Glamorous Illusions (2 page)

CHAPTER 2

~Cora~

In a stupor, I ran to unhitch Sugarbeet, then hurried her back into the barn to throw my old saddle over her back. I glanced at Papa again and, with shaking hands, reached under Sugarbeet's belly for the strap, then cinched it tight. I mounted and trotted past my dazed neighbor, who was frowning up at me in confusion. “Going for the doctor!” I shouted. “Papa's in trouble. Will you stay with them?”

Mouth agape, Mr. Miller nodded once, and I was off.

I made it to town in a quarter of the time it had taken Mr. Miller to travel the same road home, and Doc Jameson followed behind me on the way back, coming at a good clip in his smart buggy. By the time he reached us, Mama and I'd managed to get Papa on top of a blanket. And once Doc Jameson gave us a nod of approval, together we moved him into the house.

We were fortunate that Papa was a slight man, nothing but lean muscle and bone. I'd met his height before I was thirteen and outgrew him by a couple of inches by the time I'd turned fourteen. “You grow as fast as the weeds in my fields,” he'd teased me. But he also encouraged me to stand straight. “Never stoop, Cora. Nothing finer than a woman as lovely and straight as you, with her head held high. My own Lady Liberty,” he called me. “My elegant girl.”

Please don't let him die, Lord. Please. Please, please, please
, I prayed, as I'd been praying ever since I left the barn to fetch the doctor.

We set Papa on the sagging bed—the same bed he and Mama had bought when they arrived here nineteen years ago. Our house wasn't much, and it felt smaller than I remembered. But it was as tidy as ever, and I found the sameness of it comforting.

Mama sat beside Papa, holding his hand, as Doc Jameson continued his examination. Mr. Miller went to the front window, gazing out with a sober expression on his face, worrying a handkerchief in his hands. And I stood in the corner, watching the doctor's expressions as he listened to my father's heartbeat through his stethoscope and then timed his pulse by pinching his wrist and keeping track on a pocket watch. Papa seemed to be sleeping now, his face relaxing and seeming even more lopsided than it had been when I first arrived.

Doc Jameson looked up at Mama and then over at me. His brows lowered. “Best take a seat, Cora. You look as white as a new snow. Don't want you keeling over in a faint.”

I obediently sank beside Mama on the bed.
Tell us
, I urged him silently as he seemed to gather his thoughts.
Out with it.

“Alan's had a stroke,” Doc said with a grimace. “Now, I can give him some medicine, but mostly we simply have to wait it out to see how much he'll recover. Some folks make a full recovery, go on to live out a long, full life. Others are partially incapacitated. And still others suffer another stroke that takes them.”

I frowned. I couldn't imagine my papa, so strong, so virile, now so incapacitated. I looked from his slack face to his wet pants, then away, embarrassed for him.

Being stuck in bed or a chair would kill him, even if another stroke
didn't
come hunting him. He loved to work hard, day in, day out. With the animals. In the fields. Numbly, I stared at the kitchen table, where we'd shared so many good meals, laughing and talking. I could picture him there, at the head, his eyes crinkled up as he smiled, a big gap between his teeth. The way he pounded the table when he laughed…

Doc Jameson rose, went to the sink, lifted the water pump lever once, and then let the meager trickle partially fill a cup. Then he poured some powder from an envelope into it, swished it around, and moved back to Papa's bedside. “Help me get him up, Alma,” he said to Mama.

She did as he asked, but she'd said nothing since I'd returned. Only stared with wide, frightened eyes, her thin fingers to her lips, and moved like a wooden puppet, pushing through one task and then the next.

They managed to pour the mixture down Papa's throat, raising him and thumping on his chest when he choked, coughed, let it dribble down his chin and neck. I wondered how much of the medicine reached his gut. But Doc Jameson seemed unperturbed. Maybe he had figured that a certain amount would be lost and had accommodated for that in what he'd measured. Or maybe giving him medicine at all was a stage act, designed to give me and Mama a measure of peace.
Please, Lord. Please, please, please—

“Cora,” Doc said, gesturing me toward the kitchen. I'd known the man all my life, just as I did nearly everyone else in town. Doc had been in this house the day I was born, had delivered me into the world. He wrapped his arm around my shoulders as we walked to the window, and his touch felt like a comforting uncle's. Mr. Miller had left, mumbling something about “informing the pastor—back tomorrow.” Even now, his wagon was turning left out of the lane, making the journey back to town behind the old horse that was more than ready to be put out to pasture. But bless Mr. Miller's soul, he was trying to help. Trying to do something for us.

“Cora, I'm glad you're home,” Doc said in a whisper, glancing past me, back to my mother. “This has been quite a shock for Alma.”

I nodded.

“You need to be strong for her, Cora. She'll need you now more than ever.”

I glanced up at him. “But Papa…”

The hope died in me as Doc slowly shook his head, his eyes full of pain and sorrow. “I can only do so much for him, Cora,” he whispered, glancing over my shoulder toward Mama.

I wanted to sink to the wooden floor and weep. I had trouble breathing.

“But he's only forty-eight,” I gasped out. Plenty of men died young, but not men as strong and virile as my papa.

Doc simply stared back at me with his gray eyes, waiting me out, his lips clamped in a sad line, his eyebrows peaked in the center.

“How long?” I managed.

“A day. Maybe two,” he whispered back.

“Why not tell her?” I asked, finding breath in my fury. Grasping for strength.

“Because she needs to hope. Every family needs hope. And every family needs someone prepared to cope if the worst happens. I'm sorry, Cora,” he said, dropping his arm from my shoulders and turning to face me. “But you have to be that one. I hate to burden you so. But you're a woman grown now—”

“Yes,” I admitted, suddenly wishing I was eight again. “Yes. Fine. I understand. So we are to simply…wait?”

He took a deep breath and straightened. “I'll return in the morning. If he survives the night…who knows?” He offered a tentative smile.

I took a breath. “So we need only get him through the night.”

He shook his head slowly, caution in his eyes. “It's often a mercy if the Lord chooses to take them sooner than later.”

“How can you say that?” I said, my voice rising, sounding foreign, strangled. I turned toward him. “Get out. Get out!”

He stared at me as if I'd gone mad. “Now, Cora,” he said, glancing toward Mama with concern, waving his hands in an effort to settle me.

I opened the door. “My father is going to make it through the night,” I said. “Come tomorrow and see for yourself.”

He licked his lips and then reached for his hat, tucking it atop his silver hair. He gave me a long, compassionate look. “I'm sorry, Cora.”

I inhaled a stuttering breath, trying to calm myself. “Thank you kindly for coming to see to my papa, Doctor.”

He turned and walked out. I quietly shut the door behind him, resting my head against it. I felt the wave of strength leave me as soon as he was gone, leaving me feeling weak-kneed and empty.
Please, Lord. Please, please, please…

“Cora,” Mama said softly. “What did he tell you?”

I turned toward her, holding the cool metal knob of the front door behind me as if it would hold me upright. “We need to pray especially hard for Papa tonight, Mama. If we can get him through the night…” My voice cracked, and I brought my hand around my belly, the other to my mouth. Then I swallowed back the lump in my throat and stood straight. I forced a small smile to my face. “When we see the sun, he'll be through the worst of it.”

She knew I was lying. At least in part. That I was protecting her. But she didn't seem to have the strength to do anything but cling to hope. Just as Doc Jameson had predicted.

CHAPTER 3

~Cora~

I paced the floor all through the night. Mama fell asleep after midnight, curled up beside Papa, who was cleaned up and in his pajamas. Over and over she started awake, half rose, and placed a shaking finger beneath his nose, making sure he was still breathing. When I couldn't bear to watch the scene unfold any longer, I quietly pulled the drapes around their bed, sealing off their room from the rest of the house.

I begged God. For Papa's life. For a few more days. For a chance to say good-bye. I chafed at the memory of Papa grasping the last dime from his coin purse and handing it to me for the train ride to school. It'd taken everything they had to send me to the Normal School in Dillon. They'd gone without, scraped by…

Was it my fault, this? I glanced toward the threadbare curtain as doubt and fear assailed me.
Am I to blame for his stroke, Lord? Make me suffer, then. Take it out on me! Not him, Lord, not him.

In the early morning hours, I stood in front of the east-facing window, taking heart as a faint golden glow appeared on the horizon. I again padded over to my parents' room and edged the curtain aside, watching until I saw the shallow rise and fall of my father's chest.
He's alive. He made it through the night!
Then I returned to the window, shivering in the morning cool but warming with hope as the sunrise spread a deep pink across the land.

It was then I noted the scrawny, withered stalks of the winter wheat, stunted and struggling in the dry, lumpy furrows. It should have been harvested weeks ago. Not that it mattered. I'd seen good crops, and I'd seen bad. This was one of the worst.

Concentrate on Papa, Cora
, I told myself, my eyes returning to the sunrise.
We can cope with the crops later.
But could we? I knew my parents had borrowed against the farm to send me to school. What if this crop failed? And how would Papa bring it in?
I'll bring it in. If I have to handpick every measly grain head myself. I will not let them down.

“Cora!” Mama cried.

I turned and stared at the curtain, my chest filling with dread again. I glanced to the sun, which was just peeking over the horizon, too bright now to stare at directly.
Please, Lord…

“Cora!”

“Coming, Mama,” I managed. I forced myself to walk across the small space between us and edged through the gap in the curtain…

And found my papa sitting up and smiling. It was a lopsided smile, one side of his face desperately sagging, but truly, it was the prettiest sight I'd ever seen.

“Papa!” I cried, rushing to him. He laughed softly and wrapped an arm around my shoulders.

“Cora, honey,” he said, his words slurred.

Mama wiped tears from her face. “It's a miracle,” she said, shaking her head. “A miracle.”

We sat there together for a long while, crying.
Thank You, Lord. Thank You, thank You, thank You…

Shortly thereafter, the women of First Lutheran began to arrive. Mr. Miller had succeeded in spreading the word of our situation around the church. I went outside to greet them, wanting Papa to rest, knowing they'd be full of questions and nervous conversation. When Mrs. Ramstad heard he'd made it through the night, she got all teary and fanned her face, even in the chill of morning. “Thank You, Lord,” she said. “My, my.” She handed me a basket of fresh-baked rolls. Mrs. Humphrey brought an egg casserole, patting my hand and telling me to eat “lots of it, honey, because goodness knows, you're thin as a rail.” Mrs. Kessler brought bread, hugging me so tightly to her ample bosom, I thought I'd suffocate. Mrs. Reinbarger brought a roast and potatoes, seasoned and “ready for the oven by three.”

All promised that their men were coming by to see to our farm as soon as chores were done on their own, and they made me promise to give their love to my mama, who wouldn't leave Papa's side for even a moment, and to send for them if I needed a thing. I was saying good-bye to Mrs. Reinbarger when Lorrie rode up the lane, astride a horse, next to Doc Jameson's buggy.

Lorrie politely waited for the doctor to tie up his reins and approach the porch before he came up. Doc's eyes met mine. “He made it?” he whispered.

I grinned. “He's sitting up!” I crowed, wanting him to feel guilty for his gloomy warnings the night before.

His gray eyes widened, and he shook his head in wonder. “I always knew your father was one of the toughest men this side of the Rockies,” he said. “May I?” He gestured toward the door.

“Please,” I said, waving him in. I turned back to Lorrie, who'd paused halfway up the stairs, hat in hand. He was wiry and strong, about my height, with an unruly shock of Swedish-blond hair.

“Cora, welcome home,” he said. “Not quite what you expected.” He lifted his hat toward the house. “Good news, though,” he finished awkwardly.

“The best,” I said, unable to do anything but smile. “Evidence that God can see us through the darkest of nights.”

“Uh, yes.” He glanced nervously over his shoulder, toward the barn. “Can I see to your chores? I imagine your cow is in need of a milking.”

I frowned, ashamed that I was just now hearing her bellowing from the barn. “Oh! Yes, yes. Please. That would be so helpful. And give the horses some fresh water and hay?”

“Done.” He turned and walked down the few steps as I pivoted to head inside.

“Thank you, Lorrie,” I said over my shoulder.

“Not at all,” he mumbled, and rushed off across the yard. I stared after him. He really was a good man, a good neighbor. And even if I couldn't return his feelings—if he indeed had an interest in me—I was thankful he'd come to help.

The days passed, and Papa rapidly regained his strength, confounding Doc Jameson and frustrating Mama's efforts to keep him at rest. He'd insisted, since that first day, on getting himself to the outhouse, using only a borrowed cane and dragging his left foot along. After a week, he turned Lorrie back before he was even off his horse, insisting we could see to the animals and farm on our own. It tore Mama and me up inside to see him stubbornly carrying on even as his body fought him. Helpless, we could do nothing but pray for the best, for God to finish His healing work in him.

Papa leaned hard on me, and I had willingly picked up the milking, the mucking of stalls, the feeding. Now, sweat poured down my face and back as I pumped water into an irrigation ditch, desperately trying to save at least one portion of Papa's winter wheat from drying up in the relentless wind.

I wondered how this would end. If Papa would ever be well enough to manage the farm on his own. I paused, panting, and straightened, feeling every aching muscle in my back as I shielded my eyes to see what he was up to. He was in the far corner of the field, hoeing, hacking away at weeds that stole precious nutrients and moisture from the soil—from those stalks of wheat that hadn't been sliced down by the wind and dry soil.

I bent and studied a stray stalk near the water pump, a seed that had been cast too far to stand a chance in the nearest furrow but still stubbornly soldiered on, struggling to live, though the elements had cut away all of its leaves. I fingered the perilously thin head. Those in the field were faring little better. How many bushels would we salvage if we managed to even get a harvest?

I'd seen Papa staring out at the skies with worried eyes each afternoon. Hoping clouds encircling the mountain peaks would edge our way. His concern over the weather wasn't anything new, really. But there was a new weariness behind the eyes, a downturn around his mouth, beyond the effects of the stroke. Did he not have the money set aside to seed another crop? Should we not be plowing, getting ready for the spring wheat in the other fields, as late as it was to plant it?

The rusty old water pump seemed to mock me. Every lift and press was a chore, the resulting squeal like laughter. It came to me then. What was niggling at me, down low in my heart. I was fretting about my future. Wondering how Mama and Papa would do without me when it came time for me to return to school. Wondering how we'd be able to afford it at all if the crops failed…

Selfish, Cora Diehl. You're being selfish. The Lord has given you the day. This day. With your papa alive—alive! And not only alive—up out of his bed. Moving and working. All that you prayed for.
I shook my head, ashamed of myself.
Forgive me, Lord. I am thankful. I am.

I bent and grabbed hold of the pump handle, trying to find gratitude in my heart for the miserly spurts of water that emerged from its mouth, filling the trough that slowly flowed outward. It was hopeless, really. Could I water more than forty yards this way? I'd been pumping for a full hour, and the stream had yet to meet the end of the irrigation ditch and begin to spread—that hungry first channel sapping away every drop. So I went inside to get a bucket, deciding that delivering the needed liquid to the farther rows by hand would at least give them a chance at survival. I knew it made Papa feel better. Doing all I could.

I settled into a rhythm in the task, praying in time with each pull and push, then walking the sloshing bucket to the next section.
Make a way, Lord. Make a way for this water to sustain this field. And Lord? You know my heart. Learning, Lord. Teaching. I want to teach so badly… Please. Make a way. Make a way for us all. Make a way for this miserable wheat. Coax it back to life. Amen.