Because didn’t he know that hers wasn’t a life worth saving?
* * *
—
THE NEXT TIME Anette opened her eyes, the light was different; it was late afternoon, and there were so many oil lamps lit all around her that she wondered if someone had died, then she remembered someone had, and it was Fredrik, and she turned her face to muffle a moan as the grief hit her anew. Her anger at his self-sacrifice had vanished, replaced by loss. Loss more pure and uncomplicated than any she’d known before. Her loss of her real family, her former life—that had been too diluted, murky as it was with questions that seemingly had no answers, stunned surprise at the rapid change in her environment, the immediate, exhausting work that Mother Pedersen shoveled her way. Her mama was still alive in the world—that, too, made the loss difficult to process. Losing Fredrik was different; she would never see his freckled face again, never make fun of his donkey ears sticking out from his head, never see his eyes light up with happiness.
She’d never have another friend, she thought miserably. From now on, she would truly be alone in the world.
There were hot tears streaming down her face and into her ears and so she raised her left hand to wipe them away—but the tears still remained, nothing touched her cheek at all. It was almost as if she’d missed her own face! Puzzled, she tried again, and again she missed. Then she looked at her hand—
It wasn’t there. Her arm, mostly covered by an unfamiliar nightgown that was soft and scented, ended in a bandaged stump where her hand should have been.
She struggled up, leveraging herself with her right hand, which was also bandaged but still attached, and she held out her left arm, moving it left, then right, up, then down, wriggling her fingers—she felt them! They did wriggle! She felt pain, too, when she moved her wrist.
But there was no hand, there were no fingers.
Where was it? Had someone taken it without her permission—was nothing her very own, not even her flesh? She was jabbering in Norwegian, enraged by everything that had happened, Fredrik gone and now her hand, and this was too much to take. All the months of being treated like an unwanted old dog at best, but overworked and despised at worst—she had had enough. What a stupid turn of events! She must leave this place, go somewhere, to Fredrik’s house; but no, he wasn’t there—her heart seized up in an odd way and then it fluttered. She placed her left hand on her chest. Then she looked down and saw it again—that queer, bandaged end of her arm, as if—as if—someone had sawed off her hand?
She was falling, falling, and with a thud, she hit the floor, heard excited voices, arms lifting her up, cool hands on her hot forehead, and then she was back in the cushioned earth again, dreaming her dreams.
* * *
—
WHEN ANETTE PEDERSEN woke a third time, it was morning, and the oil lamps were extinguished. The usual voices were in the kitchen. They weren’t bothering to whisper. This was a conversation that had been going on a long time, she could tell by the weariness in the voices, the circling back to topics.
There was a grunt at the foot of the bed, and Anette tried to lift her head, then she pushed herself up on her right hand, and she saw once more the absence of her left.
She also saw a man. Seated on a chair that was much too small for him. He was a large person, with a soft, doughy shape she’d never seen before in a man. All the men she knew—and there weren’t that many—were solidly muscular. But this one looked as if he had never handled a shovel or a hoe in his life. He was grunting again, and his breath was labored, as if he’d tired himself out just by sitting.
But he wasn’t only sitting. He was writing something, furiously scribbling with a pencil across a sheet of paper.
Finally, he raised his head and saw her watching him.
He grinned—it was a funny grin, and it tickled something inside Anette, something she had only ever felt with Fredrik. She found herself grinning back. Then he said something in English, and to her astonishment, she understood it.