A Promise to Love (18 page)

Later that night, after the children and Mary were all in bed, Joshua went out to check on their cow that was ready to calf. Ingrid went into the bedroom, closed the door, and quickly changed into her nightgown. This gave her a few stolen minutes to examine Diantha's diary.

She sat on the floor on the far side of the bed and dug Diantha's diary out of the mattress. Beneath the oil light, she closely examined the unfamiliar handwriting. It was slanted so far to the left Ingrid had to cock her head to read it. The words started out with no preamble, nothing except a date and Diantha's stark words.

December 2, 1870

The snow is high. Up to the windowsill. Too much snow for this early in December. Joshua has shoveled a path to the barn for me and suggests that I wrap up in something warm and come out with him for a breath of fresh air.

I don't want to go to the barn. I don't want to breathe frigid air. I want to stay in my bed forever. If it were not for these children, I would not have to stir, but they are greedy little things who demand to be fed. Sometimes I get up and cook just to make them be quiet.

I see Agnes looking at me with critical eyes when she has to fix breakfast for the other girls. I see Joshua trying to wash dishes, doing my work for me, because I no longer care if the dishes get washed or not.

His devotion sickens me. His constant determination to get me out of this “mood,” as he calls it, irritates me. The “winter doldrums,” he says, as though it is a disease that can be cured with the coming of spring.

Perhaps he is right, but it is a long time until spring, and there is yet another baby to birth before then. I don't mind the carrying of the baby—it gives me an excuse to stay in bed. And I don't mind the birthing of the baby—that part is easy for me. But oh, how I hate the thought of taking care of it!

Joshua thinks it strange that I care so little for our children. He has not yet realized that it is foolish to care—that caring only makes things worse when you have to bury them—as Mama did, and as I will probably have to. We did everything we could to save the little ones, Mama and I, and nothing made any difference. Nor did we have any control over the deaths of my two brothers. It bothers Mama so that their graves are not graves—but pretend graves where their bodies should be, instead of where they are, moldering away in some Southern state. I am glad I don't care much for my own. It will make burying them, when the time comes, so much easier. I refuse to be like Mama and spend the rest of my life grieving.

I wish I had never laid eyes on Joshua and his never-ending expectations. I wish I never had to see disappointment in his eyes again. I look back and wonder who that girl was who married him. It certainly was not me. I cannot imagine ever having enough energy to care that much.

It is interesting to me that Mama gave me this diary book for my birthday. She said I could keep track of my children's accomplishments and funny things the little ones say. She says it will help me remember these sweet moments later in life.

I doubt she intended for me to use it as a way to drain the poison out of my brain. Someday, when this book is filled, I will bury it somewhere no one will ever find it—but for now, it is the only place I can say what I want without doing any more damage than I already am.

There was a polite knock on the door.

“Are you decent?” Joshua asked. “I need some clean rags. She's going to have that calf any time now.”

“One little minute,” Ingrid said.

She quickly stuffed the diary back into the straw and opened the door so that Joshua could get whatever it was he needed. She was shocked nearly speechless by what she had just read. What kind of a woman deliberately chose not to love her own children simply out of fear of losing them? What kind of woman, expecting a baby or not, allowed her twelve-year-old daughter to take over the cooking for the family and allowed her husband to take over the household chores when there was nothing physically wrong with her?

Ingrid could not imagine ever wanting to stay in bed all day when there were so many interesting things to do. Diantha could have used some of that beautiful fabric to make clothes for her children. She could have sung to them, played games with them, and enjoyed them. She could have spent time with Joshua, who adored her. The whole thing was incomprehensible, except for one thing she knew for sure: Joshua did not deserve to read these terrible things that his wife had written.

With a heavy heart, she went to find her husband an old towel with which to welcome the little calf when it came.

 17 

December 5th, 1870

The babe is here. A boy. Joshua is ecstatic. The girls are thrilled. My mother—poor, besotted fool—can barely bring herself to lay the baby down.

And I feel nothing.

Joshua wants to name him Bert, after someone he knew in the war. I don't care what he calls it. I just want to be left alone, but the more I want to be left alone, the more everyone seems determined to talk to me. Joshua keeps bringing the baby in to me, wanting me to admire the little fingers and toes, etc.

And I continue to feel nothing. Except sleepy. Sometimes I feel like I could sleep for years. I will have no other children. I am finished. Joshua has his boy now. I will not give birth to one more thing I have to care for.

Ingrid glanced at the clock. Joshua had been gone a long time. The cow must be having a difficult time.

So was she. It hurt to read these terrible things, and yet she could not stop. The diary drew her with an almost sick fascination. It also helped her better understand this family she had taken on. No wonder Agnes had talked and acted like a thirty-year-old woman when Ingrid first came! It also explained why the girls accepted her so quickly, even though she was a stranger and a stepmother. They were starved for a mother who would actually love and take care of them.

March 11th, 1871

I went for a walk in the woods this afternoon. I know Joshua thought it was a good sign. He was thrilled that I had actually gotten dressed and left the cabin. He probably thinks my “mood” has taken a turn for the better. Little does he know that what I really want is to start walking and never stop. It was everything I could do to make myself return to this place. I stayed out until dusk, even though I knew the nighttime predators were already out hunting. I stood at the edge of the woods for a long time, trying to pull myself together enough to go back inside the house.

It appears that I have merely exchanged one obsession for another. Whereas I could hardly make myself leave the cavern of my bedroom this winter, now I can barely force myself to go back inside at all. It made me physically ill to see the lights in the windows and know that people I care nothing for are waiting for me to come in and take care of them. I am so tired—of Joshua, of the children, of the drudgery. Even though I rarely lift my hand anymore, the work is still there, nagging, nagging, nagging, like a bad toothache.

Today, my mother asked what was wrong. She is a timid soul around me these days and afraid of offending, especially now that I am her only living child. It took great courage for her to even ask me such a question.

I told her I thought all I needed was a spring tonic.

She was thrilled with that answer. Within the hour, she had dug and washed the fresh roots of a sassafras tree, steeped the thin orange-colored shavings into a pan of boiling water, and came to me bearing sugar-sweetened sassafras tea—my spring tonic—which will presumably fix me right up. The tea did, at least, taste good. I shall have to remember to pretend to be refreshed and happy the next time she visits.

The real answer to her question is that I know there is something wrong with me, but I don't know what it is. I don't know how to fix it. I know I'm not normal. I know I'm not a good wife or a good mother—but I don't know why.

I've tried to figure out how other women do it—how they manage to find pleasure in their lives, and I think I have finally figured it out. They are too stupid to know any better. They are like cows munching grass while their calves nurse—no thoughts in their heads except for the next mouthful of grass.

I have many thoughts in my head. Too many. Sometimes it almost feels as though there are voices in there too. This is new. These voices-that-are-not-voices call me from the dark woods around our home and tell me that it would be good to start walking and not stop.

I have tried not to obey these voices-that-are-not-voices, but they continue to call. Sometimes that call is louder than others. Sometimes I sit on the porch and strain to hear them. I get annoyed when Joshua talks to me. I would rather listen to the voices. I tried to ignore them at first, but lately, I find them much more compelling.

This is my secret. I have told no one. I know if anyone found out what is inside my brain, they would take me to the insane asylum in Kalamazoo and lock me up. So I am very careful around Joshua, since he is the most likely to realize that there is something wrong with me. He is the one most likely to sniff out my secret.

I force myself to smile and nod and pretend I'm listening to him even though I am not. Joshua sees what he wants to see—the lovely young girl he married. Men are so easy to fool. There is nothing he can say that interests me—but the voices have much to say that interests me . . .

Ingrid slammed the diary shut and stuffed it deep beneath the mattress. She had never read such terrible words in her life. Diantha had not loved Joshua. She had not even loved her own children. She had preferred listening to her pretend voices rather than the sound of her own husband's voice, or her children's. It was obvious the woman was sick in the head—how could Joshua not have seen?

The answer came to her in a sudden flash of understanding. Joshua had not
wanted
to see. He had loved the young Diantha he had fallen in love with so much, he could not accept the reality of the sick woman she had become.

Ingrid did not know what to do with the diary. If she gave it to Joshua, it would break his heart. If one of the children ever read it, it would break theirs. And yet it did not seem right to destroy it.

She walked into the sitting room and listened. There were no sounds coming from the upstairs except Mary's snoring, so the girls were all asleep. Bertie was out for the night in his cradle here beside her bed. She had never seen such a good baby. How much Diantha had missed!

Ingrid wondered if Diantha could not help the way she was, or if she had simply allowed herself to fall into that spiral of self-pity and detachment from everyone around her—until her mind began to play tricks on her.

Joshua was still out in the barn and the whole family was asleep around her. It was a rare opportunity for her to finish reading the cursed diary. She no longer
wanted
to read it, but she knew she
had
to—if only to have enough knowledge to protect her family from these terrible revelations.

She carefully closed the bedroom door behind her yet again, bent over the cradle, and smoothed a wisp of a curl back from little Bertie's forehead. She smiled over the little frown he always wore when he slept, his lips poked out, as though concentrating very hard at sleeping.

With a sigh of resignation, she pulled out the toxic book one more time, sat close to the lamp, and began to read.

March 30th, 1871

I am “that way” again. The signs are unmistakable even though it is early. It is not Joshua's fault. I was the one who turned to him—the voices told me to do so. I do everything the voices tell me these days. It is so much easier to obey them than to fight them.

I do not want this new baby growing within me. I confided my problem to Millicent last week when I drove into town. She is the closest thing to a friend I have, and I told Joshua I wished to go visiting. The man was nearly beside himself with happiness that I was doing something so social, so normal. He readily agreed to watch the children while I was gone. He would not have been so happy had he known what I intended to do. This was no social call. I had heard whispers that there are preparations a woman can use that will take care of this problem. Since she and her husband own the store, I thought Millicent might know how to go about obtaining such a nostrum.

Millicent—it turns out—is a bit of an expert.

She tells me that in these modern times, there are several patented products on the market that are specifically created to “treat” my condition.

To my great relief, she said she had some pills that she would give me. She confided in me that this method is quite safe, and that she has used these pills on several occasions. Millicent worships her figure and chose many years ago to never mar it with bearing a child. She tells me that some women, in order to make it even more effective, drink tansy tea along with the pills. I told her that I know a place where tansy grows.

The label of this box says that it can safely be used by the most delicate of ladies, and since I'm not very far along, I'm not afraid to try it. I'm certain that the makers of these pills wouldn't be allowed to sell their medicine if it could hurt someone.

My only fear is that the medicine won't work, or will only partially work. I want no mistakes. I want to make absolutely certain about this, so tomorrow morning, when I take the medicine, I intend to double the amount. Then I intend to sit with Joshua at breakfast, smiling and drinking my special tea. It is amusing to me that he will have no idea that what I am drinking will help me get this over with as fast as possible.

The diary ended. Ingrid quickly stuffed it back inside her mattress. Then she lay down upon her bed, absorbing the impact of Diantha's words. There was no way she would ever tell anyone about what she had read. Joshua could never know this terrible thing.

Thinking about Joshua made her long to be near him. She got up, put her work clothes back on, wrapped the still-sleeping Bertie in a blanket, and walked to the barn.

When she slipped through the door, Joshua and the poor, laboring cow were illuminated in a circle of lantern light. He didn't realize she was present until she came close enough to step into that circle of light.

His first reaction was concern. “Are the children all right?”

“Everything is fine. Children are good. Baby is good. Mother is good. All good in the house. I cannot sleep, and think, maybe Joshua like company while he wait for calf.”

“I'm afraid this is going to be one long night. This isn't the first time this cow has calved. It always takes her a long time.”

She settled herself on an upturned bucket. It felt good to simply be near him right now. “You want Ingrid talk or be quiet?”

“I've had more than enough quiet tonight. Maybe you could tell me something about your life in Sweden. It seems like we're always working, or the children are interrupting. I know very little about you except that you are the most competent woman I have ever met.”

Ingrid could not have been happier or more surprised by the gift of his compliment than if he had handed her the crown jewels of Sweden. “What thing you want to know?”

“I'd like to hear more about your brother, Hans. I'd like to know about the farm you and he worked. I want to know about your parents—you must have had an extraordinary mother for you to be so wonderful with children.”

“Ja. I have very good mother and father.”

“Agnes told me today that you said she could go play because you were the mother now and she didn't have to be.”

“Agnes too old for her age.”

“She also told me that you act like you love them, even when I'm not around to watch.”

“Agnes say that?”

“She did.” He paused. “It feels disloyal to say this, Ingrid, but you've earned the right to know the truth—you are a better mother to my children than Diantha ever was.”

Ingrid's heart positively sang with those words of praise. “I tell you about mother and father and farm and neighbor who teach me English and Hans and—”

She stopped midsentence. Joshua was listening with a look of amusement on his face while she went on and on.

“I talk too much?” she asked.

“Not one bit. I'm looking forward to hearing all your words, but would you mind bringing out a pot of coffee first? I think this might be a long night.”

She whirled to leave, giddy with all the good things he had said to her. “I go get coffee now. Be right back. Do not go away.”

He chuckled at her enthusiasm. “I won't move an inch.”