Her Mother's Hope (40 page)

Part Three

Marta

44

Marta stood in the almond orchard beneath the white blossom canopy, the heady scent of spring in the air. Overhead, bees hummed, gathering nectar and spreading pollen, promising a good crop this year. Petals drifted like snowfall around her, covering the sandy soil, reminding her of Switzerland. It wouldn’t be long before new-growth-green leaves deepened into darker shades and almonds began to form in tiny nubs.

Niclas used to stand in the orchard just as she did now, looking up through the white-clothed branches to blue sky. He had always been thankful to God for the land, the orchard, the vineyard, crediting the Almighty for providing for his family. He’d never taken anything for granted, not even her.

How she missed him! Marta had thought the years would dull the pain of losing him; and in part, they had, just not in a way she wanted. She couldn’t remember every detail of his face, the exact color of his blue eyes. She couldn’t remember the feel of his hands upon her, the abandon when they came together as man and wife. She couldn’t remember the sound of his voice.

She
could
remember clearly those last weeks when Niclas had suffered so much and tried so hard not to show it because he knew she watched in helpless agony, anger boiling against God. As cancer ate away the hard muscle of his body and left him skin and bones, his faith had grown stronger and more unwavering. “God will not abandon you, Marta.” She believed it because she believed Niclas.

Though he hadn’t feared death, he hadn’t wanted to leave her. When she realized his worry, she had told him she had done very well on her own and she didn’t need anyone to take care of her. His eyes had lit with laughter. “Oh, Marta, Marta . . .” When she had wept, he took her hand weakly in his. “You and I are not finished,” he whispered, his last words to her before he fell into a coma. She sat beside him until he stopped breathing.

Niclas had been so vigorous; she expected they would grow old together. The children had grown up and gone out on their own. She thought she and Niclas would have many happy years together, alone at last, with limitless time to talk, time together without interruption. Losing him was hard enough without the awful cruelty of how he died. She had told God in no uncertain terms what she thought of that. A good, God-fearing and God-loving man like Niclas shouldn’t suffer like that. She had come out here and stood in this orchard night after night crying out to God in anger, hurling her questions at Him in fury, pounding the ground in her grief.

She hadn’t stopped with her complaints over losing Niclas, but had moved on to other pent-up grievances: her father’s abuse, her mother’s life of illness, her sister’s suicide. She dredged up every resentment and hurt.

And God had let her purge herself. In His mercy, He didn’t strike her down. Instead, she would feel the whisper of air, the silence, and would feel Him close, leaning in, His presence comforting.

Marta held to Niclas’s promise. How she loved that man still. And they would be together again, not because of anything she or Niclas had done in this life to make it so, but because Jesus held them both in the palm of His mighty hand. They were both in Christ and always would be, though she had to endure this physical separation for however long God decided. The Lord had already set the day of her death, and she sensed it would be a long time in coming.

After those first painful weeks following Niclas’s death, when she’d finally drained herself dry, she began to see God all around her. Her eyes opened to the beauty of this place, the tenderness of her family and friends who still offered aid and comfort, Hitch and Donna Martin, who shouldered the work. She took long drives to think and talked easily to the Lord while she did. She apologized for her unruly behavior and repented of it. While she had ranted, God had bestowed grace upon her. He had watched over, protected, and cared for her when she was at her worst.

She laughed now, knowing how surprised and pleased Niclas would be if he could see the change in her. She didn’t just pray over meals; she prayed all the time. When she opened her eyes in the morning, she asked God to take hold of her day and lead her through it. When she closed them at night, she thanked Him. And in between, she constantly sought His guidance.

Even so, loneliness sometimes snuck up on her as it had today, catching her by the throat, making her heart flutter with an odd sense of panic. She had never been one to cling or depend solely on her husband, but he had become integral to her existence. Niclas now stood in heaven, and she remained captive on this earth. Jesus was with her, but she couldn’t see Him; she couldn’t touch Him. Never one for hugs and kisses from anyone but Niclas, she missed human touch.

Why this restlessness inside her? Was she floundering or simply at a crossroads?

She missed so many things, like watching her children or the Summer Bedlam boys hunting for doodlebugs and horned toads or crossing the barnyard on stilts.

She missed the sound of their laughter and shrieks when they played tag or had one of their moonlight snipe hunts. Only the humming of bees filled the silence now. The air, cool and refreshing, stood still.

Marta admonished herself. She had no patience for self-pity in others. She despised it in herself. She had started her journey alone, hadn’t she?

“Look at the birds,
Liebling
. An eagle flies alone,”
Mama had told her so many years ago. All right. Life wasn’t fair. So what? Life was difficult. It didn’t mean she had to become a grumbling old woman dragging her feet all day. She would mount up with wings as an eagle. She would run and not grow weary; she would walk and not faint. She would fly alone and trust God to keep her spirit airborne. Consider it all joy.

She had plenty of blessings to count. Her children had grown strong and flown off to build their own nests and families. Bernhard and Elizabeth’s nursery in Sacramento was doing well. Movie companies pursued Clotilde for her expertise in costume design. Rikka, dreamy and lovely as ever, still had Melvin dangling. How long before that poor young man realized Rikka loved art more than any man?

Only Hildemara still troubled her. Marta had no peace about Hildemara. Her eldest daughter hadn’t looked well the last time Marta saw her. And how many months ago had that been? Of course, everything could have changed for the better by now. Of the four, Hildemara shared the least about her life. She kept a distance. Or did Marta just imagine that?

She missed Hildemara terribly, but if her daughter wanted to keep a distance, so be it. Marta wouldn’t poke her nose in where it wasn’t wanted. At least Hildemara knew how to take care of herself, especially if she’d learned keeping up a house wasn’t as important as taking care of her health.

Shaking her head, Marta chuckled, remembering how Hildemara had come home from nursing school and spent her vacation scouring and scrubbing everything in sight—floors, walls, counters, shelves. She’d been obsessed with ridding the farmhouse of germs, as if that were possible. Marta had been insulted at the time, annoyed past enduring.

Her mind often went back to the day Hildemara had left home. Marta had pushed her hard that day. She’d hurt her girl and made her good and angry. Hildemara had never done anything easily, and stirring her anger had served Marta well in motivating the girl. If she got Hildemara mad enough, her daughter forgot her fear. But now she wondered if the anger lingered, even after the blessings became apparent. She hoped that wasn’t true.

Hadn’t anger had its way with her as well? Would she have left Steffisburg if she hadn’t been raging mad at her father? Or had it been pride?

Her girl had been a godsend during Niclas’s illness. Hildemara had proven her great worth during those last difficult months. She’d been knowledgeable, efficient, overflowing with compassion. She hadn’t allowed her emotions to rule. She had been like the balm of Gilead in the house. Once or twice, she had stood up to Marta as she guarded her patient. It couldn’t have been easy on Hildemara to watch her papa die. Marta was proud of her.

It had been in the weeks that followed Niclas’s death that Marta had recognized the growing threat to both her and her daughter. Hildemara had remained to keep her company, to serve, and Marta had drawn comfort from it. She had become used to Hildemara doing for her. God had opened her eyes to it, and she’d been furious. Marta, who had sworn never to become a servant, was making her daughter into one. Her conscience rubbed her raw. Mama had set her free. Would she now cage Hildemara? What did an able-bodied woman need with a nurse? Mortified, she saw how Hildemara cooked and cleaned and fetched and carried. Only the constant activity and search for new things to do revealed the inner turmoil inside her girl. And it had come to Marta like a blow.

Hildemara doesn’t belong here! Cut her loose!

The more Marta considered the truth of it, the angrier she’d become—at herself, more than Hildemara. It shamed her now to remember how long it had taken to do what was right. She had pushed Hildemara right out the door. It broke her heart, but a good mother teaches her children to fly.

Some, like her sister, Elise, never even spread their wings. Others, like Hildemara, had to be shoved to the edge before they’d take wing. Marta regretted pressing her daughter so hard, but if she hadn’t, where would they be now? She, sitting like the queen of Sheba in her rocker, reading for the pure pleasure of it while Hildemara worked her fingers to the bone on that wretched rag rug? God forbid!

If only she’d been able to send Hildemara off in Mama’s gentle way, with words of blessing rather than a lie:
“I don’t want you here.”

Marta had often been amazed at the differences between herself and her eldest daughter. Marta had set her mind long ago against ever being anyone’s servant. Hildemara made a career of it. Serving others seemed to come naturally to her. Marta had dreaded being pulled home again by Mama’s illness and Elise’s dependency. Hildemara had come willingly, pouring her heart into caring for her papa—and mama, as it turned out.

Marta’s father had clipped her mother’s wings and caged her. He’d worked Mama until her health gave out. Had he the opportunity, he would have done the same to Marta. Mama knew it as well as Marta. Marta had fretted constantly, her conscience plaguing her. How could she leave Mama, ill as she was, and go after her dream? How dare she take her freedom at the cost to others she loved so dearly! Mama had understood the guilt that imprisoned Marta and lifted it.

“You have my blessing, Marta. I give it to you wholeheartedly and without reservation.”

So many years had passed and Marta held fast to those words.

“You have my love.”

Words had power. Papa’s crushed. Mama’s lifted and sent her out free to find her way in the world. Perhaps, had Mama known how far from home Marta would go, she might’ve had second thoughts. Perhaps that had been an added reason for holding Elise so close, inadvertently clipping her wings and making her unable to fly.

Marta had so often been tempted to hold Hildemara as close. Sickly from birth, a tiny, homely baby prone to sickness, Hildemara Rose had torn at Marta’s heartstrings. She had wanted to protect and shower love on her girl. What a tragic waste if she’d given in and done it! No, Marta told herself firmly, she would’ve crippled her. She had done the right thing in stifling those yearnings.

Bernhard, Clotilde, and Rikka had all been born with an independent spirit. Hildemara Rose came into the world dependent. If it were left up to her, Hildemara might still be here, working for Mama, forgetting she had a life of her own to live. Marta hadn’t been willing to wait and watch the years pass, or to see an old pattern be reborn. Mama had done the right thing by her, but the wrong thing for Elise. Marta couldn’t allow herself to make the same mistake with Hildemara Rose.

Why was the girl so much on her mind lately? Why couldn’t she find any peace about her?

It was time to stop second-guessing whether she had done things right or not. She had done her best by all her children. She had other decisions to make. She had her own life to consider.

As much as she had come to love the orchard and vineyard, this ranch had been Niclas’s dream, not hers. She felt restless here. What of her plans set aside so long ago? Was she past the age where she could go back and pursue them? Or had they been too big? She’d wanted to own a hotel. She couldn’t care less about that now, but what about getting an education? She sniffed, imagining what people would say if a woman her age showed up for a college lecture. Then again, why should she care what anyone thought about it? Had she ever cared what others said?

Would she be allowed in without a high school diploma? They would undoubtedly want to test her. Let them. She knew more than any eighteen-year-old she had met in a dozen years. Hadn’t she read and reread her children’s textbooks while they slept?

Maybe she was just being an old fool. Did having a high school diploma matter anymore? She should just get over not having one and be done with it. She could keep going down the shelves in the library, reading one book after another, until she lost her eyesight or dropped dead.

Self-pity again.
Lord, don’t let me get into that disgusting habit. And while we’re about it, God, I don’t know what to do. But it seems an unholy waste of time to stay here and go on as I am. I pay the Martins a fair wage and have more than enough to get by, but I feel . . . What? What do I feel? I don’t even know anymore, what I want, why I’m still breathing air. Everything used to be so fixed in my mind.

Hildemara.

Her mind’s eye saw her daughter again. What about her? There was unfinished business between them, but Marta didn’t know what to do about it. She wasn’t even sure what it was, and she had no intention of apologizing for being hard on her when that hardness had been necessary.

What about Hildemara, Lord? What’re You trying to tell me? Just spell it out!

“Mrs. Waltert!” Hitch Martin came striding toward her. Niclas had been right about the Okie being a hard, dependable worker. Hitch kept up the place the way Niclas would have wanted, and Marta didn’t mind paying him wages above the going rate. “Donna and me was going to town for supplies and wondered if you’d be needing anything.”