But now it was different; they shared something, it seemed to Anette. Even though he didn’t say much to her—really, he didn’t seem all that interested in her, his attention was all on his mother during the visit. Still, when he gruffly said goodbye, Anette knew she didn’t imagine some connection between them, some different way he looked at her—as if seeing inside her, straight to her grief. And there was something to that look that made her miss Fredrik less, that night.
But she wouldn’t see Tor again, not for a very long time. She wouldn’t be going back to school for a while, not with her wound that, while getting better, still was a long way off from allowing her out of doors. By the time she got back to school, Tor would be gone, working in the fields. Taking the place of his father.
Anette began to get restless, stuck in the bed. Now that she was awake and aware, she was very uncomfortable with Mother Pedersen’s nursing. To have this woman, who had never before uttered a kind word to her, bathe her was embarrassing to the extreme. Anette wished she could bathe herself but she couldn’t yet manage it with one hand, although Doc Eriksen assured her that in time, she would be able to do almost everything she’d been able to do with two hands. For now, she had to squeeze her eyes shut so she didn’t see Mother Pedersen’s face when she removed her nightshirt and helped her into the tub, and rubbed at her, gently, with a big sponge and soft soap that smelled like lavender. Anette did like the soap; she’d never known anything like it, a soap that did not hurt her skin, something so fragrant it made her smell nice for days after. Sometimes Mother Pedersen dabbed at Anette’s neck and wrists with cologne, and Anette giggled and felt very grown up. But still so strange! This new way of being treated lovingly, like a special guest, startled her almost more than it soothed her.
But then it began to worry her, no matter what Mr. Woodson said, with his letters promising all sorts of things she’d never imagined—money, schooling （which frankly terrified her）。 If Anette wasn’t of use to anyone, if she couldn’t work, who would want her? All those people writing—surely they would demand something back in return, cooking and scrubbing and cleaning and sewing, and how could she do that with only one hand? The last two years had taught her some things, mostly things she hadn’t wanted to learn. But primarily it had taught her that, with the exception of Fredrik, the only thing people liked about her was her ability to work hard without complaint. It was her only value. And even that wasn’t enough, because look at her own mother. Anette had always worked hard back in the dugout, but that hadn’t been enough for her mother to keep her. And Mother Pedersen, before—before—
Anette understood that something had happened to her surrogate mother during the blizzard. Just as if Mother Pedersen, too, had been lost in it, turned around like she and Fredrik had been so that she had no idea what was earth and what was sky. Something had happened to change her, too. It was what made her prone to weeping when she caught sight of Anette’s still-raw stump, the stitches still black against her skin. It was what caused her, one night when she must have thought Anette was sleeping, to creep in and kneel by the bed and lay an anguished head on the mattress and whisper, “I’m so sorry, you poor creature. Can you ever forgive me? I will never forgive myself.” And then she’d sobbed noisily, as if there was an untapped well of bitter tears she’d just discovered within.
Anette didn’t know what she should forgive, although she did feel pity for her, in a way. But she couldn’t forget the harsh words and backbreaking work, either. The strange, stifling atmosphere in that house was gone, but it was, in Anette’s mind, only banished temporarily, lurking outside like another inevitable storm. Maybe Mother Pedersen could change overnight, but Anette doubted it; it was more like one obsession had been replaced by another. Just as she’d once been violently angry, now she was sorry. And violently caring; her focus on Anette was almost suffocating.
Yet everyone treated Anette as if she were the one who had changed. Teacher, too, was the recipient of this attention; people came from miles around to bring the two of them presents, to shake Teacher’s hand, to gaze in at Anette as she lay there like a prize pig. Anette simply didn’t understand it, even though Mr. Woodson tried to explain it to her—the people had read about them in his newspaper. Mr. Woodson had shared their stories, because he liked them both very much and thought they deserved something special for what they’d gone through. He even showed her one of his newspapers and she saw her own name in the tiny black print. But still, she couldn’t quite understand it all.