Believing the Dream

by Lauraine Snelling

  Elizabeth cast a gaze heavenward. “Let’s just go eat. I never win when you tease me like that.”

  “No, you just decimate my ego in chess and croquet.”

  “Have we played whist?” She settled herself on the walnut bench.

  “No, and we won’t. I have taken a vow to never again play cards or any other game with you. You always win.”

  Elizabeth looked across the room to Mrs. Mueller sitting with her head resting against the back of the chair, her eyes closed. Would that I could win at every game, if I could be so bold as to think of doctoring a game.

  Mrs. Mueller’s hands suddenly strangled the arms of the chair.

  “Here, take this.”

  “But you’ve hardly eaten anything.” Thornton looked from Elizabeth to her barely touched plate. “Surely there is time—”

  “No, maybe not.” She stood and, shaking out her skirt, sat back down on the piano bench and rested her fingers on the keys. “Please go and sit by your aunt, and when you see that she looks uncomfortable, go fetch Dr. Gaskin.”

  “What . . . you don’t mean . . . ?”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Bless you, Thornton, you did as I asked without question.

  Thornton made his way across the room, smiling and greeting folks as he passed but never getting sidetracked. He moved the footstool in place and sat in front of his aunt.

  Elizabeth watched him smile and offer the woman a tidbit, then at her bidding went for something in the other room, returning with a cup of punch. So who is the more typical of the male species? Reverend Mueller or Thornton Wickersham, my father or—or Thorliff Bjorklund? Surprised that his name had sprung to her mind, she heard “Greensleeves” rippling from beneath her fingers.

  One by one the guests made their way back to the chairs. Her father brought in more seats from the other rooms, as if they wouldn’t hear her playing from the study or dining room.

  At her mother’s nod she hit several chords as an introduction and then went into the opening bars of “Hallelujah!” from Handel’s Messiah.

  As the music flooded the room, the wonder of it made her soul smile. She forgot the people gathered, forgot her concerns for Mrs. Mueller, forgot everything but rising and floating with the majestic music. By the time she finished the final note, she had to wipe the tears from her cheeks as the guests applauded. She segued into other favorites and finally into Christmas carols, so everyone could sing along.

  When the final notes faded away, her father handed her a handkerchief and reached for her hand so she would stand. “Beautiful, my dear, simply beautiful.”

  “Thank you.” Elizabeth smiled and dipped her head in acknowledgment of her audience’s appreciation. “Thank you all for coming. I know Mother has more refreshments in the dining room. We wish you all a most blessed Christmas, and may the Christ child reign in your hearts all through the year.”

  “If any of you has a favorite song that Elizabeth has not yet played or something you would like to hear again, you could ask her.” Phillip glanced at his daughter to get her nod.

  Elizabeth sat back down at the piano, her fingers automatically searching out the keys in rippling streams. At the same time her gaze returned to Mrs. Mueller, who smiled and nodded her appreciation, then clutched the chair arms again.

  None of those around her were paying any attention, but about the time Elizabeth was going to rise and go to her, Miss Browne returned to her side.

  Where was Thornton? Elizabeth’s gaze roved the areas she could see. No father, no doctor, no reverend. They must be in the library or her father’s office. Her eyes went back to Mrs. Mueller to see her clenching with another contraction. It hadn’t been three minutes since the last. Her gaze collided with Miss Browne’s. There was no time to take the woman home, not with the contractions this close and the weather as cold as it was outside.

  She finished the notes as if nothing were wrong and rose from her bench, all the time glancing around, searching for her mother. She must be back in the kitchen. Which to do first? Find her mother or Reverend Mueller or a room for the birthing?

  “Elizabeth, Mrs. Mueller is in distress.” One of their neighbors stopped at her side.

  “I know.” Elizabeth crossed the room and knelt beside Mrs. Mueller. “Do you think you can walk up the stairs?”

  “I am so sorry.” Tears slipped out ahead of a groan. “I thought it would be hours yet.”

  “Don’t you fret. Been a long time since a baby was born in this house. Can you walk?”

  “I . . . I can try.” Together Elizabeth and Miss Browne helped the woman to her feet.

  “How can I help?” Thornton appeared at her side.

  “Go find Dr. Gaskin and then my mother.”

  Another groan made her wince. Thornton made his way through the chatting guests, who were heading toward the front door in a leisurely fashion. How could they all be so unaware of what was happening?

  Because Mrs. Mueller was the consummate actress, that’s why.

  The men came from the study and surrounded the three women.

  “I knew I shouldn’t have allowed you to come.” Reverend Mueller spoke in a whisper that turned into a hiss. “Let’s get you home immediately.”

  “No, you’ll do nothing of the kind.” Elizabeth heard the words coming from her mouth before she even thought them.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  A groan cut off their discussion.

  “Where should we take her?” Dr. Gaskin asked Elizabeth.

  “Upstairs or else to the study.”

  “I’ll carry her.” Thornton stepped forward.

  “Don’t be silly. She can walk.” Reverend Mueller’s strident voice made Elizabeth gnash her teeth.

  “Walking might have been good a while ago, but not now.” Dr. Gaskin looked to Thornton. “I’ll help you. We can cross hands to form a seat and carry her up. Are you ready?”

  The two men crossed their arms, and locking hands, stooped low for Mrs. Mueller to sit.

  “I am so ashamed.” Her whisper cut to Elizabeth’s heart, but when she realized the woman’s skirts were soaked, she understood even more.

  “What’s happening?” Annabelle joined her daughter.

  “Her baby.”

  “Oh.” Annabelle forged ahead of the men. “This way.”

  “I’m sure we could make it home before . . .”

  Elizabeth turned to the minister, but her father stepped between them. After warning her with a frown and commiserating with a slight smile, Phillip took the reverend by the arm and led the blustering gentleman away. “Come with me to the study, and we’ll let the women do their jobs here.”

  Elizabeth followed the others up the stairs. What is the matter with that man? How can he be such a good man to those of his parish and so careless with his wife? That isn’t what the Bible says about men of God, is it? As she topped the steps, she reminded herself she needed to look up the Scriptures to see what was indeed written.

  “Elizabeth, get more towels.” Annabelle met her at the door to the guest room. “I’ve rung for Cook to boil extra water.”

  When she brought in the towels and two extra sheets, Dr. Gaskin motioned to her. “Do you have your black bag handy? I didn’t bring mine tonight.”

  “Of course. I’ll be right back.”

  A bit-off shriek shattered the stillness, sending speed to her slippers.

  Really, with both Doctor and Miss Browne here, I’m not needed. But Elizabeth couldn’t leave either, drawn back to the guest room in spite of her own admonishments. She had assisted Dr. Gaskin on enough birthings not to want to miss a thing. And she knew her presence would be a comfort to Mrs. Mueller.

  After another hour passed and the baby no closer to making an appearance, she went downstairs to fetch coffee for those in attendance. At the bottom of the stairs she could hear male voices from the study, so she went to check on them also.

  Her father and Reverend Mueller were seated in front of the fire, their
discussion intense enough they didn’t hear her enter.

  “But you know the unions are not of God. Why do you say so?” Phillip leaned forward, his hands clasped, elbows on knees.

  “I say that anything that improves the plight of the working man is a good thing. How can you dispute that?”

  “True, but to say God has His hand in it?” Phillip stared at his guest over his steepled fingers.

  “God has His hand in everything, no matter what we think. He has not abdicated the throne and left it all to man.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “The running of this world, of course.” Reverend Mueller leaned back in his chair, fingers cushioning his chin.

  Here he is arguing politics while his wife is up there struggling to bring another child into his family. What about good things for women, like not having a baby every year? Elizabeth kept her thoughts to herself but cleared her throat to let them know she was there.

  “Excuse me, but may I get you anything? Coffee, Reverend?”

  “No, thank you.” He answered with barely a nod in her direction. As she turned to leave, he raised his voice slightly. “Lovely playing this evening, Miss Rogers. Such a gift you have. Any time you would like to come play for services again, you let me know.”

  “Oh, I will.” Be a slow day in Chicago before I do that again. One more strike against the minister. She’d often fought off the memory of his “suggestions” on how she play the hymns. She either went too fast or too slow or too loud or too . . . there were always more too’s.

  And yet, most of his congregation thinks he can walk on water. Why, Lord, is it that he rubs me the wrong way? Reverend Johnson is such a wonderful man; I wish we attended the Congregational church instead.

  Cook had the granite coffeepot hot enough on the back of the stove. She roused from her sleep in the chair when Elizabeth moved the coffeepot. “Why did you not ring?”

  “I needed something to do with my hands.”

  “You could go to bed, you know. The nurse is helping Dr. Gaskin.”

  “I know. But if I can help in any way, I would rather be doing that.” I’d rather be up there helping, but they are working so well together.

  “You could go play for her. You know how Mrs. Mueller loves to hear you play the piano.”

  Elizabeth finished filling the silver pot and set it on the tray. Cook added a plate of cookies and picked up the tray.

  “You go play. I’ll make sure the door is open.”

  Elizabeth did as told, wishing they had kept Mrs. Mueller downstairs so she could hear better. If this was soothing to her, more power to the gift of music.

  But she couldn’t lose herself in the songs, even caught herself stumbling in places, because she couldn’t forget about the scene upstairs. While she hadn’t heard any more interrupted screams, she hadn’t heard a baby’s first cry either. What was going on up there?

  Cook climbed the stairs with something else. The argument in the study grew louder. Had her father doctored the coffee with something stronger? When had Thornton left? Or hadn’t he?

  When Cook came back down, she stepped into the parlor. “Mrs. Mueller is asking for you.”

  With a nod Elizabeth slipped away from the piano and, hiking her skirts, dashed up the stairs.

  “How is she?”

  Dr. Gaskin shook his head. “See if you can get her to push. We’ve got to get that baby moving.”

  Elizabeth leaned over the side of the bed and stroked the sweat-soaked hair off the pale forehead. “Mrs. Mueller, you asked for me?”

  A brief nod and her eyes fluttered open. “Th-thank you.” Her voice barely above a whisper, Mrs. Mueller reached for the younger woman’s hand. “Please don’t be angry at Reverend Mueller. He does the best he can.”

  Elizabeth ducked her head. Had her feelings been that obvious? All words fled her mind. What to say? Right now she wanted to take a horsewhip to the man. He hadn’t even asked about his wife, as if she were nothing more than the drudge who worked at his house. Yet she’d seen him show such compassion to ailing members of his church. Why not his wife?

  “You just think about getting this baby born. Doctor says it’s time to push.”

  A faint nod. “I . . . I’m afraid . . . I d-don’t have much . . .” She clenched both eyes and teeth against another contraction.

  “Please, push! Push with all you have, Mrs. Mueller, come on.” Elizabeth gripped the woman’s hands as if she could share her own strength. “Push!”

  “I a-m-m.” As if drawing on her last ounce of strength, she reared up, face, hands, body straining, her keening high and pitiful in its weakness.

  “Again. Here, push against me.” Elizabeth pulled the woman against her and braced her back on the head of the bed. “When the contraction comes, push. Your baby needs you to push.” The young woman whispered in the weary woman’s ear and brushed the soaked hair off her forehead. Lord God, help us here. Please give her the strength she needs.

  The next contraction gathered force and tore at the woman’s body. With another keening, she pushed against Elizabeth’s strength, crying against the agony. “G-God, h-help me.”

  With a gush of bright red blood, the tiny baby girl slid into the world, flaccid and still.

  Nurse Browne snatched up the baby, being careful of the cord, and blew in the blue-tinged face. “Come, little one, you must breathe.” When nothing happened, she shook the tiny form. “God in heaven, help this lamb.” She dangled the child by the feet and slapped first the soles, then the minute buttocks.

  “Doctor, she’s not breathing.”

  “Dip her in warm water,” Dr. Gaskin ordered over his shoulder as he fought to stem the tide of red. Rolling one of the towels, he pressed it against the flood and kneaded the belly to get the uterus to contract. “Come on, Mrs. Mueller, fight back.”

  Elizabeth kept one eye on the nurse swishing the baby in a pan of warm water and another on the patient. She stroked Mrs. Mueller’s hair back again, coaxing her to respond, all the while fighting the tears that threatened to break loose.

  “Get her husband up here—now!”

  Elizabeth ran out the door and down the stairs. “Reverend Mueller, Doctor says you better come quickly.”

  “Is the baby born?” He rose and strode to the door, brushing past her.

  “Yes.”

  “What is it?” He took the stairs two at a time.

  “A little girl.” She didn’t say the baby had yet to breathe.

  “Only a girl, eh.”

  Rage clamped hands around Elizabeth’s throat and cut off her air, melded her hands to the banister and locked her knees. Only a girl? His wife fought to bring a baby to life, she might be dying, and he says ‘only a girl’?

  Only a girl! The words beat time with each foot she placed on a stair tread. She stopped outside the room to calm her heart and breathing, both of which were going full throttle, like a steam engine out of control. Breathe, she ordered herself. Easy now. You can be of no help in this state. She took a third deep breath and felt her shoulders drop from where they’d been pinching her ears.

  She entered the room to see Reverend Mueller sitting beside his wife on the bed, the bed a sea of blood. Surely she had none left. The thought made Elizabeth half gag. Never had she seen so much blood.

  Exhaustion painted blue shadows on Mrs. Mueller’s gray-white face. The sheet over her chest barely registered breath.

  But still she bled.

  Dr. Gaskin looked up at Elizabeth, and a minute shake of his head told her far more than she wanted to know.

  He’d given up hope. Dr. Gaskin, who insisted on hope until the last breath is drawn, had none.

  “The baby?” Elizabeth’s whisper was answered by Nurse Browne shaking her head, tears leaking over her rounded cheeks.

  The sheet on Mrs. Mueller’s chest was still. “She’s gone.”

  Reverend Mueller bowed his head. “The baby?”

  Dr. Gaskin shook his head. “We did e
verything we could.”

  “I know.” He turned to his wife, stroking her hair back, tracing a finger down her cheek. “God keep you.” He ducked his head, and a shudder racked his shoulders.

  Like a mother black bear defending her cubs, Elizabeth turned on him. “If you’d taken better care of her, this might not have happened. You wore her out with babies every year in spite of Doctor’s warning.”

  “Elizabeth!” Phillip entered the room just in time to hear his daughter’s attack.

  “You act like—like . . .”

  “Elizabeth Marie Rogers!”

  She heard the voice from the other end of a long dark tunnel. God himself. But she didn’t say that. She pushed by her father and ran across the hall into her own room.

  Dear God, what have I done?

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Blessing, North Dakota

  Thorliff pushed off again, then stopped. Had he heard something not of the wind? He strained to hear, holding his breath. Nothing but the howling of the gale. He leaned forward to start again but stopped. He whipped the cap off his ears, the cold slashing into his sweaty hair. “Lord God, let it come again if it is what I hope.”

  The bell rang again, faint. The wind dropped, and this time he heard it clearly. Off to the left and slightly behind him. He pulled his hat back down over his ears and turned his skis at a right angle. A rifle roared closer than the ringing. Thorliff drove his ski poles in and pushed off again. The rifle spoke again, closer this time. He angled to his left and skied four, six, and ten strides when the rifle blast sounded almost next to him. A dark shape loomed out of the swirling white. The barn.

  Thank you, God, thank you. I’m home. You brought me out of the wilderness. I’m home. Left or right. The door has to be near here.

  The rifle roared to his right. Three strides, and he could see Haakan. “Don’t shoot again, I’m here.” He shouted to be heard above the wind.

  “Thorliff! Oh, thank God. Thank God.” Haakan threw his arms around his son, thunking him on the back with the rifle butt. “Here, get in out of the wind. Are you frozen?”