“It’s perfect for us, now.” Elizabeth looked around, still glowing like a new bride. “But we’ll need more room when we have children.”
Hildemara looked away. “You have a green thumb. All those flowers in the flower boxes and the flats.”
Elizabeth laughed. “Who would have guessed I’d be good at something as worthwhile as growing things?” She grew serious. “I can hardly wait to be growing a child.” She blushed, lowering her eyes. “We’re trying. We were hoping to have good news before Papa…” When she looked up, her eyes were glassy with tears. “A baby would cheer him up, don’t you think?”
Hildemara looked down into her coffee.
Elizabeth leaned over and put her hand on Hildie’s arm. “I’m so glad you’re home, Hildie. I’ve missed you.” She squeezed and let go. “I know this is an awful thing to admit, but I was scared to death your mother might expect me to help take care of Papa. I don’t know the first thing about nursing, and frankly, Mama can be a little intimidating at times.”
Hildie smiled at her. “A little? At times? She still intimidates me on a daily basis!”
“Your mother is amazing, Hildie. She knows as much about running this place as your father. She gave Bernie a list of what has to be done, when and how, who to contact when the almonds and raisins are ready for market. She had it all written in her journal.”
Hildemara knew Papa had no worries about the farm. He had said the other day he had full confidence that Bernie could run things for Mama, if Mama allowed. Now she couldn’t help but wonder if Mama was already making preparations for Papa’s passing, but she didn’t dare ask.
Boots wrote.
I saw Trip the other day. He asked about you and your father. He asked if you planned to come back to Merritt. I told him I didn’t know, and you probably didn’t either. You should write to him, Flo. The poor guy looks like a lost soul.
Hildie gathered her courage and wrote to Trip. She kept the letter short and focused on Papa and Mama, Bernie and Elizabeth, what it felt like to be home after four years away, how little her hometown had changed. One page. A week later, her letter came back marked No forwarding address.
Papa lost his embarrassment as the weeks passed, and Hildemara took over washing him and changing sheets. She gave a pattern to Mama for a hospital gown. “It’ll make things easier for him and for me.” Mama got to work right away. The flannel kept him warmer. So did the soft socks Mama knitted.
Papa took her hand one morning and patted it weakly. “God made you a nurse just in time, didn’t He? He knew I’d need you.”
She kissed his hand and pressed her cheek against it. “I love you, Papa. I wish you didn’t have to go through this.”
“I know where I’m going. I’m not afraid. Mama is going to need you, Hildemara Rose.”
“I’ll stay, Papa.”
“For a while. Not forever.”
“Morphine puts you to sleep. I don’t want to spend the little time I have left in the arms of Morpheus.” But when the pain grew unbearable, Papa finally relented and allowed Hildie to give him an injection.
She called Cloe. She came home two days later and dumped her suitcases in the screened bedroom they had shared as girls. After an hour sitting by Papa’s bed, she came and found Hildie. “He’s asking for you.”
Hildie prepared the morphine injection.
Mama came and went from the bedroom. She had stopped sleeping with him. “Every time I roll over or move, I’m hurting him.”
When Papa cried in pain, Mama would become agitated. She’d pace, ashen, biting her thumb until it bled. “Can’t you give him something?”
“I have, Mama.”
“Well, it wasn’t enough. You should give him more.”
“Marta…” Papa’s voice, barely above a whisper now, always caught Mama’s attention. Glaring at Hildemara, she went back into the bedroom. Papa talked with her softly, in German. Hildie leaned against the sink counter, hands covering her face, trying not to sob.
“You never loved me, Niclas.” Mama spoke in a ragged, grief-soaked voice. “You married me for my money.”
Papa spoke louder this time. “Do you suppose there was money enough in the world to make me marry such an ill-tempered woman?”
Hildie went to the doorway, wanting to cry out to both of them not to waste time arguing, not now, not when it was so close to the end.
“You make jokes at a time like this.” Mama started to rise and Papa caught her wrist. She could easily have broken free, but she didn’t.
“Marta,” he rasped. “Don’t pull away. I haven’t the strength to hold on to you anymore.” When she sagged into the chair and began to weep, Papa turned toward her. “I wouldn’t leave you if God wasn’t calling me away.” He stroked her head, his hand trembling with weakness. When she looked up, he touched her cheek. “I’ve warmed myself by your fire.” He said more to her, softly, in German. She took his hand and held it open against her cheek. Hildemara stepped back and turned away.
How could Mama not know Papa loved her? Hildemara had seen him show it in a thousand ways. She had never heard either Mama or Papa say aloud in front of witnesses, “I love you,” but she had never doubted for one moment they did.
Mama came out of the bedroom and motioned Hildemara to go in. Hildie went.
Looking at her wristwatch, she held his hand and prayed until the time came to give him another injection. When she came out, Mama sat at the kitchen table, her head buried in her arms. Hildie didn’t know who needed her more, Papa or Mama. She knew how to tend Papa, how to comfort him. But Mama had always been a mystery.
That night, Papa lapsed into a coma. Hildemara stayed in the room, turning him gently every two hours. Mama protested. “What are you doing? Just leave him alone! For heaven’s sake, Hildemara, give him peace.”
Hildemara wanted to rise up and scream back at Mama. Instead, she went on with her work and spoke as quietly and calmly as possible. “He needs to be turned every two hours, Mama, or he’ll develop pressure sores.”
Mama helped after that. They worked in shifts. Mama’s face looked as white and cold as marble.
The smell of death filled the room. Hildie checked Papa’s pulse repeatedly, his breathing. She prayed softly under her breath as she ministered to him. God, have mercy. God, let it end soon. God, take Papa home. Jesus, Jesus, I can’t do this. God, give me strength. Please… please, Lord.
Hildie changed the bed linens and changed his gown. She wondered if people felt pain in a coma. She didn’t know whether to give him an injection or not. When she called Dr. Whiting and asked, he said he didn’t know.
“It’s my turn, Mama.”
“No.” She spoke firmly. “You’ve done enough. Go rest. I’ll stay a little while longer.”
“I’ll wake you if-”
Mama shook her head. “Don’t argue with me now, Hildemara Rose.” She took Papa’s hand between hers and whispered raggedly, “Not now.”
Hildie entered the room and knew before she touched his forehead that Papa had gone home. His face looked so serene, all the muscles relaxed. He looked white now instead of gray, the skin taut against cheek and jawbone, eyes closed and sunken. She felt relief and then ashamed that she did. “He’s gone, Mama.”
“I know.”
“When?”
Mama didn’t answer. She just sat holding Papa’s hand in both of hers, staring down at him.
Hildemara put her hand on Papa’s brow and found it cold. She felt the rush of anguish rise up, catching her by the throat, but fought it down.