Marta's Legacy Collection (39 page)

Papa took her hand one morning and patted it weakly. “God made you a nurse just in time, didn’t He? He knew I’d need you.”

She kissed his hand and pressed her cheek against it. “I love you, Papa. I wish you didn’t have to go through this.”

“I know where I’m going. I’m not afraid. Mama is going to need you, Hildemara Rose.”

“I’ll stay, Papa.”

“For a while. Not forever.”

“Morphine puts you to sleep. I don’t want to spend the little time I have left in the arms of Morpheus.” But when the pain grew unbearable, Papa finally relented and allowed Hildie to give him an injection.

She called Cloe. She came home two days later and dumped her suitcases in the screened bedroom they had shared as girls. After an hour sitting by Papa’s bed, she came and found Hildie. “He’s asking for you.”

Hildie prepared the morphine injection.

Mama came and went from the bedroom. She had stopped sleeping with him. “Every time I roll over or move, I’m hurting him.”

When Papa cried in pain, Mama would become agitated. She’d pace, ashen, biting her thumb until it bled. “Can’t you give him something?”

“I have, Mama.”

“Well, it wasn’t enough. You should give him more.”

“Marta . . .” Papa’s voice, barely above a whisper now, always caught Mama’s attention. Glaring at Hildemara, she went back into the bedroom. Papa talked with her softly, in German. Hildie leaned against the sink counter, hands covering her face, trying not to sob.

“You never loved me, Niclas.” Mama spoke in a ragged, grief-soaked voice. “You married me for my money.”

Papa spoke louder this time. “Do you suppose there was money enough in the world to make me marry such an ill-tempered woman?”

Hildie went to the doorway, wanting to cry out to both of them not to waste time arguing, not now, not when it was so close to the end.

“You make jokes at a time like this.” Mama started to rise and Papa caught her wrist. She could easily have broken free, but she didn’t.

“Marta,” he rasped. “Don’t pull away. I haven’t the strength to hold on to you anymore.” When she sagged into the chair and began to weep, Papa turned toward her. “I wouldn’t leave you if God wasn’t calling me away.” He stroked her head, his hand trembling with weakness. When she looked up, he touched her cheek. “I’ve warmed myself by your fire.” He said more to her, softly, in German. She took his hand and held it open against her cheek. Hildemara stepped back and turned away.

How could Mama not know Papa loved her? Hildemara had seen him show it in a thousand ways. She had never heard either Mama or Papa say aloud in front of witnesses,
“I love you,”
but she had never doubted for one moment they did.

Mama came out of the bedroom and motioned Hildemara to go in. Hildie went.

Looking at her wristwatch, she held his hand and prayed until the time came to give him another injection. When she came out, Mama sat at the kitchen table, her head buried in her arms. Hildie didn’t know who needed her more, Papa or Mama. She knew how to tend Papa, how to comfort him. But Mama had always been a mystery.

That night, Papa lapsed into a coma. Hildemara stayed in the room, turning him gently every two hours. Mama protested. “What are you doing? Just leave him alone! For heaven’s sake, Hildemara, give him peace.”

Hildemara wanted to rise up and scream back at Mama. Instead, she went on with her work and spoke as quietly and calmly as possible. “He needs to be turned every two hours, Mama, or he’ll develop pressure sores.”

Mama helped after that. They worked in shifts. Mama’s face looked as white and cold as marble.

The smell of death filled the room. Hildie checked Papa’s pulse repeatedly, his breathing. She prayed softly under her breath as she ministered to him.
God, have mercy. God, let it end soon. God, take Papa home. Jesus, Jesus, I can’t do this. God, give me strength. Please . . . please, Lord.

Hildie changed the bed linens and changed his gown. She wondered if people felt pain in a coma. She didn’t know whether to give him an injection or not. When she called Dr. Whiting and asked, he said he didn’t know.

“It’s my turn, Mama.”

“No.” She spoke firmly. “You’ve done enough. Go rest. I’ll stay a little while longer.”

“I’ll wake you if—”

Mama shook her head. “Don’t argue with me now, Hildemara Rose.” She took Papa’s hand between hers and whispered raggedly, “Not now.”

Hildie entered the room and knew before she touched his forehead that Papa had gone home. His face looked so serene, all the muscles relaxed. He looked white now instead of gray, the skin taut against cheek and jawbone, eyes closed and sunken. She felt relief and then ashamed that she did. “He’s gone, Mama.”

“I know.”

“When?”

Mama didn’t answer. She just sat holding Papa’s hand in both of hers, staring down at him.

Hildemara put her hand on Papa’s brow and found it cold. She felt the rush of anguish rise up, catching her by the throat, but fought it down.

Papa had gone hours ago, and she couldn’t help wondering how much of Mama had gone with him.

Hildemara wrote to Boots the night after Papa had been taken away to the mortuary. Mama had gone to bed and stayed there all day. Cloe fed the chickens, milked the cow, and saw to the rabbits. When Bernie told Hildie she didn’t have to do the chores, she screamed at him that she had to do something or run mad, then fell sobbing into his arms. “Papa’s gone. He’s gone. I thought he’d live forever.”

Mama had already taken care of all the arrangements, of course. No open casket. Papa didn’t want it. A simple memorial service at the church for whoever wanted to come. The entire town showed up, along with the last person Hildie ever expected to see.

Trip stood outside the church after the memorial service. Hildie’s heart leaped and lodged in her throat. He looked so tall and handsome in a black suit, hat in his hands. He held it by the brim, turning it slowly. People clustered around Mama. Hildemara stayed close by her side, Bernie and Elizabeth on the other, Cloe and Rikka right behind. So many had come: Dr. Whiting and Mrs. King, teachers, school principals, store owners, farmers, the Musashi family. The Herkners came all the way from San Francisco, bringing Fritz with them. Everyone had a story to tell about Papa, memories they wanted to offer.

“Niclas helped plant my orchard . . .”

“. . . loved God . . .”

“. . . helped us out when we came here from Oklahoma . . .”

“. . . knew how to manage a crew of harvesters and let them go at the end of a season with a smile on their faces . . .”

“Always knew I could trust him . . .”

Mama frowned at Hildemara. “Stop squeezing my arm so tight.”

Hildie apologized and let her go. She couldn’t see Trip among the mourners and wondered if he had already left.

Mama nudged her. “Mr. Endicott is talking to you.”

Heat surged into Hildie’s cheeks and she thanked him for his kind words. She spotted Trip again on the outer edge of the gathering. “Excuse me, Mama. There’s someone I need to speak to, and then I’ll be right back.” She slipped away, letting Cloe take her place.

She wove her way through the throng of people, accepting condolences, trying to keep moving toward Trip. When she finally reached him, she couldn’t speak. She opened her mouth and closed it like a fish drowning in the air.

His eyes glistened with tears. “I’m sorry about your father, Hildemara. I would like to have met him.”

His words reminded her of her sin of omission. She had never once mentioned Trip to Papa. “Thank you for coming.” How had he known about the memorial service? Boots had taken a job in Los Angeles last month.

He seemed to read her mind. “Boots called and told me.”

Hildie glanced back at Mama, afraid Trip might see more in her face than she wanted him to know. She loved him so much, she wanted to cry out at the pain of seeing him again.

“You look tired, Hildie.”

“I am.”
Bone tired. Soul tired.
“So is Mama.”

“Can I meet her?” When Hildie hesitated, his mouth tipped. “Don’t worry. I won’t say anything about us.”

Us.

The crowd thinned enough for them to make their way easily to where Mama stood with Bernie, Elizabeth, Cloe, and Rikka. “Mama, I’d like you to meet a friend from Merritt.” She introduced Trip as Cale Arundel. Trip extended his hand and spoke gently to Mama, holding hers in both of his. Mama thanked him for coming so far and looked at Hildemara, as though for further explanation in why he would.

“Come on, Mama.” Bernie took her hand and drew it through his arm while giving Hildemara a pointed glance. “We should go home.”

Trip touched Hildemara lightly on the arm. “Walk with me to my car?”

“I’ll be right there, Bernie.”

As Trip guided her, his hand slid down her arm and clasped her hand. She slipped free. When they stopped by his car, she raised her head. “It was very kind of you to come so far, Trip.”

“I could drive you home. It would give us a few minutes to talk.”

“I can’t.” Her voice broke.

“Are you coming back?”

“I don’t know.” Tears slipped down her cheeks and she impatiently brushed them away.

After the difficult months of watching Papa die, her emotions were in a state of confusion. She couldn’t go back to Oakland and pick up her life where she had left off. It seemed almost immoral to do such a thing when so many were dying, when Papa had only just been laid in his grave. She couldn’t leave Mama alone. Rikka would be off with Melvin. Cloe would be back in Hollywood, neck-deep in costume design and dating her producer. Bernie and Elizabeth couldn’t do all the work, could they? Someone had to stay and take care of Mama. But that wasn’t all that churned in her mind. The war! Everyone talked about the war. Men died in wars. Better not to love Trip any more than she already did. No one knew what tomorrow might bring.

“No. I don’t think I will. Not now. Mama needs me.” She couldn’t look at him, knowing everything she felt would be written across her face. She saw Mama staring at her from the front seat. “I have to go, Trip.” She stepped back. “Say hello to everyone. Tell them I miss them.”

When she slid into the car, Mama didn’t look at her. She sat, back straight, eyes staring forward in the front passenger seat. Bernie started the car. “Where’s Rikka?”

Cloe was staring at Hildie. “She’s riding home with Melvin.”

Bernie glanced back from the driver’s seat. “Is Cale following us to the house?”

“No.” Before anyone could ask if she had invited him, she went on quickly. “He has a long drive home to Oakland.” She looked out the window, hoping no one would see her tears or mention him again.

“Seemed like a nice guy, what little I could tell from the one minute he was with us.”

“He’s better-looking than most of the actors I’ve met,” Cloe added, not smiling, still staring, a faint frown on her face.

“All the women in the hospital were in love with him.”

“And he came all the way to Murietta—”

“Shut up, Bernie.” It was Cloe who said it.

Mama didn’t utter a sound.

When all the visitors left, Mama went to bed. When Hildie looked in on her later, Mama lay on her back, wide-awake, staring at the ceiling. “Do you want me to sit with you awhile, Mama?”