Lea drifted in a sea of quiet, free of thought, unburdened of sorrow—just floating. A dazzling light in the distance lured her. She glided toward its promise of peace and tranquility. As she moved, it grew more brilliant. Her eyes instinctively narrowed as awareness slowly reclaimed her. Suddenly, she felt hard ground beneath her—not the dirt she was accustomed to, but something else—tiles. White tiles. Her eyes moved a little farther to where pearl-coloured fabric stretched across the floor. Curious, she reached out and fingered it—satin? It’d been years since she’d felt the silky touch of such a fabric. Not since before the war in Belgium. Her eyes traced the folds of the cloth. They rose like tall pillars of shimmering light that led to a glowing visage—a lady’s face, beautiful though etched with lines from a life hard-lived, furrowed deep within her ivory skin.
“Maman!” Lea whispered. She glanced about her, realizing she was anywhere but on the farm. “But how?” Then she remembered. She’d taken her last, fatal breath.
Maman’s eyes brimmed with tears. She regarded Lea, her brows tipped, questioning. Why?
A wave of guilt swept over Lea until she recalled her reason. “I just can’t do it anymore.” Her voice was a mere wisp.
Her mother’s head tilted to one side. What’s happened?
A tear slid down Lea’s cheek. “It’s a place of death, Maman. So much death. And I can never escape. Ever. Except…”
Maman shook her head, then took her by the hand.
Lea was whisked to a brick road that ran past the house of her youth. She was ten, racing, laughter bubbling from within her as she threw a glance over her shoulder at her sisters—Mathilde and Palma! “I’ll get home first” she called, letting out a breathless giggle. “And the last strawberry tart will be mine.”
“No, you won’t,” Palma shouted. “I will. You’ll have to eat the stale bread.” Palma reached swift fingers and grabbed Lea’s dress, slowing her down as they giggled helplessly.
Just as quickly, her memories shifted to the dining room of their simple home. Papa sat in his usual spot at the head of the table. The grandfather clock gave a steady, reassuring tick. She looked around at her siblings—François, Camille, Mathilde, and Palma—innocent of the perils of war, free of worries, recounting humorous stories of their day at school. How simple life was then, before the Great War, the Great Drought, before the Great Depression. Great! Ha! Why do they call them great? They aren’t great! They’re abysmal. A test of endurance. An endurance Lea had no more of.
Gently pulled back, her eyes met her mother’s again. “I remember,” said Lea. “We had good times, but that was so long ago.”
Maman offered her hand. When Lea took it, she raised her to standing position, still towering, still radiant.
A gentle wind swept them away. Lea closed her eyes and allowed it to carry her. When she opened them again, they soared over the homestead. How vast it was. Acres and acres of cleared land. They’d done so much work, she and Nap. Removing the sod, clearing rocks, year after year. In the distance, she saw the house, a mere speck compared to the land—small, crowded, wet laundry hanging everywhere. And then she saw him—her one true love, the soldier she’d given her heart to, the father of her children. Forlorn, yet not bitter. Always hopeful. Always optimistic. A spark within ignited, thawing her heart. Could she really leave him to all this alone? How torn he’d be when he discovered her body floating in the coulee.
A pretty, dark-haired child ran toward him. He bent on one knee, placing something in her hands, his grin wide.
“Papa,” the little girl cried, her eyes lighting up. “A baby bird!”
“Oui,” he said. “I found the nest this morning in a stook. You’ll have to take care of it and feed it.”
“Oh, Papa! I will, I will!” The child ran to her older sister. A boy of the same age joined them. There was something familiar about them. Lea understood. It was George and Georgette, older now. But who was the little one? Georgette reached down and took the nest from the child. Together, they brought the bird into the house, their faces filled with purpose as Nap watched from afar. Realization gripped Lea. The child! She hasn’t been born yet.
Panic filled her. Had her actions stolen Nap’s little girl from him?
Her mind cleared of the vision, and again, she found herself standing before the lady, the firm tiles beneath her feet.
Maman’s lips were pressed together, her eyebrows raised. When she spoke, her words were gentle. “Choose life.”
Choose life? Lea repeated the words. Choose life. Looking past her mother, Lea saw fields and fields of golden wheat and white clouds that spread long arms over scintillating blue. Angels of hope. Peace filled her, and she knew then that their problems would soon be over.
“But will I be happy?” she asked.
Maman nodded. I promise.
Arms seized Lea by the waist, jolting her.
“No!” Pol’s voice screamed from afar.
The dream vanished. Her body was shoved forward, head down. A spasm of coughing overtook her. Throwing up water, she gasped, then fought to breathe only to cough again and again.
“What were you doing?” Tears rolled down Pol’s cheeks.
Lea hacked up more water while he beat her back.
“Were you trying to kill yourself? Like Mr. Claude?”
Lea avoided his gaze, knowing full well he’d see the guilt that swam in her eyes.
When the fit of coughing passed, she sat up, and took her half-grown boy into her arms as he sobbed. “It’s okay, Pol. I’m here. And I’m not going anywhere. Mr. Claude was wrong to take his own life.” She brushed her fingers through his hair, his tears falling on her shoulders. “Everything’s going to be all right.”
They sat for a long time at the edge of the water, Lea’s wet hair dripping down her dress, Pol’s shirt dampened. When his tears finally dispelled, she rose and took him by the hand and lead him across the brown fields.
“You know what?” she told her son.
“No, what?” he asked, his voice still trembling.
“I’m going to have another baby.”
“When?” asked Pol, his brow creased.
“I’m not sure. And you know what else?”
“No, what?”
“It’s going to be a little girl.”
“How do you know?” Pol threw her an inquiring glance.
She flashed him a smile. “Sometimes a woman just does.”
“Oui, Maman.”
“And Pol.” She stopped and grabbed him by the shoulders. “Promise me you’ll never tell your father what you just saw.”
Pol hesitated before answering. “Okay, I promise.”
Lea gave his hand a squeeze, her eyes roving over the earth she knew would produce a bumper crop in just over a year. She gazed up at the blue sky, at small fluffy clouds drifting across the cerulean splendour. Prairie skies. They were beautiful even if they didn’t always produce rain. Lea let out a sigh, then whispered, Merci, Maman.
***
A month later, Nap returned from town, a wide smile pasted on his face.
Lea met him at the door. “What happened?”
Napoleon grabbed her and hoisted her up in the air. “I’ve got work!”
Lea’s mouth dropped and her eyes widened. “What kind of work?”
“They’re building a dam ten miles north of town, and they need carpenters to make the forms. That means we’ll have an income again.”
“Oh, Nap, that’s so wonderful!” Lea cried, throwing her arms around him.
Lilian and Pol came out to greet their dad, each with a twin in their arms. They smiled when they heard the news.
“Maybe we’ll get a new house now,” said Pol, “in town.”
Lea let go of Nap. “Don’t be so impatient, Pol. Just a little at a time.”
“Well, you never know.” Napoleon winked. “Oh, and by the way, this came for you today.” He handed her a letter posted from Belgium. Lea took the letter and opened it.
My dearest Leopoldine,
It is with great sadness that I must inform you of Maman’s passing. She died in the wee hours of the morning on June thirtieth. She’d caught a cold that quickly changed to pneumonia. We tried poultices and steam, but nothing worked, not even the medicine the doctor brought for her. It was terrible watching the life ebb from her. François, Camille, Mathilde, Papa, and I were by her side those last few days, holding her hand as she slipped away. She kept asking for you, saying she wanted to see you one last time. We tried in vain to tell her it was impossible as you lived far across the Atlantic Ocean on a homestead in Saskatchewan, but she was too delirious to understand.
Then, on the thirtieth, her eyes grew distant as though she saw something far, far away. Perhaps the afterlife? She stayed that way for a time, and then she whispered the most peculiar thing. “Choose life,” before taking her final breath. I don’t know what she meant by that.
We buried her two days later in the Chatlineau churchyard in her satin wedding dress as she requested. When her tombstone is erected, I’ll send you a photo.
Maman’s death was probably a blessing in disguise as I believe she was growing feeble of mind. A few years ago, she told me the strangest tale. She said that while sewing, one evening, she heard your voice. Thinking you had arrived home and wanted to surprise her, she immediately ran to the window and looked down to the streets below. Of course, you weren’t there, so she returned to her stitching only to hear your voice again a moment later. She said she turned about the room, but saw nothing. I guess she never got over your leaving.
As far as our family goes, things have gotten serious here in Belgium with the threat of Hitler. I’m certain our fair nation will soon be at war again. I know I’ve been saying it for years, but emigrating to Canada looks like a real possibility, especially since Dino was recently attacked by a thief who attempted to slit his throat. He insists he has no idea who the man was, but I suspect it has something to do with this business of driving back and forth from Italy to Belgium. He’s always been so secretive about that. Who knows what will happen. I dream of the day you and I will see one another face to face again.
Meilleurs voeux,
Palma
Lea folded the letter, her gaze meeting Nap’s. “It’s from Palma. She says Maman passed away.”
Nap’s face fell.
“It’s okay,” Lea said. “It was her time.”