Fiddling with Fate Read online

  And … what had Hilda wanted to tell her? Had Marit shared something in strict confidence? I may never know, Chloe thought. Why hadn’t she pressed the issue at the time? Why?

  “You’re welcome to stay, of course,” the doctor was saying. He took off his glasses, rubbed the lenses on his coat. “But there’s really nothing you can do for your friend. We’ll call if there’s any change.”

  “Thank you,” Chloe managed, and Roelke shook the man’s hand. As the doctor hurried away she rested her cheek on Roelke’s shoulder.

  “I’m so sorry,” he said.

  “I had trouble following everything the doctor said. Do they know what happened?”

  “Not yet.” Roelke rubbed his chin. “A bad stroke could leave someone in a coma. Or a traumatic head injury.”

  Chloe grimaced, picturing the raised brick hearth. “I hate to think of Aunt Hilda lying there, all alone, for God knows how long.”

  Roelke smoothed a strand of hair away from her face. “Look, let’s take a break. Want to go back to your folks’ place?”

  “I guess so—oh, wait.” Her shoulders sagged. “Hilda said she was giving tours during the historical society open house tonight. We should try to catch Kent at the museum. It would be best to talk in person.”

  They stopped at the house to check on Chloe’s father, then walked to the museum. Right across Page Street from the Sons of Norway Mandt Lodge, which had repurposed an old Norwegian Methodist church, the Stoughton Historical Society had repurposed an old Universalist church made of cream-colored brick. Stoughton was best known for the Norwegian culture transported by immigrants who’d started farms on Dane County’s fertile prairies, but a Vermont native had established the city. Other Yankee businessmen had built mills along the Yahara River and developed a well-to-do downtown. The historical society did a good job of telling all kinds of stories.

  “I was about ten when the society formed,” Chloe told Roelke as they mounted the steps. “I think that was in 1960.”

  “I expect your folks were involved?”

  “Oh, yeah. Kari and I spent many an hour here. You should see their collection of Per Lysne pieces.”

  “Who?”

  “He was a Norwegian rosemaler who worked at a wagon factory in town. When business dropped off during the Great Depression, he began rosemaling again, and generally gets credit for reviving the art.”

  “Well, hunh,” Roelke said thoughtfully. “I didn’t know it ever needed reviving.”

  The door was unlocked. Several volunteers were preparing for the evening event. Chloe surrendered the cookie tins to the women setting out paper plates and napkins. “Is Kent around?”

  They found the director on the lower level, deep in conversation with intern Trine Moen. “I’m sorry to interrupt,” Chloe began.

  Trine’s smile looked tired, but Kent grinned and hurried over. “It’s no interruption. We’re planning the next special exhibit. I’m really excited about this one—”

  “Kent, I’m afraid we’ve got some bad news.” Chloe took a deep breath and explained.

  His broad smile faded. “What?” Trine gasped and clapped a hand over her mouth.

  “I gave the hospital my dad’s phone number,” Chloe said. “Hilda doesn’t have any family that I know of.”

  “But she has lots of friends. She’s one of our most dedicated volunteers here at the museum.” Kent ran a hand over his face.

  “She’s so sweet!” Trine’s eyes filled with tears. “Excuse me.”

  Chloe watched the young woman hurry away. “I’m sorry to bear such bad tidings.”

  “Trine’s having boyfriend trouble, so she was already a tad emotional,” Kent murmured, sounding distracted. “I overheard a bit of a phone conversation.” He waved a dismissive hand. “Dear God, I’m just sick about Hilda.”

  “Me too,” Chloe said soberly.

  “We need a tour guide for tonight,” he muttered. “And … what are we going to do about the exhibit?”

  “What exhibit?” Roelke asked.

  Kent held up a clipboard, displaying notes and sketches. “We’re planning a new special exhibit about Hardanger fiddles.”

  Hardanger fiddles, Chloe thought. Hardanger. The word sent a faint quiver down her backbone. It conjured the artifacts found buried in her mother’s closet. It conjured the look on Hilda’s face as she’d played her fiddle for Marit in the cemetery, and the plaintive tune itself.

  “We have a rare opportunity to partner with the Hardanger Folkemuseum.”

  There was that word again.

  “It was Trine’s doing, actually,” Kent continued. “She worked as a guide there last summer. She and Hilda started talking about music on both sides of the Atlantic. They wrote a proposal for an exhibit, I ran it by the board, and here we are.”

  No wonder the poor kid was so upset, Chloe thought. “Hilda must have been excited.”

  “Oh, yes.” Kent nodded. “She insisted that we explore the music’s social context. What fiddle music meant to the early Norwegian immigrants. How the traditions and tunes evolved over time.”

  Chloe felt a flicker of her customary passion for museum education, but it was bittersweet.

  “We don’t want visitors to just come and see Hardanger fiddles, as beautiful as they are.” Kent studied his notes. “We want to do some interactive programming. Certainly some fiddle performances.”

  “How about incorporating folk dance?” Chloe asked. It was much more pleasant to spitball programming ideas than to think about Hilda’s injury.

  “I’m hoping that the Norwegian Dancers can premiere a new bygdedans when the exhibit opens.”

  “A regional dance,” Chloe murmured for Roelke’s sake.

  Kent turned to him. “Many of the indigenous dances date at least to the nineteenth century, and some are older. Dances, like fiddle tunes, can be lost if care isn’t taken to pass them on.”

  “I imagine so,” Roelke said politely.

  “Chloe, your mother was a key player in this project,” Kent continued. “Trine’s former boss at the Hardanger Folkemuseum is an authority on fiddle music. The museum has the best collection of fiddles in the world. Hilda and Marit got excited, and next thing I knew I was writing a grant application to send someone to visit the Hardanger Folkemuseum to learn about fiddling and dance traditions.” Kent began to pace. “But we’ve lost Marit. And now with Hilda out of the picture, at least for a while …”

  Chloe tried to think of something helpful. “Why don’t you go to Norway, Kent?”

  “My parents need a lot of help these days, so I can’t get away. Hilda wasn’t up to the trip. That’s why I turned to Marit.”

  “But … my mother wasn’t a musician. Or a dancer.” This seemed a stretch, even for Mom. Unless … Chloe paused as a new possibility struck. Had her mother been enticed by the word Hardanger?

  “After years in the Dancers’ parents’ group, she knew a lot,” Kent was saying. “She had experience interviewing elderly informants. She spoke Norwegian. She was comfortable traveling in rural Norway. It would have been perfect … Well. We’ll figure something—”

  A loud crash echoed from above.

  “Oh Lord, what now,” Kent muttered. “Excuse me.” He trotted from the room.

  Chloe lifted a hand in vague farewell. Thoughts were flashing in her head like fireflies.

  “Chloe? You coming?” Roelke was already halfway down the aisle. She caught up, but grabbed his arm. His eyes narrowed. “What’s going on?”

  “Roelke …” She hesitated, then plunged ahead. “Want to go to Norway?”

  His eyebrows shot skyward. “Me?”

  “Us.”

  “What?” He shook his head. “We can’t afford to go to Norway.”

  “I think we can.” Words tumbled out faster as the idea took hold. “My mom’s money
can pay your way, and Kent offered me the museum’s grant money if I’d go do the research he needs.”

  “But—”

  “Hardanger, Roelke! It’s an omen.”

  Roelke didn’t do omens. “It’s a coincidence.”

  “What are the odds that Kent would be planning an exhibit about Hardanger fiddles right at the time I find evidence that suggests my mother’s people came from Hardanger? What if my mom had decided she finally wanted to learn more about her roots? Maybe that’s even why she wanted to take me to Norway—she thought my research skills might come in handy! She didn’t live long enough to figure it out, but if we go …”

  “Hold on.” Roelke’s dark eyes reflected concern. “You’re moving awfully fast.”

  “But it feels like everything is falling into place. I want to go, Roelke, and I’d really like it if you come with me.”

  He looked away, gathering his thoughts. “What about your job? Isn’t this a crazy time of year for you?”

  “Well … yes,” she admitted. This was a crazy time at Old World Wisconsin. The site officially opened on May first, and April days were crammed with training sessions for seasonal staff. She also faced the enormous job of de-winterizing all of the fifty or so historic structures—removing dustcovers from furniture, returning those pieces she had deemed too fragile to leave off-season in unheated buildings, rehanging pictures. “I couldn’t go right this minute. But once the site is actually open, I’m over my biggest hurdle. I’ve got plenty of vacation hours.”

  “You think Petty would agree?”

  Chloe rolled her eyes. Site director Ralph Petty, a misogynistic megalomaniac, was the bane of her professional existence. It wasn’t a pleasant situation, but she could occasionally use it to her advantage. “Nothing makes Petty happier than seeing my taillights disappearing in the distance,” she reminded Roelke. “How about you?”

  Roelke tapped one thumb against his thigh. “I’ve got vacation time too. I’d have to talk to Chief Naborski, of course. But I can probably make arrangements.”

  Chloe stared at him, feeling the world turn upside-down. Was she being irrational? Hadn’t she said just yesterday that a trip to Norway was impossible? But it did feel right. “Oh my God, Roelke. Let’s go find Kent. I think we’re going to Norway.”

  Four

  One month later, their plane landed in Bergen and settled into a smooth taxi. Chloe felt Roelke, in the next seat, interlace his fingers with hers. “We made it to Norway,” he murmured.

  “We did.” Chloe blew out a long breath. Even after their tickets had been purchased, she’d almost despaired of accomplishing what needed to be done—getting Old World Wisconsin open, planting her vegetable garden, driving to Stoughton for meetings with Kent and Trine.

  She’d visited her dad as often as possible too. She’d summoned her courage and related what she’d heard and suspected about Mom’s birth. “She never said a word to me,” Dad had said slowly, clearly stunned. That was the end of the conversation.

  Chloe had also visited Hilda, who was still in a coma. It had been caused, the doctor had concluded, by a traumatic head injury—probably a result of falling against the hearth—which had led to epidural hemorrhage. She might have tripped. She might have been pushed. The not knowing haunted Chloe. Had it been an accident? A random home invasion by a thief? She couldn’t imagine anyone wanting to deliberately harm Hilda Omdahl.

  The doctor had explained that most people emerged from comas within four weeks. “Of course, a coma can last for years,” he’d said, “leaving the patient in a persistent vegetative state—”

  “I’ve never liked that term.” Chloe’s voice was sharp.

  He looked startled. “Well. We’ll hope for the best.”

  On her last visit, Chloe had held Hilda’s hand and told her all about the trip. “I’m going since you and Mom can’t, Aunt Hilda. I’ll learn as much as I can about Hardanger fiddles, especially the social history of fiddle music. We’ll try hard to make the special exhibit and programming here in Stoughton everything you want it to be.”

  Hilda appeared to be sleeping peacefully.

  Chloe had kissed the older woman’s cheek. “I love you, Aunt Hilda. I’ll see you when I get home.”

  Now, the plane came to a halt. Metallic clicks sounded as impatient passengers ignored the warning lights and unbuckled their seatbelts. Chloe wanted to, but figured Roelke would scold.

  You’ll be in Hardanger soon enough, she told herself. An anticipatory shiver skittered down her spine. She’d left the tine and doll at home, but the two textiles were cocooned in the yellow daypack serving as her carry-on. Chloe had wanted to show them to the curator at Vesterheim Norwegian-American Museum in Iowa, but she hadn’t found time to make the trip. However, she’d called and described both pieces. “We have lots and lots of white Hardanger embroidery,” the curator had told her. “And one piece of blackwork embroidery that sounds similar to yours. It was made in Aga.” Chloe had checked a map and discovered that Aga was a hamlet in the Hardanger region—a nebulous clue, perhaps, but one more thing to suggest that she was on the right track.

  And, she was arriving in Norway with one real piece of information. She’d finally tracked down the whereabouts of the Martin Luther Orphanage records, which had at some point been transferred to a Lutheran home for troubled children in northeast Wisconsin. She’d called and was lucky enough to find a staffer willing to dig through old files. “I didn’t find much,” the woman had reported just the day before. “But I did find a record of a Marit Ann, age almost four months, being brought to the orphanage on September 13, 1920. Three weeks later she was adopted by Nels and Maria Kallerud.”

  “So it’s true,” Chloe had breathed, a bit dazed to have Birgitta’s story verified. “Is there any other information?”

  “Just the name of the woman who surrendered her. Amalie Sveinsdatter.”

  Amalie, Svein’s daughter, Chloe translated silently. Suddenly her mother’s lineage felt more real. Was Amalie Marit’s mother—her own maternal grandmother?

  “And a note says that Amalie didn’t speak English, only Norwegian. That’s probably why the records are so minimal.”

  Chloe twisted the phone cord absently. A Norwegian woman in 1920 who didn’t speak any English? Since the note pinned to the doll’s petticoat had also been written in Norwegian, it seemed very likely that Amalie was newly arrived.

  Chloe had thanked the staffer profusely before hanging up. She wanted nothing more than to drop everything and grab a metaphorical shovel so she could dig through records at the State Historical Society of Wisconsin and the Norwegian-American Genealogical Center. There was surely information to discover … but she was about to leave for Norway and simply didn’t have time to scroll through miles of microfilm. In desperation she called another friend of her mother’s, genealogist Rosemary Rossebo, and asked if she’d be willing to help.

  “Of course!” Rosemary assured her. “I’m retired now, but I still love the hunt. Stoughton was long settled by 1920. Most Norwegians who arrived in the area during the teens and twenties settled in Madison, especially on the East Side where there were lots of factories. Perhaps Amalie only traveled to Stoughton to give her child to the orphanage. Or Amalie might have joined family there, or heard about work opportunities. Some women worked at the hospital as laundresses, for example.”

  Chloe was already overwhelmed.

  “I’ll search passenger lists for any ships traveling from Norway to the United States in 1920,” Rosemary had said. “And if I don’t find Amalie in 1920, I’ll work backwards.” Chloe had provided a fax number for the hotel in Utne, Norway, where she and Roelke would be staying.

  Now she stared out the plane window, lost in thought. Had Amalie left Norway with Marit on the way or in her arms, and fallen on hard times in Wisconsin? Had Amalie been widowed? Or had she been a young unwed mother, unable to c
are for her child?

  I might never know, Chloe thought, but I came here with a name. Someone specific to search for. It was a start.

  The “Fasten Seatbelt” lights finally went out. Passengers surged into the aisles, dragging carry-ons and snapping open overhead compartments. Chloe felt a tingle of excitement. She loved digging for the stories of any women long gone, but this felt very different. She’d come to search for her own ancestors. She could hardly wait to begin.

  After Chloe and Roelke cleared customs and claimed their baggage, she checked the local time. “We’re a little later than expected, but the curator should be waiting for us.”

  Roelke yawned. “Are you sure a meeting is a smart idea? A little sleep would be good.”

  Exhaustion was pulling at Chloe too, but she tried to will it away. “Sonja is flying to Stockholm later this afternoon for some conference,” she reminded him. “Once we get to the Hardanger Folkemuseum, I’ll work with the director and a grad student studying traditional dances, but Sonja is the textile expert. This is my only chance to show her the pieces I found in Mom’s closet.”

  When Chloe and Roelke had finally dragged their luggage to the designated airport café, Chloe was sorry to see that it was jammed. But a woman wearing the promised red sweater at a nearby table stood up and waved.

  “That’s her,” Chloe said.

  Sonja Gullickson was in her mid-thirties, and striking. Intelligent green eyes sparkled with self-assurance. Light brown hair wisped from a carelessly stylish twist behind her head to frame her face. The handshake she offered was firm. Her scarlet sweater featured an intricate lace design, and Chloe suspected Sonja had knit it herself.

  “Welcome to Norway,” Sonja exclaimed with only a slight accent.

  After Chloe introduced Roelke, they all settled at the table. Sonja was sipping wine, and Roelke ordered coffee from a harried waitress. “It was kind of you to squeeze this meeting in,” Chloe said.

  Sonja waved that away with an elegant hand. “Two mysterious antique textiles that might have come from Norway? I’m eager to see them.”