Her arms curled protectively around her belly, where the baby rolled and tumbled, getting a tiny foot stuck now and then in her ribs. The doctor in Michel, the small British Columbia coal-mining village three miles away, had told Anna the baby would come early in March. Surely by then the coalmines would be working steady, and there’d be money to buy flannelette to make fresh diapers and gowns for the little one. So far Anna had only the worn garments left over from Sophie and Thomas’s babyhood, small stained shirts, threadbare diapers. The only new things were the white woolen sweater, booties and tiny cap her mother had knitted. Anna’s heart clenched and tears came to her eyes when she thought of her mother. Maria Fenske had died of pneumonia, just over a month ago on November fifth, at three ten in the morning, in the tiny bedroom William had added on for her, just off the kitchen. Maria knew she was dying; she’d said goodbye to Sophie and Thomas the night before.
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