by Susan Wiggs
“Paint yourself blue and slaughter a goat.” He was so deadpan that she almost took him seriously.
“Very funny. I imagine I’ll have better luck at the hospital. Getting a signal, I mean. In general, hospitals aren’t such lucky places, are they?”
“When you need a hospital, it can seem like a pretty lucky place.”
“I guess so. Mercy Heights was my first. When my grandmother passed away, she wasn’t taken to a hospital at all. She died right in the middle of her shop.”
“That’s tough, Tess. What happened?”
“It was a blood clot that went straight to her brain. It was like being struck by lightning, or that’s how it seemed to me at the time—just so sudden and arbitrary. At the funeral, her church friends kept saying what a blessing it was that she didn’t suffer. I’m glad there wasn’t any pain for her, but I’ve never been able to get my head around the idea that losing her was a blessing.” She scowled down at the absent bars on her cell phone as a heavy jolt of remembered sadness hit her. “I was fifteen years old and I felt...as if the world changed color overnight.”
“Must’ve been rough for you.”
“Oh, it was.” She almost never talked about Nana, but it felt good just now, with Dominic. “The worst moments were when, for a few seconds, I would forget she was gone. I’d rush out of school with some bit of news to tell her, and then it would hit me—she’s not there anymore.” She took in a deep, shuddering breath. “God, look at me. I’m a mess.”
“I’m okay with messes.”
His easy acceptance was both startling and gratifying. She was so used to people who shied away from emotion. “Are you—or were you—close to your grandparents?”
“Sure. Don’t get to see them much, though. They’re still in Italy,” he said. “All four are still living.”
“Now that’s what I call a blessing.”
“Agreed. Tell me more about your grandmother. You told me she had a shop...and you’ve kept her desk.”
“Nana loved a sturdy cup of tea with sugar. She had a keen eye for quality and was a good businesswoman. And she was an incredibly patient, good person,” she said, watching the scenery flow past in a stream of color, like walking through a gallery of Monet paintings. “I loved the shop in Dublin—the way it smelled, the way she changed the displays. When I was little, I had this idea that one day I’d create a place of my own, like Things Forgotten.”
“Why haven’t you?”
“Same reason you haven’t become a full-time winemaker. Financing is a bitch. Besides, I’ve got a really good position with Sheffield House.” As they passed through the town of Archangel, Tess was struck anew by its quaintness. Everything seemed to move so slowly here. Despite what the doctor had told her, she felt a flash of longing for the city—the coffee, the action, the hustle and bustle of deals being made.
Soon, she told herself. Once she did her duty and visited Magnus, she would be on her way. Sending a sideways glance at Dominic, she felt a flicker of regret. But she had no business getting to know this guy. He was here and she was there, and their paths weren’t meant to cross.
“I liked hearing about your grandmother,” he said easily, pulling into the parking lot.
“It was nice,” she said before she could stop herself, “telling you about her.” Stop it, she told herself. Just stop.
The automatic doors to the medical center swished open with a mechanical sigh. The receptionist nodded with easy familiarity at Dominic as he signed them in. Then he led her down a hallway flanked by fire extinguishers, printed notices and hand-washing stations. He’d told her that he visited Magnus often; now she realized what a kindness that was. She found herself wishing Magnus could somehow sense that.
There was a whiteboard beside the door designating Magnus a brain trauma patient. The attending physician was someone named G. Hattori. Tess stopped there, her palms suddenly clammy.
“You want me to come in or wait outside?” asked Dominic.
“You do really well at hospitals,” she remarked. “I mean that as a compliment.”
They both paused to use the hand sanitizer, then they stepped into the room. Classical music drifted softly from a radio on the windowsill. The TV was muted and set on the Discovery Channel. The wheeled bed was angled toward the window, which framed a view of a eucalyptus tree.
Tess approached the figure on the bed, her heart pounding. He looked like...a stranger. Of course he did. A broken old man, unmoving, hooked up to a network of tubes. His closed eyelids were thin and bruised-looking. There was a healing scab on his forehead, and his snow-white hair had recently been combed. Ancient-looking scars marked his neck. He didn’t appear to be merely asleep. His arms lay stiffly at his sides, and his legs were slightly bent as though frozen in place.
Tess stood still, a few feet from the bed. She honestly did not know what she was feeling.
Troy, the nurse who had just come on duty, gave her the details of the accident and subsequent coma. Tess also found out that Isabel was her grandfather’s designated representative. As such, she had yet to make a decision about the Do Not Resuscitate order. Tess could sympathize. Who wanted to make that call?
Troy checked the screen of the laptop on its rolling cart. “There’s been a change in the past twenty-four hours.”
Tess’s heart lurched. “Is that bad?”
“As a matter of fact, it’s an improvement. The doctors want to take him off the ventilator.”
Tess thought about the healing ceremony—the music, prayers and rituals. Could it be...? “So it’s good, right?”
“He’s out of immediate danger. We’re focused on preventing infection and keeping him physically healthy. He gets a varied course of treatment, including physical therapy, sensory stimulation, and of course he’s monitored constantly. There’s brain activity, but so far no voluntary movement.”
“And the prognosis...” Please say he’s going to make it.
“We won’t know the full extent of the neurological damage from his injuries until he emerges from the coma. Some patients fully or partially recover.”
She looked from Troy to Dominic. “So, do we just...talk to him as if he can hear us?”
“Sure, go ahead.” The nurse left them alone.
Edgy with anxiety, Tess felt a confusing mixture of hope, pity, anger and frustration. She touched his hand, studied the shape of his nails and the pattern of his veins through the thin papery skin. “I just found you,” she said to Magnus. “I can’t lose you now.”
Shaken by an emotion she didn’t understand, she felt the need to do something other than sit here. On a rolling table by the bed was a basket overflowing with cards and letters. “How about I read some cards,” she said. “Hearing good thoughts from people can’t hurt, right?”
The cards ranged from typical get-well wishes to silly jokes to handwritten notes. “You’ve got a lot of friends,” she murmured. Someone had sent an eagle feather for courage, another contained a pouch of healing herbs. All expressed regard for Magnus. Near the bottom of the basket was a sentimental-looking card, handmade, adorned on the front with a sprig of dried lavender and a message that said Live This Day. The formal, spidery writing indicated the sender was elderly, carefully drawing the words “I’m sorry. Please get better.” Tess stared at the signature. Something niggled at the back of her mind, then exploded into consciousness. “Annelise.”
She recognized the message from the needlepoint on Miss Winther’s kitchen wall. The card was from the woman with the lavaliere and the Tiffany set—Annelise Winther. What on earth was the woman doing, sending a card to Magnus Johansen?
Mystified, she searched her phone for the old lady’s number and dialed. When Miss Winther picked up, Tess identified herself and said, “I’m sorry to bother you, but I’m in Archangel, up in Sonoma County. I came to visit a man named Magnus Johansen.”
The silence was long and taut. “Is he all right?”
“He’s... No. He’s in a coma. Ever
yone is hoping for the best.” She studied the pale, calm face, the wispy hair, the chest moving with the respirator. “I couldn’t help but notice this card from you. So I assume you know him.”
Another silence, this one shorter. “We’re both survivors of the Nazi occupation of Denmark,” said Miss Winther.
“I see. Do you know him well, then? I mean, were you acquainted in Denmark, or did you meet later?”
“I... No, I don’t know him well.” The woman sounded confused, or hesitant. “I never really did.”
“But you know him.” Tess felt confused, too. No way could this be a coincidence. “Miss Winther, I don’t mean to pry—”
“Thank you. I appreciate that. I hope... Just, please. Give him my best.”
Part Five
Plant a victory garden. Our food is fighting. A garden will make your nations go further.
—National Garden Bureau poster, 1939–1945
BACKYARD GARDEN SALAD
In wartime, patriotic families cultivated “Victory Gardens” to promote self-sufficiency and help the war effort.
4 cups mixed greens
1/4 cup fresh sprigs of dill
1/4 cup fresh flat-leaf parsley leaves
4 large basil leaves, rolled up and thinly sliced crosswise
1 large lemon, halved
1/4 cup fruity olive oil
pinch of salt
fresh ground black pepper to taste
1 cup toasted walnuts
3/4 cup crumbled feta cheese
1 cup fresh edible flowers; choose from
bachelor’s buttons, borage, calendulas, carnations,
herb flowers (basil, chives, rosemary, thyme), nasturtiums, violas,
including pansies and Johnny-jump-ups, stock
Toss salad greens and herbs in a large bowl. Squeeze lemon juice (without the seeds) over the greens and season with olive oil, salt and pepper. Toss again. Add walnuts and feta and toss well. Divide salad and pansies among four serving plates and serve.
(Source: Adapted from California Bountiful)
Nine
Gyldne Prins Park, Copenhagen 1941
Annelise Winther stretched her feet all the way up to heaven. The wind rushed through her hair as she pumped her legs, pulled back on the chains of the swing and lifted her feet even higher. Against the blue sky, she almost couldn’t tell how old and ill-fitting her scuffed brown shoes were. Mama said it was impossible to find new shoes in the city these days. She looked over at Mama on the swing next to her.
“Mama,” said Annelise, “you’re up in the sky like me!”
“I am,” her mother said. “It’s such a glorious day. Springtime is here at last. All the apple blossoms are out.”
Mama looked so pretty on the swing, her face turned up to the sun. Her long yellow hair had escaped its pins, and now it floated like a banner on the breeze. So did the light pink dress she wore. Its sleeves fluttered like the wings of an angel.
Pink was Mama’s favorite color because it matched her favorite piece of jewelry, a special necklace she almost always wore. The necklace had been a gift from Papa. He had brought it home from far-off St. Petersburg where he had been sent to do the King’s Business. These days, Papa was gone a lot, working all hours at the hospital. Sometimes he came home very late at night when Annelise was supposed to be asleep, and his face was smudged with candle soot. When she asked how he got all sooty by working at the hospital’s business office, he simply lifted her up into his arms and told her she asked too many questions. Then he tickled her until she screamed with laughter.
Mama turned to Annelise, and for no reason at all, the two of them smiled at one another. Annelise practically bubbled over with happiness. She smiled because she knew she had the prettiest, kindest mother in all of Copenhagen. In all the world.
“I’m touching heaven,” she called out, leaning her head way back to view the world upside down. “Are you touching heaven, too?”
“Absolutely. We have to stop soon, though.”
Annelise melted with disappointment. “Can’t we stay just a little longer?” Then she bit her lip, trying to be a big girl and not complain. It was Mama’s day off from volunteering at the hospital, and Annelise told herself to be grateful to have her for a whole day.
“You don’t want to stop?” Mama asked. “Not even for a picnic lunch?”
“Hurrah! A picnic!” Annelise’s disappointment popped like a rainbow-colored soap bubble. She dragged her feet to slow the swing, then jumped to the ground.
Mama had a way of making everything special, even an ordinary lunch. Due to something called Rationing, the bread was coarse and the cheese was made from curds, the way the farmers in the countryside served it.
“Your repast, Young Miss,” Mama said, placing the bread and cheese on a cloth napkin in front of her with a flourish.
“Why, thank you, Madam.” Annelise emulated her mother’s formal tone, though she couldn’t suppress a giggle.
“And we have ambrosia for dessert.”
“Ambrosia!” Annelise had no idea what that was, but even the word tasted delicious in her mouth.
It turned out to be spiced apples sweetened with honey, which they shared from a jar. “I made it from the last of the fall apples,” Mama said.
“Why were they the last?”
Mama’s pretty face darkened, like a cloud drifting over the sun. “Now the soldiers take them all. They took the honey right from the hives, too.”
Everything had changed since the German soldiers had come to Copenhagen, covering the city in a storm of leaflets dropped from their airplanes. To Annelise, it seemed they had always been here; she had even learned to understand their language. They were everywhere in their pressed shirts and shiny boots, all over the city, marching and bossing people about.
“Never mind that,” Mama said suddenly. “Let’s make sure this day is special.”
“Why?” asked Annelise.
“Because every day should be special.”
“Is that a new rule?” There were lots since the soldiers had come.
“Not a rule, but a reminder. We must live this day. We’ll never get to live it again.”
They basked in the sweet-scented breeze, and felt the sunshine warming their bare heads. Petals drifted from the gnarled apple and cherry trees, creating a pretty storm, like confetti. They lay together in the grass, watching a beetle trundling through the blades, its clumsy movements reminiscent of the soldiers’ giant transport trucks. Birdsong filled the air, horse buses clopped through the street, and somewhere along the city docks, a ship’s whistle blew. When it was time to go home, they packed everything into the basket and walked together, their clasped hands swinging between them. Annelise loved these perfect days with her mother, when the air was warm and the tulips and daffodils were coming up.
At the end of their block, a canvas-sided truck was parked, blocking the roadway. “What are those soldiers doing?” Annelise asked.
“Hush.” Mama’s voice was sharp, and she gripped Annelise’s hand very hard as she headed across the street, her heels thumping on the cut stone surface of the roadway. “It’s nothing to do with us.”
Annelise had to run to keep up. They were nearly home, approaching the black wrought iron gate in front of the house when two soldiers seemed to appear out of nowhere, blocking the walkway. “Frau Winther?” one of the soldiers said. “You must come with us now.”
Mama dropped Annelise’s hand and stepped in front of her. The sleeves of her dress fluttered, and she looked larger and somehow braver. Annelise was so proud of her pretty angel mother.
One of the men grabbed Mama, tearing the pretty spring dress. Annelise screamed and rushed forward. “Mama!” she yelled again and again. She kicked one of them in the shin, her scuffed shoe connecting with a shiny brown boot. A big hand swept downward and cuffed her on the ear, so hard that tears sprang to her eyes, and her ear stung and her head rang.
Mama tried to get away, but now two of t
hem were holding her. They had hard eyes and fleshy lips twisted by meanness.
Annelise rushed forward again, but Mama shook her head very hard. “Annelise, get away. Run! Run and hide!”
“I want to stay with you,” Annelise wailed.
The soldiers pulled her mother toward the truck with canvas sides.
“Get the girl, too,” said one of the men.
“What for? She’s harmless.”
“Now, perhaps. But remember, nits make lice.”
“Run!” Mama screamed again. “Annelise, do as you’re told!”
A large, callused hand swiped out to snatch her. Annelise ducked to avoid it. And then she ran.
Boots drummed on the sidewalk. Sobbing, Annelise ran harder. There were more soldiers coming out of the house, swarming over the place and carrying things out.
Annelise kept going, though she couldn’t see due to the tears in her eyes. She could hardly breathe past the sobs clogging her throat. Diving through a gap in a hedge and back into the park, she stumbled and fell, scraping her knees on the pathway and scuffing the heels of her hands into the gravel.
She picked herself up. More footsteps pounded on the pathway. She lurched forward, sped around the corner, ran some more. Help. She needed help. Wild fright muddled her thoughts.
“Help,” she wheezed as she ran. “Please help.”
A shadow fell over her. Strong hands gripped her arms. She fought with all she had, kicking and scratching, making sounds she didn’t know she had inside her.
“Easy, easy, easy, little one,” said a voice in Danish.
She stopped fighting long enough to look at her captor. He wore cheap civilian clothes, his reddish-blond hair like a halo around his head, sticking out from a flat cap of boiled wool. A thick red scar spread from his jaw down to his neck. He was really just a boy, with a bit of duck fuzz in place of a beard.