She held herself perfectly still, afraid to move, her eyes taking in everything, but she still didn’t quite comprehend, even when Mrs. Johnson repeated it, that this was her room. She was still trying to make sense of it as the kind woman helped her change out of her traveling clothes. That’s what Mrs. Johnson called them, although to Anette they were simply clothes, but evidently rich people had clothes for different occasions. Then she was shown a wardrobe full of new dresses to choose from, and bureaus full of nightgowns, so she put one of those over her head and climbed into the bed for a nap.
Oh, how nice it was! It was softer and smelled better than anything she’d ever known in her life—it smelled like flowers and rainwater. She arranged herself on her pillow and shut her eyes, so Mrs. Johnson could get the hint and leave her alone. But sleep didn’t come immediately.
How was it that just this morning she had said goodbye to the Pedersens? Mother Pedersen had actually wept and held her close, which Anette had not liked at all. Father Pedersen had given her a little present of flowers to take on the train, which she lost somewhere along the way. Then she had been driven away from that house that she’d been told, once, to call home.
And she would never see the other place—that dirty soddie that had once been home—ever again, either. Nor, probably, her mama. Who had left in the middle of the night as mysteriously as she had arrived.
But Anette had not been surprised.
Nothing really surprised her anymore. Too much was strange. Too much had happened to her. She ached with a longing for something, but she wasn’t sure what. This place, this grand palace, was to be her home now, and then the school in the fall would be another home of sorts—but she couldn’t bring herself to think of that. Although Teacher would be nearby then, in Lincoln, at something called a college, and she promised she would visit Anette often.
But she felt lonely anyway, mostly, despite the fact that she had been surrounded by people ever since the blizzard. Missing something. Missing someone. Not her mama, not anymore—oh, yes, she’d been so happy to see her that day! But almost immediately, she’d waited for the bad thing to happen, because it always did. And when she was told that her mother had left in the middle of the night without a goodbye—just like the other time—it didn’t hurt as much. The wound this time was already inside her, it wasn’t being carved into her with a dull knife like it had been the first time.
She would never see her mother again, but the difference was—she didn’t want to see her mother again.
So it must be Fredrik she missed, then; Fredrik she thought of when she thought of “home.” But she could bring his memories with her wherever she went, that’s what Teacher had said to her once. So “home” would be that—anywhere she could think of Fredrik. But already his image was fading at an alarming rate; sometimes all she could remember of him were those dreadful moments when they were both crying, mad at each other, in the middle of the blizzard.
Or sometimes, all she could remember was his body, sleeping so still beside her when she opened her eyes the next morning in the ravine, and she was so cold, she was beyond feeling.
* * *
—
AS THE DAYS passed, Anette saw so many new things, experienced so many wondrous moments, she wondered if she would ever be able to remember them. She wished she was clever enough to write them down—in a diary, that’s what it was called. Mrs. Johnson had given her one the first night she was in Omaha, but she didn’t have the right words to explain all the images parading through her mind. She could see them clearly, but she couldn’t pin them down upon the page. Everything happened so quickly, one after another, an assault. But people meant well, they liked her, they were kind, Mr. Woodson kept reminding her whenever he saw her grow still, her eyes dull, retreating into herself.
Take that dinner in her honor, when she had been the only child present. There were so many things to eat and it was evident she was supposed to try them all and make happy noises, but all she’d felt was sick by the time it was all over. And all those shining, grown-up faces turned her way! She’d squirmed, she’d wriggled, she’d wanted nothing as much as she wanted to run away right then, just sprint out of the house and keep running. But Omaha, she soon found out, was not a place for that; there were too many people and wagons and things called carriages and drays and cable cars, all going their own ways, taking turns crisscrossing the street, and Anette couldn’t figure out the pattern, so she couldn’t just run. She’d be hit by something, that was clear as day.