. And his hair was fair, not dark and wavy like Ludwig's was. He turned to face her and he seemed just as surprised to see Sofia as she was to see him.

  "I ... I asked to speak with Kirsten. Is something wrong? Is she not at home?"

  "No... I mean yes, she's home...." Sofia's words came out choked. She thought she recognized the man as one of Mrs. Anderson's dinner guests, but why would he come to the back door? And why would he ask for Kirsten?

  "Is something wrong?" he asked again.

  She saw the worried look on his face and quickly wiped her tears. "I'm sorry. I must have misunderstood. I'll go tell Kirsten you're here, Mr.... ?"

  "Lindquist. Knute Lindquist."

  But Sofia didn't have far to go. She passed Kirsten on her way inside. Elfin and Mrs. Olafson stood waiting in the kitchen.

  "What's going on?" Elin asked. "Who's here?"

  "He said his name is Knute Lindquist. I saw him at Mrs. Anderson's party the other night."

  "What does he want with Kirsten?"

  "He didn't say."

  Sofia sank down on a kitchen chair, paralyzed with disappointment. Kirsten had left the back door open, and Sofia could hear the two of them talking in low voices on the back steps, but she couldn't make out what they were saying. A few minutes later, Kirsten returned inside. She looked annoyed to find her sisters waiting in the kitchen.

  "What were you doing? Listening to us?"

  "We couldn't hear you," Elfin said. "But who is he? Why is he here?"

  "It's really none of your business. Yours, either," she told Sofia.

  "I'm sorry," Sofia said. "But when Mrs. Olafson told us there was a man here asking to see Miss Carlson, I thought it was Ludwig. I've been praying and praying for him to find me, and I can't understand what's taking him so long. He should have been here by now, and-"

  "You need to accept the fact that you're never going to see him again," Kirsten said. "If you don't, you're going to get your heart broken." She fled up the back stairs to her room, her feet thundering on the wooden treads.