by Lynn Austin
I can’t write about Christina’s funeral because I don’t think I have the words to explain how near God was to me on that day, in spite of my sorrow and bewilderment. It was as if He had wrapped me in His quilt and held me close to His heart, His strong, comforting presence a blessing to both Maarten and me. Afterward, God began lovingly wooing us back to His side through the countless small acts of kindness that His family showered on us. We weren’t able to understand why He had taken Christina, but slowly, step by step as our grief lifted, He reassured us that one day we would understand. Death wasn’t the end but only a new beginning, the way an infant must leave its mother’s womb to begin a new, light-filled life.
The sun is rising in the sky as I sit down in my kitchen to eat breakfast. I need to get ready for church soon. I glance over at Derk’s house next door and remember my shock when I learned that his mother—Hendrik’s daughter, Rosie—had also died when the Ironsides sank that day. I’d wondered if she and Christina had met each other and comforted each other in those final harrowing hours. Had they remembered becoming fast friends in front of the cobbler’s shop on that long-ago day?
Hendrik found me as I stood alone in the funeral home before Christina’s funeral. “Is this our penance, Geesje?” he had asked. “Is God punishing us for loving each other more than we loved our spouses all these years?”
His words shocked me. For a moment I wondered if they could be true. But I quickly shook my head and said, “No, God doesn’t do things like that, Hendrik. He doesn’t punish the children for the sins of their fathers. Besides, it isn’t true. I love my husband, Maarten.” I saw that my words had hurt him. “You should go be with Nella now,” I told him. “She is surely grieving, too.”
When I finish eating, I wash my face and brush my teeth and change into my Sunday clothes, my mind still on those long-ago events. Six months after the Ironsides sank, Derk and his father sold their home in Zeeland and moved next door to me. “That house held too many memories,” Derk’s father told me. “I saw Rosie every time I walked into a room. And yet she wasn’t there. This will be a new start for Derk and me.”
It was a new start for me, as well. Maarten had caught a terrible chill as he’d battled those icy waves the day the Ironsides sank. He developed pneumonia and died three months after Christina did.
From the moment I first saw Derk, I loved that sad little blond-haired boy. I made pancakes for him and held him on my lap and soothed his lonely tears. As he grew older, he came to my house after school each day to wait until his father came home from work, and I helped him with his homework, told him stories, and fed him cookies. We were God’s gift to each other to help us heal. And in leading Derk out of his sorrow and grief, I found a way out of my own.
Chapter 35
Anna
Hotel Ottawa
1897
I watch Derk remove his shoes and socks and leave them on the bench with his suitcoat and tie. He rolls up his sleeves and his trouser legs. I hope he doesn’t ruin his good Sunday clothes taking me on this venture. My knees feel like they’ve come unglued as I follow him to the shore of Black Lake. The water is so calm it looks as though you could walk across it, yet I’m having second thoughts. Derk turns one of the beached rowboats right-side-up and tosses a set of oars into it, then drags it into the shallow water. We haven’t signed up with the hotel’s concierge to rent the boat, but Derk is probably afraid I’ll change my mind in the time it would take him to run up to the hotel and back. He may be right.
And yet I don’t want to be shackled by fear for the rest of my life. When he’s finished I draw a deep breath and ask, “How do I get in?” The rowboat sits halfway in and halfway out of the water.
“Come here and give me your hand.” I do what he says, trusting him. He’s standing ankle-deep in the water. “All you have to do is step over the side of the boat and sit down on the wooden seat. I’ll keep holding your hand until you’re settled. The boat is going to rock a little beneath your weight when you get in, but don’t let it scare you. Even if it tipped over, the worst that would happen is that you’d get wet. The water is barely twelve inches deep here.”
I laugh nervously and say, “I would prefer to remain dry, if you don’t mind.”
He laughs and says, “Me too!” When I’m seated, I let go of his hand and grasp the board I’m sitting on in a death grip. “Now, I’m going to push off and then climb in,” Derk says. “The boat is going to rock again, but you don’t have to be afraid. We’ll be fine. You couldn’t ask for calmer water.”
He gives a hearty push, and I can feel the boat scrape across the ground as it leaves the shore. It begins to float. Derk climbs in, balancing himself expertly as the boat wobbles for a moment. He sits down facing me and picks up the oars. “Good so far?” he asks. I manage a nod, afraid to move a muscle and rock the boat. He pushes us farther from shore using one of the oars, then sets them in the oarlocks and dips them into the water. We glide smoothly out onto Black Lake as he begins to row. “I promise to stay near the shore. And the moment you want to turn back, I will.”
“Thank you.” At first I’m terrified to move or even breathe, but the rowboat’s gentle motion and the sound of the swishing oars and lapping water begin to soothe me. Black Lake is achingly beautiful this morning, the sun warm on my face and hair, the sky cloudless. I realize that going out on the lake with Derk in this tiny boat is a lesson in trust, and a metaphor for a life of faith in God. I’m helpless without Him. My life is in His hands. Yet Jesus promised that not a hair could fall from my head without the Father knowing it. I slowly begin to relax as we row east on Black Lake, away from Lake Michigan and toward the town of Holland. On our left, the shoreline is thick with trees and sprinkled with cottages.
“Thank you for doing this, Derk.”
“You’re welcome. I’m enjoying it, and I hope you are, too.”
“I wouldn’t exactly say that I’m enjoying it . . . yet. But I need to conquer my fear.”
Derk swishes the oars through the water once, twice, then asks, “Can you remember what caused your fear? Did you have a bad experience on the water in the past?”
I give him a weak smile. “I’m embarrassed to admit it—especially to William—but it’s because of a recurring nightmare that I’ve had ever since I was a small child. William would think I’m being ridiculous, and he’s right. It’s silly to let a childhood nightmare frighten me now that I’m a grown woman. That’s why I need to get over it. That’s why I asked you to take me rowing today.”
“I was terrified of the water for a long time, too. I didn’t have a bad experience myself, but I think I told you that my mother died in a shipwreck on Lake Michigan, just north of here.”
A chill shivers through me. “I’m so sorry, Derk. No one could ever blame you for being afraid of the water. How old were you?”
“I was four. As I grew older I wanted to conquer my fear, just like you’re doing, so I asked my father to let me learn how to swim and to take sailing lessons. It wouldn’t bring my mother back but it would make me feel . . . in control. As it turned out, I discovered that I loved sailing.”
I notice dark patches of sweat forming under Derk’s arms as he rows. He is all dressed up for church, and I feel bad for making him work in his Sunday clothes. He has kept us near the shore as he promised, but he lifts the oars out of the water for a moment as we gaze at the remains of the Jenison Park Hotel across the water. The boat rocks gently on the lake. A chimney and a section of wall are the only things standing. Smoke drifts into the sky in a few places as people mill around the mound of ruins.
“Life can change so suddenly,” I say. “Like it probably did for all those people who were in that hotel last night.”
“That’s true. I’ll never understand how people who don’t know God manage to keep going when things like that happen.” He lowers the oars and begins rowing again. “Tante Geesje has been letting me read the story of her life. She suffered through so many tragedies, ye
t her faith was what helped her get through them.”
“It sounds like an inspiring story.”
“It is. And I learned something I never knew. It turns out that the soldier she was madly in love with was my grandfather.”
“Really!”
“He was also in a terrible shipwreck when the Phoenix caught fire and sank, and—”
“Oh, Derk! That’s horrible.”
He stops rowing. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be talking about shipwrecks when you’re trying to . . . you know . . . be brave.”
“It doesn’t matter. I’m not feeling too scared at the moment. I just thought it was horrible to have two tragedies like that in your family, two shipwrecks. Please go on. You were talking about your grandfather.”
Derk pushes his fair hair off his forehead and pulls on the oars again. “Out of some three hundred passengers, only a handful survived. One of them was my grandfather. The Bible says that all the days of our lives are written in God’s book before one of them ever comes to be. God knew when my mother’s life would end. And He also knew that He had further plans for my grandfather. I’m here because he survived.”
“What about all the other people who died?”
“I can’t answer that. We may never know why they died that day until we get to heaven. Then we’ll say, ‘Oh, now I see. It all makes sense.’ That’s what Tante Geesje used to tell me. Her daughter was on the same ship as my mother, and she also drowned.”
I watch a sailboat glide past us, heading west toward the big lake. I sense that Derk needs to talk about what happened to his mother and grandfather, that he draws comfort from remembering them, so I shove my selfish fears aside and say, “Tell me about your mother, Derk. Why was she on that ship?”
“She had gone to Milwaukee to visit my grandmother, who was very sick. I stayed behind with my other grandparents in Zeeland while she was away. She was returning home aboard the Ironsides when a terrible storm struck and gale-force winds churned up huge waves. Her steamer was almost to Grand Haven, within sight of the shore. In fact, the captain tried to enter the harbor two or three times, but the waves were too strong and kept pushing them off course. Evidently they struck a sandbar and began taking on water. All the passengers and crew were told to abandon ship and climb into lifeboats.”
My entire body begins to tremble. Derk is describing my dream! I can’t speak, can’t breathe as he continues.
“The lifeboats were making their way to shore when a huge wave smashed into them, capsizing them. My mother and Geesje’s daughter, Christina, both drowned. Some of the survivors said that the women’s heavy skirts pulled them under—”
“Stop! Derk, stop! I want to go back to the shore right now! Please, please! I need to be on land!”
He freezes, the oars motionless, his eyes wide with surprise. Can’t he feel the entire boat trembling along with me? I grip the seat in white-knuckle fear as I shiver uncontrollably. Derk finally recovers from his surprise and rows with all his strength to the closest shore. It’s a rugged stretch of coastline with no cottages nearby, and I feel the rowboat scrape the bottom as we come to a halt. Derk leaps out and wades into the water to drag the boat onto land as far as he can. He’s out of breath when he’s finally done. “Please forgive me. I’m so sorry for scaring you.”
“It can’t be . . . it just can’t be . . .” I say through chattering teeth.
“Anna, what’s wrong?
“You were describing my nightmare exactly! How is that possible?”
“Your nightmare? I don’t know.” He offers me a hand to help me out of the boat, but I shake my head. I’m frozen in place, unable to move. Derk climbs back in and sits facing me again. “Tell me.”
“In my nightmare, we’re on a ship in a terrible storm. I’m sitting on Mama’s lap, and we can barely hang on to our seats because the ship is tossing and rolling so badly. People are getting seasick. We’re almost there, we can see land in the distance, but the ship keeps missing the harbor. Then we stop. Someone says we’ve hit a sandbar. Water starts coming into the boat, and the engines that have been rumbling and pounding all night go quiet. The silence is worse than the rumbling, because we can hear the waves lashing and the wind howling around us. We all sit there. People are crying and praying. Mama rocks me in her arms and sings to me and promises me that everything will be fine, that God is with us.”
I don’t know how, but as I’m telling Derk my nightmare, I’m remembering more details than I usually recall when I wake up. Derk reaches to pry my arms free and takes my hands in his. “Go on,” he urges.
“The crew helps everyone into the lifeboats. But it’s a mistake! Now we’re being tossed around even worse than aboard the ship. Enormous waves wash right over the sides of the boat and spill into the bottom, drenching us with freezing water. Mama and I cling to each other with all our strength. Then a huge wave picks up our boat and tosses us upside down. We plunge into the water. My skin stings as we go under, and I hear that gurgling sound in my ears that water makes. Everything is pitch dark. I can’t see, can’t breathe. I feel Mama kicking her legs with all her might, and it seems like hours and hours pass as we’re trapped beneath the dark, suffocating waters. At last, we come to the surface again. I drag in a breath of air. Mama and I are both coughing and choking. My father is trying to stay afloat just a few feet away from us, and Mama pushes me into his arms, saying, ‘Save my daughter! Save her, please!’ I don’t want to let go of Mama, but my father grabs me and holds my head above the waves. When I look back, Mama is gone. All I see is her hand, as if she’s waving good-bye. Father tries to reach for her, but he’s too late. She’s gone.”
My tears are falling as I finish. Derk moves from his seat to mine and takes me in his arms. “I’m sorry, Anna. I’m so sorry.” I let him soothe me, just like Mother used to do when I awoke from the nightmare as a child. When we finally pull apart, Derk takes my hands again and says, “I don’t want to upset you even more, but . . . is it possible . . . I mean, do you think it may not have been just a dream? Is it possible that your nightmare really happened to you and that you were aboard the Ironsides, too? The details are amazingly similar.”
“I don’t know. I’ve had this nightmare for as long as I can remember . . . When did the ship sink?”
“In September of 1877.”
“I would have been three years old. . . . Derk, the nightmare has always been exactly the same and so vivid that I can feel the wind blowing my hair in my eyes, how frigid the water is, and how strong my father’s hands are when he grabs me.” And the terror. Always, I remember the sheer terror. “Do you think it could have really happened to me?”
“There were some survivors. Not everyone drowned. Maybe your parents never talked about it because they hoped you would eventually forget what happened. It must have been horrifying for them, too.”
“That makes sense. . . . And yet . . . in my nightmare, I always watch Mama sink beneath the waves. She never comes back. In my dream my mama drowns.”
“I think you need to ask your parents about this.”
“Yes, I’ll ask Mother as soon as we get back. I want to know the truth.”
“Did you call her Mama when you were little?”
“What do you mean . . . Why?”
“When you talked about her just now you called her Mother. But when you were describing your dream, you called her Mama. And there was something else that struck me as odd. You said when she handed you to your father she said, ‘Save my daughter,’ not ‘Save our daughter.’”
I start shivering again. “What are you saying?”
“Didn’t you tell me you were adopted?”
“Yes, as a newborn.”
“Do you know anything about the circumstances? Or about your real parents?”
“Only that my real parents abandoned me and that Father was traveling on a business trip when . . . No. No. You don’t think . . . ?” I can’t finish.
“It would explain why you remember a few
words in another language. If your real mother was Dutch and she drowned that day . . . and if she gave you to your father to rescue . . .”
“But they told me they adopted me as a newborn.” If that was a lie, if they found me when I was three years old, then the parts of the puzzle that Derk is piecing together would all fit into place. Everything would make sense. And so would the dream I had of standing in my familiar bedroom crying for Mama while Mother stood right there. Could that have happened, too? “We need to go back to the hotel. I need to talk to my mother.”
Derk glances up at the tangle of woods and brush onshore. “I’ll have to row back. I don’t think we can walk back from here. I’m sorry—”
“You can row back. I’ll be fine.”
Derk gives my hands a squeeze before letting go. He stands and climbs out of the boat to push us away from shore, then jumps back in. My mind is reeling, my emotions tossing so wildly I barely notice the boat’s rocking motion. Derk lowers the oars and digs into the water with all his strength. In no time at all we’re at the hotel. My muscles are stiff with tension and fright as he helps me onshore. I hope my legs can hold me.
“I want you to come with me when I talk to my mother,” I tell Derk. He is rolling down his shirtsleeves and pant legs again. He exhales as he drops onto the bench to put on his shoes and socks.
“I would be happy to, but I really don’t think that’s a good idea. Your mother won’t be pleased to see me again or to find out that we’ve been alone together—and neither will William.”
Derk is right. Yet I’m not sure I can face the truth alone. I watch him tie his shoes and say, “But you know all the details about the Ironsides and about how much I resemble your Dutch friend and . . . and everything else.”