Chapter Seven
MINKA AWOKE in a sterile room, groggy and shivering.
“There you are,” a woman said, leaning close and coming into focus. Her white nurse’s hat reminded Minka of her brother John’s sailor cap. The curtains over the window were shut, but bright daylight leaked in around the edges. Minka’s thin hospital gown was clean, as were her blankets. The smell of bleach and antiseptic permeated the room.
“It’s over?” Minka asked. Her tongue felt like a dried-out piece of leather. The room wasn’t cold, but she was. She tried to push higher up on the bed and moaned as a sharp pain cut through her in the same place she’d felt pain the morning after It had occurred.
“Careful now. It will take time to heal. You gave us a scare,” the nurse explained.
“What scare?” Minka asked, still groggy.
“You were on the table too long.”
Minka didn’t know what that meant. Disjointed memories flooded her —memories of pain, bright lights, faces, humiliation, and confused panic.
When Minka had arrived at the large clapboard house that served as Sioux Falls’s hospital, she was immediately sedated. The hours after descended into a blur as her doctor followed the most modern procedures of the time, outlined in the obstetric textbook by Dr. Joseph DeLee. The intent was to prevent problems, which unfortunately meant few women escaped damage. At the approach of the pushing stage, Minka was given a dose of ether, knocking her unconscious. The doctor gave her an episiotomy, and then with forceps, he delivered Minka’s baby.
The nurse pulled away the blankets and lifted Minka’s gown. Minka’s reflex was to cover herself, but the nurse pushed away her hand and gave her a quick exam. Minka clenched her muscles until the nurse covered her once again.
She realized her stomach had deflated, though it was not fully back to normal. That thought brought her awake.
“The baby?” she asked.
“Let me finish my rounds.”
The nurse left.
Minka tried propping herself up. Every movement sent a sting of pain ripping through her, but she succeeded in moving her feet around to the side of the bed and sitting up. A gush of something wet flooded the sheets. She looked under the covers at bright-red blood. Her monthlies had never been like this, and Minka wondered if that was normal.
“I’m bleeding,” she said to another nurse passing her bed. The woman paused.
“Yes, you will for some time,” she said and disappeared. Minka closed her eyes, listening to the nurse’s feet padding away. Then the first nurse’s voice broke in again.
“Are you ready to see her?”
“I . . . there’s blood. . . . A lot. . . .” Then Minka took in the words, and her eyes popped open. “Did you say ‘her’?”
“You have a girl,” the nurse said.
The small bundle was lowered into Minka’s arms.
Minka stared at the little face, taking in every detail. The baby’s tiny lips were puckered. Her eyelids were closed and touched with a blush of pink. Wisps of light hair fanned across her head, hardly more substantial than the hair on Minka’s arms. Her lips moved and her eyes fluttered.
The feel of her reminded Minka of melting butter.
“She is mine, my baby?” Minka glanced up at the nurse in disbelief, then back to the newborn in her arms. She felt a flood of warmth coursing inside her. The sensation seemed to be in her chest. Her head swirled. This . . . this was extraordinary.
The nurse lifted the bundle from Minka’s arms. “Let me have her. We need to clean you up.”
“But . . .” Minka mumbled. I don’t ever want to be away from her. Please let me have her.
“Can you help a moment?” the nurse said, turning toward a younger woman walking by in a different uniform.
“Certainly,” the girl said, smiling as she took the baby.
The nurse firmly laid Minka back onto the bed and changed some thick cloths that lay beneath her. Minka’s eyes didn’t leave the woman holding her baby. Her baby. Hers.
“Have you ever changed a diaper?” the nurse asked Minka. She motioned for the other woman to give the baby back to her young mother.
Minka shook her head, not wanting to set her baby down again. “I can do it though.”
The nurse went back and forth around the curtain, bringing in supplies. Minka’s arms cradled the sleeping child. She was so light, but Minka’s arms trembled.
“Set her down on the bed and unwrap the blankets.”
Minka moved with slow care until the nurse helped speed up the process.
“Look at that little foot, and her little toes and hands,” Minka murmured as her newborn’s body was revealed. Her skin felt incredibly soft, like nothing Minka had touched in all her life.
She remembered the jabs to her ribs and the rolls of little knees or elbows that had startled her so. These tender feet and knees and arms had made those movements. She wanted to study every inch of her baby. The tiny toenails, the dimples in her fingers, the soft pink in her fair skin. The wrinkles in her feet were lined in white.
“I’ve never seen anything like . . . oh, look at her tiny chin, and oh, her ears.” The nurse brought a thin cotton hat and pulled it over the baby’s head.
“Undo the pins on the diaper,” the nurse said with a sigh. But Minka’s obvious joy softened her terse words.
Of course Minka had known that a baby was inside her. And she had felt the movement. She had known that it would come out and had expected that part to be painful. But nothing had prepared her for this. This . . . connection. It was as though this tiny other person shared Minka’s soul.
Suddenly, Minka wanted her own mother. For of course Jennie understood. Now Minka did as well. Tears burned her eyes. She had never imagined she could feel this depth of love for a person she’d just met —like she would throw herself in front of a train to save her, with no hesitation.
Minka could see that she’d made a mistake. The thought of adoption was suddenly unbearable. She was never going to be able to part with this wondrous gift.
Midway through the changing, the baby stirred and burst into a soft protest. Minka’s lips parted at the sound, such a sweet and beautiful cry. She quickly changed the diaper as the nurse instructed her. Then the older woman demonstrated how to wrap the baby and bounce her until her cries softened and she returned to sleep.
“You must change this often,” the nurse said, patting the baby’s bottom. “Any time it is wet or soiled. If you do not, she will get a rash or an infection.”
Minka nodded with a sense of urgency. She would do everything the nurse told her. She couldn’t allow anything to harm this perfect little human.
“Your name is Betty Jane,” Minka whispered when the nurse left them alone. “En je bent zo mooi.” And you are so beautiful. She didn’t understand how the nurses could be so workaday about Betty Jane. Minka held her baby against her chest, smelling the fuzzy, pale hair. When Betty Jane awoke —staring at Minka with deep-blue eyes —the girl stared back in utter wonder at this miracle alive in her arms.
Then Minka saw her own twisted fingers against the soft fabric. She moved one hand farther under Betty Jane and let an open end of the blanket fall over the other one. As she held her newborn in the quiet, clean room, Minka had the sense that she and Betty Jane were the only two beings on earth.
* * *
Wrapped up in her own pressing events, Minka had no idea how momentous this year of her baby’s birth would be. Infamous for the Wall Street Crash, also known as “Black Tuesday,” 1929 marked the beginning of the decadelong Great Depression in the United States.
The year was also notable for the births of people who would shape the world in diverse ways: actress and future princess of Monaco, Grace Kelly; the man who would usher in each New Year for four decades, television entertainer Dick Clark; actress and humanitarian Audrey Hepburn; American civil rights leader and Nobel laureate Martin Luther King Jr.; the future first lady of the United States, Jacqueline Lee Bouvier, later Jacqueline Kennedy; and Anne Frank, whose life would be cut short at the age of fifteen but whose words written in an attic in Holland would reach around the world.
The year 1929 also saw the first flight over the South Pole completed, Hemingway’s A Farewell to Arms published, and the first Academy Awards ceremony hosted at the Hollywood Roosevelt Hotel in California.
But to a seventeen-year-old girl in a hospital in Sioux Falls, South Dakota, this year would be remembered as the one that irrevocably changed her life. Forever after, there would be a split.
Her life before May 22, 1929.
And her life after.
Little did she know that, just a few weeks before, Miss Bragstad had received the letter that would help set the course of Betty Jane’s life.
Jewell, Iowa, May 8, 1929
Dear Miss Bragstad,
Nine years ago, while we lived in Irene, S. Dakota, we adopted a little baby boy which was born at the House of Mercy. . . . The boy has given us much satisfaction. We have talked it over considerably of late, Mrs. Nordsletten and I, of adopting a little baby girl.
We have namely 3 boys but lack a girl. We hearby ask you if you are in a position to place a little infant in our home? It was through the Home Finding Work of our church that we obtained our boy, and it is then the same channel that we desire a child this time, too, if possible. May we soon hear from you?
Sincerely yours,
Rev. & Mrs. Peder Nordsletten
* * *
Several days later Minka returned to the House of Mercy with little outward fanfare, but inside her, it was as if the sky had cracked open, unveiling the universe. She could hardly believe that other mothers felt as she did. She could hardly believe that she was a mother. And she never wanted to be without this feeling of wonder again.
Minka longed to see her family. A letter from her mother waited in her room. Miss Bragstad had passed the news of Betty Jane’s birth to Reverend Kraushaar and to Jennie. Minka’s mother sounded anxious to know if Minka was well and expressed her regrets that she couldn’t be with her.
Minka no longer felt the shadow of uncertainty and dread that had followed her for months. And she didn’t want to keep her baby a secret. She wanted her mother and sister to marvel over every inch of Betty Jane’s tiny body, to ooh and aah over the flutter of her eyes as she woke, to laugh with her as Betty Jane squirmed with her hungry mouth, seeking food and then suckling a bottle as if starving.
Feeding Betty Jane was heaven, watching her soft cheeks pucker as she drank, giving her the nourishment she so urgently wanted and needed. Minka wished she could have nursed her baby, though she understood why this experience was denied her. Instead, she learned to heat evaporated milk in a saucepan to the perfect warm temperature, then stir in just the right amount of powdered formula, a fattening mixture of sugar and starches.
In the beginning, Betty Jane always fell asleep while drinking. As her mouth went slack, a thread of milk would trickle from one corner. Minka would wipe it away with her thumb, as gently as if stroking a thin-shelled robin’s egg.
“She is a beauty,” Miss Bragstad said one day, taking in the perfect face of the baby, as well as the beaming expression on Minka’s face. “Don’t tell the other girls, but I’ve rarely seen a baby as beautiful as that one.”
The duties of motherhood came instinctively for Minka. Her breasts ached in the week after Betty Jane’s birth, then eventually soothed as her milk dried up. Her stitches failed to heal properly —perforated was the term the doctor used —but Minka’s years of demanding physical labor, mixed with the new wonder and joy of her baby, reduced her pain to little more than an annoying grating in the background.
Everything was a miracle. The baby’s deep-blue eyes stared up at Minka as if they knew her. As she slept, Betty Jane’s mouth worked at an imaginary bottle. One time when Betty Jane smiled in her sleep, Minka laughed so delightedly that the baby woke up and began crying. But her baby easily soothed, and Miss Questad told Minka that Betty Jane was one of the best and sweetest babies she’d ever seen at the house.
Each day, Minka’s heart became more tightly bound to the little newborn. Nothing else mattered now.
The first week passed, and another. Minka’s confused thoughts swung wildly as her new emotions burrowed deep. She couldn’t put a stop to either of them.
There were days when she knew she’d never part with her precious daughter. Somehow they’d make it. Her mother had been alone with three children when she was only a few years older than Minka.
But then a glance at her own hands would remind Minka. As Betty Jane slept, Minka pictured her child growing up on the dairy farm. She imagined her wearing overalls, her hands growing callused from chores and her little fingers bending until they would no longer straighten.
How could Minka provide for her child in the way she wished? Her own mother had been blessed by meeting Uncle. Would she be as lucky, especially since it was her own selfishness that made her want to keep the baby?
Not selfishness, her aching heart screamed, this is love. A mother’s love. Her love. The greatest love she’d ever known.
Minka longed to give her little girl all that she’d never had —a closet stuffed with beautiful dresses and hats in the latest style. Necklaces and strands of pearls. Betty Jane should have piano lessons at a young age and sing in the church choir.
But how would they walk through town without everyone believing the worst of Minka, and of Betty Jane? Minka would not allow this precious girl to work as she had. But what could they do?
Wrecked hands, callused fingers, stains on her teeth from Uncle’s well water, no education, no skills beyond milking cows and twisting sausages . . .
Minka would give her life for this girl —she would not hesitate. She wanted the very best in the world for her daughter.
But was she the best for little Betty Jane?
* * *
Minka was watching Betty Jane, asleep in her bassinet, when she heard the gentle knock. She already knew it was Miss Bragstad by the rhythm of her footsteps down the hall and her usual four raps on the door.
“Minnie? Is this a good time to talk?”
Minka wanted to decline. Talking with Miss Bragstad before the baby’s birth had opened up a new world of possibilities and a window to self-confidence. But today, Minka did not want to discuss the subject that the older woman had delayed raising —the subject that had been waiting in the shadows, haunting her through restless nights ever since she’d returned from the hospital.
But Minka’s manners won out.
“Yes, ma’am,” she said.
Miss Bragstad entered, smiling at the bassinet. She laid a hand lightly on the baby’s stomach, then turned to Minka. The smile didn’t waver.
“We must talk about your plans.”
Minka nodded her head, but her eyes jumped to the baby. She reached into the tiny bed and gathered up her infant. Betty Jane groaned and grunted as she was jostled from her deep slumber, then settled back to sleep at the sound of Minka’s heartbeat and the feel of her warm arms.
“What have you been thinking, Minnie?”
Miss Bragstad believed in the benefits of their policy. Young women were expected to tend to their own babies for up to six weeks after the children’s births. The staff could not care for the infants, and the young women needed to be at the House of Mercy to heal after their deliveries. After a month, the babies had adapted to a nursing bottle. Any illnesses or problems had been identified. The mothers were physically ready to return to their homes.
But many were also attached to their babies, and that was when this most difficult decision could be made with full awareness.
“I don’t . . . I can’t.” Minka fought back tears. She did not feel strong, but panicked.
“All right,” Miss Bragstad said in a gentle voice. She placed her hand on Minka’s back.
“Mom said it is best that Betty Jane have a home with a mother and a father. She . . . I have no education. I’m just a milkmaid.”
Miss Bragstad already knew this.
Minka did not say the other thing they both knew —that the child would grow up with the shame of not having a father. Her perfect little girl would be called names. And what would Minka say when Betty Jane began to ask questions about her father?
“This is your decision, Minnie. Only you can make it.”
Minka wanted to say that she had made it. That there was no way she’d ever leave her baby girl. But she envisioned her own gnarled fingers pointing at her, taunting her. Those perfect baby fingers will look like yours if you keep her. What kind of life will she have with you? You have not one thing of your own.
“What do you think I should do?” Minka whispered.
Miss Bragstad didn’t answer for so long that Minka looked up to be sure she was still there.
“I will never be a mother,” Miss Bragstad said.
“You could; someday you . . .”
“No,” Miss Bragstad said with a shake of her head that didn’t convey self-pity, only acceptance. “Motherhood is not in the divine plan for my life. I can only observe and imagine what you feel for Betty Jane.”
Minka listened. With Miss Bragstad, she’d grown accustomed to the nourishment of conversing on equal terms with another person, someone she respected. Now, as Minka watched the proper and disciplined matron pace the floor, she realized Miss Bragstad struggled with the dilemma. This wasn’t easy for her, either.
“When I consider what is best for you, I have many hopes for your future. Raising a child as an unmarried mother . . . though that wasn’t your fault, you will be judged. It is the way things are. I also consider what is best for your Betty Jane.”
“And she would be better off with someone else.” Grief tore at Minka’s voice.
“That is not true. Look at you. You are a natural with her. But she, too, will be judged, all of her life.” She paused. “But I do not believe anyone could love her any better than you do, Minnie.”
For Miss Bragstad, every word of this conversation was painful. Minka had become a favorite of hers. From the first moment she saw Minka holding little Betty Jane, Miss Bragstad knew that the girl was smitten with motherhood. The days ahead would be terribly difficult, devastating even.
Miss Bragstad also knew that a baby would prevent Minka from making a fresh start, and what would become of both mother and daughter if Minka kept her? Who would marry Minka with an illegitimate child, even if the pregnancy hadn’t been her fault?
“You have more to offer the world than just milking cows. I’m going to talk with your mother about your work. Perhaps she will get you music lessons, or you can go to college.”
The words were empty comfort. Miss Bragstad would indeed impress upon Minka’s mother the importance of giving the girl a different life after she returned home. But for Minka, music and education were nothing now, in comparison to the baby in her arms. Miss Bragstad realized that Minka’s entire disposition had changed. Some girls experienced a cold detachment after their babies were born and didn’t want to hold them. Others bonded deeply with them.
Minka was completely in love.
Miss Bragstad excused herself after a few more minutes.
“I will pray that you will make the right decision, whatever that might be.”
They discussed it on other occasions, in hesitant pieces of conversation. In the light of day, Minka settled on the belief that Betty Jane would have a better life with a respectable family. She made the decision, certain that she could be Betty Jane’s selfless champion, sacrificing her own wants for her daughter’s future.
At night, when the moon cast a lonely glow across her bedroom floor, Minka wanted to clutch her daughter in her arms and flee to points unknown.
But finally the daytime prevailed. Minka went to Miss Bragstad, carrying the child in her arms down the creaking stairs and through the hall to the matron’s office. She didn’t wait until Miss Bragstad made her rounds to check on the girls or until they sat together at a meal —Minka had to speak her decision before she took it back.
“You’ll find a very good family?” she asked after the dreaded words, the worst words she’d ever spoken. “A mother and a father for her? The best mother and father?”
Miss Bragstad wished she could share the letter she’d received from Reverend and Mrs. Nordsletten. A better home for Betty Jane could not be imagined; this family was like an answer to a prayer that no one had yet prayed. Miss Bragstad could not violate privacy rules. But she wanted to offer Minka a bit of comfort.
“Yes, Minnie. I promise you. In fact . . . I have a family in mind. One that is looking for a little girl. It is a minister and his wife.”
Minka looked up. “A minister?” The anxious hope that filled her eyes made Miss Bragstad’s heart ache. “Are they from here? Around here?”
“I can’t tell you any more than that, Minnie. But it’s a very good home. I couldn’t hope for a better one.”
Minka bent close to Betty Jane.
“Did you hear that, sweet girl? You’re going to grow up in a minister’s family.” A flush of pride swept through her, followed by a fresh wave of hurt. Betty Jane’s future was arranged.
Already, strangers were waiting to bear her away.
* * *
Another baby cried from a room down the hall, wailing all through the night. “Colic,” Miss Bragstad told the girls at breakfast.
Minka had been taught all her life that pride was a sin, but she couldn’t help feeling proud of her daughter. It seemed there had never been a more perfect baby. She couldn’t stop staring at Betty Jane and rarely set her down. Now that she’d made her decision, she further drank in the sweet face, storing up every detail for the time to come.
“Today, Margaret is leaving us,” Miss Bragstad announced one day. Minka knew this meant that the girl was leaving, not the baby.
That night, Minka heard the baby crying from the other room. The child had been colicky before Margaret’s departure, but somehow his cries sounded more lonely now.
Minka didn’t leave her room the next day except to use the bathroom and to prepare bottles. She spent the hours with Betty Jane, holding her close, smelling her hair, her skin.
A dozen times, her resolve faltered. She did not know how she would do it when the time came. How could she leave her baby here? How could she hand her over and actually walk away?
Betty Jane stared up at her with those blue eyes. One of the girls had told her that all babies’ eyes were blue and that they’d change in color over time. Minka didn’t want to think of this. She didn’t want to consider all the things she’d never know about her sweet Betty Jane. For now, this was her baby. Hers alone.
Minka thought of Jane and the dairy. It seemed like another life now. She’d been a child then. Now she was a woman. Not just a woman —a mother. Nothing would take that away, no amount of pretending or returning to the dairy as if nothing had occurred. Everything had occurred. She’d awoken from a dream, and she could never fall back into her former sleep again.
Although Minka knew that Betty Jane would never remember her, she lavished affection on her. She wanted her daughter to know her love, to never feel that Minka had abandoned her. Somehow, maybe, she could convey that.
* * *
Miss Bragstad had already gently explained that she would not be at the House of Mercy when Minka left on June 27 to return home to Aberdeen. The matron had planned a trip East long before she’d even met the DeYoung girl. The conflict in dates saddened her —she felt a sense of failing Minka by not being with her on her most difficult day.
Over the years, Bertha Bragstad had said good-bye to more young girls than she could count, but she had a feeling that she would not be able to conceal her own emotions when it came time to bid farewell to the strong yet sensitive Minka.
At least before she left, she could secure the best possible home for Minka’s daughter.
Rev. and Mrs. Peder Nordsletten,
Dear friends:
Referring to your inquiry for a baby girl, I beg to state we now have a very fine baby girl, born on May the 22nd, who will be ready for a home by the 28th of this month. We require our mothers to stay with their babies a certain length of time, and this time will be up the 29th of this month.
This child is a very normal baby, blue eyes and brown hair. The mother is of Holland descent. Comes from a very good family and was referred by Rev. Kraushaar of Aberdeen, who spoke very highly of the girl and her family. . . . Very little is known about the father of the child.
We feel this is a very desirable child, and it certainly would be a comfort to the mother and people of this girl if they could know the baby went into a good Lutheran home. They think a great deal of the child, but realize it would be much better for her to live in a foster home and so are willing to have her placed now. The mother is seventeen years of age. . . .
Sincerely yours,
Miss Bragstad
* * *
On the morning of June 27, the Sunnyside Dairy truck returned once more to the House of Mercy. As Jennie stepped down onto the driveway, she saw Minka sitting on the porch, holding a bundle wrapped in a blanket. Jennie wasn’t aware of closing the truck’s door. She didn’t hear the hinges squeal. Her eyes were large as she came up the porch steps toward her daughter.
“This is Betty Jane,” Minka said. Her voice was as proud and awed as a courtier announcing the presence of royalty.
As Minka passed the newborn into Jennie’s arms, Jennie glanced at her daughter with a flash of panic in her expression. Then she looked at the baby.
A soft gasp escaped from her lips. Her vision blurred until she blinked.
“Zo mooi,” she whispered. So beautiful. The baby wore a white baptismal dress. One chubby arm batted at the air.
“We’re waiting for the minister to come,” Minka explained. “They said we could . . . we could have her baptized before we . . . before we go.” The last words trailed off.
Honus had come up beside Jennie. All three of them stood staring at the baby.
When Minka spoke again, it was more firmly.
“We will baptize her, and then say good-bye.”
Minka was wearing a pretty black dress that Jennie had never seen, and she had a strand of white beads around her neck. Her hair had been cut in a bob and was now curled into perfect waves. She looked sophisticated and smart. Her voice held an authority Jennie had never heard before.
And her dear face was so ravaged that Jennie had to look away.
Honus nodded at Minka’s words. His hair was matted down from the hat he now held in his hands. He stepped away to gaze out from the porch toward Miss Bragstad’s flower garden.
The local minister arrived. Minka had witnessed baptisms at church, where babies often cried from the sprinkle of water. Betty Jane just kicked her legs. Minka could not focus on any of the words the reverend uttered. Her heart raced; her stomach churned. She wished these moments with her baby would never end. She wanted to stay here forever.
Honus took a photograph in the garden. Betty Jane lay on a wicker chair, propped up by bunches of thick blankets. Minka knelt beside her, facing away from the camera. She couldn’t bear to take her eyes off her infant daughter for one moment. Minka didn’t know it at the time, but this picture would become her physical link to this day, to her child. She would carry the photograph with her for the rest of her life.
Her mind raced frantically with all the private words she wished to say.
I love you so much, my sweetest darling. I am only doing this for you. Please don’t think that I’ve abandoned you. I wish I could be with you every day of your life. But you will have a better life without me. How I wish I could be the mother you deserve. But you will have a happy life and a happy home. You won’t have to work so hard. You will wear pretty dresses and bows in your hair and necklaces. No overalls —I hope never overalls for you. I will love you every day of my entire life. I promise you that.
Minka carefully lifted Betty Jane again. She could say a hundred things more. She could hold the small bundle for the rest of her life, if only time would stop.
She felt the back of her baby’s soft neck, her velvety cheek. Minka slipped a finger into one tiny palm and felt Betty Jane’s fingers wrap and squeeze her crooked one. Her head pounded, and she closed her eyes. She’d never fainted in her life but was in danger of doing so now.
The small group walked along the dirt drive of the House of Mercy toward Honus’s truck, Minka cradling her daughter in her arms. The scent of cut grass lay sharp around them, and when Jennie glanced at the house, she saw faces floating in two upper windows, hands holding back the lace curtains. Other pregnant girls, witnessing their own futures.
Minka bent and kissed Betty Jane’s cheek once, then a desperate second time. When she handed the small bundle to Miss Questad, one end of the white blanket slipped down, exposing skin mottled pink and cream. Minka tucked the blanket back around the baby, patting it with her twisted fingers. A tear dripped onto the soft yarn, and she patted at that, too. Then one explosive sob escaped her trembling mouth.
Jennie’s own vision blurred. Never before had she felt so incapable. There wasn’t a thing her hands could do to smooth this moment out, to shape it into something that worked. She would never see her first grandchild again. Suddenly, that knowledge seemed unbearable.
Miss Questad wrapped one arm around Minka, holding her tight with closed eyes. Minka finally stepped back. She turned away from Betty Jane, faltered once, then straightened her body and walked toward the truck. Honus nodded to Miss Questad, whose arms were now too full for a handshake. Jennie helped Minka climb in.
And then somehow they were in the truck and driving away. Minka could not look back, or she would scream. Ordinary trees flashed by the windows, ordinary sunshine glinted off the glass, and meanwhile Minka’s insides were breaking apart and crumbling to dust. This must be what dying felt like. To know that the life created inside of her, the life she had held in her arms —that life was better off without her. To leave the most important part of her behind, forever.
No. Death would probably be kinder than this.