Sophie's Dilemma

by Lauraine Snelling

  ‘‘Sophie, quit acting like a spoiled child.’’

  ‘‘If I’m such a spoiled child . . .’’ She glared at his back, then bit back the other words she’d been about to fling at him.

  ‘‘You could make friends with the other wives. They manage to keep busy.’’

  ‘‘They have homes and children. That makes a difference.’’

  ‘‘True, and perhaps when I get back, we will build a house.’’

  ‘‘How can we do that when all your money goes into saving for a boat?’’ She knew she was being snide but couldn’t seem to stop.

  ‘‘Sophie, I . . .’’

  She could feel her face tightening at the now-familiar tone of his voice. If he thought she was being unreasonable now . . .

  ‘‘You could go back to Blessing.’’

  ‘‘I don’t want to go back to Blessing. I want to stay here with my husband.’’ Who is being so unreasonable I could spit!

  ‘‘Then you could—’’ ‘‘I could! What if I don’t want to? You won’t even be here for Thanksgiving, let alone Christmas.’’ And I don’t have your present ready to send with you. Guilt chewed at her heart. Sophie, grow up.

  ‘‘We will have Christmas when I return. Perhaps I will bring you something from Alaska.’’

  ‘‘I don’t want something from Alaska.’’ Her voice broke on the last word. ‘‘I want you here.’’

  She watched as he returned to the chest and pulled out the last drawer, the one with his heavy sweaters, and carried both the gray and the navy ones back to the broadening bag. ‘‘I don’t know why you brought me out here when you were going to be gone for four months or more.’’

  He stopped with his hand in the canvas bag. ‘‘If I remember right, you were the one who insisted. I was willing to wait the year your father wanted, but you refused to wait.’’ His voice grew tighter and quieter with each word. The ice in his eyes froze her to her chair.

  One thing she’d learned in these last several weeks was that while other men might yell when they were angry, Hamre grew more quiet, and the words he did say were like steel. She peeled her hands free of the chair arms, rose, and stalked behind the screen so he wouldn’t see her crying. He’d made it clear several days earlier, after their big fight, what he thought of her tears when she wanted something and he’d said no. How could she tell him she’d been planning to buy his Christmas present? I have to have some money. I don’t want him to leave. She unclenched her hands and forced herself to dip the washcloth in the tepid water and hold the wet cloth to her eyes. If he can do the silent treatment, so can I.

  She struggled with the buttons up the back of her dress, finally yanking the dress up so she could reach the back. Here she needed help to even undress. She yanked harder and heard a button ping against the washbasin. Fine. Now she’d have to sew a button back on, and it was all his fault. She ripped again and heard another clack. Two buttons. All you have to do is ask for his help. The little voice spoke softly from somewhere amidst the raging waves in her mind.

  She thought of the times he’d helped her unbutton her gown and things had progressed from there. And now he would be gone. At least farmers were home most of the time. She thought of her mother those years when Lars went off with the threshing crew. But then Mor had all of us. And family and friends all around. Here I am in a strange city with no family, no friends, and I’m supposed to be content within these four walls?

  Laughter, the hysterical kind, dueled with rage and fueled by sorrow, threatened to erupt. She stepped out of her dress and flipped it over the screen to be hung up later. She could hear him moving from the chest of drawers to the seaman’s bag, his boot heels clicking across the wooden floor. The urge to run and throw herself into his arms made her even more furious. Traitorous body. She untied her woolen petticoat and flipped it over the screen, then her under petticoat and camisole. As the tears flowed harder in spite of her efforts, she sniffed them back, pulled her flannel nightdress over her head, and stepped out of her drawers. One of the hairpins caught in her hair as she tried to undo the roll she’d fashioned so elaborately just this morning. She jerked on it, and pain shot through her scalp.

  I can’t even undo my hair right. She shook her head, and one of the other pins flipped to the floor. When she finally got the rest of the pins out, along with several long strands of hair, she rubbed the tender spot and dropped the pins into the porcelain dish she’d bought just for that purpose. Another one of those things he’d scolded her for wasting money on. As she had learned his anger, she’d also learned the hard way that he resented any penny not saved for his stupid boat. He didn’t care that she needed a few things. After all, everything she needed had not come in the trunk her mother sent. Think back, Sophie. How long has it been since he told you that you are beautiful?

  Leaving her dressing area looking like a blizzard had blown through, she stomped across the floor and ripped back the covers, climbing into bed without giving Hamre a glance. The flannel sheets even felt cold, much like her feet and her shaking hands. The burning was inside. She buried her face in the pillow so he wouldn’t hear her tears.

  Stupid stubborn Norwegian.

  She fell asleep with the salt of tears on her tongue.

  And woke to a sunny morning—alone.

  When she pushed her hair back from her face, she vaguely remembered him kissing her and whispering good-bye. What have I done?

  Two days later the tears of regret and sorrow still hovered and brimmed over at the slightest nudge of memory and dreams. She’d had to leave the supper table when someone mentioned a fishing boat. Mrs. Soderstrum came up to check on her and brought back tea and toast when she said she was too sick to come down. Sick at heart for certain, but her entire body felt the ravages. Surely she would run out of tears soon. The pounding in her head that followed the tears forced her to lie without moving, eyes closed, because even the dim light of a rainy day coming in the window made the beat pick up like a zealous child beating a washtub with a wooden stick.

  A gentle knock at the door made her groan.

  Mrs. Soderstrum pushed open the door and poked her head in.

  ‘‘Ah, Sophie, dear, I have brought you a tray. You must eat, you know.’’

  ‘‘No, thank you. I cannot.’’ She covered her eyes with the palm of one hand.

  Mrs. Soderstrum set the tray on the nightstand and laid a cool hand against Sophie’s cheek. ‘‘You aren’t running a fever.’’

  ‘‘No. It’s just this terrible pain in my head. If I move, the whole room goes into a spin.’’ Even talking was more than she could manage without additional pain.

  ‘‘Oh dear. Perhaps we should call the doctor.’’

  ‘‘No. Surely it will go away.’’ Even her voice sounded strange. Was she making sense?

  ‘‘I brought you some peppermint tea. That is supposedly good for the headache. Here. Sniff this. Perhaps it will help.’’

  Sophie inhaled the warm peppermint steam. She thought of trying to sit up to drink some, but the slight movement of her head convinced her that was not a good idea. She inhaled again without moving this time. ‘‘Nice.’’

  ‘‘I know what I shall do. I will go down and make a compress of peppermint and bring it up for your forehead.’’ As she bustled out, she called over her shoulder, ‘‘We’ll get you back on your feet. Never fear.’’

  The silence after the door click felt like a balm. If only the pounding would stop.

  Sophie dozed, and dark shapes cavorting and dancing with the pain lanced her eyelids.

  Another tap at the door and Mrs. Soderstrum entered with another tray. ‘‘I brought you some laudanum too. That’s the only thing I know that can truly kill the pain, but you are going to have to swallow when I spoon it into your mouth.’’ She laid a towel across Sophie’s chest and up to her neck.

  The clink of spoon to bottle sounded loud, but then every sound seemed magnified out of proportion.

  ‘‘Open.’’
r />   Slowly Sophie opened her mouth and swallowed obediently. Her eyebrows wrinkled at the vile taste, hardly covered by the sweetness of honey.

  ‘‘I know. It is bad, but you should feel some effects quickly. In the meantime we’ll go with the cloth on your forehead.’’

  A warm, wet peppermint-infused cloth lay on her head, the fumes entering through both nose and pores.

  ‘‘There now. Is that better?’’

  The voice seemed to come from a far distance. Sophie thought about an answer, her mind checking out the symptoms. Pounding still there, but slightly abated? Did her teeth hurt as much? ‘‘I-I think so.’’ She pushed the words out without use of jaw or lips.

  ‘‘Good. I’ll come back in a bit. You just rest.’’

  As if I had any other choice.

  The door snicked again and she could hear only her own heart thundering in her ears. The vile taste of the medicine lingered on her tongue as she searched for any trace of the honey. A longing for the cool stroke of her mother’s fingers brought the incessant tears back to trickle out her eyes and down into her hair and dampen the pillow slip. Mor, I need you. Grace, oh, Grace, if only I could see your face and hear your voice. Lord God, help me, please. . . .

  When Sophie awoke, she lay still, afraid to move but already realizing a sense of freedom. The thudding was gone. She blinked, and it didn’t hurt. Slowly, carefully, she turned her head to see that the angle of the light had slanted the shadow toward the evening side. No pain, only a sense of feeling displaced inside, as though the strength had been drained from each muscle and bone, so tired she could do nothing but fall back into a sleep so deep she didn’t hear or sense anything.

  The tray on her table the next morning showed that Mrs. Soder-strum had been in, the blanket in the chair by the bed mute testimony to her landlady’s nocturnal watch.

  When Hamre gets home . . . She stopped the thought and bit down on her lip. Hamre would not be coming home for a long time. And his last conversation with his wife had been bitter. What a memory for him on those lonely nights at sea. Was his whispered ‘‘I love you’’ only a dream?

  When her eyes burned, she sniffed and rolled her eyes toward the ceiling, catching sight of her fringe, the ends of which came past her eyebrows. She needed to trim them or comb the hair back. She eased herself up against the pillows and surveyed the room. Had Hamre left nothing behind? She picked up his pillow and held it against her face, his masculine scent faint but easily identified. Breathing in the scent with her eyes closed, she could picture him coming across the room, love lighting his eyes.

  Four long months. And now she had to figure out what to do with her time. Basking in the lack of pain in her head, she laid the pillow on her lap and crossed her arms over it, her wrists sharing the warmth in the chilly room. First she needed to finish knitting that pair of socks she’d started. Grace was right; it was time she learned to finish the things she’d begun. After tipping her head from side to side to make sure the pain was gone and to stretch out her muscles, she huffed a sigh and threw back the covers. The time had come to get on with whatever she was going to do.

  Her gaze fell on the Bible her mother had sent in the trunk not long after Sophie and Hamre arrived in Seattle. Vaguely she remembered praying during the headache—such an innocuous name for what she’d experienced—and after that she’d fallen asleep. Had God answered and had a hand in her recovery? She thought back, trying to clear away the cobwebs that veiled her recollections. Mrs. Soderstrum had brought peppermint and laudanum. Had God told her to do that? Tante Ingeborg would say so. She often said God sent her here or there and gave her wisdom in using her simples to help those suffering.

  Sophie crossed to the dresser and brought the Bible back to her bed. Flipping open the cover, she found a letter from her mother. Why had she not opened the book before now to at least see the letter? ‘‘Ah, Mor, I am so sorry. So sorry for so many things.’’ Shaking her head, she unfolded the paper and read through misty eyes.

  My dearest Sophie,

  I cannot tell you how brokenhearted your father and I are at your leaving like you did. I am so grateful for your letter so that we know Hamre is taking good care of you and that you were married before boarding the train. Your father did not ask you to wait because he wanted to punish you but because he felt you were too young.

  Ah, Mor, if you only know. Even Hamre now knows how young I really am, although I think he figured it out some time ago. She could hear him. ‘‘Sophie, don’t act like a child.’’ I have been such a foolish daughter. How can anyone forgive me? She returned to the page, wiped her eyes with the edge of the sheet, and read on.

  And he wanted you to become more mature to be able to handle the trials a marriage always has.

  We miss you so and pray that you are well and happy and that you will turn to the Lord for wisdom and guidance. Grace will write to you herself. I believe she has suffered more than any of us, but I am sure that she will come around eventually. I know that she loves you no matter what, as do I. You might want to write to your father separately.

  Sophie read the last lines again. Grace had not forgiven her, nor had their father. At least at that time. She had received one letter from Grace, but it had been more like from a distant cousin than from her twin sister. She returned to the letter.

  Give Hamre our love, and I pray you make a fine wife and the two of you will become the people God plans for you to be.

  Love always,

  Your Mor

  Sophie sniffed, dabbed her eyes, and read the missive again. So what do I do now? Besides write a letter home, that is. She felt her stomach grumbling. First thing better be to get something to eat.

  A tap at the door caught her attention. ‘‘Come in.’’

  Mrs. Soderstrum entered with a smile that showed the dimples in her cheeks. ‘‘You sound like yourself again.’’

  ‘‘I am, but I woke too late for breakfast.’’ She nodded toward the chair. ‘‘You stayed with me?’’

  ‘‘A bit.’’ She set the tray down on the bed and turned to go.

  ‘‘Thank you for taking care of me.’’ Sophie picked up the cup and inhaled. ‘‘Peppermint. This is so nice of you.’’ She sipped and inhaled again. ‘‘Please, can you take time to sit down?’’

  Mrs. Soderstrum folded the blanket over the back of the chair and sat. ‘‘You look a mite pale yet but much improved over yesterday.’’

  Sophie spooned jam from the little jar onto her toast and took a bite. ‘‘Ah, this tastes so good.’’

  ‘‘It must. You’ve not eaten for three days.’’

  Sophie chewed and swallowed. ‘‘What I’d like is some . . . some advice.’’

  ‘‘About what?’’

  ‘‘About my finding a place to work.’’ There, she’d said it.

  Mrs. Soderstrum rolled her lips together and nodded. ‘‘I know you had a bad experience at the cannery, but I heard that Oscar is hiring now. I’d say to try there again. They pay the best of anyone.’’

  When Mrs. Soderstrom left, Sophie stared at the wall for a while and then threw back the covers. First the letters and then finish the socks.

  Within three days she’d finished her list and had even gone to visit Mrs. Jorgeson, the woman whose husband owned and captained the boat Hamre worked on. Mrs. Jorgeson, gracious amid her beautiful large home above the harbor, had reassured her that she could write to Hamre in care of the Sea Lily, and when the boat docked in Ketchikan, mail would also be sent home. She’d also invited Sophie to join their church and get to know some of the other families.

  Sophie had not confessed the guilt that gnawed at her for the way she’d behaved that last night that Hamre was home—not to Mrs. Jorgeson, nor her mother or sister. No one need ever know that secret.

  The next day Sophie returned to the canning factory, hoping this time for a better reception.

  ‘‘Can you begin tomorrow?’’ Mr. Trondheim, the manager, asked, his eyebrows raised in a quest
ion mark. ‘‘This is hard work, you know.’’

  ‘‘I know, but it can’t be any harder than farm work, and I grew up on a farm in North Dakota.’’ Sophie repeated what she’d told the other man when she’d tried to get the job before.

  ‘‘Your husband is off on Jorgeson’s boat?’’

  ‘‘How did you know that?’’

  ‘‘I know all the boat owners and most of the men. Hamre Bjork-lund worked here for a time before he got hired on a boat. He is a good worker. He’ll soon have that boat he wants so badly.’’

  Sophie nodded. ‘‘And I plan to help him get one.’’ That’s the least I can do after the way I treated him. Even now, the thought of that night made her neck warm.

  ‘‘Be here at seven. We start at daylight. And wear warm clothes. You do have boots, do you not?’’

  ‘‘I do.’’ What would she wear for a coat? If only she had brought her chores coat with her.

  After the interview she climbed the hill to the boardinghouse and entered, hanging her coat on the hook by the door. ‘‘Mrs. Soderstrum?’’

  ‘‘Back here.’’ The reply came from the sewing room.

  Sophie tucked scarf and gloves into her coat pockets and, inhaling the good fragrance of fresh baked bread, made her way to the sewing room.

  ‘‘Did you get the job?’’

  ‘‘I did, but I have a favor to ask. Do you have an old wool coat I could buy from you? Or borrow until Mor can send me my chores coat?’’

  ‘‘I do, but it is so raggedy that I am ashamed to offer it.’’

  ‘‘I could patch it.’’

  ‘‘Then, dear girl, you may have it and be blessed.’’ Mrs. Soderstrum rose from her chair in front of the sewing machine and went to a trunk in the corner. ‘‘Good thing I didn’t throw it away. Thought I could use the good parts for patches myself.’’ She dug in the trunk and pulled out a black wool coat that had indeed seen better days. Giving it a shake, she handed it to Sophie. ‘‘Try it on. Good thing you aren’t a slip of a girl, or it would fall right off you.’’