Mia looked back at Margarite, her own stomach churning. Margarite nodded. Though deaf and not always lucid, this one thing she understood: Alma remained very sick, and Mia remained helpless. A rare moment of understanding passed between the women, a generous miracle. Another woman saw her struggle and did not judge. Mia would spoon a thousand mouthfuls of pottage for that one blessing.
Since her first true friend, Rose, had abruptly deserted her two years ago without reason, refusing to have anything to do with her, Mia had not known the comfort of another woman’s reassurance. Mia’s heart pinched at the thought of Rose’s strange, silent betrayal. Mia had poured herself, for the first time, into friendship with another woman, nursing Rose along after her husband died, when she had nearly died herself from grief. Mia reminded herself she could not think on it any longer. It only caused confusion, and Mia had plenty of confusion already. Even if she scraped the bottom of that old pot, what would she find but more trouble? She didn’t have to know the truth. Truth wouldn’t make it hurt less. She remembered what truth did to those who were not ready for it. What Mia needed was answered prayer for Alma. If God ever heard her prayers and healed Alma, Mia would not ask for anything else again. She swore this to Him, but it had not prompted Him to act.
Bjorn slammed the wooden door wide open, making the wood crack along the bottom. Mia jumped, stifling a groan of complaint. The cold night breezes must be kept out, away from Alma.
She forced a smile and cleared her throat.
Bjorn heard her stifled groan; she could tell by the way he sat at the table staring at her with an angry face. He looked tired and likely to start a quarrel. Mia kept spooning the pottage into the mouth of Margarite, who stared in the distance.
“What happened with Stefan yesterday morning?” she asked. Bjorn had left with Stefan early and then had come home drunk last night, angry and unsteady. Mia had lain in bed, stiff with dread, trying not to move until his breathing became deep and steady.
“Is there a reason you let Alma bring an animal in the house?” he asked.
“It keeps her happy while I feed Margarite,” Mia said, keeping her voice even.
“I don’t like it,” he said.
“I know, husband, and I meant to put it out before you came home. You returned early today.”
“Is that all that happens while I am away, Mia? Or are there other betrayals?”
She glanced at him, a darting look to judge his expression. “What did you say?”
He folded his arms. “I’m hungry.”
Mia wiped Margarite’s mouth and settled the blanket up higher on her lap. She pointed to the window, where the sun made its marvelous exit from the afternoon. Margarite liked watching the sunsets.
Alma had walked, in halting, heavy steps, to the door, her breath bubbling, the squawking kitten tucked under her arm. Mia nodded for them to go, knowing Alma would stay near the door until Mia had the warm evening milk ready for the kitten.
She ladled pottage into another bowl and set it before Bjorn, trying not to meet his eye. She had done nothing wrong. She did not want to be flayed for someone else’s sins. Not today. She had spent her dawn hours holding Alma, who had to force each breath through a tightened chest, sweating from the exertion of just surviving the night.
Mia had prayed in the name of every saint she could think of, but no help came. She stood condemned in their eyes of some unnamed sin. Any hope she had of a miracle for Alma became more distant with every passing season. Alma should have been much taller and stronger. If she did not gain in strength this spring, Mia knew the next winter would be waiting for her. Winter was never satisfied here, taking new children every week. It had waited three times for Alma. It would not wait again next year, Mia knew. She knew the saints heard her pleas for her child, but the battle would be determined by who fought for Alma with greater force: the bitter winter or the vanished saints.
Bjorn looked at the pottage but did not eat.
“May I get you something, husband?” Mia asked, sweeping the filthy straw on the floor into a corner so he would not smell it tonight as he slept.
“Bread?”
“Oh. I did not make bread today. I’m sorry. I stayed up with Alma and fell asleep this afternoon.”
“You are either a good wife or you are not.” He slammed his fist down on the table, making the pottage slosh out of the bowl. “What do you do while I work? Why can I not trust you?”
“Bjorn.” Mia scolded. She didn’t mean to.
“You raise your voice to me in my own home?” He dumped his pottage on the floor. “That will give you something to do,” he said, walking to the bedroom. “Keep you at home.”
Mia felt the rage shooting up through her veins, taking control of every last ounce of common sense and decency. She had no control, her exhaustion eating through the last of her self-control.
“I am kept at home! I am busy! I have a sick child! And I feed and wash your mother who cannot even thank me. Other wives would roll her down the hill and straight into the river. Then they’d be free to make your bread. Is that what you want?”
He was on her before she blinked, his hand around her throat.