Papa was standing at the foot of the bed, but strangely he wouldn’t look at her directly, not even when she croaked his name—the first word out of her mouth, it must have been for days, because her lips were dry, her voice a rasp.
“Papa?”
He turned toward her, she saw a flicker of relief on his face, but then he quickly turned away.
“Mama?”
“Shhh, we’re here, we’re here,” Mama responded—but she, too, looked troubled. Gerda’s left foot began to itch, to burn, but when she struggled to touch it with her other foot, there was nothing there; she looked at her mother in bewilderment.
“They had to amputate it, my dear heart. I’m so sorry, Gerda—my child, my poor child!” Mama stifled a sob, gently smoothed Gerda’s damp hair. Gerda could see that only one foot, her right, stuck up through the covers; there was nothing where her other foot should be.
“That night,” she murmured, trying to process the information—would she be able to walk? To teach again? “I remember…it was so cold…”
“Yes, darling, yes. Don’t talk now.” Mama gave her a glass of water, which Gerda gulped gratefully, then she felt as if it might come right back up; she turned on her side, leaned over the bed, but managed to keep it down. She rolled over again.
“Papa, Papa—” She reached her hand out toward her father, who walked away and stared out a window. Sharply did her mother speak to him in Norwegian. “Stop behaving like this, she is still our daughter.”
“What, Mama?” Gerda struggled to sit up, her foot—the foot that was no longer part of her—still throbbing, but how could that be?
Mama must have read her thoughts, for, as she helped her up into a seated position, shoving a pillow behind her back, she explained. “You will still feel the foot, the doctor says. It’s normal, but eventually it will go away, that feeling.”
“Oh.”
Gerda shut her eyes, too exhausted to ask more. Her mind was turning over this information like a child turns over a handful of pebbles, searching for the one that feels best in her hand; the smoothest, coolest one. She couldn’t find anything that felt right, however. She was maimed for life. Never before had she imagined this for herself—she’d imagined pretty dresses, bright hair ribbons, a house of her own, with Tiny—
“Tiny!” Her eyes flew open and for now, her foot was forgotten. “Where is he? Tiny—did he—was he—？”
“They found his body a couple of days ago,” Papa said coldly, still gazing out the window, his big, work-scarred hands grasped behind his back.
“No, no!” Gerda felt the impact of his words in her solar plexus, knocking the breath out of her—not Tiny! Yes, she’d told herself he was probably lost when he didn’t come back for her and the girls, but that was then, during the pinnacle of the storm when her resolve was focused only on survival. Now she could feel the pain exquisitely, viscerally—she struggled to control herself because she didn’t want to share her grief with her parents. It was hers, hers alone, they would never understand it. They would never understand them, Gerda and Tiny, because Mama and Papa had never been young and in love, had never had hopes and dreams—
But these were her hopes and dreams, not Tiny’s. If only they’d been able to have that one day together, the day she’d planned; the two of them playing house so she could show him what he would miss if he ran away, she could convince him with her domesticity—with her lips, if necessary—what a wife could give him that a life of adventure couldn’t…if only…
Her face was wet with hot tears, her head pounded, and her foot was beginning to tingle again; her stomach was so empty she felt faint but also sick, but she swallowed the bile, the grief. There was something else, some other worry buzzing about her aching head, and then she remembered, and she looked at Papa. She began to shake with dread—she understood why he was acting so strangely toward her. But she had to ask, she had to know.