Her Mother’s Hope

This was meant for your wedding night. I don’t think Trip will mind if you wear it now.

Cloe had about as much hope as Hildemara.

Rikka had sent pictures: Cloe at the sewing machine, Mama in the driver’s seat of her Model T, Bernie grafting a tree, Elizabeth in the vegetable garden, Papa standing beneath the blooming almond trees, arms outspread, looking up. She had even drawn one of Hildie sitting in the branches of the chinaberry tree, leaning back against the trunk, wearing a Mona Lisa smile. The last was a caricature self-portrait of a girl in an artist’s smock drawing a naked man who looked remarkably like Melvin. Hildie laughed and then coughed again, longer this time.

Mama had crocheted a pink lap blanket. Hildemara smoothed it over her legs. “It’s beautiful. Thank you for coming all this way to see me.”

“You didn’t think I would, did you?”

She shrugged. “I didn’t expect it.”

Mama looked off toward the rolling hills and oak trees. “It’s nice and peaceful here.”

“Yes.” A good place to die. Sometimes she prayed God would take her. Trip could move on with his life. She wouldn’t feel like she lived in the bottom of a well. Papa said once that death was opening a door into heaven.

They talked about the ranch. Bernie and Elizabeth still hoped for a baby. Hildemara didn’t want to take that hope away and tell Mama it wasn’t likely to happen.

Mama talked about Papa and how he loved Hildie. They talked about Cloe and the movie stars she had met. Cloe liked to drop names like Errol Flynn, Olivia de Havilland, Bette Davis, Tyrone Power, Alice Faye. She had finally snagged her dream job and made costumes for the movies. She met many stars at pre- and postproduction parties.

Other patients came outside, greeted Hildemara, met Mama, talked awhile, and moved off to rest in the sunshine. “You’ve made some nice friends, Hildemara.”

“We try to hold one another up.”

“And Trip?”

“He comes once a week, when he’s not in class or on duty. He still needs a few hours before he can graduate from Cal. Some of his units didn’t transfer from Colorado. As soon as he finishes school, he’s taking on more hours at the hospital. He can’t afford medical school yet.”

Mama relaxed in her chair, mouth softening. She smoothed the wrinkles from her cotton flower-print dress and folded her hands. “Good. All you have to do now is get well.”

“That’s not up to me.”

Her eyes flared. “Yes. It is.”

Hildemara didn’t try to argue. She knew more about tuberculosis than Mama could ever guess. Why tell her what it did to a person’s lungs? It was enough that Hildie didn’t have hope. Why strip Mama of hers?

Troubled, Mama pushed herself up. “Well, as much as I hate to say it, I’d better get going. It’s a long drive back to Murietta.” Hildemara drew the lap blanket aside and started to stand. “No, Hildemara Rose. You sit right there and enjoy the sunshine.” Stepping back, Mama looped her knitted sweater over her arm and picked up her worn white purse. “Before I go, I’ve got something to say to you.” She leaned down and grasped Hildemara’s chin. “Find the guts to fight, and hang on tight to life!”

Hildemara jerked her chin away and glared at her through tears. “I’m doing my best.”

Mama straightened, her expression disdainful, mocking. “Really? Not from what I can see. You’ve been sitting here for the past two hours feeling sorry for yourself.”

“I never said-”

“You didn’t have to say anything. I can see it written all over your face. You’ve given up!” She shook her head. “I never thought any of my children would turn out to be cowards, but here you are giving in. Just like-” She pressed her lips together. “Why waste my breath?”

Hurt, furious, Hildemara pushed herself out of the chair. “Thanks so much for your compassion, Mama. Now, get out of here.” Heart pounding, she watched her mother walk away. Mama looked back once, a smirk on her face.

Blood coursed through Hildie’s veins for the first time in weeks. She sat again, shaking, fists in her lap. Bundling up the pink lap robe, she threw it in the dirt.

The doctor checked her that afternoon. “You have some color back, Miss Waltert. I think you’re turning a corner.”

* * *

Dear Rosie,

I went to Arroyo del Valle to see Hildemara Rose. She had Mama’s pallor and the deep shadows under her eyes. I could see no life in them when I first arrived. It terrified me. She didn’t seem to care whether she lives or dies.

I wanted to shake her. Instead, I called her a coward. Though it broke my heart, I mocked and belittled her. Thank God she got good and mad. Her eyes spit fire at me and I wanted to laugh with joy. Better she hate me for a while than give up on life and be put in an early grave. She was trying to get up when I walked away. She barely had strength enough for that, but at least there was color in her cheeks. I hope that fire burns brighter each day.

* * *

Though her condition improved, Hildemara had to fight the constant tug of depression at how many months passed. Several patients died. Hildemara focused on the number who improved or celebrated remission. Trip wrote daily, but letters were a poor substitute for kisses or an embrace.

As soon as you’re out of that prison, we’re getting married.

She started having dreams that made her awaken in a sweat, but not the kind brought on by TB. She didn’t argue with him anymore.

At night, while others slept, she knelt on the end of her bed and looked out the window at the moon and stars and talked to God. Or Papa. She spent hours reading the small, black leather-bound Bible Papa had given her when she started nursing school, writing down Scriptures that promised her a future and hope. When the binding began to give way, she asked for adhesive tape.

It took a while, but she got over being angry with Mama. Mama was just Mama. She had to give up hoping she’d have a relationship with her like Cloe or Rikka. Both her sisters had always had the lion’s share of love. But then, they were lionesses like Mama. Nothing would stop them from going after what they wanted.

Hildie wondered if Mama would ever give her credit for making it on her own.

Jones came to see her. “The secret of longevity, my girl, is getting a chronic illness early in life. I survived the Spanish flu. It made me aware of how fragile our lives are. When you get out of here-and you will-you’re going to take better care of yourself. When you get out of here, you come on back to Merritt. I want you back on my ward.”

Boots wrote often. She had met someone-a patient, this time.

I gave him a back rub one night. One thing led to another. Let’s just say if we’d been caught, I would have lost my job. He says he loves me, Flo. He says he wants to get married. Just thinking about saying “until death” makes me break out in a sweat.

A few weeks later, she wrote again and said she had broken up with him.

I’ve probably made the biggest mistake of my life, but it’s too late now. Some people just aren’t ready to settle down. I think I’m one of them.

Boots took a job in Honolulu.

Surf and sand and plenty of tanned bodies. Oh, my. I think I’m in heaven.

A few weeks later, another letter arrived.

What was I thinking when I took this job? I’ve seen the entire island twice over. A pity I’m not an