“Will you read to me?”
She hesitated. The ward nurses had encouraged her attention toward Brian, but she had begun to think the situation called for some professional distance, which she had no idea how to achieve. She picked up the book and examined its spine. It was one of the Armed Services Edition paperbacks sized to fit in cargo pants. They were ubiquitous at the hospital.
“Not your kind of book?” Brian asked.
“Oh, no, I adore a good Western.” Maren smiled. She found the earmarked page and read aloud until Brian fell asleep.
An hour later, Maren entered her room and flopped on her bed without removing her cap. She had walked out of the hospital into a cold, drizzling rain, a full fourteen hours after she’d walked in.
“Gads, you look tired,” Dorothy said.
“And wet, I know. I stayed after with Brian again. He’s not doing well.”
“I don’t suppose you want to go to the diner?”
“I don’t think so, Doro. I grabbed something in the cafeteria before I went to the burn unit. I’m so tired.”
“I’m afraid caring for poor Private O’Neill is wearing you to the bone.”
“I was thinking something similar today,” Maren said, eyes still closed. “But they depend on me. They’re all such heroes on the burn unit, and so busy. I don’t feel like I can cut back right now.”
Maren dragged her cap from her head, used her left foot to nudge the shoe off her right, then repeated the move on the other side. That little bit of effort sapped her of what energy remained, and soon after Dorothy left, she fell asleep in her uniform.
As it happened, she couldn’t see Brian the next day. She was detailed to the post-surgical room and the amputee ward, and by the time she arrived at the burn unit to check on him, he was asleep.
As she was leaving, she saw Nurse Latham, the burn unit’s head nurse, who informed her Brian had been a bit better that day. His fever persisted, but he was stable. They were still watching him closely.
“He asked after you, of course,” Nurse Latham added.
As she left the building, Maren felt a little more herself. She was only a short way down the path toward Delano when she heard a voice calling her name from behind. She turned to see Oliver in his white coat, walking briskly in her direction. She felt a smile pop onto her face as she waited for him to catch up.
“Hello, Maren. I noticed we both have Thursday off, and I wondered if you might like to spend some time away from the hospital.”
“I would love to, thank you,” she said, pleased he had taken the time to check her schedule.
“If the weather holds, I was thinking a picnic in Rock Creek Park?”
“Wonderful.”
“I’ll fetch you at Delano at eleven thirty.” Oliver smiled briefly and patted her on the arm, then turned to hurry back to the hospital.
On Thursday, Maren wore a navy woolen skirt, white blouse, and cardigan sweater, all from her own closet. If Oliver was going to be disappointed by seeing Maren in her own clothes, rather than in one of Dorothy’s fashionable dresses, she wanted to get it over with now. (Though Dorothy did insist on wrapping a silk scarf around her neck before she left the room.)
She found Oliver waiting outside. He kissed her cheek and smiled at her in his understated way. He didn’t blink at her humble attire. In fact, he opened with an apology for his meager picnic.
“Not much of a meal.” He held up a brown paper bag. “No basket or anything. But it’s lunch.”
They walked across Sixteenth Street toward one of the paths that led into Rock Creek Park. The two-thousand-acre forest and its byzantine network of trails had once been on the edge of the city that had long since grown around it. Through its center, the aptly named Rock Creek ran noisily over its stony bed.
“Teddy Roosevelt loved this park,” Oliver said. “He used to bring unsuspecting ambassadors here for long hikes.”
“I bet he was hard to keep up with,” Maren replied.
“His motto was ‘Over, under, or through—never around.’”
Though a corner of her mind was occupied with Brian, Maren filled her lungs with the autumn air and took in the splendor.
“I hear Private O’Neill’s had a rough go of it lately,” Oliver said, seeming to read her thoughts.
“Yes, running a fever, and his spirits are low.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. He’s like a cat with nine lives, that fellow. Amazing story. I know everyone is pulling for him, and you’ve been very devoted.”
Maren thought she detected a note of concern in his voice. He was so hard to read, though; she couldn’t be sure.
They ambled along a wooded path, quiet, though not awkwardly so. The trees, at the peak of autumn beauty, formed a colorful canopy far above their heads. Dappled sunshine made its way through the patchwork of scorching red maples and vibrant yellow elms. Browned leaves, defeated and fallen, crackled under their feet. The noise sent squirrels and birds under the growth and up to the branches.
“It’s funny, isn’t it,” Oliver said, almost absently, as he looked around. “How nature seems to celebrate decay each year in all this beauty.”
Maren nodded. She knew what he had left unsaid, the contrast to the human decay they left behind at the hospital. There was no beauty in that, nothing to celebrate. She pulled her sweater a little closer.
They arrived at a picnic table in a clearing, shaded by soaring trees. Oliver laid out sandwiches and sodas. He was his typical well-mannered self, leading her in conversation about nothing in particular, interested in anything she had to say, though there wasn’t much of it. Maren simply couldn’t summon her usual liveliness. If Oliver noticed, he didn’t show it. He was kind, not overly solicitous. He seemed to expect nothing more than her presence.
When they returned to Delano Hall, Oliver left her with a kiss on the cheek and a promise to “see each other again soon.”
She went to her room wondering if she was the only woman he was seeing, and whether she was doing the right things. He seemed to enjoy her company, but he was reserved, inscrutable.
I should have been more animated. She sighed.
Caroline Sturgeon would never have let such an opportunity go to waste.
* * *
In the following weeks, it became hard for Maren to imagine when Oliver could possibly be seeing someone else. Despite his grueling schedule, he made time to take her to the Glen Echo Amusement Park and the National Gallery of Art. Many of the museum’s greatest works had been spirited away to some unknown location for the duration of the war, but Maren was so enthralled with what remained he’d practically had to drag her out when it closed.
In between, the days seemed endless. She frequently stayed at the burn unit for hours after her scheduled shifts. The extra work began to take a toll. Even Nurse Latham, who treasured help from any corner, suggested Maren take time off. Brian’s condition remained perilous, though, and he brightened so much when she came around, she couldn’t stay away.
One afternoon when Maren arrived at the burn unit, she was pleased to find him cheerier. His condition was still so unstable that a long-scheduled surgery for his hand had been postponed indefinitely. Still, Maren discerned a definite change for the better.
“You know, Nurse Larsen, I can’t wait to get out of here. I think I’m going to go soon,” he said.
Maren thought that was unlikely, but she smiled at his optimism. They talked about inconsequential things. He showed her a letter from his mother, at the bottom of which one of his sisters had colored a picture. It was obviously meant to be Brian, though the figure was unnaturally long, with freckles that looked more like large spots.
“Maybe she’s forgotten me and thinks I’m a giraffe,” Brian said, laughing as much as his tired lungs would allow.
“Either that, or she thinks you’re in the hospital with measles,” Maren said.
“I’d like you to meet my mom someday,” Brian added.
“I’d like that,
too,” Maren said.
She read to him until he fell asleep, then left the ward, feeling as tired as ever, but hopeful that Brian’s body might soon catch up with his mood.
CHAPTER FOUR
The following day, Maren was not due at the hospital until afternoon. She was catching up on the papers in the reading room when one of the other cadets brought a message from the burn unit, asking her to come straightaway.
Maren went to her room, threw on her uniform, and raced to the unit, wondering what had happened. Was Brian asking for me? Nurse Latham met her outside, a distressed look on her face.
“Nurse Larsen, please sit,” she said, indicating a pair of chairs along the wall. Maren sat, her heart beating in growing alarm. Nurse Latham took the other seat.
“What is it?”
“Private O’Neill took a turn last night. It was a cascade of events. You know how unstable he was. To put it simply, his system simply couldn’t take any more. He died early this morning. I wanted you to hear it from me. I know he had become dear to you, as you had to him.”
Maren went slack, first her face, then her shoulders and arms. Her head fell to Nurse Latham’s shoulder, an entirely involuntary movement. Tearless, silent, Maren willed her mind to emerge from its fog. Some kind soul came out of the unit and handed her a glass of water.
How can this be?
After a few minutes, the realization that she was keeping Nurse Latham from her work began to prick at her conscience. She managed to sit up and drink the water. She asked no questions, said nothing except “Thank you.”
“Are you all right, Maren?” Nurse Latham touched her forearm. She’d never used Maren’s first name before. The gesture struck Maren as unbearably tender, and tears threatened. Desperate to keep herself from becoming a spectacle, Maren forced herself to stand. Though she was shaky, her legs seemed willing to support her, so she thanked Nurse Latham again and said good-bye.
It was chilly outside, and she wore only a thin jacket over her uniform, but she took the path to the rose garden. She craved the dry, brisk air, a contrast to the stultifying atmosphere of the burn unit where she’d spent so much time recently.
No blooms graced the stalks, but even the ghosts of flowers appealed to her. She sat on a cold stone bench and looked around blankly. As her head cleared, she remembered Brian’s words the day before.
“I am going to go soon,” he had said. She smiled weakly, realizing what he’d left out. He hadn’t said “go home” or “move to convalescence.” He had known, in the way some people do, that he would die. He made a particular point of wanting Maren to meet his mother. She would have to find a way, though she couldn’t begin to imagine how.
Twining around her grief was a thread of shame. How capable she had thought she was, how helpful. For weeks she had operated under the unconscious belief that if she tried hard enough, she could keep Private Brian O’Neill alive. Preposterous, of course, but looking back, she realized it had underscored all her actions.
The realization gave rise to an unpleasant thought. What did it mean that she hadn’t been successful? What did Maren have to offer that was special? Just as she was adding disappointment to the growing list of horrible emotions warring inside her, a crunching sound announced a visitor. She turned to see Oliver ambling down the gentle hill that led to the rose garden. He sat on the bench and put his arm around her.
“I heard about Private O’Neill, Maren. I’m sorry.” His expression, normally so difficult for Maren to read, contained a distinct note of compassion. Unable to speak, she merely nodded. As his hand lightly stroked her back, she felt a lump form in her throat.
She tried mightily to keep the tears at bay. She had been able to keep from crying in the face of almost all of it, the cumulative effect of days of overwork, the anguish and sense of futility. But this was too much. Unable to resist yet another act of unexpected kindness, she put her face in her hands and wept. Oliver held her silently. When the tears abated, he offered a handkerchief. She used it and gave him a gentle smile.
“I’m dreadfully sorry. I know I scarcely knew him, but I was so hopeful. And I’m so tired.”
“Please. Don’t be sorry.” Oliver looked at her intently, his eyes searching hers. He leaned a little closer, giving her a chance to object. When she did not, he closed his eyes and kissed her. He was tentative at first. But when she put her hand behind his neck and pulled him closer, his ardor increased. He held her face with his free hand and she felt, if only for this instant, completely within his protection.
Maren pulled back after a spell, a little embarrassed, but Oliver continued to look at her, stroking her cheek with his thumb. His demeanor suggested nothing here surprised him. It was all perfectly natural, expected. He saw nothing odd about her caring so much for Brian O’Neill or in her tears at his death. And nothing was unusual about their rather passionate midday kiss in the rose garden.
His acceptance comforted her in a way nothing else could have at that moment, and as she felt herself emerging from the wild emotional swings of the previous hour, she realized how attached to Oliver she had become.
And even as she gloried in this moment, even as she was certain he appreciated her, she still had little idea of his feelings beyond that.
“Better?” he asked, his hands moving to hold hers.
Just as Maren was about to respond, she caught a glimpse of the watch on his left wrist. She gasped, pulled away, and leapt to her feet.
“Oh dear! I am better, thank you so much, but I’m also late. I am supposed to be starting a shift now.”
She looked at him, uncertain what to do next, how to bring an end to this scene, one that certainly called for some kind of close. How young she felt around him.
“I’ll walk you back,” he said helpfully. He stood, offered her an arm, and they headed toward the hospital.
“Maren, I’m invited to a party Friday night. Would you join me? It’s for the Dutch ambassador. I don’t know him from Adam, but the party is at the home of a family friend.”
It was hard to imagine putting on a dress and smiling at strangers, but Maren knew the distraction would probably be helpful. And she was pleased he had asked.
“Thank you. That would be lovely.”
They reached the door to the amputee ward. A number of people were in the hallway, but he looked down at her and smiled gently.
“Friday, then,” he said quietly. Before he walked away, he brushed the back of his hand against hers—a discreet touch and feather-light, but it was several minutes before her heartbeat returned to normal.
Over the following days, Maren began coming to terms with Brian O’Neill’s death. One lingering concern was how to honor his wish that Maren meet his mother, but that problem was solved for her. Through Herculean contortions, Mrs. O’Neill arranged for neighbors to care for her other children, so she could come to Walter Reed to thank the staff who’d cared for Brian, and to accompany his body on its last journey home to Massachusetts.
Nurse Blair arranged an audience, and Maren met Mrs. O’Neill in a small reception room in the main building. Maren was apprehensive, uncertain of her ability to handle tears or histrionics, but her fears were unfounded. Patricia O’Neill was tiny, probably not five feet, but she had an unmistakable dignity. She sat straight in the worn antique love seat, dressed neatly in a sensible plain black suit. The only sign of stress was the grip with which she held the black patent handbag in her lap.
Even through the sorrow in Mrs. O’Neill’s countenance, Maren detected the life and humor that had been so evident in her son. She had his freckles, his bright green eyes.
“I am so sorry for your loss,” Maren said as she took Mrs. O’Neill’s hand in her own. “I spent a good deal of time with Brian. I came to know and like him better than any patient since I’ve been here.”
“I am glad he had so many who looked after him in his final days.” Her voice caught slightly, but she lifted her chin and mastered herself. “I thank you.”
>
Maren told Mrs. O’Neill about her last conversation with Brian, and her hindsight realization that he likely knew he was facing the end, that he seemed at peace.
“Well, he had his faith,” Mrs. O’Neill said. “He might not have shown it, but he was a good Catholic boy. He knew where he was going.”
They spoke comfortably until a hospital representative came in to discuss details with Mrs. O’Neill. Maren returned to the dorm, feeling she had received as much, if not more comfort than she had given.
* * *
“I bet I know why you’ve been asked to come in uniform,” Dorothy said, filing her nails as Maren dressed for the party on Friday. “It’s because of Roosevelt and his parasite comment.”
“What comment?” Maren asked. Oliver had sent a note on Thursday, saying he’d fetch her at six o’clock and that they were “both to be in dress uniform.” Maren had wondered about that, but she’d been too busy to give it much thought.
“It was in the society column. Didn’t you see it?”
Maren shook her head. She read the papers in the Delano Hall reading room when she could, but the society columns were meaningless to her. She knew no one who was mentioned.
“Well, you know Roosevelt and the cave dwellers never have gotten on,” Dorothy began.
“Dorothy, back up.” Maren laughed. “Parasites? Cave dwellers?”
“The cave dwellers are the old Washington families. They’ve never much liked Roosevelt, who filled up the city with all his New Dealers even before the war. He doesn’t like them either, says they just travel and have parties and don’t do their part for the war. ‘Parasites,’ he called them. It got in the papers.”
“Oh my!” Maren said with a smile. “I’m going to a parasite party?”
“They thought it was funny at first, but then he started threatening to annex their houses. That got them nervous.”
Maren could well imagine, given how many buildings around the city had been annexed. Girls from a nearby school were about to return from a break when they discovered the army had taken their school building to use for a convalescent wing. That was understandable, since Walter Reed was so short on bed space, but other annexations seemed more capricious. When the Statler family’s new hotel near the White House was still under construction, they were so afraid the navy would try to nab the lovely new building, they kept things quiet until it opened, at which point they immediately invited a host of luminaries, including Mrs. Roosevelt, to a tea. As they hoped, the clientele became so attached to the venue, the navy wouldn’t dare snatch it out from under them.
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