Stars Over Clear Lake Page 22

  “What is it?” I whispered.

  “Nothing,” Scotty said. “You seemed far away, is all.”

  His mother’s voice rang in, “Did you tell her, Scotty?”

  “Tell me what?”

  Scotty ducked his head bashfully. “Mom wants to help us out after we’re married. Decorate the apartment for us.”

  “How generous of you!” Mom was beaming.

  “Yes, thank you very much,” I said, nodding at Mrs. Bishop. They were already paying for part of the cost of the apartment that wasn’t covered by Scotty’s scholarship. I looked at the white taper candles in the middle of the table, wondering if our apartment would reflect her tastes or mine.

  “Well, it won’t be as nice as the home you’ll have once Scotty graduates, I’m sure. But you’ll want something decent for your first year of marriage.” She sighed and turned to Mom. “They’ll give us some beautiful grandchildren.”

  I felt my neck grow hot and looked down. Scotty squeezed my hand under the table.

  “Perhaps by this time next year we’ll be celebrating again,” Mom chimed in. “A little one in the nursery.”

  Maybe I’d drunk too much champagne. The room felt stuffy. Sweat trickled down my spine. I pulled at the collar of my blouse, trying to breathe.

  Scotty leaned over. “Lorraine, are you okay?”

  “You’re not getting ill, are you dear?” Mom asked.

  I scooted my chair back, my napkin fluttering to the floor. “I just need some fresh air,” I said a bit brusquely.

  Scotty fetched our coats.

  “I’ll go too,” Kate said, but Mr. Bishop motioned her back down in her seat. “Let the lovebirds have their privacy,” he said.

  We escaped out the back toward the lake shore, hand in hand in the twilight. Scotty had calluses on his hands from catching so many basketballs, and I rubbed my fingers against the hard spots. The smiling faces of our families shone through the brightly lit windows, as if plucked from the cover of a Saturday Evening Post. The cold air was a respite. I felt as though I could finally exhale, as though I’d been holding my breath for the last hour and a half.

  Scotty put his arm around me. “It’s the champagne. You felt sick from it the night we got engaged.”

  I nodded. “I don’t have much of a stomach for it, I guess.”

  “I’m glad for the excuse to finally be alone with you.” He pointed at a distant island in the middle of the lake. “Remember how I promised to take you out in the boat this summer? We should have a picnic lunch on the island. It’ll be romantic, don’t you think?”

  “Sure,” I mumbled.

  “Is something bothering you, Lorraine?”

  “Why?” I shivered as a cold wind blew off the lake.

  “You haven’t really been yourself tonight. Distant, somehow.”

  “Actually Scotty, there is something.” I paused. How could I tell him the truth? That every day that drew closer to the wedding I was panicking just a little bit more, second-guessing my decision. That I still had feelings for another man, a German on the side of the war that had taken my brother. I was desperate to know whether I was doing the right thing in marrying Scotty, desperate to rid myself of this doubt.

  “I know what it is.” Scotty put his arms around me.

  “You do?” My voice hitched. Had Lance told him more than I knew? I looked out across the lake, wondering if the Surf was visible from here, wondering what Scotty knew about Jens. My body tensed beneath his touch.

  “Of course I do, silly.” Scotty kissed me softly. “We don’t have to start a family right away. There are ways, sweetheart, to make sure it doesn’t happen till you feel absolutely ready.”

  He squeezed me until there was no breath left in my body. “Oh, Lorraine, I love you more than anyone else in the whole world.”

  “I love you too, Scotty.” And I meant it. Even the ground felt more firm under my feet when I was with Scotty. He was rock solid, and any girl would be happy with that.

  Except maybe a girl who had stars in her eyes.

  My gaze turned to the sky and I could see the letter W, a bit crooked, but standing out in the sky as though a spotlight was shining on it.

  Thirty-nine

  1947

  Mom had me read the marriage announcements in the newspaper while she finished the embroidery of my veil, which would extend halfway down my back. I looked at the veins that crisscrossed her pale hands as we sat in wicker chairs on the front porch.

  I’d noticed them more when she’d sat next to Scotty’s mom, who had such smooth skin. Whereas Mrs. Bishop was active with numerous committees and played bridge twice a week, Mom was always tired, her health precarious. Her eyes were sunken and her face was lined with wrinkles. She looked ten years older than her true age, much older than Mrs. Bishop, who actually had three years on Mom. Mom had never fully recovered from losing Pete. I was hoping the wedding would improve her health as well as her spirit.

  Despite her frailty, the needle moved deftly and her stitching held a perfection mine would never possess. The veil would be a masterpiece.

  “What happened to your own veil?” I asked.

  “It was an old hand-me-down, not fit to pass on. We had a simple church wedding and a private dinner at my parents’ home afterward. Nothing like the lavish affair you’re having.”

  Our “lavish affair” was supper for ninety guests in the church basement, catered by Witke’s Restaurant.

  “Keep reading,” Mom commanded me.

  “She wore a white slipper-satin gown with a fitted, beaded bodice, and long, pointed sleeves…”

  Mom sighed. She took in the words like prayers, her eyes closing at particularly touching descriptions of the bride’s gown. “Yours is just as beautiful, if I do say so myself. We must find a way to describe it so people will appreciate its beauty.”

  “Mrs. Bishop wants to post a picture of me in the paper,” I told her. My hand-sewn dress was a white ivory satin gown with a scalloped neckline and matching chapel train. It was hanging on my bedroom door, waiting in the garment bag for my wedding in sixty-eight days.

  “That’s wonderful. But we’ll still need a description,” Mom said, “one that does it justice. Those newspaper photos don’t capture the detail.”

  “I’ll work on it, Mom.” I returned to the announcements. “Oh, Dixie Waverly got married,” I said. “Do you remember her?”

  Mom’s hands froze, and she let out a low moan. It was then that I remembered. Pete had dated Dixie a few times.

  “It was bound to happen, Mom,” I said softly.

  But her eyes were already glazing over and she stood, the embroidery slipping from her lap. She leaned against the wall for support, as though the floor had tilted. “She was supposed to marry Pete.”

  “It’s been three years, more than that, since they dated,” I said, trying to talk her out of it, as though I was throwing a life preserver to a drowning woman.

  Mom put a hand on her head and held it there, her eyes closed.

  “Why don’t I fix you some tea?” I offered, but she shook her head.

  “It’s one of my headaches coming on. I need to lie down.” Mom made her way inside and up the stairs, using the railing as a crutch.

  “I’ll get your pills,” I called after her. She was retreating into one of her spells, and I was helpless to stop it. And worse, I was supposed to go back to school the next day.

  I brought her the pills and water and a warm towel to place on her forehead, and closed the curtains in her room. Then I fixed supper. This was minor, I told myself. She still had my wedding to look forward to. Maybe she’d be better in the morning.

  Mom finally came out of her room the next morning when Daddy carried my suitcase to the car.

  “Are you okay?”

  Mom sighed deeply. “I miss my son. But we have a wedding to plan. I must put on a brave face.”

  I reached out to hug her goodbye, but she drew back and folded her arms. “Call us when you g
et there.” I tried to hide the hurt I felt, but couldn’t help but remember how she used to throw herself in Pete’s arms.

  “Maybe I should stay,” I told Daddy as he started the car. “Until Mom’s better.”

  Daddy looked at me with raised eyebrows. “There’s nothing I’d like better than to have you around, especially when she gets this way. But I’ll make sure she takes her pills. No sense missing your classes in the meantime.”

  I got on my bus with Daddy’s assurance that he’d call me if she got worse. Over the next two weeks I had three biology quizzes and a paper due in composition. I spent most of my time at the library, and when I wasn’t there, I was at choir practice.

  I was given my first solo in the year-end concert, something I was looking forward to, since I wouldn’t be returning in the fall. Our choir was performing a sixteenth-century hymn entitled “Fairest Lord Jesus,” and I would be singing all the stanzas alone except the last one, in which the choir would join me.

  I rehearsed every day with Mr. Christiansen before choir practice. He had a typical Scandinavian look, whitish-blond hair and a slender build, and he spoke often and fondly of his Norwegian heritage.

  When I trilled a note at the end of the piece, he scolded me.

  “Remember,” he said, “Your goal is to present sacred music sung beautifully, without distraction, so the listener will be sensitized to the Holy Spirit’s message.”

  I had no reason to suspect that I’d lose my solo if Mr. Christiansen found out I was leaving at the end of the term, but I didn’t want to risk it. I kept my engagement ring hidden in my sock drawer and had only confessed my upcoming summer wedding to two close friends on campus. But gossip traveled fast at a small college, and one day I was called in to Miss Hilleboe’s office.

  “I hear you’ll be leaving at the end of the year,” she said.

  “Oh. Yes. I meant to come and tell you myself,” I said. “I’ll be getting married this summer.”

  “Congratulations. I’m sure the choir will miss you. I’ve heard you have a wonderful voice, a true gift.”

  “Thank you. I’ll miss them, too.”

  “Will you be matriculating elsewhere?”

  “I’m afraid not. My fiancé will be graduating in one year, and I wouldn’t be able to finish anyway.” I remembered how only just last year she’d impressed upon me the privilege of attending college. She was terribly disappointed in me, I was sure.

  “I know that you are the only remaining child of your family, and as a student you have faced new challenges and great responsibilities. I hope this experience is one you’ll always cherish.”

  “I will,” I assured her, and fought back tears.

  Miss Hilleboe gave a gentle smile. “There’s no regret in leaving if it is to follow your heart’s desire.”

  Heart’s desire? Was giving up singing and leaving St. Olaf my heart’s desire? Was marrying Scotty? “What if you’re not sure, Miss Hilleboe?”

  She didn’t flinch. “Prayer,” was her instant reply.

  “Oh, yes,” I said, thinking that all our prayers hadn’t saved my brother from his tragic plight. And no amount of prayer would ever change my mother’s heart in regard to Jens.

  “Of course, answers to our prayers don’t necessarily make things easier,” she added.

  It was the first thing she’d said that made sense. I gulped back an impulse to blurt out everything. How many freshman girls had crumpled into a ball of tears in Miss Hilleboe’s office?

  “It also takes fortitude,” she said, “a discipline every student at this school possesses.” She took a breath as though she was about to say something more on that subject, but then she shook her head. “I wish you the very best in life.”

  I walked back to my dorm in the sunshine. Overnight, tulips had sprouted and the earth held a damp spring smell. Along the path, day lilies were emerging, and a tree swallow warbled nearby. A group of freshman girls were watching a pickup football game on the grassy knoll in front of Old Main; other students were braving the hills of the campus on bicycles. The world was coming to life again and I felt as though my life was ending. I’d hoped that moving up the wedding would silence my inner doubts. But at night I still dreamt of Jens. And during class I thought of the determined look on his face when I’d tutored him, of how hard he had worked. It seemed whatever activities I took part in, whatever paths I took, all led back to Jens.

  When I arrived back at my dorm my roommate Bernice was waiting for me, wringing her hands.

  “Lorraine, I need your help. I have to give a talk in front of the entire class on food and nutrition. You’re used to being in front of people. How do you do it?”

  “There isn’t any real trick, Bernice. I’m sure you’ll do fine.”

  “No, I won’t. I get the shakes just thinking about it.”

  Bernice was a short girl with straight brown hair. She never wore jewelry, except for a watch with a silver band that she’d gotten for Christmas. Most of her clothes were handmade. She had on a simple blue skirt she’d sewn, each stitch uniform and straight. She’d made the decorative pillows that were carefully arranged on her bed. Even though her appearance was plain, my roommate had an innate ability to make everything around her beautiful. She also knew how to make a delicious upside-down pineapple cake.

  I picked up one of her lacy pillows. “Preparation is the key. I practice a song over and over until I feel confident. You just need to practice your talk until you feel that same confidence that you have in your sewing. I can be your rehearsal audience.”

  “Oh, thank you. You’d make a wonderful teacher, Lorraine.”

  “Well, honestly, what I really want to be is a professional singer,” I said. Bernice knew how much I loved singing, but I’d never confessed my dream to her before.

  Bernice wrinkled her nose. “But don’t singers sometimes have to perform in shady establishments? Bars and ballrooms and places like that?”

  Our school didn’t allow drinking, smoking, or dancing. Plus we weren’t allowed to have cars. That didn’t stop some classmates from escaping with nearby Carleton College students on weekends to Minneapolis to enjoy those activities.

  “Oh, I don’t really mind those places,” I said. “They have a lot of atmosphere.”

  “Atmosphere? I’d never have the courage to go into one of those places, not even with an escort.”

  “But they have great music. You don’t know what you’re missing. And there are some wonderful ballrooms, perfectly nice establishments.”

  “My mother says the only nice place to hear music is at church.”

  “Your mother should get out more.”

  Bernice crossed her arms. “You’re beginning to sound downright scandalous, Lorraine. You’ll never land a husband that way.”

  Bernice evidently hadn’t heard the rumors floating around about my engagement. But if having ambition and loving good music made me scandalous, then so be it.

  “I’ve been going to the Surf Ballroom since I was fourteen,” I told her.

  Bernice’s eyes widened. “I don’t know what it’s like in Iowa, but I’ve always heard that decent girls don’t go to ballrooms.”

  “I guess things are different where I come from.”

  Bernice sniffed and picked up her sewing basket. “Obviously.”

  I’d never considered myself anything but ordinary, but to Bernice I was as shocking as Marlene Dietrich. I tucked away this thought, afraid of how good it made me feel.

  As I watched Bernice thread her needle, a small smile crept across my face. Could this be the fortitude Miss Hilleboe spoke of?

  Forty

  2007

  “Dr. Baker will be in shortly.”

  I nod and stare out the window as a single yellow leaf floats down from a tall oak. It seems foreboding, as I remember a similar sight when I sat here with Sid on a similar fall day two years ago. I knew then that the diagnosis was going to be cancer. Of course, he’d had all the symptoms: blood in his urine,
pain, and a general achiness and tiredness that wouldn’t go away. Now, as I sit here waiting for my own diagnosis, I wonder if I’m reading too much into that leaf. All I did was pass out once.

  Daisy sits beside me reading a magazine article about a celebrity I’ve never heard of from one of those reality shows. The office walls are painted a pale blue, and there’s a framed charcoal drawing of a dock extending off a still lake. Dr. Baker drew it himself and signed his name in the marshy weeds at the bottom.

  The door opens just then and Dr. Baker enters. He has on a white lab coat over his clothes, and a stethoscope peeks out of his front pocket.

  He shakes my hand and then Daisy’s. “Any more fainting spells recently?”

  “None at all,” I assure him.

  “How about fatigue or confusion?”

  I shake my head. Unless you count my conversations with ghosts, I think to myself.

  “That’s good. Well, I’m not going to beat around the bush. We’ve always been up front with each other. I have the results of your tests with the cardiologist.”

  “Oh no, it’s bad,” Daisy says, gripping the magazine.

  “Not really.” Dr. Baker looks at me. “You’ve always had a low heart rate, which is a good thing. But in this case, it’s dropped a bit too low, which often happens as we get older, and that’s also why you felt lightheaded and fainted. Bottom line: you need a pacemaker.”

  “Are you sure? She only had one episode,” Daisy asks.

  “One episode is more than you want to have. If her blood pressure dropped too fast, she would do more than just faint. And she has complained in the past of fatigue and shortness of breath. Cardiac pacemakers are quite safe, and the people who use them can lead unrestricted lives. You can schedule the procedure in the next few weeks. It will take less than an hour under general anesthesia, and you’ll probably spend one night in the hospital.”

  I’m relieved. I’d expected something worse.

  Daisy frowns. “So it’s a simple procedure and she’ll be fine afterward?”

  Dr. Baker smiles. “Well, any time someone is put under anesthesia there are risks. And elderly people are more at risk for bleeding and infection. The heart is located between the lungs, so there is a slight possibility of lung puncture, or pneumothorax. But it’s a relatively harmless procedure.” He hands me a pamphlet detailing the procedure and what to expect. “You’ll be surprised how much more energy you have once a pacemaker is installed.”