Fragments of Light

by Michele Phoenix

  “I like what you’ve done with the place,” I said.

  He smirked. “Sarcasm noted.” Then he added, “I like your new hair.”

  I let myself laugh and realized how little of that I’d done in the time leading up to Darlene’s death and since then. “Uh—thanks?”

  “It’s coming in straighter, right? I think it suits you.”

  I put my hand to my head. For the past couple of weeks, I’d begun going out without my wig occasionally, opting for a more natural look now that my hair had gotten long enough to be styled into something resembling a short pixie cut. It was thin, but it was mine.

  I was fully aware that there was something mildly defiant in my decision not to wear the wig to Nate’s place that day. “It’s certainly different,” I said.

  “I think you look great, Cee.”

  Trying for humor, I added, “But how do you feel about my chemo poundage? You liking that too?”

  His countenance changed. “You are no different today than the day I married you. Not in any way that matters.”

  I didn’t know what to say, so I sat in silence.

  “Are you doing okay?” His voice sounded sincere.

  “I’m . . .” I hesitated. “I think I am,” I finally said, surprising myself.

  “Look,” Nate said after another silence stretched too thin. “I know it was my idea for you to come over for a no-stress conversation, but I’ll be honest—I have no clue what kind of questions to ask.”

  I tried for a smile. “How do we go from sleeping together for a couple decades to”—I made air-quotes with my fingers—“‘getting to know each other,’ right?”

  He dropped his head and I saw more than heard his chuckle. Then he raked his fingers through his hair and looked up at me with a hint of mischief in his eyes. “Want to listen to some music?”

  I glanced toward the kitchen’s open door. “You got some pizza stashed away back there?”

  He ignored my allusion to our honeymoon tradition and went to the small stack of records propped next to the Crosley. He selected one, removed the vinyl from its jacket, and installed it on the turntable.

  The sound of a Rhodes piano blew through the record player’s front speaker, followed closely by percussion and Bob Marley’s unmistakable voice.

  “Going old-school, huh?”

  He held out a hand.

  “Nate, we’ve been over this. We stink at dancing.”

  He’d started stepping side to side to the rhythm of “No Woman, No Cry,” hand still outstretched toward me. I couldn’t help but smile.

  “We also stink at talking these days,” Nate said. “Let’s do this first and see if it helps.”

  I rolled my eyes. Nate reached down and cranked up the volume, then held his hand out toward me again. It was thick and calloused and familiar.

  I let him pull me out of my chair and stepped easily into his hold. “This isn’t exactly rock ’n roll,” I mumbled as he turned me under his arm, bebopped around me, and brought us face-to-face again. It felt natural—mindless—to settle my hand in his and bring the other up to rest on his shoulder.

  “Hey, Cee,” he said, chuckling a bit. “Shut up and dance.”

  How often had I heard those words? He hadn’t ever spoken them in anger. They were an invitation more than an order.

  We danced until the song ended, saying nothing, letting the music guide us. When it was over, he held up a finger for me to wait and turned to install another record on the turntable. This time it was the Bee Gees’ “Stayin’ Alive.” I laughed out loud and shook my head. Nate—measured, respectable, calm Nate—began to nod in rhythm and launched into a slightly less than convincing imitation of John Travolta’s signature move.

  “Nate,” I said loudly enough for him to hear me over the thumping disco beat. “What are we doing here?”

  Without pausing his choreography, he said, “Don’t know what you’re doing, but I’m shaking off the nerves and making a fool of myself. Same thing I did the night we met.”

  I remembered it like it was another lifetime. Me a sophomore in college, in a lukewarm relationship with a junior named Caleb, and Nate already working in construction. We’d met at a place called O’Hurley’s, a popular student hangout, and exchanged looks, then smiles, across the busy space. I’d waited for the good-looking guy with the kind eyes to make a move for three nights in a row. On the third, he’d finally gone to the jukebox and pulled up a Bryan Adams song. Then he’d sauntered over to me, inadvertently knocking over a bar stool, and asked me if I wanted to dance.

  “This isn’t exactly a dancing kind of place,” I’d told him, flattered and a bit embarrassed. “And I’m not exactly a dancing kind of girl.”

  “It’s exactly what we decide to make it.”

  So we’d danced, tucked away in a corner of a dark room where beer, pool, and muted sports channels—not dancing—were the norm. And after a couple more songs and a conversation that lasted until closing time, I’d decided that getting to know this enigma named Nate was worth the odd looks from other patrons.

  Twenty-five years later, the last notes of “Stayin’ Alive” faded out, leaving us standing in the middle of his living room. The crooked smile that had been on his face for the duration of the song faded too. “I hate this awkwardness,” he said. “Trying to be casual when everything’s the opposite of it.”

  “I hate it too.”

  I could feel the warmth coming off his body as we stood facing each other. I took my hand out of his and stepped back as a ridiculous notion entered my mind and began to take root.

  “Nate . . .”

  He must have seen something of the surprise and alarm I was feeling. “You okay?”

  I shook my head. “I don’t think so.”

  He reached for my elbow. “Do you need to sit down or—drink something? I’ll get you some water.”

  I shook my head again and felt a frown come across my face. “I think . . .” I hesitated. What I was about to suggest was so irrational that I wondered for a moment just how deeply the chemo had affected my brain. But there was something about what I was plotting that felt invigorating and purposeful. Also utterly terrifying.

  I squared my shoulders and looked up into his face with what I hoped was certainty and determination. “I’m going to France,” I told him.

  I saw his expression change from concern to disappointment. I knew him well enough to realize that it sounded to his ears like I was throwing in the towel. “Okay,” he said in a flat voice. This time it was Nate who took a small step back.

  “I want you to come with me.” I quelled the instinct to look around for the source of the voice that had spoken the words.

  Nate blanched. “You—what?”

  I realized that what was perfectly clear in my mind was probably a monumental question mark in his. “We can’t keep manufacturing casual conversations, Nate. I hate it. And you just said you hate it too.”

  His expression went from dismayed to curious. “Go on.”

  “We work best in the real world—with activity and goals—not this artificial let’s-sit-and-talk-it-out world. So . . . I’m going to France. To see if I can find out anything more about Darlene’s dad. And I think we should go together.”

  Nate cocked his head to the side and smiled. “How much did you drink before driving over here, miss?”

  “I’m stone-cold sober, Officer.”

  He paused. “When do you leave?”

  “June 1st.”

  “That’s just over a week from now.”

  “Yes.”

  “The library project is just getting underway.”

  “You have a foreman.”

  “I do.”

  “So . . .”

  “How long?”

  “Ten days.”

  “France, huh?”

  “Normandy.” I smiled and tried for a coaxing, Southern accent with mixed results. “I could use a strong man to carry my luggage.”

  Nate’s eyebrow
went up. “I think I like it better when you don’t use your feminine wiles.”

  For some reason, that reminded me of cancer. Of surgeries. Of less-than-lifelike results.

  Nate caught the emotions. “Yes,” he said quickly. It was a simple agreement to something that felt far beyond what either of us could grasp. “Yes, let’s go to France.”

  Chapter 29

  We barely saw each other for the next eight days. We exchanged texts about Normandy’s weather and plans for the trip. We’d agreed to split everything two ways, now that our finances were mostly separate. Nate was in charge of finding a rental car and I’d take care of booking our last-minute tickets. When I was making our reservation at an Airbnb not far from Sainte-Marie-du-Mont, the town mentioned in Cal’s Silver Star citation, I had to pick up the phone again and push through my discomfort for the sake of clarity.

  “Just FYI,” I told Nate, “we’re getting a place with two bedrooms.”

  There was a smile in his voice. “I never assumed anything else.”

  His easy acceptance of our living arrangements rattled me in an odd way. “Well, I—I just wanted to be sure you understood that.”

  “I do.”

  “This is us going on a hunt for more information, not . . . not a . . .”

  “Honeymoon? Yep, I figured that too.”

  “And it doesn’t mean I’ve—”

  He interrupted my stuttering. “Can I get back to renting our car or would you like to beat this dead horse for a while longer?”

  I went to Nate’s place the evening before we left so we could make some sense of the bits of information Darlene and I had collected about Cal. He hadn’t been to my loft again—not since the time he’d turned up unannounced and asked if we could talk. Having him in my space still felt too vulnerable.

  So we sat in his gray living room and I filled him in on everything I knew, from the medals Cal had received to the woman, Maribeth, who had sent his letters to Darlene.

  “Did she ever say exactly where the letters were found?” he asked.

  “I don’t think so,” I said.

  “Any chance of getting in contact with this Maribeth?”

  I thought for a moment. “Darlene told me the name of the organization she works for, but it’s French and I can’t remember it.”

  “They bring veterans over to Normandy for D-Day ceremonies, right?” he asked, reaching for his laptop.

  “Right.”

  “Let me Google groups that do that. Maybe you’ll recognize it when you see it.”

  I did. La Belle Génération was headquartered near Sainte-Mère-Église, and a deeper dive revealed that one of its directors was a woman by the name of Maribeth Coupey, an American married to a Frenchman, whose passion for veterans had led her to found the nonprofit.

  Nate reached for the items I’d brought along for show-and-tell. The letters found in France, the pictures from the McElway farm, the citations, and the small, faded photograph of Cal holding Darlene.

  “No military records?”

  “Only what’s in the letters that came with the medals. We do know he loved his mom and his mom loved him. We know he loved Claire and she loved him. And we know he took off for Kinley when Darlene was eight months old and likely died on the farm. It’s not much, but it’s what we have.”

  “Hence this trip to Normandy”—he paused and made a production of emphasizing his next words—“where we will be traveling as companions and staying in separate rooms.”

  I sighed. “Do you know how many times I’ve asked myself if I was crazy for inviting you along?”

  “Flattered.”

  “No—it’s not that.” I stopped myself long enough to pick careful words. “Doing this together feels like a good plan. For a lot of reasons. But I don’t want you to think it means . . .”

  Nate’s eyes seemed to cloud over. “I’m not jumping to conclusions, Ceelie. We’re going on a trip.” He smirked. “Because you need me to carry your luggage.”

  “No strings. No promises,” I whispered.

  “No strings. No promises.”

  “No dancing.”

  The way he chuckled made me feel off-kilter. “That, I can’t say for sure.” He opened his laptop again and seemed to turn the page on our conversation. “Okay—let’s reach out to this Maribeth and see what she can tell us.”

  The Charles de Gaulle Airport in Paris was chaotic—dark, poorly signposted, and vast—but after eight hours in tight confines and with my recent incisions sore from immobility, it felt good to be moving and focused again.

  We walked for what felt like miles from one terminal to the other to pick up our rental and set off on the autoroute toward the west coast of France. Once we left the Paris suburbs, the four-lane highway cut through lush green countryside, where rapeseed and barley fields extended out of sight. Small villages and ruins dotted the landscape, and herds of brown-and-white cows clustered under shade trees in overgrown pastures.

  Nate caught me looking longingly at the dilapidated remains of a castle on a hill just off the road. “Want to go exploring?” he asked.

  I shook my head. On any other trip, I might have welcomed the detour, but everything in me was focused on Normandy.

  Nate quickly learned that sticking to the speed limit made other drivers angry, so he picked up the pace, getting us to the outskirts of Sainte-Marie-du-Mont by midafternoon. Nate slowed as we passed a sign with the town’s name inscribed in bold, black lettering.

  “‘For gallantry in action on June 7, 1944,’” Nate said, quoting from Cal’s Silver Star citation. “‘Eight miles west of Sainte-Marie-du-Mont.’”

  We’d been surprised by the American flags in storefronts and windows in the towns we’d passed through, but nothing had prepared us for what we found in Sainte-Marie. Nate slowed the car as we drove into the small town. It was built around a grassy central square. A small church stood in the middle of it.

  “Nate . . .”

  He’d seen it too. He slowed the car nearly to a halt, eliciting a honk from an irate delivery driver. Then he pulled over to the sidewalk, ignoring a no parking sign.

  “Nate,” I said again, disbelief softening my voice.

  We got out of the car and took a few steps toward the church. There were several Jeeps parked on the grass around it. To my uneducated eye, they looked like authentic WWII-era vehicles, painted army green. A collection of small, A-frame tents surrounded the church, and men dressed in American uniforms lounged among them, interacting with a handful of women who were the epitome of the civilians I’d seen in old war photos—their hair curled perfectly, their lips a bold, bright red, and their black eyeliner impeccably applied.

  The reenactors didn’t seem to be performing for passers-by. They were carrying on conversations, rolling cigarettes, and tinkering with the engines of their Jeeps.

  “You’re seeing this too, right?” Nate asked.

  “I have so many questions,” I said.

  I caught him smiling at me. “Looks like you and your high heels and chutzpah are going to get to be war reporters.”

  Our bed-and-breakfast wasn’t fancy, but it was located less than a mile from the historic village and had looked clean and bright in online pictures. A woman who appeared to be in her mid-forties, her streaked blonde hair short and sassy, came out to meet us when we pulled into the graveled courtyard through a narrow gate.

  “Welcome to Chez Dany,” she said to us in excellent English. “I’m Florence, and you must be Cecelia and Nate?” Her smile was broad and welcoming as she shook our hands, her bright-blue eyes as friendly as her voice. She wore jeans and a long, gray cardigan over a black T-shirt. Looking up at the overcast sky and adjusting the large, multicolored scarf wrapped around her neck, she said, “I hope you brought clothes for all weather. This is Normandy in June—it could be winter tomorrow.”

  Florence—who instructed us to call her Flo—ushered us to the side of the long, two-story building where a separate entrance was mark
ed “Visiteurs.” She showed us around the modest apartment. A kitchen and sitting area downstairs. Two bedrooms upstairs flanking a low-ceilinged bathroom that needed remodeling, but whose slanted skylight faced a vast expanse of fields. It was nearly at eye level and cracked open.

  “If you look far in the distance,” Flo told us in her delightful accent, “you can see a bit of the Channel. That is Utah Beach. A lot of history between here and there. And many travelers at this time of year who want to learn more about the débarquement.”

  “We saw the Jeeps and the soldiers when we drove through town.”

  Flo smiled. “Most of them are friends. They do this every year around D-Day—live like the soldiers did in 1944. The camp in Sainte-Marie,” she said, rolling the R, “is small. You should see some others—Camp Arizona has hundreds of actors who sleep in tents and eat and drink like soldiers for days. Everywhere around Normandy is history alive around June 6th.”

  Nate looked intrigued. “Did a lot happen in this town?” he asked.

  “Oh là là!” Flo exclaimed, throwing her hands up. “There is a road between here and the beach,” she said, pointing out the skylight again. “You can’t see it from here, but it goes from Sainte-Marie to Utah. That is the road the GIs took when they landed.” She made a jumping, then a walking motion with her fingers. “They came by landing craft, and those who didn’t die kept walking and arrived at this town.” She pointed to the courtyard. “They went right past my gates. My mother—” She paused long enough to cross herself. “My mother, Dani, was a child, just five or six. She stood out by the street, holding her apron in front of her like this, and the Americans on foot dropped chocolate and chewing gum into it when they marched by, with their tanks and their GMCs following.” She raised her hands again and took on an ecstatic expression. “She had never tasted anything like that before. Never! So—yes, a lot happened around Sainte-Marie. Parachutistes—paratroopers, yes? Infantry. German snipers in the church tower. Fighting in the fields and around the hedges. A lot,” she said again.