Hollow Chest

by Brita Sandstrom

  Next to him, Sean was painting his hand with a brush and pressing businesslike handprint flowers onto four sheets of paper at a time like an assembly line.

  Theo would come home and Theo would be fine. This was the only truth Charlie could accept. It was the only prayer he could make, the words he superimposed over everything else Father Mac was saying. His mind covered up missing arms and chemical burns and shrapnel with thick strokes of carefully mixed white and brown, and painted over them with Theo’s white smile with his crooked bottom teeth, his clear blue eyes, his not-quite-brown-not-quite-ginger hair, the tiny white scar on his chin where Mum said he had walked into a table and lost a baby tooth.

  “That’s a lovely portrait, Charlie, but remember we’re making cards for people besides Theo,” said Father Mac’s voice behind his shoulder.

  Charlie startled and knocked his elbow into a cup, upturning a stream of cloudy water that spread across the table, instantly soaking the thin paper.

  Charlie could only watch as Theo’s features dissolved and bled away.

  At the end of the hour, everyone gathered up their cards and placed them somewhere to dry, then shuffled back out into the main hall. Charlie had lost his enthusiasm for the whole affair, and so he had taken a few gluey sheets of paper with him to finish at home. He still had half a paint set left from four Christmases ago. If nothing else, he could make a few handprint flowers like Sean, even if the stems and leaves would have to be blue.

  From the next room, where everyone else was waiting for the children to finish making cards, Charlie heard Mr. Cleaver’s braying laugh above the din of grown-up conversation. He scowled, the newspaper crinkling up in his fist. He was still trying to flatten it against his leg as he entered. Mum came into view, smiling politely at something Mr. Cleaver was saying. He touched her elbow to emphasize his point, and Charlie ran over to shove his painting directly in front of Mum’s face.

  “What lovely birds, Charles,” Mum said, meeting his eyes over the card and raising one eyebrow at him. Behave, she mouthed silently.

  “Charlie!” Mr. Cleaver said through his mustache. “How is that front door treating you? Not giving you any more guff?” He chortled around all of his teeth.

  “No.”

  Mum nudged his shin with her shoe.

  “Thank you,” he added, fixing a flat smile on his face.

  When Theo is here, Mr. Cleaver won’t have any reason to bother Mum, Charlie thought smugly as he dragged Mum over to look at the cards where they were drying. In fact, it was entirely possible that this was the last any of them would ever see of Mr. Cleaver and his horrible mustache except for glimpses across the pews on Sunday. That happy thought propelled him all through the rest of the evening: all through Father Mac’s seventh reiteration that walking quietly through hospital corridors was infinitely preferable to the fires of damnation, and all way through the cold black night and back home.

  “That Mr. Cleaver is a right busybody, if you ask me,” Grandpa Fitz announced as they sat down to a late dinner.

  “Dad,” Mum said, giving him a look over her water glass. “Stuart has been very kind to us.”

  “Yes, a real paragon of selflessness, that one,” said Grandpa Fitz, rolling his eyes.

  Mum did not inform him that his face was going to stick that way, as she usually did. Instead she just looked unhappy and moved a bit of carrot around her plate.

  “I was thinking we should get Theo’s room ready, for when he’s home,” Charlie said into the silence.

  Mum smiled, but it didn’t look as if she really meant it. “That’s a nice idea, Charlie. Maybe you could start by dusting things off in there, and then later this week we can wash all the bed linens so they’re nice and fresh.”

  “I’m making a list of things we’re going to do when he gets back, so I don’t forget anything. The fish and chips place on Farthing Street for sure. The park won’t be any good for picnics yet, obviously, but we can still walk by the big fountain and maybe look at the—”

  “Charlie boy.” Grandpa Fitz reached out his one hand to rest briefly on top of Charlie’s. “It’s good that you’re excited for your brother coming home, but . . . I just want you to be sure you’re keeping your expectations . . . realistic.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means something that might happen in the real world—”

  “I know what ‘realistic’ means. I meant what are you trying to say?”

  Mum’s fork scraped against her plate as Grandpa Fitz scratched at his stubbly chin with a horrible, dry crackling sound that instantly made Charlie annoyed for no good reason.

  “Theo’s been injured—” Mum began.

  “I know.”

  “—and he may not have . . . the easiest time,” she continued gently. “At least not at first. Maybe not for a while.”

  “I just don’t want you sewing drapes when you haven’t built the house yet, Charlie,” said Grandpa Fitz. “People come back from war different than they were. Sometimes there’s less of them, like my old arm here. It’s important to remember that—if he seems different, or if he acts a bit odd, we need to be understanding. Sometimes you can’t see what’s missing right away.”

  Charlie shoved a mouthful of potato into his mouth and forced himself to swallow it down with all things he wanted to shout at them. Weren’t they at all excited for Theo to come home?

  Mum’s hand on his arm startled him back to the table. She smiled at him, looking rueful and fond all at once, and he wasn’t really sure if it was for him or Grandpa Fitz or both. “We’re all going to have to be very patient and kind with each other,” she said. “For Theo’s sake. It will probably take a good long while before he’s feeling like himself again.”

  Grandpa Fitz hmmed, but said nothing further.

  “Come on, love.” Mum pushed herself to her feet, straightening her shoulders until she looked like herself again. “Let’s get these dishes cleaned, then get you to bed as well. We’ve all had a very long day.”

  When Charlie finally did get into bed, he lay there in the flickering candlelight, looking about his room, unblinking. Everything had a fine, invisible coating over it, like dust—everything in his room, the whole house, the street, London. He’d stayed awake like this in the chilly dark, night after endless night, trying to memorize everything as it was so that he could tell Theo about it and how it had changed.

  Here’s the clock that always needed to be reset after a week because it went slow. I took it apart and put it back together, and now it only needs to be reset every two weeks, which is sort of better.

  Here’s the blanket Mum crocheted the first winter you were gone, and here’s the hole Biscuits tore in it, and here’s the darning Mum showed me how to do to sew it shut.

  Here’s the last school photograph I took; they told me not to smile, but I tried to anyway and my cheeks got tired so I just look cross.

  Here’s all the books I read so far this year; me and Sean O’Leary and Rosie Linton have been having a contest. Rosie is winning so far, but her dad has lots more books than we do, just lying around, which I think is cheating.

  He rolled over onto to his side and pressed his face into his pillow.

  It will probably take a good long while before he’s feeling like himself again.

  Charlie fell asleep listening to the sound of Mum moving around in Theo’s room across the hall, a sound he’d missed for so very long, and in the darkness he could pretend, just for a moment, that nothing had changed at all.

  When he dreamed, he dreamed of that yellow eye burning out of the darkness and pinning him in place.

  4

  CHARLIE HAD PLANNED TO BEGIN GETTING THEO’S room homecoming-ready the next day, but other tasks kept jumping out of line and demanding his attention. They needed more firewood, Biscuits broke a bowl, which needed to be mended, and Charlie’s best trousers ripped all down one side when they caught on a loose nailhead and had to be frantically sewn up while Grandpa Fitz cha
nted encouragements. By the time the trousers were decent, Charlie had to yank them on—sticking himself with a stray pin in the process—and run with Grandpa Fitz down the block to the church so they could all walk down to the hospital in a huge, shivering flock, homemade cards clutched in their numb fingers.

  The pack of kids trundled down the street, winter coats and hats and scarves making their shapes indistinct and interchangeable. Father Mac led the troupe from the front and Grandpa Fitz brought up the back, keeping an eye out for any stragglers. They broke apart every now and then like a school of fish, skirting around the cratered streets and the great heaps of brick and timber and ice, and Charlie had to be careful not to step on nails or bits of glass.

  There was a fresh layer of wet snow and their footsteps sloshed, leaving deep footprints behind them. A dog must have passed this way just ahead of them, and Charlie tried to match his footsteps to its paw prints as he walked. But the dog must have been enormous, as Charlie could barely match its stride, even stretching his legs as far as they would go. He was concentrating so hard that he walked right into Sean, causing a tumultuous domino effect down the line that culminated in Eustace smacking into Father MacIntosh, whose raised eyebrow sent them all scurrying back to rightness.

  The hospital doors opened to envelop them in a puff of warm air that instantly made Charlie’s toes start to prickle unpleasantly as the blood rushed back into them. He hopped from foot to foot as all the children presented themselves to Father Mac for final inspection, and Grandpa Fitz stood in the back.

  A lady strode down the hall to stand next to Father Mac—she was what Grandpa Fitz would probably have called “strapping,” quite as tall as all the men in the room and far more wide, and draped from head to foot in a soot-black nun’s habit. She was more than a bit terrifying and Charlie gulped, clutching his cards a little tighter.

  “This is Matron,” Father Mac said, gesturing to the tall lady. “She is in charge and to be minded.” They all nodded quickly, their heads bobbing like tulips in a breeze. Matron squinted down at them all. Biscuits would have been impressed by the way she changed her expression not at all while still somehow expressing that they were all being judged and found a bit lacking.

  Father Mac stalked back and forth in front of his troops with rather terrifying intensity. “What are we going to be?”

  “RESPECTFUL,” they all said in unison.

  “What are we not going to be?”

  “NOISY, BOTHERSOME, OR UNDERFOOT.”

  “Where do we reconvene if we get lost?”

  “THE FRONT LOBBY.”

  “Lift up your cards.”

  Eustace began to intone, “We lift them up to the Lord our God,” but caught himself and shoved his handful of homemade cards up instead. Father Mac did a quick, hawk-eyed perusal to confirm that no one had shown up card-less, then turned on his heel, beckoning his troops after him as he followed Matron through the swinging double doors of the lobby.

  The hospital had a very distinct smell—not a bad one exactly, but a highly unnatural one that made Charlie feel he was about to sneeze. Everything was alarmingly well-lit and very clean. Women in smart white-and-gray outfits and men in long, too-clean white jackets were walking around the pack of children as if they were rocks in a river, all with a very distinct air of knowing exactly where they were going. They had purpose, Charlie supposed, as a doctor nearly flattened Timothy Milligan. Purpose coming out of their ears, Charlie thought darkly.

  Sean tugged Charlie to a halt, distracting him from his thoughts.

  Matron and Father Mac had stopped in front of a wide door, both of them looking very serious and austere.

  “We’re here,” Father Mac said in a softer but no less intense voice. “Remember this is a place of healing and calm for our servicemen. Remember the rules.”

  Charlie hustled through the door with everyone else. Inside was a long, narrow room lined on either side with beds and a few curtains and tables, and in every bed was a man. Most of them seemed to be terribly young, but there were a few that looked to be the same age Dad would have been.

  Sean took one look at the room, handed Charlie his stack of cards, and walked out.

  “Sean—” Father Mac began.

  “No,” Sean said simply, without turning around.

  Charlie’s already sour stomach seemed as if it was trying to arrange itself into new and interesting shapes.

  “Carry on, Charlie,” Father Mac said, his voice gruff but not unkind, and gave him a shove between his shoulder blades.

  Swallowing dryly, Charlie walked up to the nearest bed and cleared his throat. “Hullo,” he croaked.

  The man—the soldier—didn’t seem to hear him. His skin was somehow whiter than the bleach-rough sheets he was lying on, a pale blue-striped blanket tucked up neatly around his waist. He was sitting like a figurine, as if he’d been posed.

  “Er, this is for you. We made them.”

  He held out a card—one of Sean’s, which had a picture of a big tree with red leaves because there hadn’t been any green paint. But the soldier didn’t reach for it, so after a long moment Charlie just placed it on the bedside table next to a picture of two dubious-looking babies.

  “Welcome home,” he finally finished lamely, and went to the next bed, his face hot and sort of stretched-feeling, like it was about to crack open.

  The next soldier had a mop of brown curls and was missing the same arm as Grandpa Fitz. Charlie almost remarked on it, but clamped his jaw shut just in time, which had the unfortunate side effect of making him appear to stare, at a loss for words, for a long moment.

  “Oh, it’s not so bad,” the man said with a dry laugh. “Did you have something for me?”

  “Oh!” Charlie’s face somehow got hotter and tighter, and he presented his next card with a bit too much flourish, sending it flying.

  “Now, will you look at us. A matched set!” Grandpa Fitz was suddenly there beside Charlie. He knelt down to rescue the card and placed it on the side table, sitting down at the foot of the bed. “Now, my lad, I’m going to show you my full repertoire of one-handed magic tricks, so I want you to take careful notes because I’m only doing this once, you understand?”

  The one-armed soldier settled back on the pillows as Grandpa Fitz pulled a playing card out of his breast pocket and carefully displayed both sides to him.

  “You may wonder where my other arm went, naturally. The truth is that when I was learning this trick, I did it a little too well and made it”—the playing card vanished up his sleeve—“disappear!” The soldier threw back his head and gave a barking laugh like a seal. Charlie ducked behind a curtain tucked away in the corner and tried to catch his breath, with his eyes squeezed shut to keep anything so inappropriate as tears to come leaking out.

  “Not really my scene out there, either,” a voice said from behind him.

  Charlie whipped around and realized he had hidden inside someone’s sort-of room and began coughing up apologies like he’d swallowed seawater.

  “I’m so sorry, I thought it was just a curtain, I’m so sorry, I’ll leave you alone, I’m so—”

  “Sorry, yes, you covered that quite thoroughly,” the soldier said. “No need for it, though. Truth be told I was feeling a bit neglected back here, even though it was my idea to be sequestered far from the madding crowd.”

  “I’m—”

  “If you say sorry I will be forced to point out that it’s a rather odd name your parents have saddled you with, and I was raised to have better manners than that.”

  “—Charlie,” he said, taking a breath, finally. “I’m Charlie.”

  The soldier smiled—he had very bright, birdlike black eyes under black-dash eyebrows that made him look just a bit surprised. It was, all in all, a very pleasant face, and Charlie liked him instantly. He shook the soldier’s proffered hand.

  “I’m Reginald Pemberton-Ashby, but for the love of all things holy, call me Reggie. The nurses here all call me Reginald, and I�
�m forever nervous that I’m about to be reprimanded for breaking a vase or some such. My nerves are thoroughly shot.”

  “My mum only ever calls me Charles,” Charlie confided. “If anyone else does it, I get cross.”

  “Ah, so you understand my predicament! I don’t think it’s at all good for my convalescence.”

  “Well, I can’t really help with that, either, but here.” Charlie stole a pen that was tucked into the side of a chart at the foot of Reggie’s bed, and after picking out the best card from his stack, carefully wrote “To Reggie, From Charlie” on the front. “Maybe that will remind them.”

  “I say, that is clever of you,” Reggie said, smiling brilliantly. He took the card to admire it. Charlie had drawn a painstakingly detailed portrait of Biscuits next to a jug of milk—he had mixed paints until he had gotten the exact marmalade color of her spots right and placed them just as they were on Biscuits herself.

  “Now this is a cat of substance,” Reggie said, tapping Biscuits’s nose. “You can see the plan to knock over that milk forming in her eyes.”

  “That’s my cat, Biscuits,” Charlie said, feeling terribly proud because Biscuits had knocked over the milk jug while having her portrait done, though thankfully there had only been the smallest bit of milk still in it and Charlie had been planning to give it to her anyway. “She’s brilliant. I wanted to bring her here with me, but Father Mac said the hospital would never allow it.” The priest had also added something about Biscuits being “the smallest and mightiest of all God’s plagues,” but Charlie didn’t think such slander worth mentioning.

  Reggie looked genuinely disappointed at this. “I’d love to have some living, breathing creature in here that doesn’t try to take my blood pressure as soon as look me. You should sneak her in next time. Say she’s an artist’s model on assignment and can’t possibly be detained from her work.”

  Charlie laughed, his stomach finally unknotting. His face even felt more or less the right temperature.

  “May I see your other offerings?” Reggie said, gesturing to the stack of cards. “I want to admire your full catalog.”