26. Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Four
L enore drifted in and out of a deep sleep. In the distance, she could hear knocking. It brought her to the surface, and she looked around, wondering if John had already left for work. Had she forgotten to get his breakfast for him? Why hadn’t he woken her?
But then she opened her eyes and remembered.
The banging continued, and she frowned, realizing someone was at the front door. Slowly, she pulled herself out of the bed, reached for her bathrobe, and stood, tugging it on. She slipped her feet into her slippers and left the room, heading down the long upstairs hall and then down the staircase, holding on to the banister. Her bump had grown, and she could barely see her feet beneath it.
The house was quiet, dark, and empty. Sad. It amazed her how the personality of the place had changed so dramatically since John had died. It was as if the house was as bereft as she was.
Although she wanted no company, she’d have to answer the door if only to get them to stop knocking. Whoever it was, she would send them away. Yesterday, the pastor of their church stopped and droned on and on about John being in a better place. Lenore wanted to cry out that he’d been in a great place with her, here in this house, waiting for their baby. She could think of no better place for her husband.
She spied Hilda through the glass. She unlocked the locks one at a time, thinking of John’s penchant for them and how they had not saved him or helped in the end. Slowly, she opened the door, trying to think of an excuse to give Hilda, but her mind was blank.
Hilda carried a wicker basket over her left arm, and a suitcase stood next to her on her right side. She took hold of the edge of the door with her right hand, sliding her foot inside, and pushed it open.
“There you are,” she said. “I thought I was going to have to break the door down.”
“I was sleeping.”
“I figured. It’s almost noon.”
“Is it?” Lenore glanced outside. The day was dull and wintry, the houses stark against all that snow, everything cast in a bright white light .
A blast of arctic air followed Hilda inside and Lenore shivered, pulling her bathrobe closed at the neck. If your neck was covered, you’d feel warmer. She didn’t know where that thought came from and in the context of everything else, it made no sense.
Hilda was already on her way toward the back of the house, talking. Lenore stared at the suitcase, wondering what it was for. She hoped Hilda wasn’t there to convince her to move back to her mother and father’s house.
She followed her through the house to the kitchen.
“It’s cold in here, Lenore,” Hilda said. “You need to stay warm for yourself and the baby.”
She set the wicker basket down on the table. It was still covered in the tablecloth that had been there the day John had his last meal. There was a small circular gravy stain where his knife had fallen off his plate. She had a hard time looking at that. It brought tears to her eyes every single time.
Hilda set the suitcase on the floor next to John’s chair. She turned to Lenore, hands on her hips, and her expression immediately softened. She stepped forward, her smile gentle, and placed her hands on Lenore’s shoulders. “Your parents have sent me over here to look after you.” When Lenore went to protest, Hilda cut her off. “Just until you get back on your feet. And then I’ll return to your parents’ house,” she reassured her. “And I’ll have to get back soon. My replacement is questionable, and I don’t know what state she’ll have my kitchen in by the time I return.”
This brought a small smile to Lenore’s face, but it disappeared just as quickly.
“Now, let me get the heat on here,” Hilda said. “Which bedroom could I use?”
Lenore shrugged, not caring. “Whichever one you want. There’s a bunch of bedrooms upstairs.” She choked on the last words, thinking how she and John had planned to fill those rooms with children.
Hilda studied her face. “When was the last time you ate anything?”
Lenore looked off to the side, thinking. “I-I-I don’t know. What day is it?”
“Wednesday.”
She lowered her head, shaking it. “I don’t know, Hilda. I can’t remember.”
“It’s as I thought. I’ll make you something to eat. Something light.”
“I don’t think I can.”
“You can and you will.”
“I don’t have anything.”
Hilda held up the wicker basket. “I come bearing gifts.” She moved the basket to the counter while Lenore remained standing in the center of the kitchen, unsure of what to do, thinking she might go back to bed. What else was there for her to do ?
But Hilda made the decision for her, taking her by the shoulders and propelling her to the table and pulling out a chair for her. Once seated, Lenore slumped forward, leaning her head on her hands.
I only need to get through the next minute, and then the minute after that. That’s all. Nothing more than that.
She hadn’t realized how cold she was until the house started heating up. Hilda had made her something simple to eat: one poached egg on buttered toast with a sprinkle of salt and pepper, and a hot cup of tea with sugar. She set it down in front of her.
“I know you have no appetite, but you’ve got a baby to feed,” Hilda said. She left Lenore alone to eat and went around the downstairs, opening drapes. When Lenore heard the back drapes sliding along the rod, she closed her eyes and stopped eating. The morning after John’s death, she’d closed those drapes, closed them on the view of that back porch overlooking the lake, where John liked to sit out on the warmer evenings. He hadn’t had enough time to sit out there and enjoy it.
She finished her breakfast, mopping up yolk with the last of the toast, realizing she had been hungry.
Hilda reappeared. “I’ve laid out clean clothes for you. There’s a sinkful of hot water to wash your face and brush your teeth upstairs.” She paused. “Maybe in a day or two when you’re up to it, you can get into the bathtub. ”
Lenore nodded. She headed upstairs to wash her face, brush her teeth, and get changed. She’d always been good about following instructions. Those three little tasks required a lot of energy, and she wanted to go back to bed. But Hilda intervened and brought her back downstairs, sitting her at the table and giving her a few potatoes to peel.
“What would you like for your dinner? I’ve brought some ham and beef.”
“Whatever you want, Hilda.”
“Ham it is then.”
It was a bitter cold and blustery day in January when John Henry Hadley, Jr. arrived first thing in the morning. Outside, the wind howled. Once she was presentable and the midwife had left and everything had been cleaned up, Lenore sat up in bed and held her newborn son, marveling at the miracle of him and examining each one of his fingers.
He was absolutely perfect.
She held him close and cried over him. Cried at the unfairness of it all, that John never got to see his son. She cried for all the children they wouldn’t have. She cried over all their lost plans. All their hopes and dreams had gone up in smoke that fateful night on the beach.
When she was all cried out, she made a promise to her son: That she would pull herself up out of her well of grief and be devoted to him. That he would be her reason for living, her reason to carry on. There could be no better reason. She dried her eyes on a handkerchief and then got lost in admiring her newborn baby boy.
Her parents were her first visitors. They gushed over the newborn, insisting on holding him and passing him back and forth between them. It was good to see them happy. They had taken John’s death hard, and this baby certainly was a harbinger of joy.
“Since you’re being stubborn and refusing to move home,” her mother said, sitting in a chair across from the bed, smiling as she held her grandson, “Hilda will stay here with you.”
Lenore protested, “I can’t afford Hilda.” She had gone over her budget time and again. John’s modest life insurance policy and pension might be enough to support her as long as she was careful. But hiring help was out of the question.
“We will continue to pay Hilda’s salary.” Her father sat in another chair next to her mother, waiting patiently for his turn to hold his grandson.
“I can’t ask you to do that,” Lenore said, shocked. She reached behind her to readjust the pillow she was leaning against.
“You didn’t ask,” Mr. Wainwright replied. “We offered.”
“Oh, Dad. ”
“And since you won’t take any money from us, we’ll have to force Hilda on you,” he teased.
“But what about Hilda? Maybe we should ask her first,” Lenore said. As much as she loved Hilda, she also knew that she was a creature of habit. And being in her sixties, she might want to retire and live a life of ease. She’d been taking care of people her whole life. Maybe it was time for her to put her feet up.
“We’ve already talked to her about it. She was delighted as you might expect,” Mr. Wainwright said. “I think she’d rather be here with you and the baby.”
“But what about your own house?” Lenore asked. Hilda hadn’t been too keen on her replacement.
“Edith is no Hilda, I’ll grant you that, but she will learn in time,” her mother said.
It wasn’t hard for Lenore to accept this. Hilda had been good company these past few weeks. She was there if Lenore wanted conversation, and the distraction of the mundane tasks Hilda had set in front of her, like cooking, baking, and sewing, had kept her going.