“Well—we aren’t at the mercy of our circumstances,” he replied firmly.
Berta turned to study his face. There were still questions in her eyes.
“We still have choices,” he went on. “We still have the will—the choice—to determine what we wish to accept or reject. What we make of the experience.”
“Even as a child?” Her words were too sharp.
He looked at her evenly, seeming to try to read her thoughts, to think carefully before he answered.
“As a child we might be unduly influenced. We might misunder-stand—misinterpret. We haven’t built much of a base for understanding relationships—life. We might even make wrong judgments that certainly have long-range effects but—but one day we need to come to the place where we rethink things. Where we carefully weigh things and—and take responsibility for who we are. We can’t keep looking back. Laying all the credit—or blame—for what we have become on what we have experienced.”
“You think children can misinterpret?”
“I know they can.”
He fell silent. Berta wondered what he was thinking.
“When I was a child,” he began, “I wanted a bike. In the worst way. I longed for a bike. I dreamed of a bike. I even prayed for a bike. Then Buddy Albert’s dad bought him a bike. It was exactly like my dream-bike. Buddy did a lot of bragging. A lot of showing off. He taunted me with the fact that his folks loved him so much that they’d do anything for him.
“So, I got the notion that I didn’t get a bike because my pa didn’t love me.”
He stopped. He seemed intent on carefully watching each place that he put his foot for his next step.
“I made such a big thing of it in my own mind that I was totally convinced I was unloved. I watched for things—little things—to support my supposition. And I found them, too. Lots of them. Soon I had built a real case against my pa.”
He stopped again.
“I likely would have gone all through life convinced I wasn’t loved if—if there hadn’t been another little incident.”
He chuckled softly. Berta raised her head to see why the sudden humor.
“I was sent out to get the cows. We had this old red bull. He was usually dependable, but this one night I was feeling mad about something—likely sore that I wasn’t loved—I mean, having to do farm chores was proof of that, wasn’t it?”
He chuckled again.
“Anyway, I was having a mad, so I sicced the dog on that old bull. He didn’t take too kindly to that, and he turned and came after the dog. Of course, the dog tucked his tail between his legs and ran for cover—which was me. The bull didn’t even hesitate. He came for me, too. I was so scared I just froze right to the spot. I could see that red bull coming right for me, his head down, nostrils flaring, and I knew I was going to die. I just knew it.
“I never will know where he came from, but suddenly I felt myself being hoisted out of the way. Pa was there. He lifted me out of the path of the bull just in time. He didn’t have time to get himself clear. The bull caught him with one horn and sent him flying. He had two broken ribs. But do you know what he said when he scrambled up out of the dust? He said, ‘Are you okay, son?’ and when I said I was, he said, ‘Thank God.’ Just ‘Thank God’ and he put his face in his hands and his shoulders shook.
“He managed to get himself off the ground, and we went back to the house hand in hand. I could never convince myself again that my pa didn’t love me.”
Berta felt the tears in her throat. She still didn’t have things sorted out, but she had much to think about.
———
“Mama’s taken a bad turn.” Glenna’s expression was grave. She had come into the library and whispered the words to Berta.
Berta felt fear gripping her. She motioned toward the small private room.
“What’s happened?” she asked as she pulled Glenna in behind her and closed the door.
“We don’t know. She didn’t get up this morning, so I went to check on her. She—she looks strange.”
“Is she—saying strange things again?”
“She’s not saying anything. That’s what frightens me,” said Glenna. “She—she looks like she’s in some kind of—stupor.”
“What does Parker say?” Berta never thought that she would be asking that question. She had become so irritated with Glenna’s constant reference to Parker’s opinion.
“He’s baffled. He doesn’t think it’s a stroke. He can’t figure what is wrong. He’s with her now.”
“I’ll come,” said Berta, quickly making up her mind. “I just have to tell my assistant.”
“I’ll wait for you outside,” said Glenna. “I’ve got the auto.”
“You’re driving?” Berta was shocked.
“Parker says I shouldn’t be tied to home just because he can’t get away,” replied Glenna over her shoulder. “He taught me.”
Berta said nothing more but hurried to inform Miss Saunders of her plans. Soon she was joining Glenna in the auto.
“It’s so strange,” Glenna said as they drove through the streets. “She was just fine when she went to bed last night.”
Then Glenna corrected herself. “No—that’s not quite right. I’ve noticed that she has been a bit hazy the last few days. Sometimes she is perfectly clear and then—”
“Well, she was perfectly clear when we drove out to the farm last Sunday afternoon. I’ve never heard Mama so full of chatter.”
“It’s strange,” Glenna mused. “Very strange.”
———
“I think I’ve solved our mystery.”
Parker met them in the hallway as soon as they got to the house.
“How’s Mama?” asked Berta quickly.
Parker turned to her. In his hand he carried some bottles. Berta recognized them as the ones she had helped her mother place in her bag with the knitting.
“Mama’s medicine,” she exclaimed, pointing to the bottles in Parker’s hand.
“Medicine?” said Glenna. “I didn’t know Mama was on medicine.”
“It’s not medicine really—just some silly herbs,” said Berta. “How is she?”
“She’s sleeping,” replied Parker.
“Is she—?” began Glenna.
“She’s much better now. I pumped her stomach.”
Both women looked at Parker in surprise.
“I got suspicious when I found these bottles on her dresser. Then Rosie said that Gramma took ‘a whole bunch’ because she said she hadn’t had any for a long time, so I decided to pump her stomach. She had taken ‘a whole bunch’ all right.”
“But they’re just harmless herbs,” maintained Berta.
“Yes—they likely are—I’m not sure of that yet, not having had a chance to get them analyzed,” admitted Parker. “Taken properly and separately, they are likely quite harmless—perhaps some of them are even beneficial. But taken as Mama did, they were almost deadly.”
“Deadly?” Glenna looked pale. Parker reached out an arm to support her.
“It could have been very serious, my dear,” he admitted. “But she seems to be rallying now. Oh, she may still be confused until it is out of her system, but I think she’ll be fine.”
“Is that what happened before?” asked Berta.
“I’m sure it is,” replied the doctor. “She has likely been taking these in the wrong combination for months—thinking that she was doing herself good.”
“Oh, dear!” exclaimed Glenna. “What if we hadn’t discovered … ”
Parker’s arm tightened. “I’ve just put on the kettle for a fresh pot of tea,” he said. “Why don’t you go have a cup? I think we could all use one.”
“I want to look in on Mama first,” said Glenna, and she moved toward the bedroom, Berta close at her heels.
Mrs. Berdette seemed to be sleeping peacefully. The color was back in her face, and her breathing was soft and even.
“I think she’ll be fine,” Parker repeated as assurance. Both women relaxed and allowed themselves to be led to the kitchen. Mrs. Rudi was there, putting a roast in the oven for supper.
Glenna gathered tea things on a tray and led the way to the living room. Parker was already putting on his heavy coat.
“Aren’t you staying?” asked Glenna. “I thought you said you needed a cup.”
“I gulped one quickly in the kitchen,” he replied as he kissed Glenna on the cheek. “I need to get back to the hospital. Have someone come for me if you need me—but I think things will be fine now.”
She nodded.
“He is so busy,” Glenna said to Berta as the door closed on Parker.
“I don’t know how you stand it,” Berta said with candid criticism. “I think if I had a husband, I’d want him home—at least occasionally.”
“Berta,” spoke Glenna in a scolding tone, “don’t carry on so. Parker is a wonderful husband, and well you know it.”
Berta was surprised at Glenna’s words, but especially of her manner. The only time Glenna ever spoke with such frank intensity was when she was defending Parker.
Berta took her tea and pulled her chair closer to the fire. She felt exhausted. They’d had another scare. Thankfully, it seemed that they had avoided a crisis and made an important discovery. And that, too, was due to Doctor Parker.
“I feel drained,” said Glenna. “I was so worried.”
Berta nodded. “Well—at least we agree on that,” she replied simply.
To her surprise Glenna chuckled—perhaps a nervous reaction. Berta looked at her quickly. Was she reacting—giddily?
But Glenna looked perfectly in control.
“Oh, Berta,” she said, and she leaned back in her chair and reached her hand out to the warmth of the fire. “There has not been much that we have agreed about over the years, has there?”
Berta felt confused and a bit alarmed. She did not remember ever having a candid discussion over personal things like this with Glenna.
“I guess there hasn’t been,” Berta finally agreed.
“Except for Parker,” said Glenna.
“Parker?”
“We both loved Parker—remember?”
Berta felt her cheeks flush. “That’s a—a rather strong word and—that was a long time ago,” she hurried to inform Glenna. “I certainly don’t—”
“I know,” said Glenna. “I sometimes wonder if you even like him now.”
“Of course I do,” argued Berta sitting bolt upright. “It’s just—just that he seems so—so important.”
Glenna sat up too.
“You don’t care much for important people, do you?”
“What do you mean?”
Glenna shrugged. “I don’t know. I just—just feel you—bristle when—when someone gets—attention. Why?”
“I—I don’t think I—bristle,” retorted Berta.
“Yes—you do. I’ve felt it—often.”
Berta was silent. But she could not evade Glenna’s direct question. Did she bristle? Did she resent important people? Did it bother her when someone got special attention?
Maybe. Maybe it did. Maybe it went back to when they were children.
“Maybe it’s because when we were little, you got all the attention,” she dared to say.
“But I didn’t,” replied Glenna. “I distinctly remember Papa teaching you to ride—to handle the horses—how to plant the corn—and even how to hold a fishing rod. Don’t you remember?”
Berta nodded slowly.
“I didn’t get to learn any of those things,” said Glenna.
Berta said nothing. She had always known there was a special bond between herself and her father.
“And Granna—remember who she taught to knit—to care for her special flowers? She wouldn’t let me near them.”
“That’s because I was older,” argued Berta.
“And who learned to bake cookies? Who got to read the story-books—to the whole family? And they listened—every night—both Mama and Papa. And who had the special school projects that took hours of tramping through the woods and meadows so that you could collect your—what did you call them—specimens?”
“But—”
Glenna waved her to silence.
“And in school. Who did the teachers call on to explain a math problem to the class or to set up the lab equipment for an experiment?”
“Glenna, were you jealous?” asked Berta.
Glenna laughed. A soft, joyous laugh. “Jealous? I was proud. Proud! You were my big sister and I walked in your shadow—but I loved it.”
“Then why—? I don’t follow—”
“Because I don’t think you understand how things really were. I don’t think you know—have ever known—how others see you. You seem to—to have this—this image of Berta Berdette that is far less than who you really are—and I don’t know where it came from.”
Berta stirred restlessly.
“Take another look at yourself, Berta. Others see you as—”
“I don’t care what others think,” Berta cut in sharply.
To her surprise Glenna laughed again.
Then she sobered. “Oh, Berta,” she said, and there was affection in her voice. “That’s one of the things I have loved about you. Have even envied. You have never cared what others think. It doesn’t bother you a fig. I’ve spent a—a lifetime—trying to please—everybody. Trying to be pleasant. Sometimes I think it’s a load no one should have to carry.”
“Then why did you?”
Glenna sobered and shrugged. To Berta’s surprise her sister’s eyes filled with tears. She put her teacup down and reached for a hankie.
“Because,” she said with a shake of her piled-up curls, “because—it would have made so much—so much unhappiness—for others. I couldn’t have stood that.”
“That’s where we’re different. It wouldn’t have mattered to me.”
There was silence.
Berta broke it. “But you surprise me,” she said, and her tone had lost its sharp edge.
Glenna just looked at her, still blinking away unwanted tears.
“I always thought that you were just naturally—sugary,” said Berta.
“Naturally? Oh no. No, it’s not natural. Not even easy. I’ve been—shamed so many times by—what has gone on inside. Oh, I try so hard to be—sweet and—good—but sometimes I don’t feel at all sweet—or good, either. I want to say ‘Why me?’ or ‘That’s your problem.’ ”
Her cheeks flushed.
“It amazes me at times how dreadfully—selfish—I feel inside. I need to—to constantly be praying for God’s help to—to say the right thing—do the right thing. Even as a child, I constantly was asking God to help me. I know it’s dreadful to be so—so self-seeking—when—when God has given so much—of himself—for me. When there is so much—need all around us. When people hurt and—and I still desire to please myself.
“But God does help me—He really does—when I ask Him, when I take the time to pray.”
Berta could only stare. She would never have guessed that her sister had worked so hard, at such personal sacrifice, to be good. To be what she felt her God wanted her to be.