The Waiting

by Cathy LaGrow

  And although she rarely received information about her daughter, and never was granted the lock of hair or any other mementos, Minka would continue to write, to ask, for almost two decades.

  * * *

  In August, the one-year anniversary of Scatterwood Lake, and Mack, and It, passed unnoticed by Minka. That girl she’d been before the sewing circle picnic seemed like someone she barely knew.

  Her absent baby was now at the center of Minka’s entire being. She sensed how disastrous it would be to succumb to the powerful emotions that pushed up inside her. At every moment, she was conscious of holding her feelings back, the way she’d seen Uncle pull the reins on his big, gentle workhorses, Dick and Doc, when she was a child.

  Relief came only in solitude. During afternoon dusting, Minka could lose herself in memories, knowing the hot air upstairs would dry the tears from her cheeks quickly. And during the nighttime hours, after Jane went to sleep beside her, Minka could silently soak her own pillow as her arms and chest ached for her child.

  The pain was astonishing in its relentlessness.

  At least Minka’s days of milking cows were over. Miss Bragstad had indeed spoken to Jennie about Minka’s need to lead a more normal young girl’s life. Honus hired a couple of men as dairy workers, and Minka and Jane returned to the tasks they’d done at Uncle’s, household and garden chores only. As autumn nights turned chilly, they canned pears and tended to baby turkeys and dug potatoes from the ground, picking 125 bushels in three days and earning strained muscles in the process.

  In late October, just as the stock market was crashing in faraway New York, Minka was hired by an Aberdeen couple to clean their house. She earned a dollar a day. She was talented at such work, disciplined and thorough. On Sundays, Minka brought her employer’s two toddlers home with her for a few hours, to give their mother a break. One of the children was a two-year-old girl, and every time Minka held her, she imagined that it was Betty Jane’s warm heaviness filling her lap.

  At any moment, Minka could have said how old her own daughter was, down to the month, week, and day. But no one was asking. Nobody knew to ask.

  As Minka lost weight, deep hollows appeared under her cheekbones, dark smudges under her eyes. Jennie skirted the edges of her daughter’s sorrow. Only late at night did they speak of the child, the granddaughter Jennie couldn’t admit to longing for as well. Jennie sought ways to lighten the pain. Although paying for dentistry seemed extravagant, she took Minka to the dentist, since the brownish stains left by artesian well water bothered Minka. The doctor lightened the spots by rubbing her teeth with heated hydrogen peroxide. Jennie made a point to celebrate Minka’s birthday in November and gave her eighteen dollars, “one for every year.”

  The childhood that had actually ended years before was now officially over.

  In mid-November, as Betty Jane was turning six months old, Miss Bragstad wrote to Minka. The House of Mercy, she mentioned, would have to make do with a chicken dinner for Thanksgiving, as she couldn’t get a turkey. She also included a few of the lines that Minka lived for: news about Betty Jane. Miss Bragstad rarely had direct information to share—whenever she did, Minka would unfold and read the letter over and over again until the paper grew soft in her hands.

  Little Betty is getting along just fine. They give us such good reports, and some of their friends are writing in for babies, if they can get one as nice as she is. She certainly is fortunate to have the home she has.

  Minka was so thankful for the news, she promptly crated up one of her mother’s turkeys and mailed it to Miss Bragstad. For years to come, she would send Thanksgiving turkeys when they were available, a few dollars if they weren’t.

  Christmas was especially hard for Minka. Although they’d never decorated a tree or exchanged gifts at Honus’s, Christmastime had always meant special music at church and lights strung around town. On Christmas Day, in between regular chores, she and Jane would gather around the warm stove, eating turkey and slices of pie and listening to carols on the radio.

  Now everything was different. Minka seemed to see babies everywhere, bundled in blankets against the cold. Their harried mothers scurried along sidewalks, sending steamy puffs of breath into the frosty air, shopping for food or presents. Minka was too shy to ask to hold one of these babies, but her arms felt profoundly empty. She tried to imagine Betty Jane enjoying her first Christmas.

  She wrapped a package of gifts for the House of Mercy and wrote to Miss Bragstad.

  . . . I wonder how she liked her first Christmas. I could see her sitting in her little high chair looking at all the bright lights. You let me know what [she] got & how she liked her tree.

  But there was one thing lacking and I bet you know what that is don’t you. It never seemed like Christmas to me & suppose it never will after this. It will in Spirit but not other wise. . . .

  With Love to all, Minnie

  P.S. Be sure & ask how Betty liked her Christmas.

  * * *

  One evening Minka sat at home, listening to the family’s new Atwater Kent radio with Honus. Jennie and Jane had left on an errand. Over a crackly background, a newscaster on the radio wrapped up a sober piece on local crop prices and the national stock market, both of which were in free fall. Minka found it hard to be as interested in other people’s suffering as she once had been. Her own heart ached too much.

  There was a static-filled pause after the news program, and then music began, strings and piano. A woman started to sing, her voice as soft as a rain shower and filled with regret.

  Without Jane’s presence to ensure Minka’s composure, her emotions spilled over. Hot tears slid down her face. Sobs escaped her throat and shook her shoulders. She sat helpless, alternately clasping her fingers and wiping her cheeks.

  Honus’s palms rubbed the legs of his work pants. For a few moments he wondered if Jennie would walk through the door, returning early to rescue him, but there was no rattling engine in the driveway. He’d seen such displays of grief only at grave sites, and he was filled with uncertainty. Would the kindest thing be to ignore Minka’s tears?

  But there sat the closest thing to a daughter he’d ever have, a sturdy but slight girl, now nearly gaunt with grief, and that grief was like a sinkhole, drawing the whole room in. He rose, crossed the floor, then hesitated another moment. He sat down next to Minka. Raising his left arm, he placed it around her thin shoulders, careful not to apply too much pressure.

  They sat quietly, the worn farmer and the weeping girl. They kept watch together over a ghost, a baby who would never be there.

  * * *

  The snowy winter passed. As the new year of 1930 unfolded, a brainy young Kansan named Clyde Tombaugh discovered a new planet called Pluto, but there were few bright spots closer to home. Every day brought more bank failures, more gloomy reports on the radio. Men were “riding the rails” now, hopping onto moving trains in hopes of finding work somewhere down the line.

  With the switching yard just across the street from the dairy, hungry men came knocking on the Vander Zees’ door, looking for a meal—“Anything you can spare, ma’am, anything at all.” Minka and Jane dished up potatoes and biscuits, set out plate after plate, carrying out the legacy pressed into their blood and bones: a person must do what needs to be done. They fed as many as they could, but there were always more knocking on the door.

  Minka’s emotions seesawed. Mixed in with the despondency were times when she felt energetic, bursting with plans for a future that would count for something, for Betty Jane’s sake. Most of these dreams would remain unrealized, thanks to the Depression and a lack of funds, but hoping for them helped to push Minka’s sorrow away. Since colleges did not yet require a high school diploma for admission, Minka sent away for a brochure to Augustana Academy. The Academy was near Sioux Falls, not far from the House of Mercy and Miss Bragstad—and Minka’s memories of her baby.

  She joined the choir at church and began taking piano lessons, even though she didn’t have an
instrument to practice on. Hoping to join Jennie on a trip later that year to Holland, Minka began saving her housekeeping dollars in a dresser drawer. She dreamed of sailing across the ocean, having an adventure, taking risks.

  She had nothing to lose anymore—nothing as important as what had already been lost.

  Betty Jane’s first birthday approached. More than anything, Minka wanted to send gifts to her baby, even anonymously, but Miss Bragstad wrote and gently explained that this wasn’t possible. Disappointed but undeterred, Minka decided to make things for other babies at the House of Mercy.

  Honus gave Minka money to buy fabric and thread and lace, and each evening, after Jane went to bed, Jennie and Minka worked late into the night. They made eight tiny gowns. Eleven cloths for burping. Four small blankets. Three little shirts, the hardest to make. Three bands of ribbon to tie around newborn heads.

  As Minka sewed, she imagined Betty Jane toddling around her home unsteadily, grabbing at everything with soft, chubby fingers. She wondered if her hair had come in yet, and if it was curly.

  Just after Betty Jane’s first birthday, Jennie left for Holland, her first trip back since leaving as a twenty-one-year-old mother. Her two-month visit would be a surprise for her Dutch relatives—even her own father didn’t know she was coming.

  In the end, Minka wasn’t able to go along, but she saw Jennie off at the train station. As she hugged her mother good-bye, Minka pressed her photograph of Betty Jane into Jennie’s hand.

  “Take this with you,” she murmured, “for luck.” And then she blurted out, “Look at her all the time, Mom!” Maybe it was foolish, but Minka wanted her little girl to see her ancestors’ homeland, even if it was only Betty Jane’s likeness that could make the trip.

  Back home, Minka was tired of keeping the secret. After a year of crying into her pillow, and staying up late to prepare gifts for Miss Bragstad, and waiting until Jane was out of the house to write letters, Minka was ready to tell her sister. Jane had distanced herself, aware that something was wrong, knowing there were secrets wafting through the house. Finally, Jennie had agreed. It was time.

  * * *

  “A baby.” Jane stared at Minka as if she’d told her the cows in the barn were really elephants.

  “Yes. A little girl.”

  “You. You had a baby?”

  They were alone in their bedroom. The talk began after Jane had asked in the irritated tone she often used now, “Why aren’t you changing for bed?”

  Minka had prepared for this, earlier retrieving her treasured photograph from its hiding place. With two hands, she presented it to her sister.

  Jane’s astonishment deepened. She took the snapshot and sat on the edge of the bed, leaning toward the lamp to view the image. She didn’t move or speak for so long that Minka wanted to shake her.

  “That is why you’ve never worn the dress again,” Jane stated without looking up.

  Minka glanced at the closet, surprised at Jane’s words. She realized that her sister was correct. The green dress with the apple appliqué she’d been so proud of sewing had hung in the closet ever since that August day when Betty Jane had been conceived. Jane had borrowed it without asking when Minka was gone, but Minka would never wear it again.

  In the nearly two years since that day, Jennie had told Jane the basics of conception and childbirth. The girls no longer spent the majority of their lives secluded on the dairy. No matter how much the dairy needed Minka and Jane, especially during these times of economic hardship, Honus and Jennie realized that the girls also needed a life apart from work. Miss Bragstad’s directives had brought that message home.

  Jane continued to work at home with Jennie, but she enjoyed more freedoms now, visiting friends and attending socials and other well-chaperoned events. Jane knew about the world now, about courtship and marriage. She knew that babies most certainly did not arrive by stork. But she had never guessed this.

  “You were not at Tante Hogerhide’s?” Jane asked. Her eyes remained on the photograph.

  “I was for a few months. Then I went to the Lutheran House of Mercy. It was this beautiful house in Sioux Falls for other girls like me . . . well, kind of like me. Most of them hadn’t been, you know, unwilling in their circumstances.” Minka had kept every word connected to her child stuffed deep inside, lest she slip around her sister. Now it all spewed out, like water from a broken dam.

  “There was this flower garden, and I didn’t work while I was there—can you imagine not working for weeks and weeks?—but I was as big as a house. I had the baby at the hospital. Then I took care of her for five weeks. It was just the two of us every day and every night.”

  “Mom wouldn’t let me retrieve the mail. It made no sense.”

  “She is the sweetest baby in all the world. Even Miss Bragstad and Miss Questad, the women at the house, said this. And the family—her new mother and father—said that she far exceeded their expectations. Their friends want to adopt a baby just like her.”

  “I cannot believe this,” Jane said, not seeming to hear Minka now.

  Minka sat beside her sister to offer comfort. It didn’t cross Minka’s mind that Jane should be comforting her instead.

  “I am sorry we lied to you. Mom and Reverend Kraushaar told me it had to be that way. It was best for you, too, they said. No one could know.”

  Jane snapped her eyes to Minka. “Reverend Kraushaar knew this also?”

  “He helped arrange everything. He was very kind. But what did you think was happening? Sometimes I thought you must know.”

  Jane shook her head, leaning close to view the photograph near the light again.

  “Never. I never thought this. I believed it was about Tante, but I could not figure out what was so bad to be kept such a secret, even from me. I have been so angry that you wouldn’t tell me.”

  “What did you think Tante had done?” Minka smiled at the thought of the dowdy woman doing anything scandalous.

  “I thought up a hundred ideas. Maybe someone was in jail, or her son robbed a train or a bank or was smuggling alcohol. I have not been able to figure it out. I knew it had to be something terrible for you to keep it from me.”

  “Yes. And it has been very hard not talking to you about my baby. You just don’t know how hard. I love her more than anything. I was so shocked by how much I loved her. See how beautiful she is.” A tear surprised Minka, rolling down her cheek before she could stop it. She reached for the photograph.

  “I didn’t want to ever be away from my baby. Not ever. They said it would get easier. They said that I would forget. But it is not easier. I will never forget. I still don’t want to be away from her.”

  Jane stared at her sister as if Minka had completely transformed before her eyes.

  “I named her,” Minka said softly. “I wanted to name her before . . . before I . . .” The words gave her up always clawed at her throat, made her feel like she was going to sob. They always would. Everything in her resisted saying them.

  “. . . before I left.” Minka savored her next revelation. “I named her Betty Jane.”

  There was a pause while it sank in. Then Jane looked up.

  “Jane? Like . . . me?”

  “Yes. Her middle name is for you.”

  They looked at each other. Jane’s mouth curved into a tender smile. In that moment, Minka thought that her pretty sister had never looked more beautiful.

  * * *

  During the rest of that year, and for several more after that, Minka and Jane remained on the dairy farm. They entered their twenties. Talking with her sister about Betty Jane relieved a bit of the pressure on Minka, even as it exposed her raw, unhealed wounds. The truth brought the girls close again. Jane listened. She heard stories she would have never imagined, coming from her quiet sister. The pieces fit now, and the sisters had each other again.

  Minka no longer hid her letters to Miss Bragstad. Jane could retrieve the mail.

  Before long, Minka’s little Betty Jane would turn five
. And by that time, Jennie, Minka, and Jane would find their lives transformed yet again.

  February 26, 1935

  Dear Miss Bragstad:

  My stepfather passed away the 28th of January, after being sick only five days with pneumonia.

  We miss him more than we can ever say. He was such a kind & honest man. Always aiming to do the right thing. He had thought so much of little Betty Jane. He never forgot her birthday. Nor at Christmas time. We miss him more each day.

  Have you heard anything from Betty Jane lately? Can hardly believe she will be six years old in three months. It hurts me terribly to think she never could of seen her grandfather who thought so very much of her. And was so thankful to know she had such a fine home and bringing up.

  Lovingly, Minnie

  Chapter Nine

  1935–1944

  THE FIRST TIME Minka saw him, shouldering his way through the door with a box of apples and a wry smile, her heart thumped so wildly that she was sure the front of her dress must have rippled.

  Minka had moved behind the grocery counter when he walked in. She was trying to appear comfortable with customers and experienced in the practice of running a store, even if both were quite new and exciting for her.

  He was the handsomest man she’d ever laid eyes on—slim with dark hair and perfect cheekbones. He wasn’t tall, but he carried himself precisely. He wore a fine suit, and a fedora tilted stylishly over dark, soulful eyes. Heavens, if he didn’t look exactly like a movie star. He walked up to Minka’s counter and set the box down. He looked into her eyes.

  “Well, hello,” he said.

  Minka’s fingers gripped the edge of the wooden counter. She reminded herself to smile. Her brain had completely drained. Cecil spoke from the meat counter behind her.

  “Hi, Roy. Keeping cool out there?”

  The visitor’s steady eyes moved to Cecil. Minka glanced over, grateful to have someone else take charge of the interaction. Cecil himself was practically a stranger, but at least he didn’t inspire such a foolish reaction in her.