What are you going to do with it? Liddie considered her aunt’s question as she appliquéd another oak leaf edge on a new quilt block. Keeping the stitches even was a challenge that calmed her. It had been nearly a month since Amelia left, and the high tension of the first days had eased. The rhythm of everyday life had returned, with Liddie replacing Amelia in the garden, in the kitchen, and at the washtub.
Twice, Liddie had tried to talk with her mother about Amelia. Both times, her mother began to cry, so she didn’t try again. The men spent little time in the house. For that, Liddie didn’t blame them. The forced quiet of purposefully not talking hurt her head.
A low rumble caused her to look up from her sewing. A bank of clouds loomed on the western horizon. She wasn’t surprised. That morning, she’d stood on the porch beside her father after breakfast.
“Think it’ll rain today?” he’d asked.
She glanced up at his face. It was the first time since Amelia left that he sounded like his old self. She stepped off the porch, stooping to drag her fingers through the grass. “No dew,” she said, looking around the yard. “And the oak leaves are turned.” Of course, her father knew it was likely to rain. He’d been teaching her about the weather as long as she could remember.
“The wind’s picking up,” G. W. said to Joe and Vern, who’d followed them out to the porch. “Liddie thinks it’s going to rain. We better get that last hay in the barn, boys.”
As the three men walked toward the barn, she’d heard them talking as they used to.
Thinking about it now, she considered that maybe Aunt Kate was right. Maybe it just took time.
A few more stitches used up the thread and she tied it off. As she folded the square and put it back in her basket, she looked at the shirt she’d made for her father. Perhaps a gift would lift his spirits. She’d give it to him today.
The clouds that had darkened the sky that afternoon let loose after supper. The steady rain washed the heat out of the air and sent a cool, cleansing breeze wafting through the house.
“We’ll keep an eye on the heifer,” Vern said after supper.
“Let me know when she’s ready,” G. W. said. “She’s big boned, but it’s her first calf. She might need help.”
Vern and Joe stood on the porch watching the rain. Then, with grins and whoops, they took off running to the barn, galloping as though they could outrun the raindrops.
Liddie carried her sewing basket with the paper-wrapped shirt tucked inside and sat near her father.
“Shall I read to you?” he asked, picking up the Sentinel.
She nodded. As a little girl, she’d sat on his lap as he read the news. He still read articles aloud, and she enjoyed talking with him about local and world events. At first, she fiddled with her needlework. Finally, she let her hands rest in her lap and listened.
After finishing an article on local elections, G. W. folded the paper and picked up his pipe. He tamped tobacco into the bowl, struck a match, and drew in deeply.
“What do you think, Liddie? Does suffrage have a chance without Roosevelt?” He leaned back in the maroon damask wing chair, smoke from the pipe curling above his head.
Because Roosevelt had been the only candidate in the 1912 election to support women’s suffrage on a national basis, she’d watched the campaign with great interest. Her disappointment had run deep, mirroring the feelings of Aunt Kate and the other suffragettes she’d met, when Roosevelt’s bid to win the presidency under the Progressive Party banner had failed.
“Aunt Kate says—”
“Kate has her ideas. I want to know what you think.”
“It’s discouraging. Mr. Wilson hasn’t supported suffrage at all. Illinois passed their law, but I was dismayed to learn it only applied to some elections.” She sighed. “Women have been working for the vote for so long. I wonder if I’ll live to see it.”
G. W. laughed. “You are young to be so pessimistic. Have a little faith!”
“What would it take for the president to change his mind, do you think?”
“Good question. I suppose he makes decisions like the rest of us, talking to people he trusts.”
“What if he chooses wrong?”
“Then, also like us, he makes a new decision.” G. W. tapped the pipe bowl against the ashtray. “Every choice we make becomes part of who we are. That’s why you must take care.”
As she considered her father’s words, she couldn’t help but wonder if he was thinking of Amelia, if this was a conversation he’d had, or maybe wished he’d had, with her.
“I have made one decision.” Liddie reached for the shirt in her basket. “To give you this.”
He unwrapped the paper. “A new shirt.” He smiled at her and held the blue broadcloth by the shoulders as he examined it. “I suppose you hoped to convince me to let you work in Maquoketa?”
“Well, yes. But that was—before.”
“This is well done, Liddie. You didn’t need to make something new to convince me of your ability.” He traced the embroidery on the pocket with his fingertip. “A nice touch.”
“I was making it for you anyway.”
“It is a big decision.” He drew on his pipe and ran a finger back over the initials.
Her father’s words ignited a tiny flicker of hope.
“G. W.” Joe poked his head in the parlor door. “The heifer’s straining. It looks like it’ll be rough.”
“I’m coming.” G. W. handed the shirt back to Liddie. “Your mother thought the opportunity would be good for you.”
“It would. It really would.” Liddie edged forward in her chair. “I love to sew, and Mrs. Tinker has the finest shop. I could learn so much.” Even though she could tell his mind was with the cow and calf, she pressed the point. “Papa, it would mean so much to me.”
He stood. “I’d have considered it before, Liddie. But now your mother needs you here.”
Though she had expected this, hearing him say it out loud extinguished her last ember of hope.
“Ma!” Vern shouted as he kicked the kitchen door open. “Pa’s hurt.”
Liddie dropped her sewing and ran to the kitchen. She gasped when she saw her father hanging limp between the boys, his head lolling to one side. Blood drenched his shirt and matted his hair. “What happened?”
“The cow kicked him,” Vern said.
“When he fell back, he hit his head,” Joe added.
“Oh—God help us!” Margretta pushed past Liddie. When she lifted G. W.’s face between her hands, his eyelids fluttered open for a second and then closed. “Bring him in the bedroom. Liddie, get towels. And water. Then call Dr. Milburn.”
Liddie knew she should move, but she couldn’t. Not her feet. Not her hands. His face was so white. Except for the blood. That was so red. Pinpoints of light flashed in her eyes and the kitchen tilted.
“Liddie.” Joe’s voice reached her. “Liddie. Get water. Do it.”
She blinked and the kitchen righted itself. She filled a pan with hot water, grabbed towels from a drawer, and ran to the bedroom, terrified of what she would find.
“Will he be all right?” Margretta asked as the doctor washed his hands at the kitchen sink.
“That’s a nasty head wound.”
“He’ll be all right,” Liddie said, willing it to be true.
“He has a concussion. You need to watch him close for the next day or two. He’ll be sore and no doubt have a headache.”
Margretta sat with G. W. through the night. Liddie, Vern, and Joe took turns joining her.
“He’s awake, Mama. Look,” Liddie said when she saw her father open his eyes the next morning.
“Oh, G. W. Thank God.” Margretta pressed her palm to his forehead.
G. W. blinked a few times and his eyes closed.
“Papa.” Liddie stroked her father’s cheek. “P
apa. Please wake up.”
G. W.’s eyes flickered open. “M . . . Amelia . . .”
“Papa. It’s me, Liddie.”
G. W. groaned as his eyes closed again.
“He thought you were her.” Margretta’s voice caught.
“The doctor said he might be confused. He’s getting better, Mama. I’ll tell the boys.” Relief lifted Liddie’s spirits. “I’ll make breakfast. Then I’ll sit with Papa so you can sleep.”
G. W. woke throughout the day, each time for only a few minutes. Sometimes, he recognized one of them. Sometimes, he was confused. The doctor assured them this was not uncommon.
Margretta seldom left his side. By the third day, Liddie had taken over the household chores as though she’d been born to it, which she supposed she had.
Throughout the day, Liddie poked her head into her parents’ bedroom to see if her mother needed anything. “Mrs. Howe dropped by with a pot of chicken noodle soup,” Liddie reported. “We’ll have it for supper. I wanted to tell you while she was here, but she said not to bother you.”
“She’s so thoughtful,” Margretta said. “I’ll write her a note this afternoon.”
Liddie scrutinized her father’s face for any sign of improvement. “Has he woken up?”
“For a few moments. He even mentioned getting up. I told him he should rest yet. He’s been asleep ever since.”
“You should rest awhile, too, Mama. I’ll stay here in case he needs anything.”
“I believe I will lie down.” Margretta cupped Liddie’s cheek in her hand. “You’ve been such a help. I’m proud of you.”
After Margretta left, Liddie held her fingers to her cheek, savoring the memory of her mother’s touch and the pleasure of being found useful.
While her mother napped, Liddie held her needlework on her lap, but rather than stitch, she studied her father’s face. Color had not returned to his cheeks; even so, he looked peaceful enough. Not as though he were in pain. The wound had stopped bleeding, so the bandage around his head was clean. She didn’t understand why he wasn’t getting better. As she thought this, his eyes flickered open.
“You’re here,” he murmured. “I’m glad.”
“Papa.” She took his hand.
“You’re here.” He licked his lips and struggled to swallow.
“I’ve been here all along, Papa. Let me help you with a drink.” She lifted his head, holding a glass to his lips. He swallowed and sank back on the pillow.
“I’m sorry, Amelia. I thought you were gone.”
Liddie stared at her father. “Papa, it’s me, Liddie. Don’t you know me?”
“Sure, Liddie. I know you.” His eyes darted around the room. “Is Amelia here, too?”
“Amelia’s . . . gone. Don’t you remember?”
“I don’t . . . What happened?”
“You were helping a heifer with her calf. She kicked you.”
He groaned as his fingers searched out the bandage, flinching when he came to the wound. “Hurts.” His eyes drooped closed.
Fearing he would drift off, she took his hand and rubbed his wrist. “Papa,” she said. “Papa!” He opened his eyes.
“Hey! Good to see you awake.”
Liddie turned at the sound of Joe’s voice. He and Vern stood shoulder to shoulder in the doorway. She looked back at her father. “He’s . . . not clear yet.”
“I’m getting up.” G. W. pushed against the bedclothes. “Where’s Amelia? I need to talk to her.”
“Wait a bit,” Liddie said. She looked at Joe and her brother, and saw her worry mirrored on their faces.
“How’s the heifer?” G. W. asked.
“She’s fine.” Joe came to the bedside and rested a hand on G. W.’s shoulder. “Her calf was dead. Probably why she was having so much trouble.”
“What about the heifer?”
“As soon as we got the calf out, she was fine,” Vern repeated.
“I’m getting up.” G. W. struggled to get his feet on the floor.
“I don’t think you should, Pa,” Vern said.
“I’m getting—” G. W. knocked Joe’s hand away, bent forward, and vomited.
“He didn’t know me,” Liddie told the doctor. They’d all moved to the kitchen after Dr. Milburn finished examining G. W. “He didn’t remember about the cow kicking him.”
“Even after we told him things twice,” Joe said.
While Margretta sat at the table and repeated what she’d told the doctor when he arrived, Vern kept a hand on her shoulder. “We got him back in bed. He fell back to sleep and hasn’t opened his eyes since.” Repeating these details anchored them somehow, reassured them they’d done everything they could to help.
“The concussion is causing that confusion,” the doctor said.
Margretta asked, “Isn’t there anything we can do?”
“Give it time. It hasn’t been a week yet. A couple of weeks for a concussion to heal isn’t uncommon.” He picked up his black bag. “Call me if he gets worse,” he said, and left.
Liddie stood looking out the door after the doctor’s buggy disappeared down the lane. Vern and Joe had walked out with the doctor and gone on to the barn. “He thought I was Amelia,” she said. “He was so happy to see her. I felt bad I wasn’t her.”
“It broke his heart, what she did.” Margretta spoke quietly, almost to herself, holding a now-cold cup of coffee between her hands.
“It didn’t do anything for the rest of us, either, Mama.”
Her mother looked up, and Liddie thought she looked a little startled. Maybe she hadn’t realized she’d spoken out loud.
Her mother said, “I told her to write. I go to the mailbox each day. Hoping.”
“Does she know about Papa?”
“I wrote. I don’t know if she has the letter yet.”
“You’d tell me if she writes?”
“Would you want to know? You’ve been awful mad at her yourself.”
“She said we’d be better off with her gone, but I’m not. I expect Mrs. Tinker already has another girl.”
“Honey, you may feel you lost out, but no man can shut a door God has opened for you. You could look at it another way. You’re here when your family needs you. You get to care for your father. She doesn’t.”
Liddie exhaled heavily. As far as she could see, God had closed all the doors in her house. She could not find it in herself to be grateful she’d missed out on being Mrs. Tinker’s apprentice, even if she was able to help her parents. Nonetheless, she couldn’t imagine being away from home just now. She sucked in her cheeks. “Yes,” she admitted. “I’d want to know if she writes.”
“When your father is better, we’ll talk about Maquoketa. I thought it was a good idea. I still do.”
“You do? Won’t you need help around here?”
“I took care of things before you children were born. I can do it again.”
The ember of hope in Liddie’s chest sparked back to life.
Over the next several days, Liddie noticed small signs of improvement. Her father was awake more, he initiated small conversations, he took an interest in the farm. He still experienced moments of confusion, but that happened less and less often. They helped him out of bed for fifteen minutes in the morning and again in the afternoon, though he still lost his balance easily and grew dizzy if he sat up too long.
One morning, two weeks after the accident, Liddie looked in and found her father awake.
“Morning, Papa,” she said. “How are you feeling today?”
“Improving. My head doesn’t ache for once.” G. W. freed his arms from the bedding and struggled to push himself to a sitting position. “Give me a hand. I’d like to sit up.”
She helped him lean forward as she wedged the pillows behind him. “Better?”
He nodded. “I don�
�t imagine you thought you’d be spending your summer playing nursemaid to your pa.”
“I’d do anything for you, Papa.”
“I appreciate it. I want you to know I do.”
“Are you hungry enough for breakfast?”
“I could eat a horse.”
“Hmm.” Liddie frowned as though considering his request. “Unfortunately, all we have is sausage and eggs.”
“That would have been my next choice.”
“I’ll bring some for you when the boys come in.” She kissed him on the cheek.
“I’ll be waiting.”
Hearing her father speak clearly and with his old humor cheered her so that Liddie fairly skipped to the kitchen. “Papa’s really good this morning, Mama,” she said. “He wants breakfast.”
“He slept well, too.” Margretta pulled a pan off the burner. “I have oatmeal ready.”
“He says he’d like sausage and eggs.”
“He must feel better.”
“Pa, what are you doing?”
The alarm in Vern’s voice drew Liddie and her mother to the kitchen door, where they saw G. W. gripping the edge of the sideboard with one hand and holding on to the door frame with the other. Beads of sweat covered his forehead.
“Figured I’d join you for breakf—” G. W.’s face paled to an ashen gray. As he lost his grip on the sideboard, he reached out. His hand collided with a vase that rocked back and forth before finally tipping over and sailing on a long, slow path to the floor.
“Pa!” Vern grabbed at his father’s elbow, but the nightshirt slipped through his fingers.
The vase shattered as G. W.’s knees hit the floor with a leaden thump.
“G. W.” Margretta reached for him, though she was half a room away.
G. W. looked up, his eyes fixed in the middle distance, his mouth agape in a frozen smile.
The scene played before Liddie’s eyes like a dream. She saw her mother kneeling on the floor, cradling her father’s head in her lap. She saw Vern and Joe lift her father and carry him back to the bed. She knew without anyone saying it. Her father was dead.
Chapter 5
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