The Waiting

by Cathy LaGrow

  Miss Bragstad noticed and decided to change the subject.

  “My father died when I was young. My mother was ill, so my older brothers and I had to stop attending school to go to work,” Miss Bragstad said. She carried a basket hung over her arm while she clipped stalks of a delicate purple flower that Minka did not recognize. She glanced at Minka but mostly watched her hands and the flowers, giving the girl plenty of time to observe her.

  Miss Bragstad had already noted plenty about her new charge. Some girls came to this place in resignation, bearing the inner wounds caused by cruel parents or guarding souls hardened by having no parents at all. Others came almost brazenly, full of the kind of careless confidence that prettiness often brings. Miss Bragstad saw all kinds of unfortunate girls, and she had grown adept at finding the right words for each of them, even those from whom she never received much response.

  This one was different. This Minnie was reserved and polite. She had clearly come from a protected environment. Yet she carried herself with a solidness that Miss Bragstad seldom saw in girls this young. It was not quite confidence, but there was a strength there that intrigued the matron.

  Miss Bragstad had been a teenager herself when a terrifying hurricane, the worst in US history, swept across a faraway place called Galveston, Texas, in 1900, taking thousands and thousands of souls with it. She’d heard how the Lutheran church building on Galveston Island had withstood the fearsome storm. As everything else turned to rubble, the historic Lyceum had served as a refuge for shattered citizens.

  Miss Bragstad had a sense that this slight girl in front of her would likewise survive even the greatest storms in life. She had something rare within her. Fortitude. That was the perfect word for it.

  Minka studied the older woman too. Did she know that Minka had left school to work? And that her father had died? Why else would Miss Bragstad talk about her own father? Minka realized that Jennie surely had shared some of her background with the matron. Still, she found it nearly impossible to believe that such a sophisticated woman might have a story similar to her own.

  With the pleasant distraction of this conversation, the scent of lilacs on the air, and sunshine warming her hair and shoulders, the pain of her mother’s departure was draining away.

  “What do you enjoy?” Miss Bragstad asked, as she straightened up and scanned the garden.

  The question surprised Minka. She could not remember an adult asking such a question since her days at school, when the teacher would ask the students to write on a subject of interest. She had to cast about for an answer.

  “I like to sew.” She folded her hands behind her back as they walked. “I wish I could play the piano.”

  Miss Bragstad smiled.

  “You will do well here, Minnie.”

  * * *

  Nights were challenging, though Minka no longer found it strange to sleep alone—her large belly made her grateful for the extra space, and she was glad her tossing and turning wouldn’t bother anyone else. But she seemed to wake constantly, needing to relieve her squashed bladder. And at night, there was nothing to distract her from her homesickness. One night, she heard another girl weeping. Other times, a baby cried, and Minka would fearfully rub her own stomach. How would she care for one of those tiny creatures all on her own?

  Minka saw the other girls of the house during meals. No one spoke of the circumstances surrounding their pregnancies, but they chatted about shared physical complaints. And the expectant girls listened closely as two new mothers talked about their babies.

  Minka worked on her hand-stitching along the edges of cloth diapers until she could sit still no longer; then she wandered the grounds. She daily cleaned her room until she could find nothing else to clean. Then she took a dust rag to the rooms downstairs, until the housekeeper shooed her away as if Minka were trying to steal that position.

  “Your family has paid for your stay here. You should rest or do something else,” the housekeeper said.

  “Minka, dear. You are a guest here,” Miss Bragstad told her when they spoke again.

  “But I’ve always worked,” Minka said. She didn’t know how to explain that work was what she did best, that it grounded her and gave her a sense of rightness.

  “Here you will rest and take care of yourself and the baby when that time arrives. Come, you can walk with me to the garden. There are some aphids in the roses, and we need to put soapy water on the leaves.” She smiled, then added, “Outdoors is always a good place to think, to refresh your mind.”

  For the first time in Minka’s life, she had someone to talk to about anything. Miss Questad also quickly became a friend like Minka had never had before, sharing stories about the House of Mercy. She told Minka a story about a baby born before they could reach the hospital and another about a boyfriend who showed up with roses and a marriage proposal. No longer was Minka only to be seen—now she had a voice, as well. Day after day, her questions and thoughts opened like the petals on the chrysanthemums.

  After each conversation Minka considered what Miss Bragstad had explained to her, putting the pieces together with what she’d known—or thought she’d known, while at home—about love, marriage, children, life. While the older woman was honest with Minka, she spoke with a propriety that made the girl wonder if she’d understood correctly. She’d often return to Miss Bragstad for clarification. You said the baby will come from my stomach and out of where? And how much pain?

  Minka now understood why the story of the stork had first been told, and she’d never wished more for it to be true.

  As the weeks passed, the House of Mercy was in constant change. Some girls departed; new ones came. Another one had her baby at the hospital, then returned to the house, where she spent even more time in her room with the door closed. Minka knew that secret door would open to her soon enough. In the meantime, she wanted to spend hours with Miss Questad and Miss Bragstad.

  Minka’s back ached every day. Her fingers and ankles were swollen like plump sausages by noon, and the stairs took her breath away by the time she reached the top.

  Then one day, a pain sliced through her abdomen, pushing her forward with its force.

  Minka did not have to ask. The hidden door of motherhood was opening to her at last.

  Chapter Seven

  MINKA AWOKE in a sterile room, groggy and shivering.

  “There you are,” a woman said, leaning close and coming into focus. Her white nurse’s hat reminded Minka of her brother John’s sailor cap. The curtains over the window were shut, but bright daylight leaked in around the edges. Minka’s thin hospital gown was clean, as were her blankets. The smell of bleach and antiseptic permeated the room.

  “It’s over?” Minka asked. Her tongue felt like a dried-out piece of leather. The room wasn’t cold, but she was. She tried to push higher up on the bed and moaned as a sharp pain cut through her in the same place she’d felt pain the morning after It had occurred.

  “Careful now. It will take time to heal. You gave us a scare,” the nurse explained.

  “What scare?” Minka asked, still groggy.

  “You were on the table too long.”

  Minka didn’t know what that meant. Disjointed memories flooded her—memories of pain, bright lights, faces, humiliation, and confused panic.

  When Minka had arrived at the large clapboard house that served as Sioux Falls’s hospital, she was immediately sedated. The hours after descended into a blur as her doctor followed the most modern procedures of the time, outlined in the obstetric textbook by Dr. Joseph DeLee. The intent was to prevent problems, which unfortunately meant few women escaped damage. At the approach of the pushing stage, Minka was given a dose of ether, knocking her unconscious. The doctor gave her an episiotomy, and then with forceps, he delivered Minka’s baby.

  The nurse pulled away the blankets and lifted Minka’s gown. Minka’s reflex was to cover herself, but the nurse pushed away her hand and gave her a quick exam. Minka clenched her muscles until the nurse
covered her once again.

  She realized her stomach had deflated, though it was not fully back to normal. That thought brought her awake.

  “The baby?” she asked.

  “Let me finish my rounds.”

  The nurse left.

  Minka tried propping herself up. Every movement sent a sting of pain ripping through her, but she succeeded in moving her feet around to the side of the bed and sitting up. A gush of something wet flooded the sheets. She looked under the covers at bright-red blood. Her monthlies had never been like this, and Minka wondered if that was normal.

  “I’m bleeding,” she said to another nurse passing her bed. The woman paused.

  “Yes, you will for some time,” she said and disappeared. Minka closed her eyes, listening to the nurse’s feet padding away. Then the first nurse’s voice broke in again.

  “Are you ready to see her?”

  “I . . . there’s blood. . . . A lot. . . .” Then Minka took in the words, and her eyes popped open. “Did you say ‘her’?”

  “You have a girl,” the nurse said.

  The small bundle was lowered into Minka’s arms.

  Minka stared at the little face, taking in every detail. The baby’s tiny lips were puckered. Her eyelids were closed and touched with a blush of pink. Wisps of light hair fanned across her head, hardly more substantial than the hair on Minka’s arms. Her lips moved and her eyes fluttered.

  The feel of her reminded Minka of melting butter.

  “She is mine, my baby?” Minka glanced up at the nurse in disbelief, then back to the newborn in her arms. She felt a flood of warmth coursing inside her. The sensation seemed to be in her chest. Her head swirled. This . . . this was extraordinary.

  The nurse lifted the bundle from Minka’s arms. “Let me have her. We need to clean you up.”

  “But . . .” Minka mumbled. I don’t ever want to be away from her. Please let me have her.

  “Can you help a moment?” the nurse said, turning toward a younger woman walking by in a different uniform.

  “Certainly,” the girl said, smiling as she took the baby.

  The nurse firmly laid Minka back onto the bed and changed some thick cloths that lay beneath her. Minka’s eyes didn’t leave the woman holding her baby. Her baby. Hers.

  “Have you ever changed a diaper?” the nurse asked Minka. She motioned for the other woman to give the baby back to her young mother.

  Minka shook her head, not wanting to set her baby down again. “I can do it though.”

  The nurse went back and forth around the curtain, bringing in supplies. Minka’s arms cradled the sleeping child. She was so light, but Minka’s arms trembled.

  “Set her down on the bed and unwrap the blankets.”

  Minka moved with slow care until the nurse helped speed up the process.

  “Look at that little foot, and her little toes and hands,” Minka murmured as her newborn’s body was revealed. Her skin felt incredibly soft, like nothing Minka had touched in all her life.

  She remembered the jabs to her ribs and the rolls of little knees or elbows that had startled her so. These tender feet and knees and arms had made those movements. She wanted to study every inch of her baby. The tiny toenails, the dimples in her fingers, the soft pink in her fair skin. The wrinkles in her feet were lined in white.

  “I’ve never seen anything like . . . oh, look at her tiny chin, and oh, her ears.” The nurse brought a thin cotton hat and pulled it over the baby’s head.

  “Undo the pins on the diaper,” the nurse said with a sigh. But Minka’s obvious joy softened her terse words.

  Of course Minka had known that a baby was inside her. And she had felt the movement. She had known that it would come out and had expected that part to be painful. But nothing had prepared her for this. This . . . connection. It was as though this tiny other person shared Minka’s soul.

  Suddenly, Minka wanted her own mother. For of course Jennie understood. Now Minka did as well. Tears burned her eyes. She had never imagined she could feel this depth of love for a person she’d just met—like she would throw herself in front of a train to save her, with no hesitation.

  Minka could see that she’d made a mistake. The thought of adoption was suddenly unbearable. She was never going to be able to part with this wondrous gift.

  Midway through the changing, the baby stirred and burst into a soft protest. Minka’s lips parted at the sound, such a sweet and beautiful cry. She quickly changed the diaper as the nurse instructed her. Then the older woman demonstrated how to wrap the baby and bounce her until her cries softened and she returned to sleep.

  “You must change this often,” the nurse said, patting the baby’s bottom. “Any time it is wet or soiled. If you do not, she will get a rash or an infection.”

  Minka nodded with a sense of urgency. She would do everything the nurse told her. She couldn’t allow anything to harm this perfect little human.

  “Your name is Betty Jane,” Minka whispered when the nurse left them alone. “En je bent zo mooi.” And you are so beautiful. She didn’t understand how the nurses could be so workaday about Betty Jane. Minka held her baby against her chest, smelling the fuzzy, pale hair. When Betty Jane awoke—staring at Minka with deep-blue eyes—the girl stared back in utter wonder at this miracle alive in her arms.

  Then Minka saw her own twisted fingers against the soft fabric. She moved one hand farther under Betty Jane and let an open end of the blanket fall over the other one. As she held her newborn in the quiet, clean room, Minka had the sense that she and Betty Jane were the only two beings on earth.

  * * *

  Wrapped up in her own pressing events, Minka had no idea how momentous this year of her baby’s birth would be. Infamous for the Wall Street Crash, also known as “Black Tuesday,” 1929 marked the beginning of the decadelong Great Depression in the United States.

  The year was also notable for the births of people who would shape the world in diverse ways: actress and future princess of Monaco, Grace Kelly; the man who would usher in each New Year for four decades, television entertainer Dick Clark; actress and humanitarian Audrey Hepburn; American civil rights leader and Nobel laureate Martin Luther King Jr.; the future first lady of the United States, Jacqueline Lee Bouvier, later Jacqueline Kennedy; and Anne Frank, whose life would be cut short at the age of fifteen but whose words written in an attic in Holland would reach around the world.

  The year 1929 also saw the first flight over the South Pole completed, Hemingway’s A Farewell to Arms published, and the first Academy Awards ceremony hosted at the Hollywood Roosevelt Hotel in California.

  But to a seventeen-year-old girl in a hospital in Sioux Falls, South Dakota, this year would be remembered as the one that irrevocably changed her life. Forever after, there would be a split.

  Her life before May 22, 1929.

  And her life after.

  Little did she know that, just a few weeks before, Miss Bragstad had received the letter that would help set the course of Betty Jane’s life.

  Jewell, Iowa, May 8, 1929

  Dear Miss Bragstad,

  Nine years ago, while we lived in Irene, S. Dakota, we adopted a little baby boy which was born at the House of Mercy. . . . The boy has given us much satisfaction. We have talked it over considerably of late, Mrs. Nordsletten and I, of adopting a little baby girl.

  We have namely 3 boys but lack a girl. We hearby ask you if you are in a position to place a little infant in our home? It was through the Home Finding Work of our church that we obtained our boy, and it is then the same channel that we desire a child this time, too, if possible. May we soon hear from you?

  Sincerely yours,

  Rev. & Mrs. Peder Nordsletten

  * * *

  Several days later Minka returned to the House of Mercy with little outward fanfare, but inside her, it was as if the sky had cracked open, unveiling the universe. She could hardly believe that other mothers felt as she did. She could hardly believe that she was a mo
ther. And she never wanted to be without this feeling of wonder again.

  Minka longed to see her family. A letter from her mother waited in her room. Miss Bragstad had passed the news of Betty Jane’s birth to Reverend Kraushaar and to Jennie. Minka’s mother sounded anxious to know if Minka was well and expressed her regrets that she couldn’t be with her.

  Minka no longer felt the shadow of uncertainty and dread that had followed her for months. And she didn’t want to keep her baby a secret. She wanted her mother and sister to marvel over every inch of Betty Jane’s tiny body, to ooh and aah over the flutter of her eyes as she woke, to laugh with her as Betty Jane squirmed with her hungry mouth, seeking food and then suckling a bottle as if starving.

  Feeding Betty Jane was heaven, watching her soft cheeks pucker as she drank, giving her the nourishment she so urgently wanted and needed. Minka wished she could have nursed her baby, though she understood why this experience was denied her. Instead, she learned to heat evaporated milk in a saucepan to the perfect warm temperature, then stir in just the right amount of powdered formula, a fattening mixture of sugar and starches.

  In the beginning, Betty Jane always fell asleep while drinking. As her mouth went slack, a thread of milk would trickle from one corner. Minka would wipe it away with her thumb, as gently as if stroking a thin-shelled robin’s egg.

  “She is a beauty,” Miss Bragstad said one day, taking in the perfect face of the baby, as well as the beaming expression on Minka’s face. “Don’t tell the other girls, but I’ve rarely seen a baby as beautiful as that one.”

  The duties of motherhood came instinctively for Minka. Her breasts ached in the week after Betty Jane’s birth, then eventually soothed as her milk dried up. Her stitches failed to heal properly—perforated was the term the doctor used—but Minka’s years of demanding physical labor, mixed with the new wonder and joy of her baby, reduced her pain to little more than an annoying grating in the background.