I wanted to say a dozen things: how she was always neat with her needlework, and how she made Rudolph hot chocolate the night before. I wanted to say how she did not mind lifting the heavy tubs for me or how the sight of her reminded me of home—but I knew it made no difference what I said; Clara was set in her opinion. I could not truly blame her either for looking out for me. I would probably have been angry as well, if I felt that Clara’s kindness was being taken advantage of.
“I only think that she was badly hurt back home.” I settled for the one thing I thought might calm her down. I felt much like a child, standing before her while my hands twisted at the hem of my apron. My mouth felt very dry.
“The attack, you mean?” Clara’s eyes were on me as she pushed the lever. That was what I had meant, but I also meant in other ways. Tongues can be powerful daggers if wielded right.
“She bled from the stomach.” Only saying those words aloud made me feel sick.
“But you still don’t know what happened?”
“No, I—”
“Maybe there are other things you don’t know about.” The bucket by her feet had overflowed, but she did not seem to notice. “You do not truly know how she was in the years since you left.”
“What do you mean?”
Clara shrugged and scooped up the bucket with water drizzling off the rim. “Maybe she is lazy—maybe she’s always this way.”
“Oh, I do not think so.” I just could not see it. “She has been working since she was small.” Yet an old worry stirred inside me, one I knew well from my youth. The fear that someone would notice that my sister was different, and not like other children. I tried to push the feeling aside, but once stirred, it was hard to subdue.
Clara did not reply to my words but set off across the yard again, aiming for the steps. “Maybe you don’t know her as well as you think,” she muttered, just loud enough for me to hear. The words left me feeling sick.
We were halfway up the stairs, on the landing where Clara’s own water bucket rested, when Bella suddenly appeared, coming fast down the steps toward us. My whole body sagged with relief from the sight. She seemed to be in a good mood; her cheeks were pink from fresh air and her gaze was bright and alert. She had tied on the apron and donned a headscarf, which brought my hopes up further.
Surely there would be no more exploring today.
“Good morning to you, Clara,” she said to my red-faced friend. “Shall I take that?” She reached for the bucket, recognizing it as mine. “We better start heating the water right away,” she said to me. “There is much to be done before nightfall, and some of those shirts reek with filth.”
“Where were you?” Clara asked as she handed her the water. “We thought you had abandoned your poor sister.”
“Oh, I just went out for some newspapers to read. I am practicing my English,” Bella chirped. Her height made it so that she towered above Clara even on the landing.
“You should have said so.” Clara stole the words out of my mouth. “She cannot travel the stairs with her load; she is much too fragile for that. Her back—”
“It’s fine, Clara.” I put a hand on her shoulder; her dress was damp with perspiration. “She came back—I knew she would.” I said it mostly to convince myself. “Thank you so much for your help,” I added. “Bella can take it from here.”
Bella smirked before turning on her heel and setting off again, up the stairs this time.
“She is not so bad.” I said it quietly so my sister would not hear me. “She came back.”
“This time,” Clara muttered, just as quietly. “But what about all the other times when she didn’t.”
“You should not be so hard on her; just give her some time.”
“You should not be a fool.” Her green gaze landed on me. “I don’t think that one has a care for anyone other than herself.” She picked up her bucket and stomped up the stairs.
Her words stayed with me for the rest of the day, even though I tried not to think of them. I told myself that Clara was wrong, but a stubborn sliver of doubt remained.
John did not have much comfort to offer me either. “She just doesn’t seem to be of much use to you,” he said that same night after I had told him what happened with Clara. His brow was furrowed with annoyance and concern as he sat in our bed, propped up against the pillows, with Rudolph sleeping soundly beside him. He spoke very quietly as the walls were thin, though I was quite certain that Bella was already asleep on the bench in the kitchen.
“She helps,” I assured him as I crawled across them both to my spot closest to the papered wall. On our single bed stand, the candle flame quivered a little and made the shadows from the clothes hanging from pegs on the wall dance across the naked floor. “It is not easy coming here, you know that. She only needs a little time. I can hardly blame her for wanting to explore a little and get to know the city.” But even as I said it, I knew that I was lying. Not only to John but to myself as well.
Little Brynhild—Bella—had never been easy.
“I was hoping,” I started again, more truthful this time, “that time had changed her. That a few years at R?dde had softened her some, but that does not seem to be the case. She still does mostly as she pleases.” If anything, she was worse. Her mood would dip and turn for no reason, and she did not seem to notice when someone did something nice for her. Her anger, like our father’s, had always been like thunder: loud and sudden, blazing with heat, but now it seemed that it never quite dissolved but always moved and shifted under the surface, ready to erupt.
She was never calm—always restless.
“How does she get along with the other women, besides Clara?”
My heart sank in my chest, just from thinking of Laura’s raised eyebrows behind Bella’s back, and the latter’s silent smile, as if she had no use for any of them. “Well enough,” I said, though I could tell that my friends were not impressed with the new addition to our household, not even those who knew little about how things had unfolded since she arrived. It had always been hard to express just why it was that people did not take to Little Brynhild. Was it because of the way she never looked another in the eye, because she sometimes said things that made her seem mean, or because she never seemed to share in other people’s joy? Did people even notice those things or was it just me, looking at her with love, wishing so desperately for her to find her place?
Perhaps they did notice without even knowing, the knowledge like a silent whisper in their minds. She could be as sweet as sugar when she wanted to, which she rarely did. It was as if she did not see or understand how a little effort could help her reach through to other people.
It was as if she did not care.
“I just want her to be happy,” I said. “It’s all I ever wanted.”
“I know.” He turned his head to place a kiss on my cheekbone. “I am sure she will be in time. I had been hoping she would take on some of your load, though. Help with the washing, at least.”