by Sandra Scofield

In the hot spring of 1949, Margit Behl began to fail, worrying her mother, Frida, with whom she lived. Margit had never been hearty, but she had always liked to be busy. She usually stayed up late reading, then woke up restless to do something, like take her little girl, Penelope, on the bus downtown to wander around in the big department store. Now Margit didn’t do anything at all. She got up in the morning and made tea and went back to bed. She picked at the lunch that Frida made, then sat on the couch and stared at old magazines. She ran baths and sat in them until the water was cold. Often, she was up at night, pacing the small living room. She never left the house. Their next-door neighbor Connie Alder noticed. “Why isn’t Margit coming around?” she asked Frida. “Did I say something wrong?” Connie was a longtime friend to Frida and a confidante for Margit.

When Frida tried to talk to Margit, she snapped, stop smothering me. When Penelope asked her when they were going to the library again, Margit said, it’s too hot, and swiped the air in front of her.

Her mother’s explanation puzzled Penelope, who was five. It hadn’t been so hot yet as it would get. Even a little girl remembered summer in Wichita Falls, when you burned your bare feet not only on the sidewalk, but on dirt. Not that Penelope minded summer. Early in the morning, she could jump rope in front of the house or sit on the step and draw with her crayons. At midday, Frida took the tarp off the big air cooler outside the front room window, and Penelope helped hold the hose used to soak the straw packed around the fan box. The cooler blew a fierce flow of air into the living room and kept the two small bedrooms from being ovens at bedtime.

If Penelope woke early, as she usually did, she sat on the front step and watched neighbors come and go, and dogs let out, and the paper boy on his bike. She occupied herself with coloring books and reading. She had her own copy of Betsy-Tacy, from last year’s birthday gifts. She stuck close to Frida and did chores, like polishing the bathroom sink and rearranging the cutlery in the drawers—nesting spoons in spoons and forks on forks. While Frida was cooking, Penelope sat at the table and chattered. She often asked her grandmother to talk about when she was little. Frida had grown up on her family‘s wheat farm across the Red River in Oklahoma. Penelope especially liked to remember when we went to the park, went to the drive-in movies, had a picnic, frosted cupcakes, treated her owees. She followed her grandmother through the house, watching her make her bed or go outside to hang clean sheets on the line; she waited for Frida to sit down close to her.

Since Penelope was a toddler, Margit had been taking her two or three times a month to the library. They spent hours there, reading magazines, looking at books and choosing an armful to take home. Margit’s best friend from school days was a librarian. She set books back for mother and daughter, new ones that would go out fast otherwise. After supper on the first night, they came home with their canvas bag of books, and Margit and Penelope read for hours. Penelope sometimes fell asleep with a book on her belly. Nobody could say how she learned to read, except that she had always liked to watch the page when her mother read to her. She had learned her letters copying from her Little Golden books as a toddler.

“I’ve read everything three times,” she complained now of the lapse in library visits. “I need to go to the library.” Margit didn’t want to talk about going anywhere. She lay on the couch in the livingroom with a damp cloth on her forehead and another, larger one, folded up between her thighs.

Frida was an LVN—a Licensed Vocational Nurse—and she worked swing shift at General Hospital; she was gone from the house from 2:00 p.m. until 11:30 p.m., Tuesday through Saturday. She hated leaving Margit, who as a child had had just about every childhood disease there was, and who was thin as a stick. She wondered if Margit were just lonely and bored; if being twenty-one and never having lived away from home and her mother, with no education and a small child, had made a tumor of her depression and resentment.

Margit wasn’t running a fever. She wasn’t vomiting. She said nothing hurt. She told her mother to stop fussing over her, to let her feel bad if she needed to, and not to turn it into some kind of disease. But when she got up from the couch, she had to stand there a moment to get her bearing. She often rested her hands on her belly.

Frida worried she would have to take time off from work if Margit got worse. Her salary was adequate for what they required, but there was little margin for emergencies. Frida’s husband, Albert, a dairyman, had been killed in 1932 when a speeding truck hit his delivery van broadside; Frida had used the settlement to support her and Margit while she trained to be a practical nurse. That was the year the Alders built their house on the lot next door, and Connie, a warm woman, became Frida’s friend and a kind of big sister to Margit.

Mother and daughter shared a small bedroom, their twin beds so close they could reach out and touch fingers. Penelope lay in the dark with her eyes open, watching her mother’s chest rise and fall. After a while she moved so that she lay at the foot of the bed, her cheek against the windowsill. She could see the sliver of moon. One night, she slept and then woke to the sounds of Margit’s moaning. She went to get her grandmother, who told her to lie down in her bed. There was a bathroom between the two rooms, but from her grandmother’s room Penelope could hear her grandmother speak her mother’s name, and the whine of Margit’s reply. She heard her grandmother run water at the bathroom sink, and a door close.

She fell asleep. At dawn, her grandmother woke her and told her to dress. She pulled on shorts and a blouse. They walked next door to the Alders’ house. The front door was open; Frida had called Connie to ask if Penelope could stay while she took Margit to the ER. Connie gave Penelope a hug and told her to get in bed with Libby. The girls, both five, had been neighbors and best friends their whole lives. As soon as Penelope settled herself in bed, she fell asleep.

There is some bleeding, Frida told Connie, and Margit is pale and weak.

Woman trouble, Connie pronounced, shaking her head. Both of them had had woman troubles, and surgery, but for Connie, who had three kids, surgery had been a relief, while for Frida it had been insignificant; she would never marry again.

There was no telling what would happen at the hospital or how long it would take. Frida had to be at work by a quarter to three. She put clothes in the car so she could change at the hospital if it came to that. Connie said not to worry about Penelope, she and Libby were two peas in a pod, and it was no trouble to have her for as long as need be.

In the car, when Frida tried to reassure her daughter, saying the doctors would know what to do and she would be all right, women had these problems all the time. Margit wailed and begged Frida not to take her to the hospital.

You’re bleeding, Frida said. Something is wrong. She thought Margit looked ghostly.

They’ll take it out, they’ll cut me up and send me home an old woman.

Oh Child, Frida said, you don’t know that. But she had been thinking the same thing.

She said, they’ll stop the bleeding. They’ll make you comfortable. They’ll do xrays. They’ll talk to you about what they learn. Your periods aren’t regular anyway, this could be.

Margit pulled at her mother’s arm so hard there would be a bruise. They were already near the hospital. Frida pulled over to a curb and turned off the car. She turned and took Margit’s hands in hers. You should have said something, she said. You should have seen a doctor, had treatment.

Margit was sobbing. Please, Mother, take me to the Catholic hospital. They won’t be so quick to take it out. They were Lutherans, all of Frida’s family, back as far as they knew their German history.

It! It! Frida exclaimed, worried and losing patience. Women talked about their uterus as if it were a mechanical part with no spare. But she knew her daughter was afraid of a hysterectomy. She wouldn’t be relieved, like Frida had been to be done with the bother and the reminder of her real loss, Albert’s death. Frida realized that Margit might hope that someday she would marry and have more children. Oh Darling, she said. Margit pushed her away. She said, they’ll knock me out and I’ll wake up not a woman anymore.

Only if it saves your life! Frida said. You have to trust them, they are doctors. They’re trained to make these decisions. And besides, they have to have your permission. She could have told stories about doctors and their decisions, any nurse could, but she couldn’t think like that right now. You’re jumping ahead of yourself, she said. And I’ll be right there, in the building.

I would trust Catholic doctors, Margit said. They pray to a woman.

So Frida took her to St. Anselm’s Hospital instead of the General. For someone who worked at a hospital, she was startled by how surprised she was: the efficiency of the whole business, the speed of it. She hardly blinked before she was ushered into a waiting room. There was a cross on the wall. In a little while, someone brought her a paper cup of coffee. Someone else came and said they were giving Margit blood, stabilizing her, they would admit her for the night, and make a further assessment in the morning.

“And surgery?” Frida asked.

The nurse shrugged and patted Frida’s hand. “We’ll take good care of her.”

Someone else would have the say. Margit would have everything explained, and she would make a decision. It was too early to worry. In a while, a doctor did come to say that although the bleeding was scary to Margit, it wasn’t really very heavy. Margit needed fluids and sleep and a thorough workup in the morning. He thought her general health wasn’t good, and they would find out why she was having pain, and make a plan so she would get well. Vitamins. Diet. He didn’t mention surgery.

Frida looked at her watch, then at the doctor. She told him that she worked in the Women’s Ward at General Hospital, she would be there until eleven, if anything changed. He said she could see Margit shortly; there was time before Frida’s shift to sit with her, catch a bite in the cafeteria, and get to General. Her uniform was in the back seat of her car. She wondered how in the world they would pay for it all.

Margit came home with a pamphlet about Catholicism and copies of The Diary of a Country Priest (“The wish to pray is a prayer in itself.”), The Song of Bernadette, and The Imitation of Christ. The Benedictine chaplain, Father Thomas, who had seen her hunger and vulnerability, came to the house the following week, and while he was there, he called Father Danley at St. Joseph’s Parish and put her on the line. The pastor said he was looking forward to meeting her as soon as she felt better. He said he was forming a study group on Mondays for potential converts and she would be so very welcome. Before that, he hoped she would come talk to him. He had a wonderful, warm voice, like a movie star. Margit thought she could listen to him all day.

She thanked God that He saved her uterus and put her on a path to Catholicism. She felt a tug in her, a vulnerability, and she thought, what can I lose? Father Thomas had told her there were strange routes to faith, and now she would find meaning and direction and solidarity in the Church. God has a plan, he said. He was returning to Subiaco Abbey in Arkansas right away, but he would remember her in his prayers.

Frida had gone to work and Penelope was next door, so Margit told him the truth about her past, weeping, and asked if any Catholic man could want her. How would I explain Penelope? She wished her daughter was with her. Nobody could believe a child was so clever. The priest put his hand on Margit’s shoulder. God wants you, he said. Your life is changing. Let it unfold.

Margit thought he was very young to be a priest. He couldn’t know anything about women.

Soon after, on a Monday, Frida’s day off, Margit took the car and drove to Saint Joseph’s Church. She had made an appointment to see Father Danley at ten, so she had time to go inside the church and walk around, gawking at the statues and paintings and stained glass, the polished pews and the Baptismal basin. She was alone, and she sat for a little while in a pew and considered what it was she would say to the priest. She didn’t think she would tell him that she had never been married. She didn’t want to go to the priest as a sinner, only as a person looking for a church to join. She would say that she grew up Lutheran, but now she wanted to know about Catholicism because it was the first Church, and because she thought she would like a richer liturgy. He would think she was a thoughtful person. He didn’t have to know that she was uneducated, that she had never held a job, that her mother supported her and her daughter. She certainly wouldn’t say that she had never had anything to say to God, that she went to church to please her mother. She wouldn’t say that she was lonely.

She had donned her best dress, a polished cotton shirtwaist, and though it was summer, had added a light cardigan.

The rectory was a nice brick building with a well-tended flower garden in the front. The housekeeper showed her in and to the first room on the left, where there were several comfortable cushioned chairs, a low table, and a bookcase that filled one whole wall. She sat down gingerly, as if she might sink too far into the chair. She felt perspiration slipping down the inside of her arms. She was so nervous she could hear her heartbeat in her ears. When the priest entered the room she tried to get up, but he motioned her to stay seated. Are you comfortable? he asked, as if he could see clearly that she was not. He was followed by the housekeeper, who set down a glass and a small carafe of ice water, and disappeared.

Please, help yourself, the priest said. Mrs. Behl, isn’t it?

Oh, Margit, please, she said. Instantly, her face felt scalded. She poured some water and sipped it.

“I am Father Danley, Margit,” he said. “I am Pastor of St. Joseph’s Parish. I’m very glad you have come to see me. I hope I can answer your questions. I hope you are feeling well.”

And just like that, she was crying. Snotty, gulping, mortifying crying. Father Danley pulled open a shallow drawer in the table and took out an ironed handkerchief and gave it to her. He leaned toward her. I’m going to say a prayer, Margit. God grant Margit the comfort and peace of His love, he said. God be with her.

She wiped her tears and nose and took a deep breath.

“It is all right,” Father said.

She smiled. I know. I know it is! For that day, for that season, Margit felt saved. Her soul, her womanhood. She didn’t have a long view, forward or back. What she had was faith, like a doll held tight against her breast. She had a future instead of a history. She couldn’t see ahead, and didn’t want to.

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Sandra Scofield is the author of eleven books, including fiction, creative nonfiction, and writers’ craft. She is on the faculties of the Lasell University Solstice MFA Program, and the University of Iowa’s Summer Writing Festival.