“I don’t believe that, Bella; I think you were the one who was cruel. Mads would never lift a hand to hurt you.” As I looked at her, standing there so carefree in that lovely, spacious kitchen, I knew in my heart that I was right. “You have to keep your temper in rein. It never brought you anything but misfortune.”
Finally, something like pain crossed her features. She dropped the cloth onto the forest of lamps on the table and slumped down in a chair. Her gaze landed on Olga, who was playing with a set of whittled animals on the clean-swept floor. “It’s just so hard not having one of your own. I would be better then, if I didn’t have this hole in me.”
I followed her gaze to my daughter, to the collection of barn animals before her; sloppily painted cows, pigs, and horses that Bella had bought especially for her. “Do you really think that a child is all it would take to make you happy?” I asked. Somehow, I was not convinced. I thought that if she had a little one, she would soon find some other dissatisfaction to occupy her mind.
“Everyone has them. It’s hard being the one left out.” She moved restlessly on the chair and bit her lower lip, as if about to cry.
“But look at what you do have”—I motioned to the room around us—“a nice home, fine clothes, and more food than you can eat. Who would have thought that a girl from St?rsetgjerdet could have all that?” It annoyed me how she did not appreciate her stroke of luck but always complained about the things that were lacking.
She snorted in reply. “I won’t have it for long, as he doesn’t make nearly enough. If we had a child, though—he would be better then, accomplish more. We both would be better then.”
“It could still happen.” I motioned to my belly, wanting to remind her how hard it could be, how I had struggled to have mine.
“No, I don’t believe that it will.” Her gaze slid away from me, back to Olga.
“Just be patient,” I said.
“You should let me have her,” she said, and it was as if a bolt of lightning struck my insides when the meaning of the words sank in. “You can always have another one,” she went on, seemingly oblivious to my shock. “Those few weeks she spent with us . . . she seemed to like it well enough and my cooking added some fat to her bones.”
“You would take my daughter from me?” I could barely make my voice carry. My whole body tensed up and my heart raced in my chest. Olga stopped playing and looked up at me with alarm.
“Not take, no.” Bella waved her hand in the air. Her gaze was void of malice but void of compassion too. “I want you to give her to me, to make me happy and give her a better life as well. We have a house and, even now, we have more means than John will ever have. She would have a good life with us, better than the one she has with you.”
“Olga belongs with us.” I forced my voice to be calm, as not to further upset the child, who was still looking up at me, the cow in her hand all but forgotten.
“Sisters and brothers may come along, and she must share what little she has . . . It will be cramped in the apartment.” Bella lowered her voice as well.
“We won’t live there forever—”
“Her hands will be callused from work before she’s even seven. If she stayed with me, she would be well fed. Her clothes would be whole and neat—”
“No.” The word cracked like a whip in the air. I sat ramrod straight, despite my back. “I won’t give you that, Bella—not a child.”
“Mama?” Olga asked in a shivering voice, but neither Bella nor I minded her just then. Our gazes were locked on each other.
“But why?” my sister asked. “Children grow up with their relatives all the time.” Her expression held no comprehension.
“She is my girl.” She did not know what she was asking—could not know what she was asking.
“You could still see her—”
“No!”
“Mama?” Olga asked again, seeking a confirmation that all was well. I gave her a brief smile, which was all I could muster just then.
Bella looked down in her lap, where her hands fretted at her apron string. Her lower lip pouted slightly. “It would be better for us if we had a child. Mads would do better then. He would find another job for sure, and I wouldn’t be so sad all the time if I only had the love of a daughter—”
“No.” I rose from the chair and reached out my hand to Olga, who dropped the wooden animal and came to latch her hand into mine. “Children are not cattle to be bought!”
Bella laughed then, loud and shrilling. “Tell that to the little ones at the orphanages, delivered in the night, given up by mothers who want nothing more than to rid themselves of that terrible burden—”
“So be it.” I pulled Olga closer to my body and placed my free hand on the side of her head. “But my children are not for sale.”
“Not now, perhaps, but think ahead. In a few years’ time you will loathe them all—”
“I am not like you, Little Brynhild.”
“You are exactly like me, Big Brynhild.” She rose from the chair and stood before me with her hands resting on her voluminous hips. “We share the same cross, you and I!”
14.
Bella
Ihad not expected Nellie to give up her daughter, though I surely would have appreciated it if she did. The girl was uncommonly handsome with a soft, round face, and I would not have minded at all to call myself her mama. I knew Mads had wanted her too, and spoke of it often. To him it was all so easy: well-off relatives took on less fortunate children in the family all the time to raise them and give them better opportunities. He figured that Nellie and John would count themselves lucky if we offered to raise Olga as our own. He knew nothing of the toil my sister had gone through to have those mewling infants at her breast, how sometimes reason gave way to baser emotions and stronger ties. It was unfortunate, though, as I surely would have liked to have her. That void inside me was like a rotting tooth; I simply could not help but prod it with my tongue, even if it hurt.
My request stopped Nellie from asking more about Mads, though, so in that respect it served its purpose. She no longer cared about his bruises and complaints once I had suggested taking Olga away from her. My husband had chosen a poor ally who could so easily be diverted. I was furious that he had enlisted her as his confidant to begin with; I had been hoping that his pride would keep him from such foolishness. I added a little laxative to his fish that night, and spent the next hours listening from my spot by the kitchen table as he rushed between the outhouse and the bed. There would be words as well—I could not have him running to my sister for every little thing, but just that night, his pain was all that I wanted.
None of it truly mattered, though—it was inconvenient at best. This world was brimming with the poor and unwanted and I had just thought of another way to get what I most desired.