Bertha's Resolve: Love's Journey in Sugarcreek, Book 4

by Serena B. Miller

  “That is dangerous,” Bertha said. “It’s below freezing outside! Is he okay?”

  “When I got there, he was already inside, but he’d given his wife quite a scare. When he couldn’t wake her up by pounding on the door, he went around to the bedroom window and started knocking on it. The blinds were pulled. She couldn’t see that it was him, and it just about scared her to death.”

  “They were Englisch?” Bertha asked.

  “Yes.”

  “It is a wonder she didn’t shoot him,” Bertha said. “Englisch people are sometimes too quick to shoot.”

  “True, but she called the police instead,” Rachel said. “I’m the one who got the call. That’s why I’m late. I had to get both of them calmed down and make sure he wasn’t going into hypothermia. He’d been out there on the porch longer than was healthy for a man his age.”

  Bertha was distracted as the baby started to fuss again.

  “We are out of formula,” Bertha said. “I think she’s hungry. You’ll need to hurry and get her home.”

  “Of course,” Rachel said. “I’m still figuring things out about how much formula to pack. Were there any other problems?”

  “I will admit it took Lydia and me awhile to figure out how to put those disposable diapers on her. Holly was patient with us two old women as we fumbled around. The last time I took care of an infant, it was with cloth diapers.” Bertha laughed at herself. “But Lydia and I are quite up-to-date now!”

  “But are you okay?” Rachel asked, concerned. “Has this tired you out too much?”

  “I am fine,” Bertha scoffed. “Don’t worry about me. I am pleased to be able to help. It has been a joy caring for this sweet child.”

  “Well, okay.” Rachel sounded doubtful. “But thanks so much. I’ll let you go to bed now.”

  Bertha stood at the door until Rachel got Holly securely strapped in. She waved as Rachel pulled out, not wanting her niece to know how drained she felt.

  That was one of the most annoying things of all about growing older. One had so much less stamina.

  There had been a time when she could toil all day in a shelter covered with nothing but a corrugated tin roof upon which the hot Haitian sun broiled down. Many days she could have cooked a steak on that roof had she wanted to, and if she’d had a steak. Which she didn’t. Meat of any kind was hard to find, and much of what was available she didn’t trust. There had been outbreaks of anthrax. Owners were often so poor and desperate, they sold diseased animals.

  Tonight, being a full three hours past her usual bedtime, she fully expected to drop off to sleep the moment her head touched the pillow, but it didn’t work out that way. Sometimes, if she got overly tired, her mind would refuse to turn off, and her thoughts would skitter about like Anna’s chickens trying to catch an influx of buzzing June bugs. Too much had happened today, and her mind kept turning things over and over.

  The combination of the Amish children sharing their lunch with her, that ragamuffin Englisch boy who had eaten one of Lydia’s pies, and then having run out of formula for Holly with no easy way to get more until Rachel returned home--had left her lying in bed, staring at the dark ceiling, remembering the precious, dark-skinned, emaciated babies she had held in her arms and tried to save. It wasn’t something one got over in a day…or a lifetime.

  It had bothered her more deeply than she had allowed Rachel to know that she had run out of formula for Holly. She didn’t like dealing with a hungry baby.

  Food made such a difference. Food was everything. There had been times in Haiti when she would have gladly traded her hard-won nursing knowledge just for enough to feed all the hungry children for a day.

  It took her well past midnight to settle herself enough to finally go to sleep.

  Chapter 15

  Massillon, Ohio

  1959

  “Do you know how to make soup?” Miss Ella Cummings, a former head nursing instructor at Massillon School of Nursing, now in her mid-eighties and confined to a wheelchair, was cranky and rude, and Bertha wondered if she had made a terrible mistake applying for a position working for this woman.

  The problem was—without a job and an inexpensive place to stay, there was no way she could afford to go to school. Period. Ella Cummings, with no one to help care for her, was offering room, board, and a small salary—but only to a nursing student. It had sounded like the perfect solution until Bertha met her.

  “Yes,” Bertha said. “I can make soup.”

  “I doubt it.” Ella shook her head. “The last girl they sent me barely knew her rear end from a hole in the ground, let alone how to make a good potato soup.”

  “I can make good potato soup,” Bertha replied.

  It was true. Bertha wasn’t the cook that her sister was. Lydia had a special gift in the kitchen, but Bertha was more than competent.

  The woman made a rude sound of derision. “Betcha you don’t.”

  Bertha put her hands on her hips. This was going to be interesting. “Betcha I do.”

  Ella blinked. “Then don’t stand there like some big ninny. Prove it. Potatoes are under the sink. Celery, butter, onion in the refrigerator. Milk, too. You got one-half hour to bring me a bowl of soup, or I’ll ask them to send me another fresh young thing who thinks she knows something.”

  With a huff, the old woman wheeled herself into the living room, where she turned on the TV too loudly.

  Thirty minutes. Not much time to turn raw potatoes into soup, but Bertha was reasonably sure she could do it. First, she turned the hot water faucet on, as well as an electric burner to heat up while she hunted for a pot. She found one with a lid in an upper cabinet. She filled it with hot water and put it on the burner. The sooner it boiled the better chance of getting the potatoes cooked through.

  While the already hot water quickly came to a boil, she peeled and diced the potatoes into the boiling water. While the potatoes boiled, she heated a cast iron skillet, threw a stick of butter in, chopped up a couple of stalks of celery with half an onion, and threw everything into the butter to fry.

  While she waited for everything to cook, she saw a half-bag of flour on the counter and got an idea. If there was an egg or two in the refrigerator, she would make egg noodles. Once rolled out and cut, they cooked in boiling water in seconds.

  There were two eggs. By the time Bertha whipped together the eggs, flour, and salt into a stiff dough, she noticed the celery and onion had turned translucent. She scraped them, along with the butter in which she had sautéed them, into the water.

  The kitchen was beginning to steam up from the rapidly boiling water, and the aroma of onions, celery, and butter was in the air. While they cooked, she rolled out the egg noodle dough and cut it into thin ribbons, which she lifted with a knife into the boiling water. Twenty minutes in, she watched the noodles puff up as they cooked.

  Freshly made egg noodles were much tenderer than store-bought ones. It was the way she preferred to have her potato soup, but perhaps Ella didn’t like noodles. Some people said they didn’t, although Bertha thought that was foolish talk. How could anyone not enjoy homemade noodles?

  The combination of well-cooked, falling-apart diced potatoes and the excess flour that had fallen off the noodles, thickened the soup liquid. Bertha turned off the burner and poured in just enough whole milk to make the consistency of the soup perfect. Some salt and pepper. She tasted it. More salt and pepper. Something was missing.

  She went back to the refrigerator and found a small jug of cream. She poured in a half of a cup, stirred and then tasted it again. Yes, that was it. The soup was delicious now, and she would dare anyone to say it wasn’t.

  A decorative tray was sitting on the counter. She ladled soup into a big bowl, laid out a soup spoon and cloth napkin, filled a glass with water from a pitcher in the fridge, and carried it into the living room.

  “Where would you like me to set this?” she asked.

  Ella looked at the clock on the wall, as did Bertha. They both saw th
e same thing. Bertha had brought the tray in with five minutes to spare.

  “Put it on the table here beside me,” Ella said, picking up a spoon. “You’re fast, I’ll give you that much, but speed doesn’t necessarily mean it’ll be any good.”

  Bertha said nothing. She stood with her arms folded and waited.

  Ella dipped her spoon in.

  “You made noodles?” she asked, surprised.

  “That’s how I prefer it,” Bertha said. “I thought you might like it that way, too.”

  Ella studied Bertha over her glasses. “You have an accent. I can’t place it.”

  “I was raised Amish.”

  The old woman took another spoonful of potato-noodle soup.

  “Of course. That would explain it, then.”

  “Explain what?”

  “The noodles.” Ella pointed at the bowl of soup. “You got any objection to using electric?”

  “None.”

  “You engaged?”

  “No.”

  “Got a boyfriend?”

  “No.”

  “Why do you want to be a nurse?

  “Because there aren’t enough good ones to go around, are there?” Bertha said. “Especially in a country like Haiti.”

  “That’s what you have your sights on?” Ella asked.

  “It is.”

  Two more bites of soup before Ella spoke again. “Haiti and her people will break your heart.”

  “I’m counting on it,” Bertha said.

  It was then that Ella’s demeanor changed right before Bertha’s eyes. Even the tone of her voice changed. Bertha got the impression that she was seeing the head nursing instructor Ella had been before age and infirmities had soured her.

  “I had one other Amish-raised girl come to school who wanted to train to become a nurse,” Ella said. “She was a hard worker, but some of the classes were nearly impossible for her to pass because she didn’t have the science and math background most of the other girls did.”

  This was not good news. Could Bertha have gone through all she had just to find out that passing the GED wasn’t enough? That she didn’t have enough educational foundation to make it through?

  “Did she have to drop out?” Bertha asked.

  “No. The girl was a worker. She graduated with honors, just like you are going to do.” Ella scraped the bottom of her bowl. “You want to know why?”

  “Yes.”

  “Because I’m going to be here to help you. Chemistry will probably be one of the hardest hurdles for you, and I’ve always been deadly with that.”

  “Mrs. Cummings?”

  “Call me, Ella, please.”

  “Does this mean I have the job?”

  The old woman nearly choked on the last spoonful of soup.

  “Of course you have the job. This is the best potato soup I’ve ever eaten. The bedroom at the top of the stairs is yours. Actually, the whole upstairs is yours since I can’t go up there anymore. You’ll pick up groceries for me, do some housekeeping, help me get ready for bed and then dressed again in the morning, plus probably keep me thoroughly entertained with your ignorance. For that, I will give you enough pocket money to take care of your personal needs, and foot the bill for your classes.”

  That was way more than Bertha had expected. She had been told she would only get room and board and would have to take on a second job to pay for her tuition. She felt her eyes start with tears and tried to force them back. “Are you sure?”

  “Of course, I’m sure. Just don’t start bawling about it.” Ella looked at her with what Bertha came to think of as Ella’s teacher stare. “I turned out top-notched nurses for more years than I can count. I still do. Only now, I do it one at a time.”

  Chapter 16

  Calvin glanced around the elementary school cafeteria, undecided while holding his food tray and wondering where to sit. None of the tables looked particularly inviting. Everyone had friends except him. Of course, he’d only been living here a few weeks, but nothing was getting any better. The other kids all seemed to have known each other forever, and no one seemed inclined to get to know him.

  Well then, he didn’t want to know them, either.

  He finally opted for one of the long tables in the far corner. Only two seats were taken, and those were occupied by a couple of the little kids. First graders. He sat down at the far end and looked at what the cafeteria ladies had put on his tray. It wasn’t very inspiring. Mashed potatoes. Canned peas. A small brick of fish. An apple. A carton of chocolate milk.

  He didn’t like fish or canned peas. The mashed potatoes were okay, so he ate them, but when he was finished, he was still hungry, so he drank all the chocolate milk and took a bite out of the apple. It wasn’t very sweet, so he swallowed the one mouthful and laid the apple back on his tray. He ate one pea. It was as tasteless as it looked. The fish—well, he would have to be starving first. There was no way he was going to eat any of that fish.

  It was going to be a long, hungry afternoon. Again. He hated this school.

  All of this was new to him. When Grandma was alive, he didn’t hate school at all. He liked it. She packed him a lunch, and she only put things in it that Calvin liked. He had friends there, too, and so did Grandma. She knew his teacher and attended every parent-teacher conference. She told him it was a joy to go to the meetings because his teachers always had good things to say about him and that made her even more proud of him.

  “Hello.”

  Calvin glanced up. One of the first graders from the other end of the table was standing in front of him.

  “My name is Bobby,” the first-grader said. “What’s yours?”

  “Calvin,” he said.

  “Do you want this?” Bobby held up a small zip-lock baggie with a yummy-looking thick, chocolate square in it. “Daddy made brownies last night, and he put an extra one in my lunch.”

  “Don’t you want it?” Calvin asked.

  “Sure.” Bobby shrugged. “But I’ve already had one, and Mommy says I need to learn to share because I got a new baby sister at home, so I’m practicing up.”

  A lump appeared in Calvin’s throat at the first-grader’s kindness. He managed to mumble out, “Thanks.”

  Don’t be a baby, he told himself. Don’t start crying.

  He hoped the little kid would go away until he could get his voice under control.

  That didn’t happen. Bobby pulled out the chair across from him, sat down, crossed his arms on the table, and smiled. “What grade are you in?”

  “Fourth.”

  “You’re new.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Do you want to be friends?”

  Be friends with a first grader?

  “Yes.” The word came out before he could even think.

  “Good, ‘cause my daddy says a man can never have too many friends,”

  Calvin pulled the brownie out of the bag Bobby gave him and took a bite.

  “Good, huh?” Bobby said.

  Calvin, his mouth filled with brownie, nodded.

  “My daddy is a good cook. He owns a restaurant in town.”

  Calvin thought longingly of what it might be like to have a dad who owned a restaurant.

  “My mommy is a cop,” Bobby continued to make conversation. “She’s not my first mommy. My first mommy died, and then we came here, and then we met Rachel. She’s my new mommy now.”

  On nothing more than the strength of a brownie and a first grader with a kind heart, Calvin made his first friend in Sugarcreek. It felt good until Bobby left to rejoin the other first-grader at his table, and Calvin remembered what Bobby had just said. His mom was a cop? Calvin’s chewing slowed down. Didn’t he just say he had a baby sister at home?

  He did not want to see that woman cop who had caught him eating a stolen pie ever again. It might not be such a good idea to become friends with that little kid. In fact, maybe he didn’t even need any friends. At least not in this stupid school.

  He knew what he would do. The
solution appeared to him like a revelation from God. He would become so tough inside he wouldn’t care about anybody or anything. That’s what he’d do from now on. Not care. Maybe then the loneliness wouldn’t hurt so bad.

  Chapter 17

  Lydia cracked a fresh brown egg on the edge of the cast-iron skillet and dropped it into the hot melted butter where it sizzled. They had chosen to have a breakfast-for-lunch meal. This was something they often did when the inn had no guests. Today it was just the three of them.

  “That’s the last of the eggs,” Lydia said. “Do you mind running out to the chicken coop and seeing if the hens laid any this morning, Anna?”

  Anna, who was stroking her gray cat while seated in the kitchen rocker, didn’t move. This was odd. She usually loved gathering eggs.

  “Aren’t you feeling well?” Bertha, who had been setting the table, stopped and studied her.

  “I’m tired,” Anna said.

  “You just woke up from another long nap.” Bertha’s worry made her sound annoyed. “How can you be tired?”

  Anna’s lip started to quiver at this mild observation. Her baby sister was the sweetest, most loving person Bertha had ever known, but it was hard for Anna to deal with anything even remotely sounding like a reproach.

  “That’s okay, Anna.” Lydia saw the quivering lip. She gave Bertha a quick look of concern, then pushed the skillet to the back of the wood stove where it was cooler. “I’ll go gather the eggs. Anna, maybe you should go back to bed and rest until you feel stronger. I’ll bring lunch up to you.”

  “Okay.” Anna rose from the armchair and lumbered toward the living room.

  “She’s getting worse,” Bertha said, as they watched their sister plod up the stairs.

  “I know,” Lydia said. “It’s breaking my heart, but I don’t know what to do about it.”

  “Her next regular doctor’s appointment is in two months, but I think I’d better call and see if I can get something sooner.”

  Lydia pulled on her choring coat and tied her woolen scarf snuggly beneath her chin. “I’m starting to think it might be something more than her heart.”