A Dream to Follow (37 page)

His stomach rumbled. He’d run out of food except for some cheese, and he hated spending his money on the outrageously priced sandwiches he’d seen. And a cup of coffee? He’d chosen to drink water from the cooler on the train, which tasted terrible.

“Northfield. All bound for Northfield.”

As the train screeched and hissed to a stop, Thorliff tucked his book back into his bag and shrugged into his jacket.

How could Blessing and home seem so far away? Sure, he’d ridden miles of track, but it wasn’t another world, was it? Once he’d seen a telescope that, when you looked in one end, brought distant things up close. Then he’d looked in the other end. That’s the way he felt now, small and almost invisible.

He swung his carpetbag to the brick walk and looked down the train to see men unloading trunks, boxes, and crates. Surely his was among those. He looked out to the street where wagons were lined up, and sure enough, two of them had “St. Olaf College” lettered on the side. Several other young people looked as lost as he felt there at the train station, while others were being greeted by people they knew.

He headed for one of the St. Olaf wagons. At least he was doing something besides standing there feeling that he was the least member on earth.

“Sir, my name is Thorliff Bjorklund, and I am starting school at St. Olaf. Is your wagon available to carry my trunk?”

“Of course, young fellow, and you too.” The driver swung to the ground. “Let’s go get your luggage. How much do you have?”

“This”—Thorliff lifted his carpetbag—“and one trunk.”

“You don’t have that trunk plumb full of books, now, do you?”

“No, sir.”
I don’t even own that many books
.

“Good. They do weight up.” The man barely came to Thorliff ’s shoulder, yet had even broader shoulders and a head that seemed to sit right on them. Legs bowed as if he rode a barrel instead of a wagon seat, he still set a pace that made Thorliff stretch out. When Thorliff pointed to his trunk that was lined up with the others, the man grabbed the leather handle and half hoisted it to his shoulder.

“Let me get the other end.”
My goodness, he’s strong as a draft horse
. Together they hauled the trunk to the wagon and slid it in the back.

A young woman with a quivering chin waited by the curb. “Could I please ask you to fetch my things also, if this is indeed a conveyance to St. Olaf?”

“It is, miss.” Mr. Muscles tipped his hat. “Come on, young feller, perhaps you can help me again.” They hauled two trunks and a wooden box back to the wagon in as many trips. “The ladies always bring twice as much as the gents,” Muscles whispered to Thorliff as they shoved the last box in.

“Really.” He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand.

“Anyone else here need a ride to St. Olaf?” When no one answered, Muscles helped the young woman up onto the wagon seat. “You’ll have to ride in the back there, young feller.”

“Good.” Thorliff slammed the endgate shut and climbed over the back to sit on the wooden box.

That night, having registered, paid his money, been assigned a room, and found the dining room, Thorliff sat in his dormitory room gazing at the empty bed across from his. His roommate would be arriving on the morrow. But this night he felt more alone than ever in his life. He could hear others laughing down the hallway, and two were talking in the next room. He’d already put away his things and made his bed, so all that remained was to read his Bible and write a letter home. Two letters, to be exact.

He glanced up at the gas lamp that shed more light than three kerosene lamps. How could he afford to stay here and still have enough money to last the year? Surely there were places in town that were less expensive. Perhaps he could find one where he could exchange work for his bed and board. Or maybe he could stay with a farmer nearby. He’d seen plenty of cows that would need to be milked.

“But, Thorliff, I want you to have time to study and not work all the time.”
He could hear his mother’s voice plain as if she were in the room. This seemed to be a night for sighing. He flopped back on his bed and locked his hands behind his head. Someone overhead was moving furniture.
Lord, how will I stand this? I know you said you would be with me. Why, then, do I feel so alone?

Quit feeling sorry for yourself, you big lug
. He swung his feet back to the floor and rose to cross to the desk. Sitting down, he took out a sheet of paper and an ink bottle.

Dear Far and Mor,

You would love it here. The view from this hill is amazing. I haven’t seen such a high place since we left Norway. My room and all the buildings have gaslights like we saw in Minneapolis that time we went there. Of course they have gaslights in Grand Forks too, but here I can see my paper nearly as well as in the daylight.

My train trip was uneventful, but I didn’t read much. I was too busy watching the scenery. There are more hills and trees here, and the town is huge.

He chewed on the end of the pen. How to separate the things he was feeling from the things he would put on the paper? He went on to describe his room and the dining hall.

Tomorrow I will go look for my classrooms and perhaps meet the teachers. I haven’t met many students yet. There is a meeting tomorrow for those of us just arriving. That is all for now. Thank you for giving me this opportunity. I promise to do my best. Give my love to everyone.

Your faithful son,
Thorlif

Without reading it over, he blew on the last words, folded the paper, and slid it into an envelope. He said much the same to Anji, only asking her how things were at her home and if they’d thought any more about getting someone in to help. He signed it, “Yours faithfully, Thorliff.”

After addressing the envelopes, he set them against the wall, then undressed and hung his clothes on the pegs provided. He took his Bible to bed with him and, head propped on one hand, turned to Psalms and Proverbs, where he read a chapter in each. He understood how King David felt. Sometimes it seemed that God had closed the door and left him alone.

CHAPTER THIRTY-Two

St. Olaf Colleg

One week at college and Elizabeth already felt as though she’d never had a summer vacation.

She sat in the St. Olaf library with her advanced chemistry book open in front of her. For some reason she was having trouble concentrating.
Just read it again and again until you understand it,
she ordered herself. Instead, her gaze strayed to the young man sitting across the table and down a chair.

When he looked up and met her glance, she caught her breath. He had the most incredible blue eyes she’d ever seen. Deep clear blue like the sky straight above on a perfect summer day just before the sun breaks the horizon. She smiled and nodded. He did the same and returned to his book.

Hmm. Was he shy?
She was sure he was a freshman. She’d never seen him before, and he looked too young to be an upperclassman. She forced herself back to chemistry. When she looked up again, he was gone.

Her curiosity made her shake her head at herself. What was there about him, besides the eyes, that held her attention? She catalogued his face from memory. Handsome in a way, square jaw, straight nose, would most likely fill out more. He was thin now but wore an air of strength. So what was it?

She glanced out the window to see the sun setting. Time to get on home. Her mother hated her walking home after dark. She slid her books into her satchel and smiled at the librarian as she passed. Halfway down the stairs, she stopped.

“I know. It’s the sadness.” Someone bumped into her from behind and gave her a strange look as he passed her. “Sorry. Talking to myself again.” It was him, the one with the blue eyes, the sad eyes. She watched him clatter down the stairs ahead of her.

She inhaled the fragrance of fresh wax, disinfectant, and books. A library had a smell all its own, and she loved it. If she weren’t going to be a doctor or a concert pianist, then she would study to be a librarian. There were many worse friends in life than books, although her mother would tend to disagree with her. Annabelle Rogers would rather do needlepoint or some other needlework than read any day.

Strange, here she was thinking about her mother in the library, of all places. She pushed the heavy door open and stepped outside to breathe in the dying day. Leaves had already begun to fall, due to the drought. Someone was burning them somewhere. The trace of leaf smoke could not be confused with anything else. It was one of the hallmark scents of fall, her favorite season, other than spring of course. She waved to an acquaintance and headed for the path leading down the hill, the path taken by most of the townees. While she walked, she reviewed the bones and cartilage of the knee, then the ankle. While her anatomy professor admitted to being uncomfortable with women in his class, he expected even more out of them than the men. Right now they were reviewing bones, but the part she was looking forward to was the study of the vascular system and then the nervous system. Life would be so much easier if she could take all of her courses at St. Olaf instead of going to Carleton for her sciences.

How intricate we are
. She’d been impressed with the fetal pig she’d dissected the year before, but the human body was so much more exciting. She’d assisted Dr. Gaskin when he had operated on a badly broken hand, putting bits of bone back in place like a jigsaw puzzle.

“It will all grow back,” he had assured her. “And since the tendons aren’t severed, he will most likely have full use of his hand.”

“If we can keep the infection out.”

“Right. And thanks to carbolic acid, we have a good chance of that. You have to remember to boil your instruments and scrub your hands in carbolic acid also. Much has been learned about putrefaction since the war. And while years ago we might have amputated his hand, now we will pray for perfect healing instead. The human body has been given remarkable abilities to heal itself. That is why the first rule of a physician is—”

“To do no harm.” She finished suturing and bandaging the hand under his watchful eye. Once the chloroform cone was removed, their patient began to stir within minutes. His nurse stuck her head in the door. “Patient in room two is getting impatient.”

Dr. Gaskin exchanged smiles with Elizabeth. “Thank you, my dear. I will be on my rounds, or Nurse will be flailing me about the head and shoulders with excess verbiage.”

Elizabeth shook her head. “You know you love it. You’re looking better than I’ve seen you in some time.”

“Oh, pshaw.” But the light in his eyes told her he knew and appreciated her concern.

Now forcing her wandering mind to match her feet and go forward once she reached the bottom of the hill and came out from under the trees, Elizabeth set a brisk pace for home. She’d promised her father some time at the paper tonight.