Be Still the Water

by Karen Emilson

“What shall we call our new home?” he asked.

  He had the final word after considering everyone’s suggestion.

  “Eikheimar,” Pabbi said. Our home in the oak trees.

  Signy never let Leifur forget that it was she who named the farm.

  I was not privy to the conversation that took place between Pabbi and Mother regarding the stove because we children were outside playing. But now I see Mother remove the lid from the tin can that she kept high on the cupboard behind the salt crock and carefully count out what they’d saved. When all the money was on the table in tidy piles, they stared at it as if it might double if they watched long enough.

  “We have what we’ll need until you start fishing—” she said.

  “But if we send for your sister now, there is not enough to buy a stove,” Pabbi said, finishing her sentence. We all knew how the decision to leave teenaged Freyja behind tormented Mother. Had she been a different sort of woman she would have cried or begged, and made promises impossible to keep. But that was not her way. She waited patiently for Pabbi to decide.

  He took a deep breath, remembering the promise he too had made Freyja. He owed nothing to anyone except his mother—a life pattern he was unable to shake, but one he could live with.

  “I will buy the stove on credit,” he said. “We’ll send for Freyja now.”

  A stove and her sister. More than she could ever wish for.

  “Thank you Pjetur,” she said, getting up to kiss his forehead. “I will never ask for anything that will indebt us ever again.”

  One afternoon a few days later we burst through the door to see Mother sitting at the kitchen table.

  “What are you doing?” Signy asked.

  It was a foolish question because the answer was obvious. There was an ink pot in front of Mother and she was bent over a tablet, pen in hand.

  “Writing a letter to Freyja,” she said, without looking up. She must have been working at it for hours as there were five tightly written, double-sided pages already filled. “She will read it to the others.”

  Now I know what her letter said.

  She told them about the land and our house. The woodpile stacked taller than she stood. She described a lake teeming with fish and nobody except us to catch them. The only detail she neglected to include was how difficult she was finding the adjustment of having everything she ever wanted. It would take months before she stopped staring wordlessly out the kitchen window, reacting impatiently toward us when we interrupted her faraway thoughts. At the time we were confused, but now I understand why she wept for no reason.

  There is an Icelandic saying that translates this way: ‘If you live in misery long enough, you will start to welcome it.’

  Now that Mother had a home, she missed the one she’d left. She didn’t want to seem ungrateful, which she wasn’t, but homesickness had a way of creeping in, even though the mind was content.

  No, there would be no complaints in her letter. Everyone in Iceland already knew the downside of living here. The malcontent, those who regretted coming, and the naysayers who never left, were quick to point out America’s shortcomings. Men like Uncle Ásgeir, who’d learned to live comfortably in discomfort, would rather stay in Iceland than risk improving his lot in life.

  Mother read the letter over many times. She hid money in the folds for Aunt Freyja, then held it up to the light, placing it on the shelf above the table.

  Then she fretted. The day Pabbi took it to The Narrows to post she began dithering that it would get lost in the mail or the money would be stolen.

  I envisioned Aunt Freyja in Iceland pulling the creased pages out of her pocket at an opportune moment.

  “I have a letter from Ella,” she’d say and the room would grow quiet. There would be at least fifteen of them, young and old. Aunt Freyja would squint through the smoky haze, reading Mother’s carefully chosen words. At the end, she would hold up the money. Except I have to re-imagine that part.

  I knew old Ásgeir would scoff and his wife would find fault in every detail. In their hardheadedness they would call us cowards, weaklings, and traitors for leaving Iceland—the worst of all insults. I say this because that is exactly what happened to Mother when her cousin sent a letter to her.

  Pabbi didn’t have the heart to tell Mother what transpired the day he went to order the stove, so none of us ever knew. But I see it all happen now.

  “How much for this one?” he asked the store owner, Helgi Einarsson, who’d finished negotiating a trade with a young Indian man on four tanned deer hides. Pabbi stood at the back of the store, eyes smiling at the stove he’d seen Mother admiring weeks earlier. She didn’t know it yet, but he had already asked Magnus for a job at the mill.

  “It is the finest stove I carry,” Helgi said, hinting that it was more than Pabbi could afford.

  “Might I set up an account?” Pabbi asked. “I have no debt and a job at the mill and will have it paid in full by the new year.”

  It was seldom that a person took an instant dislike to our father, but I see immediately the suspicion in Helgi’s eyes. Refusing credit in those days was a difficult thing to do.

  “I expect to pay a reasonable rate of interest,” Pabbi added quickly.

  Helgi shook his head slowly. “I cannot extend credit to you for such an expensive item.”

  Pabbi wanted to ask why, but pride kept his lips tight. He felt foolish and wanted to leave the store and never return, but could not go home without ordering the stove. He would not ask his mother for yet another loan.

  “May I borrow a pen?” he asked, taking Mother’s letter out of his breast pocket.

  Helgi watched as he opened the envelope and took out the money, then looked away as Pabbi carefully wrote, ‘the money will follow soon.’ Pabbi sealed the letter then handed it to Helgi along with enough coins to pay the postage.

  “This was for my wife’s nineteen year-old sister,” he said, looking Helgi square in the eye as he gave him the money. “It seems I am left with no choice but to disappoint her again.”

  The day the stove arrived was one of great celebration. It was brought first by train from the Guelph Stove Company in Ontario to Portage la Prairie, then by boat to The Narrows, then by wagon from the dock at Vinðheimar. It took six men to unload. We danced as they grunted the black cast-iron beauty in through the door. Once it was in place and Pabbi had the stove pipe attached to the chimney, Mother stood in front of it with her hands clasped under her chin. She ran her fingers across the top and down the sides, gracefully opened the firebox, then the oven door, to peer inside. At first she would not allow anyone else to touch it, and many times over the years I’d catch her smiling for no reason at her Guelph stove.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Truth is the saying that no man shapes his own future.

  —Grettir’s Saga

  I am awake again. Now I fear that I may die before finding out what happened to Freyja.

  This is irritating. The process is taking far longer than I expected. All the way back to childhood? What good is this?

  A voice whispers in my ear, Be patient. All will be revealed as it is meant to be.

  But I am tired of waiting for answers. I spent my whole life expecting things that never came.

  This bed is starting to feel hard on my back. My heels and ass are sore. How long have I been asleep this time? It’s still bright outside but that’s no surprise since we are approaching the longest day of the year.

  Thora went for something to eat. Someone has pulled closed the curtain that separates Mary and me. Only quiet, adult voices now, so the mood is subdued. They speak a mixture of English and Saulteaux, and it reminds me of how it was at home after we started school. Some English words, those that describe items foreign to Iceland crept into our everyday speech, but the Icelandic phrases and sayings, hymns and songs that have no English translation—t
hey are what kept our language alive. Signy taught her children and their children as well. But the great-grandchildren have little knowledge of Icelandic. What a shame.

  The door pushes open and Thora returns carrying a foam cup. I smell strong coffee.

  “How do you feel?” she whispers.

  “Stiff,” I say, trying to push myself up. She sets her cup on the window ledge and helps me adjust. She looks tired and for the first time I see how hard this is for her. She is an old woman, too.

  “Don’t worry,” I say. “I will be gone soon.”

  Her eyes widen. “Stop talking like that.”

  “It’s true.”

  “That’s not what Doctor Steen says. He thinks you are doing surprisingly well.”

  Her words are heartening, but I pretend not to care. I can’t tell her that I am willing myself to stay alive, why I won’t give in yet. Thora refuses to believe in anything she cannot see, despite all the things she has seen.

  She begins reading out loud from the book I don’t have the stamina to finish. The story is interesting, but I’ve lost focus because I am eavesdropping on the conversation going on behind the curtain. Their voices have risen, there is much excitement, but Thora keeps reading. It isn’t until Mary’s daughter hurries out of the room that she pauses. The daughter returns a few minutes later with rotund Doctor Steen. He is a homely man, docile and soft-spoken. A fine physician with a beautiful heart.

  “Mary,” he says, rounding the curtain, “how are you feeling?”

  Mary muffles an answer I can’t hear.

  The daughter is elated, while the heavy man sitting on the chair starts pushing himself up.

  The doctor is talking quietly to them now, listening to Mary’s heart, shining the penlight in her eyes.

  I smile at Thora, who looks surprised. “Told you,” I say.

  She shakes her head. “You should have been a doctor. You always were the clever one.”

  The thought never once occurred to me.

  When he is finished examining Mary, Doctor Steen stops alongside my bed. His grit is legendary. He should have retired years ago, but has confessed to me that after giving his life to the profession, taking it back is no longer an option.

  I understand. Older patients still expect house calls and he’d never refuse. The new graduates prefer the tidy structure of a hospital to trekking across the countryside.

  “How are you, Nurse Gudmundsson?” he asks.

  Norwegian, he is. Can pronounce my given name perfectly, but never calls me by it. He addresses me as I prefer.

  “My back needs a good scratch,” I say.

  This amuses him.

  Doctor Steen and I have often weighed the merits of dying in hospital versus at home but came up even every time.

  He places the stethoscope on my chest. His mind is still incredibly sharp so I am certain he has never forgotten a patient, diagnosis or conversation. He has saved more people than he killed, though his hasty diagnostic skills sometimes raised eyebrows.

  “I am not ready to die yet,” I say.

  He looks directly at me. “Then don’t.”

  Doctor Steen believes the same as I do, that our soul lives on after the body dies. In fact, some of what I know about the ability to detach and then return, I learned from him. How to let go of the fear, relax the mind and fall into a trance.

  “Now would be a good time to ask,” he says. “How far do you want us to go?”

  I shake my head. “No monitors, no feeding tube, no resuscitation.”

  “Fluids?” he asks.

  “Yes,” I say. “Continue with the morphine.”

  He writes this on my chart.

  “Your family agrees?”

  “Signy won’t, so I will make her think it’s her idea.”

  Doctor Steen pauses for a moment. “So you haven’t seen her yet?”

  I think hard. “Not for a while. I expect she will be in to visit soon.”

  * * *

  The schoolteacher arrived in early October. Pabbi was working at the mill six days a week, walking there early each morning, returning late at night. Mother asked us each day when we arrived home from school if there was any news.

  Everything was worth repeating.

  “Thora cut her hair but I liked it better long,” Signy said as she placed an armful of wood on the pile by the stove.

  “J.K. is going to butcher a pig tomorrow,” I said, handing Mother the women’s magazine that Gudrun had sent. We were fortunate there was an active literary community in Winnipeg that published papers in our native tongue, and Gudrun subscribed to them all.

  “He thinks freeze-up will be early this year,” Leifur added, making himself a quick sandwich before going out to do the evening chores.

  What Mother wanted to know was if there was a letter from her sister tucked in a pocket that we’d forgotten. Logically, she knew not enough time had passed, but hoped anyway. If our aunt didn’t make the crossing soon, we wouldn’t see her until spring.

  Little Freyja was the only one who understood Mother’s lethargy as the months passed. She would climb onto her lap, wrap herself around the growing baby, and rest her head on Mother’s chest.

  Life at Eikheimar was increasingly difficult, but Christmas brought a bit of relief. The mill shut down for a week so the workers could travel home to their families. Though the weather was cold, the mood was festive as we trimmed the tree with handmade decorations on Christmas Eve. Mother prepared a traditional meal of hangikjöt (smoked meat) while Pabbi lit the candles and we sang carols.

  “It is so beautiful,” Freyja said, mesmerized by the glowing tree. She was the last one to open her gift, a tablet and pencil, and was delighted by it, while Signy and I hid our disappointment that we did not receive the customary new dress.

  “Next year,” Mother said softly as we each held up a pair of homemade socks and mittens.

  Christmas day was spent with the Kristjanssons who exclaimed that for years they’d missed having neighbors to socialize with over the holidays. We played games and sang while Thora accompanied us on the organ. In coming years, we were quick to follow their lead by adopting the Canadian tradition of putting out a sock for Santa Claus and eating a turkey feast on Christmas day. On New Year’s Eve, J.K. lit a giant bonfire to burn out 1906. As the calendar turned to January we began counting the days until spring.

  “More snow than I’ve ever seen,” J.K. said, shaking his head as one storm after another blew in across the lake.

  How do I even try to describe what it was like? Frigid temperatures and bitter winds, so incredibly cold that our nose hairs froze instantly, throat catching with every breath. Pabbi did not return to the mill, so he and Leifur fished with J.K., but so few fish meant the nets were pulled up early.

  Mother worried endlessly about the woodpile. She began limiting the logs put into the stove and, since we’d consumed all the meat, we were forced to eat fish every day for weeks on end. Amma said we should stop complaining, reminding us that as a girl she had starved to death more than once.

  “Then why aren’t you dead?” Signy teased, but Amma didn’t think her funny at all.

  “Because,” she said, “a man was kind enough to give me a fish.”

  Stormy weather prevented us from seeing our neighbors who didn’t dare venture too far from home. We children never fought so much as we did that winter, causing our parents to raise their voices more than they ever did when we lived in Iceland.

  We eventually learned there was no point lamenting what could not be changed. All we could do was hunker down and look forward to spring. It arrived, reluctantly, in late March that year. A terrible storm came a month before the thaw and with it baby Solrun.

  Father kept the trail to Vinðheimar packed hard most of the winter, but two feet of blowing and drifting snow made the trek on snow
shoes particularly difficult the morning he set out to borrow J.K.’s horse. Then he rode along the frozen lake trail to the mill where the only midwife lived. Bergthora Magnusson was sister to the mill owner, a spinster who’d never had a baby herself but was quite skilled at bringing them safely into the world.

  Although it was only a six-mile round trip, the journey was slowed considerably by the driving wind. Pabbi was distraught when he finally arrived home that evening with Bergthora riding beside him on her own horse, a heavy-legged mare who seemed accustomed to around-the-clock, weather-be-damned travel.

  The door blew open and Bergthora came into the kitchen, shaking the snow off her giant beast of a buffalo coat. Her size was reduced by half when she removed it but still we stood in awe of her.

  Mother started to cry. “The baby will not come,” she whispered through clenched teeth.

  Bergthora ushered all of us except Signy away from the bedroom.

  “There now,” she said, opening the black bag she carried. “You have done this before.”

  She handed the instruments to Signy, telling her to put them in a pot of boiling water.

  Not knowing what else to do, Pabbi paced the floor. I hid around the corner to the front room, ducking back when Bergthora passed through the kitchen. She called out sternly, “Come here and make yourself useful.”

  So I did.

  “I take it your brother can read to his little sister,” she said, loud enough that Leifur must have heard her, because he picked up Freyja to take her upstairs.

  “Come here,” she said, handing me two rags. “Wipe your mama’s forehead with the wet one and roll the other in case we need it.”

  I could not imagine what good a rolled up rag would do, but took it and went to stand by Mother’s head.

  “Four children and they all came easily?” she asked Pabbi over her shoulder.

  “Five. We lost one.”

  “During birth?”

  “No, later.”

  Bergthora moved to the end of the bed. She lifted the blanket and reached in. Mother cringed and cried out as she pressed down hard on her abdomen then reached inside.