Mara (20 page)

‘I’m staying here.’

Again I met her eyes, this time to really see her. And in her eyes I saw more than just the here and now. I also saw how she had put me at ease on that day when she came to collect me at the station. I relived the fear I felt when she handed me the letter that day and allowed me time to read it on my own, undisturbed. I remembered her warm bosom comforting me that day.

She stretched her hand out to me and I, unsure still, let mine fall into hers. All of a sudden I remembered that there had been another time when she had held my hand, even though it had not been her name that I had called out. She had been the one who had stayed by my side through all my pain, she had sat by my bedside and cared for me. Auntie was the one who had never spoken a reproachful word. Again and again I had experienced her patience, seen her smile and every now and then heard her words of wisdom.

I stood up and made a small step in her direction. Could I dare hope that she would hold me again? Was there a small chance that I had not alienated myself from her forever with my hateful behavior?

Another step. She pushed back her chair. She stood up, and I made one last step.

‘I would like to stay, if that’s all right with you.’

‘I would love that, Maria.’

‘Even now?’

‘Yes.’

Her simple and short reply convinced me and I crossed the last few inches, flung my arms around her waist and pressed my face into her shoulder. We stood like that, free from time’s restrictions, like a mother and daughter.

‘You bring me such happiness, Maria.’

‘I’ll write them,’ I promised her.

‘They won’t allow you to stay.’

‘Yes, they will.’ My calm assurance seemed to convince her at least of the fact that I could try. But I was quite sure that there wouldn’t be any problems. My letter would be absolutely clear. The Reverend would have no choice but to accept when I laid out the choices to him. How he was going to inform my mother of my decision was his problem. I couldn’t care less. The only thing I knew for sure and without a doubt, was that I wanted to stay here with Auntie. Here on the farm, with her, I was at home. Home, as much as I could ever be at home anywhere.

21

W
hich way should I go? Is there a way, an option? They wrote that they will come here soon. But when will that be? Do I have a month to prepare myself for their arrival, or a week, or a day? Not knowing is making wearing me out and each new day begins with worries and ends in sleeplessness. I am trying to be strong, and ready for the confrontation.

Auntie is looking forward to seeing her sister again, but she doesn’t know that the woman she knows as Anna no longer exists. Whenever she speaks about her sister, it’s as if she is talking about a stranger, someone I may have known a long time ago but have long lost touch with. Is it really one and the same person with that name, one mother, one sister, or are they two different persons?

I don’t dare to speak about the Reverend to her. I’m afraid I’ll say more than I should, that I’ll throw the whole filthy truth on the table. I’m not sure anymore of what I should do.

We both have our own expectations as we await the imminent reunion. Dare I hope for a happy ending?

‘Is it someone’s birthday?’ As I spoke the words my voice trailed softly into a quiet, fearful whisper. I knew it wasn’t anyone’s birthday. What I saw could only have one meaning.

‘No, no. There’s no birthday. We’ll be having visitors, Maria, you know that!’

Auntie measured a bit of flour on the scale and emptied it into a large bowl. She cracked an egg above the flour, she added sugar and began to stir. A pinch of salt. Some butter.

I saw what she was doing, I understood, but didn’t want to believe it.

‘Who are you making that cake for then?’ I spoke the words slowly, and articulated each word carefully.

‘For your father and mother, of course.’ Auntie hummed a tune and put both her hands in the bowl to knead the dough.

‘Not my father,’ I managed to say after a moment.

‘And your mother,’ she added, smiling cheerfully.

I stomped my foot on the floor in impotent fury, but without my wooden shoes the effect was unimpressive, Auntie didn’t even look up. I stomped again, hard, just so I could feel the pain, but Auntie noticed nothing. She had no idea, this woman. She had been cheerful ever since the moment she had received the letter notifying us of her sister’s visit.

And now she was baking a cake for them, as if the ten years that had passed without any interest from their side, had never happened. The only use the Reverend had had for Auntie was to let her deal with the shameful situation of my pregnancy. And she had taken on this task without complaint.

What would happen now? Didn’t she understand that they meant to separate us, that they meant to put an end to our peaceful togetherness?

‘They’re not coming for a friendly visit, Auntie.’

The words that crossed my lips sounded as harsh as I meant them, but it didn’t seem to faze Auntie. Still humming she shaped the dough into a ball. The dough looked smooth and perfect, as it always did when she baked something.

‘At least they’re coming.’

‘Yes, they are.’ I turned away and walked out of the kitchen. She didn’t understand, and wouldn’t understand. She would have a shock, the moment she would see my mother, but by then it would be too late.

Carrying a basket, I plodded along to the garden behind the farmhouse. Auntie once told me that Mother had planted that garden, and she had even tried to tell me that Mother was unequaled in talent in the kitchen, but I had gradually come to the conclusion that she and I were talking about two different women.

Regardless, I had discovered that I enjoyed working in the garden. The whole winter we had enjoyed turnip, black salsify, parsnip and curly kale. Now, throughout the summer season, strawberry plants and several kinds of berry bushes would supply us with their fruit.

A few weeks ago we had planted the first seeds for the summer vegetables in small containers filled with dirt. They stood in a row in the kitchen. We made sure we kept the dirt moist and soon I could see the first signs of green shoots pushing their way through the dirt towards the light. Auntie had shown me which of the plants could be transplanted into the garden first and yesterday I had planted and watered them.

There was a tall fence, grown over with blackberry bushes, that separated the vegetable patch from the little orchard with its plum tree and several varieties of apple and pear trees. The blossoms had flowered abundantly a month earlier and the first buds of new fruit promised a good harvest.

The only question was, would I be around to enjoy it all? Mother and the Reverend were coming to take me away from here, away from this garden, I knew that full well.

I crouched down, dejected, on one of the steppingstones that were spread around the garden, and I started to pull away the weeds that had come up. The frost was now completely gone from the ground, and it had been sunny for several days after last week’s rain. The soil was still moist. My hands stirred up the moist dirt and I pulled the weeds out with precision, shook the dirt off and threw the weeds in the basket.

I had to take care that the herbs weren’t choked by weeds. My gaze swept over the lady’s mantle which had withered during the winter, but new leaves had been lying in wait for more sun and new hope. Despite the cold, the little plant had survived underground.

If only there was an underground reserve for people to draw strength from when troubles arose. The only one who could help me was Auntie, but she was completely blinded by the anticipation of being reunited with her sister. Could I warn her and at the same time gain her support?

My hands hurried on while my thoughts busied themselves with the problems I had to deal with. My thoughts circled around the same problem continually. I needed Auntie’s support, she was able to stand up to the Reverend and convince him that I should stay here.

But Auntie wasn’t gearing up for a confrontation, the only thing she was looking forward to was a reunion with the sister she hadn’t seen for so long. She was expecting a happy homecoming. How could I prepare her for the shock and at the same time convince her to help me?

I didn’t pay attention as my hand grabbed a small nettle and it stung me viciously. In anger I yanked the plant out of the ground and threw it in the basket, but in doing so it stung me yet more. My hand throbbed and burned and I looked around me for something to alleviate the pain with. In desperation I dug my hand into the cool, damp soil and I let the cold numb the pain to some extend. I looked up and shouted my frustration at the heavens.

The pain persisted, but I pulled my hand out of the dirt and continued with my work. Wilder now, I roughly pulled young shoots out of the ground and ripped them. I knew that I was leaving the roots behind and the weeds would return, but I didn’t care. Finally I sank down on my knees and hid my face in my hands. I curled myself up, tried to brace myself and ignore the thing I feared, but the images kept coming back to haunt me.

‘Mother, why are you so quiet?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You used to be different, we would play together, we would drink our tea and have some cookies. We would pick wildflowers and brighten up the house with them.’ I could have given her more examples, but Mother sat quietly shaking her head, her knitting needles moving faster yet. I said no more.

‘It’s all vanity. Nothing but vanity.’

‘Is it wrong to do those things, things we enjoy?’

‘You listen to the Reverend’s preaching when you’re in church, then you’ll know the answer to your question.’

But Mother, I miss how it used to be. Is it really better like this?

I didn’t say the words out loud, how could I have? But inside my head I told her everything, and she would listen to me and pull me to her bosom and comfort me. Then she would speak her mind to the Reverend and shake her fist at him in my defense. Then the light would switch on in the darkness and expose his sins in her presence.

Then we would walk out of the manse together and leave him behind, alone.

‘Don’t you miss those days?’ I tried one more time. Maybe, if she said yes, maybe I would find the courage.

‘No.’

I fell silent and we sat together without speaking further. That night the Reverend came to my room and I knew she wouldn’t hear me, wouldn’t rescue me. She didn’t miss those earlier days.
I did
.

My knees were wet and sore from kneeling on the ground. The Reverend would come, despise me and humiliate me. And then, when we would return to the manse, everything would go on as before. How could I face him when he’d arrive? I knew I would tremble and stutter, I would obey his every wish. Hadn’t I always done that? Never had I stood up to him or ignored his wishes. Would I be able to now?

Again I concluded that I needed Auntie’s help and I decided to ask her. First I would tell her about the situation at home, that would convince her, and then I would ask her for help. If necessary I would beg her. I couldn’t return to that place, I just couldn’t.

I stood up and stretched my sore limbs. My dress was muddy and wet. I beat the mud off as much as possible. Lumps of mud fell on the ground, but the cloth of my dress stayed moist and cold, my whole body shivered, but the thought of the difficult conversation I was about to have made me warm again.

I was afraid that I would offend Auntie with the things I was about to tell her, but I reminded myself that she would be offended and hurt regardless. Mother’s arrival would be disappointing, because the image she had of her was not the reality. Would it then not be better for me to tell her in advance, so she could be prepared for what was to come?

I had made my decision and returned to the house, carrying the basket full of weeds on my arm. A tangle of roots, every little plant tangled up with another.

22

T
he truth. Is the truth cruel or justified, honest or cowardly? Should I burden Auntie with what I know? I want to tell her about all those unread letters, and sometimes a little voice inside me urges me on to tell her not only about that, but everything. Absolutely everything.

When I crossed the barn and headed for the kitchen the aroma of Auntie’s baking welcomed me. It made my mouth water, but knowing that this cake was made for the person I feared most of all, spoiled my appetite. I kicked off my wooden shoes and they landed against the wall.

‘Everything all right, Maria?’

Auntie’s voice came from the kitchen and I knew I should step inside quickly or she’d come out to check on me, wondering what had caused the loud thump against the wall.

‘I’m fine, just a moment. I’ll be right there.’

I felt short of breath, but I wanted to enter the kitchen in a calm frame of mind. I had to come across reasonable and convincing, not as if I was driven by some sense of righteous piety. If I wanted to gain Auntie’s support, I had to convince her not only with my words, but also with my attitude. It was important that she wouldn’t doubt me. In my mind I rehearsed what I wanted to say, even though it wasn’t much. There were just a few simple facts that I wanted to share with her, enough for her to know that it wasn’t going to be a happy reunion with her sister.

I smoothed my hair with my fingers, straightened out a lock of hair that had escaped from my bun, and took a deep breath. Then I opened the door to the kitchen, and immediately forgot the words I had meant to say. On the table was the result of her love and trust, cooling off. It was a wonderful apple cake and I knew it would taste delicious. All for them.

What would happen if I would raise my hand and swipe the cake off the table, so it would end up broken and spoilt on the floor?

I looked at my feet. They were covered in thick woolen socks and I raised my toes one by one, then lowered them, just to distract myself from that traitorous cake. Auntie skillfully covered the cake with jam, a thick layer, and she looked up when she was finished.

‘Would you like to try a piece, Maria?’