The Daughter's Walk - Jane Kirkpatrick [13]
One more good-bye and that was to Ida. Mama saved the hardest for last.
“Come here, daughter.” Ida slouched forward, a scowl marking her face. She’d stuffed her lace piece into her apron pocket. “I know this isn’t what you want,” Mama said. “You are making a great sacrifice, and I will never forget that. You take my place now. Look after the little ones. Make sure Papa has his morning coffee. Read my letters when they come, out loud. You’re a fine reader with good eyes, better than Hedvig’s. Make sure Johnny eats his greens. He doesn’t like them very much, does he?” Ida nodded. The scowl had lessened. “Good. Know that every night I will say prayers for you and every morning your well-being will be the first thing I think about, the first prayer I pray. I love you all so very much.” She hugged Ida, who clung to her. They rocked, with Mama’s chin on Ida’s head.
At that moment, I envied them all hearing Mama’s clear expression of her care for them. I missed the intensity of their good-byes, the assurances she gave of her love, her confidence in their ability to endure the next months. I longed for that assurance. I wanted to fit in with those blond heads lined up, those boys and girls who would have experiences very different from the ones we embarked upon.
After a moment, Mama peeled Ida free, pulled her daughter to her side, then opened her other arm to her flock. They dived toward her.
I stood off, closer to my father than my mother. He said nothing.
“I’m sorry, Papa,” I said, though I wasn’t sure why I apologized. This was none of my doing, none of it.
My father reached over then and thumbed away the tears against my cheek. His tenderness surprised me; he so rarely touched me.
“Keep her safe, Clara,” he said. “Headstrong woman that she is.”
I nodded. I wished he would call me daughter, but he never had, never even introduced me to others as his daughter. I was always just Clara Estby.
“Well,” my mother said, “a handsome crowd you all are. We do this for each other.” Mama seemed to be memorizing their faces, moving from one set of blue eyes to another. “Come along then, Clara.”
Lillian’s lower lip pooched out, and my heart pounded, and I watched as tears pooled in my mother’s eyes and my own ache threatened my composure.
I said, “Let’s all of you walk with us to the field, where we can say good-bye to Olaf.”
“I’ve already—”
“Arthur and Bertha, you set the pace. Everyone else behind. Mama and Papa and I bring up the caboose. Do you have one more piece of lace Ida can save for Olaf?”
“Yes, indeed,” Mama said and cut another piece from what remained. Ida took it with one nod.
They started out then with us following them. My father remained on the porch. “March to the music,” I shouted and began to sing, “A mighty fortress is our God.” The children finished with the second line: “A bulwark never failing.”
“I never thought of that hymn as a marching song,” Mama said. She wiped her eyes with her handkerchief.
“It may become ours,” I said and motioned for us to slip away toward the rails while they sang.
We were abandoning them. That’s how it felt to me, without a piece of Mama’s heart to hold and call my own.
SIX
The First Secret
We walked quickly. I didn’t want the dog to follow or the children to come running after. Still, I couldn’t get our farewell out of my mind. Was it a premonition, this desire to memorize them? Olaf, so handsome and kind. Ida, brittle—no, fragile in her fear. Bertha, happy and giving. Arthur, animal-man with his dog beside him. Johnny, playful. Billy, a lover of music, always tender to another’s sorrow. Lillian, the baby who smiled through everything because she didn’t know there were things that might make her sad.
And my father. His slender frame, sloped shoulders, the pale mustache that twitched beside my cheek as I hugged him even though he didn’t hug me back. I wished I’d told them all those