Believing the Dream (33 page)

“They say doctors make the worst patients.” Dr. Gaskin replaced the now empty cough syrup bottle with another.

“How would I know? If I stay in bed all the time, I won’t have to worry about becoming one.” Two days had passed, and while Elizabeth knew she was better, she felt virtually unable to keep her mouth from spewing out her resentment.

“I think spring will show her face soon.”

“Right, and I’ve spent most of February in bed.”

“Better than the grave. I lost another patient last night, and you know how close your mother was.”

Elizabeth bit the inside of her lower lip. “I’m sorry.”

“I know you are. But please listen to me, and let’s not do this again.”

“Can I read now?”

“Unless it bothers your eyes. You’re done with the measles, but the secondary infections are what death uses to carry folks off.”

All right, quit being such a spoiled brat and behave yourself
. “How bad has it been?”

“Four dead, two still borderline, and everyone else slowly recovering. Miss Browne has been a trouper. You found a jewel when you found her, and I thank you for it.”

“Good.” Elizabeth hacked and coughed up more phlegm. She checked her handkerchief. No longer green at least. “How is Mother?”

“Weak.” His brow wrinkled. “You will be on your feet far faster, I’m sure.” He shook his head.

“I’m far younger.”

A one-shouldered shrug greeted what she had meant as humor.

“Is there something you aren’t telling me?”

Gaskin checked his watch, then tucked the gold timepiece back into his vest pocket. “I must be going.” And with that he was out the door before she could overcome another cough and ask him more questions.

Elizabeth threw back the covers to follow him but flopped back on the pillows, her heart pounding at the effort. “I hate being sick!” She felt tears burning her throat and coughed again. “And I will not cry!” She hugged her shoulders with both hands. “And please, oh, please, Lord, make my mother well again. All the way well.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

March 1894

Dear Thorliff,

There is not much news here. I am sorry I haven’t written more often, but I do appreciate your letters. It sounds like you are working very hard and getting the things you wanted, like writing and becoming published. Father is much the same, but Mr. Moen comes to sit with him, and they visit. That is why I am able to take time to write to you now. I am sure you will enjoy talking with him when you come home. He is so interested in the lives of Norwegians in America, and since you came as a little boy, he wants to hear your story.

Swen has asked Dorothy Iverson from south of Blessing to marry him. They will begin to build a house this spring and be married in the fall after harvest.

Again, thank you for writing.

As ever,
Anji

Thorliff read the short letter again. Was this the man his mother had also mentioned? It must be. But why was he talking so much with Anji’s father? Joseph didn’t come from Norway. His mother and father did. Joseph was American, not Norwegian. Wishing he could put his finger on what was bothering him, Thorliff folded the letter and put it in his pocket before heading up the stairs to the classroom.
Why can’t I be more pleased?

He laid his Greek text on the desk and reviewed the paper he’d written about Sophocles, not much different from the ones Pastor Solberg had required of him in high school. The good foundation he’d received in Greek made this class easier than some of the others. Since his school assignment was finished, he worked on the next chapter of
The Switchmen
for the newspaper during his study time.

“Hey, it snowed again,” Benjamin announced as they left for the day. “You want to go tobogganing?”

“I wish I could. I told Elizabeth I would bring her assignments to her, and we print the paper tonight.” Shrugging into his coat, Thorliff tucked his muffler inside and pulled on his mittens. “Unless you want to toboggan down the road to town.”

“No, we’re using the slope into Norway Valley. Sorry you can’t come.” Benjamin waved and headed off toward the valley where shouts and laughter could already be heard.

Thorliff looked longingly after him. The fresh powdery snow would be perfect for sliding. Instead, he turned his face toward town and hunched his shoulders against the wind.

“You have a letter.” Phillip handed the envelope to Thorliff when he reached the newspaper office.

“Thanks.” Thorliff looked at the return address and then at his boss. “New York. From Mr. Gould.”

“Hope it is good news.”

“I could use some.” Thorliff took the letter opener from the pencil cup and slit the envelope. The heavy paper felt rich in his hands.

Dear Thorliff,

I am sorry it has taken me so long to respond, but I wanted to say congratulations on your article in
Harper’s
. Imagine my delight when I saw your byline. There is nothing like starting at the top.
Harper’s
has the pick of the crème de la crème, as you well know. I am very interested in hearing how your year at St. Olaf and your work on the newspaper are proceeding. I know the drought has been a hardship for those in North Dakota and the other prairie states, and I am sure it would have been very easy for you to remain at home on the farm. It is a tribute to your parents that they see the value of college for a young man of your talents. I look forward to hearing from you.

Sincerely,
David Jonathan Gould

“Good news?”

Thorliff nodded and handed the open letter to Phillip. Since he’d told him the story of Mr. Gould’s beneficence, he knew the newspaperman would be keenly interested. Thorliff watched as a smile widened on Phillip’s face.

“Never hurts to have a man like him in your corner.” Phillip returned the letter and, tipping his chair back, locked his hands behind his head. “Amazing how things work out. Your mother gets lost in New York City, and years later you receive money for college from the man who helped her—you and the others you graduated with.”

“And our school library received books. Don’t forget that. Gould is a most generous man.”

“He’s also involved in railroads. . . .” A raised eyebrow accompanied the comment.

“I know, and not likely a union sympathizer.” Thorliff thought a moment before adding, “Life holds many hard choices and few easy answers.”

“And the easy answers don’t usually follow the path of wisdom. Good thing you are learning this young, son. Lessons get harder the later you wait to learn them.”

“That’s encouraging.” Thorliff shrugged out of his coat and hung it along with muffler and hat on the tree. “How are Elizabeth and Mrs. Rogers doing? Cook was so busy I didn’t stop to chat. She still doesn’t look well either.”

“I know. Elizabeth is wearing herself out taking care of her mother, so she relapsed. Cook is fussing that she isn’t doing a good job of caring for them, and I sometimes contemplate moving a bed to here in the office.”

Thorliff smiled back at the self-deprecating grin from Rogers. “I’ll go make a pot of coffee if what remains is from this morning.”

“Good. It’s so thick now the spoon stands up.” Phillip sat back straight and picked up his fountain pen. “I’ll have this editorial finished soon.”

That night Thorliff added another paragraph to his running letter to Anji.

Thank you for the short letter I received from you today. I am grateful Mr. Moen is helping with your father. . . .

Thorliff paused, rethinking his next sentence. It would do no good to tell her of his displeasure—or was it concern?—at the place Mr. Moen was gaining at the Baard house. After all, no one had told him that Mr. Moen was young. His mind just created that picture. Perhaps Mr. Moen was old enough to be her grandfather, or father anyway.

I received a letter today from Mr. Gould. He saw my story in
Harper’s Magazine
and wrote of his pleasure in seeing that. I’m going to send him a couple of the articles I wrote for the
Northfield News
, and though I was thinking of sending him the beginning chapter of
The Switchmen
, perhaps since that is political satire against the railroads, it might not be a good idea. Back to my studies. I’m sending you copies of those articles too. I hope you enjoy them, and perhaps your father will too.

I remain yours,
Thorliff

After that he wrote a letter to Mr. Gould and included the articles he’d mentioned to Anji. While he was due to write another letter home, he put his things away and fell into bed. He’d almost fallen asleep studying at school, but when could he fit more sleep in?

And when could he find time to write in the journal he’d received for Christmas? Too few hours in a day and far more things he’d like to do, if he could find the time.

By March fourteenth, the day before winter exams, Thorliff, his head stuffed with a cold and his fingers aching from writing two research compositions and rewriting them a third time to make them perfect, was weary to the point of sleepwalking. He wanted nothing more than a week of sleep, off somewhere so no one could bother him. How can one person be so far behind, he asked himself. And then he thought of Elizabeth, recovered enough from the measles to go to school and so far behind in her schoolwork that she was asking for extensions. Not that asking for extensions was in any way unusual. Most of the students who’d fallen prey to the epidemic either gave up and went home to recuperate or asked for extra time. Exams for them would be in two weeks.

Since snow was falling again, Phillip took them up the hill in the sleigh. “Now that was the quietest trip we’ve ever had.” His comment failed to elicit a response, other than Thorliff blowing his nose.

“Thank you, sir.” Thorliff stepped from the sleigh and slid on the ice. He grabbed hold of the sleigh frame and leaned over to pick up his satchel that had gone flying.

“Careful there.”

Elizabeth, cheeks looking even redder compared to the dark circles under her eyes, didn’t even bother to smile, let alone laugh at Thorliff ’s near fall. “Thank you, Father.”

“I’ll be up to get you at noon. Don’t want you skating down to Carleton.”

“Good.” She ducked her head against the snow and wind, letting Thorliff walk on the windward side without a comment.

“One more day.” Thorliff held the door open.

“At least for you it will be over then.” She brushed ahead of him and started up the stairs to the classrooms.

He stared after her, feeling pity for her load and pique at her brusqueness. But there was no way to help her. Right now he could hardly help himself.