Robin Lee Hatcher - [Coming to America 02] (19 page)

She’d been pregnant.

With his baby.

His
baby.

He groaned as he hid his face in his hands.

“Mr. Bridger…Dirk…There is more.”

More?
He raised his head, met the doctor’s gaze.

“There must have been serious internal tearing. It is why she hemorrhaged. Because of that, you see, it is unlikely she will be able to carry a child again.”

It shouldn’t hurt so much. He’d never wanted a wife and family. It shouldn’t hurt so much.

“Are you sure?” he asked after a lengthy silence.

Dr. Swenson nodded. “Reasonably sure, yes.”

“Does Inga know?”

“Not yet.”

This time when he stood, no one tried to stop him. “I’m going up to sit with her. I want to be with her when she wakes up.”

“She will sleep a long time. Through the night, most likely. Rest now while you are able, Mr. Bridger. You will need your strength.”

“I’m going to sit with her.” He glared at the doctor, a challenge in his eyes.

“Very well. I will pour myself some coffee.”

Dirk climbed the stairs, his footsteps heavy and slow. He was tired, but he doubted it had anything to do with his own health and recovery. It had everything to do with the way he had failed Inga.

He opened the door to their bedroom. The curtains had been pulled, but the doctor had left a lamp burning on the bedside table. It was turned low, barely shedding any light. Inga lay on the far side of the bed, her slight form seeming even more slight beneath the quilt that covered her.

Dirk strode to the stool beside the bed, settled onto it, stared at his wife. She had always been fair-complexioned. Now
her skin seemed translucent, as if she might fade away, vanish before his eyes. Her satiny hair lay limp against the pillow. Her bow-shaped mouth—usually pink and moist, always so sweet when he kissed her, always so ready to speak a word of praise or comfort—was a gray-blue color now.

She cared for him. He knew that. He’d always known that. Might she have loved him if he’d been the least bit lovable? He’d like another chance to prove to her he was worthy of her love. If only it wasn’t too late.

“I’m sorry, Inga,” he said after a long silence. “Sorry about everything. I’d make it up to you if I could. What a mess I’ve made of it. If you weren’t so kind-hearted, you wouldn’t—” The word choked off, silenced by an excruciating pain in his heart. Tears welled in his eyes.

He laid his forehead against the quilt—one of her beautiful quilts, made lovingly with her own hands—and did something he hadn’t done since he was eight years old.

He wept.

I
nga, don’t give up. You wouldn’t let me. I’m not lettin’ you do it either. Wake up, Inga. Come back to us. Martha and Suzanne and me, we all need you. Nothing else matters except you gettin’ well.”

You don’t belong here, Dirk.

There was pain.

You can’t be happy here.

Always so much pain. Like something clawing and white hot tearing at her insides.

Come away with me.

Why wouldn’t it stop? Why wouldn’t the pain go away?

Remember what it was like.

And why wouldn’t that voice stop? Why did those words keep repeating? Over and over and over again.

“I cannot answer your question, Mr. Bridger, because I do not know. There is much we doctors have yet to understand. We can only wait and see. The bleeding has stopped, but if she does not wake up soon…”

“Aunt Inga? Suzanne and me, we’ve come t’see you. You gonna wake up now? You been asleep a long time…How come she doesn’t wake up, Uncle Dirk?”

“I don’t know, moppet. I don’t know.”

You don’t belong here
…

“I’ll make it up to you, Inga. I don’t know how, but I swear I will. Just don’t die. I’ll find a way to make you happy. You’ll see.”

You don’t belong here, Dirk…Come away with me…

You don’t belong here, Dirk…Come away with me…

You don’t belong here, Dirk…Come away with me…

Come away with me…

Come away with me…

The sun hurt Inga’s eyes. It spilled through the windows, warm and yellow, casting its brilliant glow throughout the bedroom and blinding her.

She couldn’t believe she had overslept. Not so late the sun was up already.

She sat up and swung her legs over the side of the bed, then stood. The floor seemed to vanish beneath her feet. The world spun out of control and darkness surrounded her as she crumpled downward with a pitiful cry of alarm. She thought she heard someone shout, “Mr. Bridger!” but she couldn’t be sure. The voice seemed to come from so far away.

It was Dirk who drew her back from the dark void into which she’d fallen. “Inga, what have you done?”

She recognized the warmth and strength of his arms as he lifted her into the safety of his embrace. She was disappointed when he lay her on the cool sheets and left her there. With enormous effort, she opened her eyes and looked at him.

He was leaning over her, his hands braced on the mattress. He was unshaven. A dark, unkempt beard hid much of his handsome face from view. She frowned. Why hadn’t she noticed he was growing a beard? She wasn’t sure she liked it. If he was growing it to hide the hollowness of his cheeks and the dark circles beneath his eyes, he had failed.

“You are unwell.” Her words came out half whisper, half croak. “Why aren’t you resting?”

He gave her a hint of a smile but didn’t answer her question. Instead, he said, “Frida, would you send Sven for Dr. Swenson?”

“Of course.”

Inga turned her head on the pillow—something it took great effort to do—and focused her gaze on her neighbor.

“It’s good to have you back, Inga,” the woman said softly.

Back?
She didn’t understand. Back from where? She looked at Dirk again.

“You don’t remember what happened?”

She shook her head.
“Nej.”

A dark and worrisome expression passed over his eyes. “It doesn’t matter for now.”

“But what—”

“We can talk about it later.” He touched her lightly on the shoulder, then took his hand away. “Do you think you could eat something?”

She didn’t feel hungry, but he seemed to want it. “I suppose so.”

His smile was more earnest this time. “Good.”

“I will get it,” Frida offered. “And then I will send Sven for the doctor.”

“Dirk?”

“Hmm?”

“Have I been ill a long time?”

Again that shadow across his face. “Yeah, a long time.”

“How long?”

He hesitated, then answered, “Almost two weeks.”

She frowned. It was odd not to remember, to have two weeks of her life simply disappear. She grasped at memories. “You had pneumonia,” she said.

“Yeah, but I’m okay now.”

“You look tired.” She paused, frowned again. “Did I have pneumonia, too?”

He shook his head.

“Why can I not remember?”

“I don’t know, Inga.”

She closed her eyes and sighed. “You would think I could remember.” She felt herself being tugged toward sleep.

On the thin edge of unconsciousness, she thought she heard Dirk whisper, “And I wish I could forget.”

That was a strange thing for him to say.

Dirk leaned on the corral fence and watched Orient trot around the muddy enclosure, shaking her head and flicking her tail, occasionally giving a little kick with her heels.

He was going to have to send the filly back to Kentucky, of course. He wasn’t sure why Clara had left her behind. Probably because she’d been in such a hurry to get away from the farm. She’d just forgotten in her haste. Whatever the reason, Dirk wasn’t about to let the horse stay. Orient could only be a reminder of what had happened to Inga—and he didn’t need any more reminders of that.

He turned his back toward the corral and gazed at the house. Dr. Swenson’s black buggy stood near the back door. The doctor had chased Dirk out of the bedroom over half an hour before while he examined Inga. Dirk’s endless pacing in the kitchen had caused Frida Gerhard to send him outside.

Was Dr. Swenson telling Inga now that she’d lost her baby, that she would never be able to have a child of her own? Would she tell the kindly old physician what she had seen, why she had fallen down those stairs? Would she hate Dirk now? He’d deserve it if she did. It was all his fault. His own fault.

The kitchen door opened. “Dirk!” Frida waved to him. “The doctor says you should come in now.”

His stomach felt hollow. His feet felt weighted. Guilt walked beside him as he moved across the barnyard.

No more babies.

Inga knew that’s what the doctor had told her, but it didn’t seem real.

No more babies.

She supposed she should cry. Dr. Swenson seemed to expect her to cry. Why didn’t she?

Come away with me
…
You can’t be happy here…

The memory of that moment had returned, and she was sorry it had. She remembered them, standing close together, Clara’s hand on Dirk’s bare chest. Clara—beautiful, rich, sensuous Clara Keene—and Dirk, so handsome, so strong. They’d looked perfect together.

Would Dirk have agreed to go with Clara if Inga hadn’t happened upon them?

Nej,
she answered herself. He wouldn’t have gone. Dirk might be unhappy, but he would never turn his back on his responsibilities. He had promised to raise his nieces, and he would keep his word. He was a man of honor, Hattie Bridger had said, and it was true. No, Dirk wouldn’t have deserted the children—or Inga—for Clara, no matter how much he might have wished he could. She knew he would leave one day, but it wouldn’t be for Clara, and it wouldn’t be by stealth.

So why had she run when she’d seen them together? Why had it hurt so much, like a knife plunging into her heart?

Probably because she believed Clara was right. Dirk didn’t belong on this dairy farm and he didn’t belong with her. He couldn’t be happy here.

If I had not run, I would not have lost the baby.

The baby. Dirk’s baby. She would have had his child when he went away. Now she would have nothing except memories.

No more babies. Not ever. She felt empty, hollow, useless.

Did Dirk know? Would he care?

As if summoned by her wondering, Dirk appeared in the bedroom doorway. He looked haggard, so worn and thin. He hadn’t been eating right. Who was cooking for him and the children?

“How are you?” he asked as he approached the side of the bed.

“Better, I think.” Her voice sounded raspy, unlike herself.

Dirk knelt beside the bed and took her hand in his. “I’m sorry, Inga. I’ve made a real mess of things.”

“You need a shave.”

“It was my fault. You could have died, and it would’ve been my fault.”

She looked toward the window. “Let’s not talk about it.”

“All right. We won’t for now.” His hand tightened on hers. “But we’ll have to eventually. There’s a lot I have to tell you, Inga. I’ve made so many mistakes.”

“I do not wish to talk about it now,” she whispered, wishing she would cry. Crying would be preferable to this hollowness.

“Inga—”

“Frida said it is almost April. In Jönköping the first wildflowers are out. The coltsfoot are showing their little yellow faces amidst the brown, dry grass. Soon they will be finding blue hepaticas in the birch tree groves. And nettles, too. Mamma always picked the sprouts of nettles for her nettle soup.” She closed her eyes. “I wish Mamma was here.”

“Me too.”

“I would like to sleep.”

“Sure. We’ll talk later, Inga.”

But they didn’t talk later. Inga wouldn’t let them. She retreated from him in the days that followed. She retreated from everyone, locking herself behind some invisible wall. Physically she improved much more quickly than the doctor had expected, but emotionally she shut herself off from the world.

Dirk recognized what she was doing. Probably because, in his own way, he’d done much the same thing in the past. Only he’d used bitterness as his wall of defense. Inga was using indifference and silence.

She resumed sewing. For hours on end, she sat in the bed, pillows at her back, and stitched on a quilt, this one made only with red and white bits of fabric. It wasn’t like her usual quilts. There were no individual panels telling a story. Dirk hated the predominantly red quilt, although he couldn’t say why.

The Linbergs returned from Minnesota, but even Inga’s teasing, laughing, smiling sisters seemed unable to draw her back from that quiet place of refuge she’d found. She listened and watched and nodded, but she never actually participated. She was there, but she wasn’t.

Dirk watched Inga and knew fear. He was helpless. There was nothing he could do, nothing anyone could do, but watch and wait and pray. And Dirk had never been much good at prayer.

Inga awakened with a start, a baby’s cries echoing in her ears.

She glanced toward her left side. Dirk lay sleeping beside her, his profile kissed by the silvering light of the moon. Carefully, so as not to awaken him, Inga slid from beneath the
covers. Her legs were weak and unsteady, but she managed to rise and stay upright. She reached for her robe, slipped her arms into the sleeves, then walked to the door of the bedroom.

The house was silent, cloaked in the stillness of night.

She went to the children’s bedroom and walked in, stopping beside the bed. Martha’s head was covered in a nightcap. Suzanne had lost her cap in her tossing and turning, and her red hair spilled over the pillowcase in a puddle of tangles and curls. Angelic and impish at the same time. Inga’s heart ached as she looked at them. She loved them so very much.

But it had been a baby’s cry she’d heard. Where had it come from?

She left the children’s bedroom and went downstairs, wandering from one room to another. All was silent. All was as it should be.

She opened the kitchen door and gazed out at the barnyard. The snow was gone. She would have sworn she could see crocuses blooming beside the back steps. It had to be a trick of the moonlight. Winter couldn’t possibly have ended while she slept.

She closed the door and leaned against it. She felt lost, alone, and afraid.

Terrified.

Walking as quickly as her legs would carry her, she returned to her upstairs bedroom. A glance at the bed proved she was not alone. Dirk was there, sleeping, one arm thrown over his forehead.

Then she saw the quilt, lying across a chair near the window. She crossed to it, stared at it. Scarlet. So very scarlet.

She had prayed and asked God for Dirk’s life. She had sworn she would never want anything again if only he would spare Dirk, even if it meant losing him later to the things he
wanted more. She had told God to take anything of hers but to let Dirk live, and she would never ask for another thing.

God had heard her request and taken her unborn child.

She picked up the red and white quilt, held it to her face, and began to weep. Her heart was torn and bleeding, like the scarlet of the quilt, and she couldn’t stop weeping. She knelt on the floor, clutching the quilt, swaying forward and back as she mourned the baby she would never have. All the babies she would never have.

She wasn’t sure when Dirk came to kneel beside her, when he took her into his arms and held her head against his chest, when he began to whisper words of comfort and remorse.

“We’ll start over, Inga. You and me. We’ll do things right this time.”

She had wanted too much. Her destiny had been to stay at home with Pappa, to take care of him. She should have learned to be content with what she had, but she hadn’t been. She’d wanted adventure. She’d wanted to be pretty. She’d wanted Dirk, and then she’d wanted his child. She’d wanted more, always more. She’d wanted too much.

Dirk stroked his hand over her hair. “When I asked you to marry me, it was for plenty of selfish reasons. I never thought about what it would cost you. You gave me more than I deserved. It’s my fault, all your unhappiness. Nothin’ I can do will ever give you back what you’ve lost, but I want you to know how sorry I am. How sorry I’ll always be.”

Dirk thought it was his fault, but he was wrong. Inga knew the fault was hers and hers alone.

“I’ve got no right to ask you to love me, Inga. I know I’ll have to earn it.”

She had loved him too much and now she had paid the price.

“What do you say? Can we start over? Can we make us into a real family, you, me, and the girls?”

She couldn’t answer him. Fear of the future, of still wanting too much, kept her silent.

Sobs tore at her throat, and she was inconsolable, for she believed, deep in her wounded heart, that she had bargained one life for another.

And then she had found the price too high.