Women never forgot anything!
As he threaded the rope back and forth through the holes he had drilled, making a foundation for a mattress, he contemplated the differences between the two women he had married. Diantha went silent and brooded for weeks when she was hurt—and it took forever to find out what he had done wrong. In the meantime, the whole family would suffer. Ingrid spoke her mind, even if it meant giving him a tongue lashing in Swedish, since she tended to forget her English when she was upset. Then she would brighten up and be all cheerful again, often leaving him to wonder what had just happened. The nice thing was, her temper blew over quickly and supper would invariably still appear on the table.
But his rejection of her that one night? That she did not forget.
So he was building a bed.
A lot of families kept a bed in the sitting room of their cabin. It was handy when someone was ill or if there was a sleepover guest. For a family such as his, which didn’t have money to purchase a sofa, the bed could be used for the same function.
He blew the last shavings away and put his tools back where they belonged. Then he carried the bed with him to the house. He hoped he wouldn’t need to make his own mattress too—but that would depend on whatever mood Ingrid might be in. He would fold up some blankets and simply sleep on the rope webbing if he had to. He’d slept in worse places during the war. It hadn’t exactly been a picnic in the barn with mice scampering over him.
“There.” He positioned the bed in the corner of the sitting room.
Ingrid, holding baby Bertie on her hip with one hand and a wooden spoon in the other, came over to inspect it. “I make mattress.”
Ah. She was in a good mood. “I appreciate that, Ingrid.”
“Need nice heavy cotton ticking.”
Ticking. He hadn’t thought about that. “We could go into White Rock and see if George has some in stock.”
“He have.” She seemed pensive.
“Is there something wrong?” Joshua asked. “Do you not want to see him?”
“Who? George? He not problem.” She dismissed George with a wave of her wooden spoon. “We maybe visit Susan?”
“Susan Cain?”
“Ja.”
“That’s right,” he said. “She did invite us.”
“Agnes and me have new dresses.”
He vaguely remembered seeing her working with some pink flowered material.
“This afternoon, right after we’ve eaten dinner, we’ll pack up the children, go into town for the ticking, and stop by the Cains’ house to see if they’re home. Would you enjoy that?” he asked.
“Ja!” She gave him the benefit of a sunny smile and immediately handed Bertie off to him. “You hold baby. I cook breakfast. Cinnamon rolls. And omelet.”
Even though she wouldn’t let him have his bed back, it was hard to remain upset with Ingrid for long. Her breakfasts alone were enough to turn a man into a slavering fool.
“I can’t keep her anymore, Josh. I’m sorry, but Barbara’s in the family way again, and she says it’s your turn.”
“Turn?” Ingrid asked.
Their family had just gotten back from the mercantile and from paying a short visit to the Cain family. It was their first venture out as a married couple, and she had enjoyed the outing tremendously. Susan had even expressed admiration for the dresses she had made for herself and Agnes. Susan’s father had been quite interested in the principles of Pietism and had questioned her in detail. It had been a wonderful day.
But who was this man awaiting them in their front yard, and who was Barbara?
Joshua frowned. “We’re kind of in a fix here ourselves, Zeb. I don’t know . . .”
“What?” Ingrid looked from one man to the other. She saw a strong family resemblance, although Joshua was more striking. This Zeb had the same coloring and features, but he looked weaker.
“This is my brother, Zebulon,” Joshua said. “Zeb, this is my new wife, Ingrid.”
“Pleased to meet you, ma’am.” The brother dipped his hat. “I wasn’t aware that you had remarried, Josh.”
“It was a bit sudden.”
It wasn’t hard for Ingrid to see that something was up besides a visit and pleasantries between two brothers. There was too much tension in the air.
“You could have written, given us some time to make plans,” Josh said.
“You know how women get when they’re . . . that way. Barb wouldn’t let me. She was afraid you’d turn us down, and she said she was done.”
“Done what?” Ingrid asked.
“Taking care of our mother,” Zeb said. “She’s on your porch. I have to be getting back now.”
“You spend night?” Ingrid asked.
“No, no.” Zebulon’s eyes darted back and forth between them. “I’d best be heading back. Barb’s close to delivering and it’ll take me the best part of two days to get home.”
And with that, Joshua’s brother climbed back onto his wagon and drove out of their yard.
“Ain’t Uncle Zeb stayin’ to supper, Pa?” Agnes asked.
“No.”
“What’s he doing here, then?”
“Droppin’ off your grandma.”
“The one we don’t see all that regular?”
“Yes. That one.”
Joshua started toward the house, but Ingrid stopped him.
“What is this about mother?”
Joshua sighed. “Ingrid, you got a bad bargain when you married me.”
“I know that,” she said impatiently. “You tell me about mother.”
“My father owned a good farm a couple days’ ride south of here. When he died, my brother and I divided things up. He got the land, the house, the tools, the livestock, along with the responsibility of our mother.”
“And you?”
“I got no land, no farm, no tools, no livestock—and no responsibilities. It seemed best at the time. I was headed off to war and didn’t know if I would make it back alive. Zeb had a slight heart condition and had to stay home. It seemed the best thing to do.”
“Your mother. Is she bad person?”
“No.”
“Why this Barbara want her leave?”
“Barb was not happy about the decision Zeb had made. She did not want to move into her in-laws’ place. Then she and Zeb started having children one after another. Last count I heard, they have ten with now an eleventh on the way. I’m guessing Mother is starting to feel like a burden to her—or perhaps she just needs the extra bedroom. Frankly, I never cared much for Barb.”
“Ten children and one more come soon? Zeb’s heart must not be so sick!”
As Zeb pulled away, Ingrid saw Joshua’s mother sitting on the edge of the porch, a few bags grouped around her.
The poor woman was nearly comatose from the trip. Ingrid collected every extra blanket she had in the house to temporarily cushion the rope webbing of Joshua’s bed so that the old lady would have a place to sleep. She decided that sewing up that mattress would be the first thing she would accomplish tomorrow after breakfast.
While Joshua fed Bertie, Ingrid fed his mother, helped her undress, and helped her slip into her makeshift bed. Somehow, some way, they got the children and baggage and beds sorted out until it was just him and Ingrid standing there, looking at his aged mother as she slept curled up like a child.
Joshua expected Ingrid to really let loose, to tell him off, to throw a fit over the unfairness of his brother dumping his mother off on them. Instead, she just stood there, saying nothing.
“I am so sorry, Ingrid,” he said. “I had no idea this was going to happen.”
Ingrid wasn’t paying a bit of attention to him. Instead, her foot was tapping—a habit he had noticed whenever she was either upset or thinking hard.
“Are you angry?” He was fairly certain he knew the answer. That foot tapping was getting intense.
“Oh ja. Ingrid very angry.”
He didn’t blame her. If there was ever a woman who had the
right to feel put upon, it was his new wife—and here was yet another load for her to bear.
“Ingrid, I—”
“Why they put old woman through this?” Tears glistened in her eyes. “Treat her like garbage, dump off on porch!” That toe was tapping a mile a minute as she fought back tears.
“You see this?” She pointed at bruises on his mother’s arm. “And this?” She touched what looked like the remnants of a slap mark upon his mother’s cheek. “That woman be very mean to mother.” Her eyes blazed, and she punched him on the shoulder. “What wrong with you—leave mother with those persons so long time?”
Then the tears came in earnest as she bent to gently smooth the gray hair away from his mother’s forehead. “Look how thin! Hair is look like a mus nest. In morning I make good breakfast. I comb the hair. You see. Mother be fine.”
He felt his throat close up in response to her words. Why had he allowed his mother to stay there for so long? He had known Barb was not particularly kind. He had known his brother Zeb was weak. His only excuse was that he hadn’t realized Barb was that unkind, or Zeb that weak. No wonder his younger brother had been in such a hurry to leave. He had known that once Joshua got sight of his mother’s bruises, he would get a thrashing himself.
The only thing he could say for his brother was at least Zeb had gotten their mother out of there before Barb could do any worse damage. Still, the trip itself had been hard on her.
Ingrid brushed away her tears and headed toward her bedroom.
“You. Sleep in here with me. You be ready if mother need help in night.”
He was tired to the bone and enormously grateful not to have to sleep in the barn again. He pulled his shirt off over his head and climbed into his good bed for the first time in days.
The baby stirred in his cradle on Ingrid’s side of the bed, and he heard her set the cradle rocking while she hummed a soft lullaby. He left the door of their bedroom open so he could hear if his mother got up in the middle of the night. He knew she would be disoriented and frightened.
Soon, little Bertie, calmed by the rocking of the cradle and Ingrid’s lullaby, settled back down. There was not a peep from the girls upstairs. The only sound was that of crickets outside their windows.
Ingrid lay poised, with her arm draped over the side of the bed and her hand on Bertie’s cradle, ready to set it in motion again if the baby started to stir.
Joshua turned on his side and put his arm around her waist, so grateful for her tenderness toward his mother and children that he could hardly speak.
“What?” She shoved his arm away. “You want be friendly? Now we have baby on one side and mother on other side?”
“No,” he answered, putting his arm around her waist again. “I’m just grateful to have you here beside me.”
Ingrid lay for a long time, staring into the darkness, with Joshua’s arm heavy around her waist and his breath against her neck. He had fallen asleep quickly. She did not mistake his touch for the embrace of a loving husband. She knew that at this point she was not much more to him than Polly’s rag doll was to her—something comforting to hang on to.
There was a very good chance that was all she would ever be to Joshua, nothing more than something to cling to when life got hard. This knowledge made her miss her twin brother terribly. There had never been a time when she had been without her brother’s love and protection. That very fact was the thing that convinced her that he no longer lived. She knew him too well.
The day after the wedding, Hazel had promised to send Ingrid’s new address to the boardinghouse where she was supposed to have met him, just in case he finally showed up—but there had been no word.
Sending the address was only a long shot anyway. If Hans were alive, nothing would have kept him from meeting her. They had made such good plans. Hans would be making a dollar and a quarter per day in the lumber camps. Timbered-over land was going for less than a dollar and a quarter per acre. One year’s pay would buy them more land than they could ever dream of owning in Sweden. They had discussed the legacy they hoped to create for their families—two farms, close together. Maybe as much as three hundred acres between them. Even more if Hans spent another year in the lumber camp. They had planned for their children to grow up together as close as brothers and sisters.
Now, that good and decent dream was forever gone, and instead she had eight people to feed, dress, and clean up after—all crowded together in a two-room log cabin. Her responsibilities were growing. With the exception of this one glorious day when she and her new family had gone visiting, her marriage with Joshua had felt like they were two mules yoked together, pulling the same heavy load. She was a strong woman, but even she could only bear so much—especially when she knew that she was not loved.
At an emotional dead end, she carefully extricated herself from the bed and knelt beside it, her head bowed.
How do I do this, Lord? How do I endure? How do I continue to serve and love this man and his family when I know that he may never view me as anything more than convenient household help? The work is hard, and the days are long. Now, with Joshua’s mother here to care for, it is nearly overwhelming . . . how do I do this, Father?
She rested her bowed head on her clasped hands, hoping for something that would give her the strength to go on.
There was no voice, no miraculous revelation. Her great fatigue made her want to forget about praying and simply climb back into bed and sink into oblivion—but then a glimmer of an idea began to form. An idea that was so simple and pure that she was amazed she had missed it.
As a married woman, she had focused her life entirely on what Joshua thought, if Joshua would be impressed with her management of his home and children . . . if Joshua would ever love her.
No more.
She could not spend her life trying to gain Joshua’s approval. If she continued to base her happiness on the moods of this damaged man, she knew that someday there would be nothing left of her.
A long time ago, she had vowed to serve the Lord in everything she did, wherever he led. For a while she had lost sight of that vow. Now, she renewed it. No longer would she be serving only her husband and his family with the work of her hands.
Clothes would still get washed, meals would still appear on the table, the children would still be lovingly cared for. But the motive behind all her hard labor would change.
From now on, she wouldn’t just be diapering Bertie, or scrubbing clothes, or washing sticky little hands and faces—she would be serving the Lord. Every meal she cooked, every bucket of water she lugged from the well—all of it would be in service to the Lord. Everything she did in caring for these precious children, this fragile mother, this damaged man—would be, in her heart, a sacrifice of love to Christ.
Her workload would be no lighter, her hunger to be loved by her husband no less, but she knew instinctively that her life would be infinitely easier if she could simply hold on to this one, noble premise—of quietly living every mundane detail of her life for God.
With that one resolution, everything changed and she went to sleep with renewed strength to face the challenges of the coming day.
13
Joshua awoke to find Ingrid standing over him with Bertie in her arms. Her toe was tapping furiously. “You change and feed baby,” she said. “I need to help . . . what is mother’s name?”
“Mary.”
“I need to help Mary.” She lay Bertie beside him in the bed and hurried out the door.
Joshua yawned and propped himself up on one elbow. “I guess it’s just me and you, little fellow.”
Bertie gurgled and kicked his strong little legs out of the baby blanket in which Ingrid had wrapped him.
“Oh, you want to play, do you?” Joshua captured a tiny toe. “This little piggy went to market . . .”
Bertie belly laughed, which made Joshua smile. Then the little boy quieted as he anticipated Joshua’s next move. “This little piggy stayed home.”
Anoth
er peal of belly laughter.
It was intoxicating, playing with his child. The need to head out the door and start his morning chores evaporated as he lost himself in the moment.
“This little piggy had roast beef.” Another belly laugh.
“And this little piggy had none.”
The door flew open and Ingrid stood there with her hands on her hips. “You change baby and feed baby. Not play with baby. Ja?”
He looked directly at her as he deliberately disobeyed and tweaked the littlest toe. “And this little piggy went wee, wee, wee, all the way home.”
That one definitely hit Bertie’s funny bone. He giggled so hard that neither Ingrid nor Joshua could keep from laughing with him.
“I know. I know.” Joshua climbed out of the bed and lifted Bertie up into his arms. “Feed baby. Change baby.”
“Breakfast is almost ready. Bertie’s too.”
Joshua saw his mother dressed and sitting quietly on the side of the makeshift bed.
“Mother?” he asked. “How are you feeling?”
His mother was in her early seventies, but she had failed so badly since the last time he saw her, she could have been mistaken for a ninety-year-old woman.
“It was a very long trip.” Her voice quavered, whether from fatigue or emotion he couldn’t tell.
“I know, Mother. I’m sorry.”
“I don’t want to go back.” Her eyes looked haunted.
“You don’t have to, Mother. You can stay with us.”
“That woman over there . . .” Her voice sounded worried. “She’s not Diantha.”
“Her name is Ingrid. Diantha died.”
“Diantha is dead?”
“Nearly three months ago. Remember? I wrote to you at Zeb and Barbara’s?”
A Promise to Love Page 13