He takes a step towards me. “Why don’t we talk about this.”
A car pulls up outside the restaurant. I glance at my screen and see that it matches my Uber. Putting my phone back in my bag, I look at Joel. My anger and grief churn within me. “I don’t ever want to talk to you again.”
Turning away from him, I get into the car, and close the door. As we pull away from the curb, I deliberately keep my eyes forward. It’s only as I get closer to home that the tears start to fall. I don’t try to stop them. A deep loneliness fills me, an isolation I’ve never felt before.
I get the sense it’s been there a long time.
A knowledge I’m only now starting to realize.
I’m alone. Truly and utterly alone.
3
My room is still dark when I wake. The dream that roused me turns to wisps, the fragments of it disappearing. I remember my parents were in it, and I think we were back in our old house. It’s more of a feeling now than a tangible recollection, but the whole thing has left me unsettled.
I roll over on my side and check my phone. It’s only just after four a.m. Closing my eyes, I wait for sleep to return, but it doesn’t. Frustrated, I sit up and turn on the bedside lamp. The anger comes flowing back with the light.
Every memory of Joel and I is tarnished, tainted with his betrayal. How could I have been so blind? How could I have believed that he loved me, when all along he was with someone else? And what does that say about me? Am I so ignorant, so desperate that I didn’t look deep enough? Was it right in front of me the whole time?
I think about the vacations we took together. All the times we blended our lives. I met his family. His sisters. Fuck, I even went shopping with his mother. Did they know? A year we were together, and half of that he spent cheating on me. I clench my fingers in a ball of rage. What a fucking asshole. I’m an idiot for ever thinking I loved him.
My anger swells, and I take a deep breath, tears coming with the exhale. I hate that I’m still crying over him. That he still has enough of a hold on my emotions to make me feel like this. What pisses me off the most is that I thought I was doing better. I was actually starting to feel like myself. Like I could breathe again.
Damn him. Damn him to hell for this.
And damn Zoe, too.
The loneliness that followed me home falls heavier upon me. I wish I could talk to my mom. Isn’t that what people do in times like this, call up their moms? If Grandpa was still here, what would he advise?
The thought comes to me right away. Before I can catch up to the idea, I’m already out of bed and down the hall. I push open his door and flick on the light. His record player is in the corner, a shelf of his collection beside it. I know exactly which one I need.
Pulling out the record, I put it on the turntable and place the needle carefully down. Billie Holiday’s voice comes through like velvet, melting away some of the edges of my anger. Grandpa always loved Billie. I grew up listening to her, so much so, that hearing her sing is like opening the floodgates to the past.
It’s the only way I can think to conjure him. He always said that if you’re feeling sad, put on a record and your troubles will disappear, if only for the length of a song. I close my eyes, and, standing in the middle of the room, let Billie sing my troubles away.
When the song ends, and I open my eyes, the first thing I see are the boxes in the corner. All that I have left of Grandpa is his memories inside. For months, I’ve been unable to bring myself to open even one. I’m not sure if it’s the loneliness that guides me, but I go and kneel in front of them, opening the first box.
Time disappears as I look through his mementos. Photos from over the years. News clippings and brochures that he kept from every performance I ever did. The emotions come like a rollercoaster, bringing joy and sadness at the same time. I touch each item carefully, cards that were sent to him, keepsakes that must have meant a lot.
Slowly, I go through the second box. It’s a mix of things, some from his childhood like the wind-up music box and the stamp collection he kept as a boy. Some are from later. Letters of thanks from students he taught piano to. An article he wrote about the importance of music in childhood development.
It’s only as I get to the bottom of the third box that I find his things from the war. They’re carefully protected by a thick, leather-bound folder. I unravel the wrap, and a velvet box falls out. Carefully opening it, I find a medal inside. A silver star. I run my fingers over it and wonder what he’d done to earn such an honor. He was always so private about his time in the army, about the things he’d seen and done.
Looking through the folder, the documents are records for the most part. There’s a booklet about life insurance from the Veteran’s Administration. Inside, I find a photo of five men, all dressed in their combat gear. I recognize my grandpa among them. Perhaps these were the men from his battalion. I wonder how many made it home.
As I gently put everything back in the folder, I notice a smaller envelope. The name Charlotte is written in my grandpa’s handwriting. The paper is aged, discolored, and slightly worn at the edges. Inside, I find a letter. I unfold it, and begin to read, my confusion mounting.
My dearest Charlotte,
Is it strange that I’ve counted the days since I last saw you? Throughout this entire, dreadful war, I’ve counted the days. Four hundred and thirteen. I’ve seen the sun rise over France and Belgium and Holland. I’ve watched it set in Germany, and now here in Austria. Still, I counted each and every one, wondering, hoping it would be the last before I could get back to you.
There’s talk that we might get out of here soon. Some of the guys are already being sent back Stateside. The men are talking about their homes again, their families, about a life beyond this mess of a war. I don’t tell them that I’m not going back to the States, that I’m going back to France. Back to where it all began. I don’t tell them that I have a girl who I’m going to marry. But I mean it, Charlotte. I’m going to marry you. If I’ve learned anything from this hell, it’s that I know the life I want to live beyond it. And I know I want that life with you.
I’ve found myself wishing more and more each day that I had a picture of you with me. An image to keep close, to drown out everything else. I cling to how I remember you. The way your golden hair shines as it blows in the wind. How the emerald in your eyes sparkles with the sunlight. I cling to what we had and what will be, so that I may endure what is.
When we landed in France, my only thought was on surviving. On making my country proud, my parents proud. I had trained and prepared for so many things, and I thought I knew what was to come. But that night I never felt so alone. When I got hit I was sure that was it, that I would die in that field, in some place so far from home. I felt ashamed, that I’d let everyone down. I hadn’t come all this way to have it end like that.
I’ll never forget the way you looked at me when you found me. You were an angel. You could have left me to die, but instead you took me to the barn for shelter, you nursed me, watched over me, fed me. For that alone, I owe you my life. Those ten days we were together, I realized that I knew you and loved you before we ever met.
When I left, and you kissed me and told me to come back to you, I had this feeling that I was going to survive. That I had to survive because I’m meant to be where you are. And now, my love, that day is closer than ever. And when I’m there, I will give you this letter myself. I will give you everything I have, and will ever have.
Hold on a little longer mon ange. I’m coming back to you.
All my heart,
William.
I put down the letter, stunned. Who was she, this woman he wrote to? Did he ever go back to her? The fact that the letter is here and not with her doesn’t make it seem so.
Charlotte. She had my name.
Or I have hers.
I feel the air leave my lungs as clarity sets in. Mom never spoke of her mother. All I’ve ever known about her is that she died over forty years before I was born, when my
mom was still a baby. I never talked with Grandpa about her either. I remember the one time I’d asked it made him sad, so I never asked again.
I reread the letter, looking for any information I can gather. He landed in France and was wounded. He thought he was going to die in some field. Charlotte found him. She sheltered him. Took care of him for ten days.
And during those ten days, it’s clear that he fell in love with her. He writes that she felt the same. So, what happened? My mind is foggy at the early hour, but I do the math. My mother was born on March 14th. But what year?
I know I was a surprise. She was in her forties when she had me. She and Dad had given up hope of having a child, and then one day she found out she was pregnant. She’d always called me her miracle. But what year was she born? I try to track the numbers in my tired brain. She died in 1994 when she was forty-nine.
That means she was born in 1945.
March 14th, 1945.
I look at the date on the letter. Friday, August 3rd, 1945. He says it’s been four hundred and thirteen days since he last saw her. That he was with her for the first ten days when he landed. That would mean around June 6th to June 16th.
Nine months before my mother was born.
Billie Holiday’s “It’s Easy to Remember” fills the room, and I stare at a spot on the carpet, trying to understand. Why didn’t Grandpa ever talk about this Charlotte? Did he go back and see her again? He must have. My mother was raised here in the States. In Oregon, my grandpa’s hometown.
Neither of them ever mentioned France, or any possible family there. It makes no sense. Why not just tell me? Or did my mother not know?
I think back on any conversation we might have had about it but come up empty. If ever there was one, my memory doesn’t recollect. I almost have the urge to laugh, even though there’s nothing remotely funny about it. There’s no one left to ask. No parents. No grandparents. Not even an aunt or an uncle. I have no idea who this woman was, and no way of finding out.
With a thousand questions running through my mind and no answers, I pack everything away into the boxes and turn off the record player. Carefully, I put Billie Holiday back in the album sleeve and return to my room.
Lying in the darkness, sleep takes a while to find me. There are too many thoughts running through my mind. Too many questions, and one in particular.
How the hell am I going to find out who she was?
The rain starts falling when I wake the next morning and continues all the way through to lunch. Sitting on the sofa, I watch the gray skies turn darker, nursing my third cup of coffee. I can’t stop thinking about the letter. About who this woman was. The leather file sits on the coffee table, Grandpa’s war documents on top of it. I’ve combed through all of them, but there’s nothing else about her.
No address.
No surname.
Not even a detailed description of where he was those ten days.
All I have is her name. Charlotte. I know she lived in France, somewhere around Normandy because that’s where he landed on D-Day.
I open my laptop and bring up Google. I wonder if there’s any way to figure out where it was that he landed. I search for the landing area of the 3rd Battalion of the 502nd PIR. That’s the regiment he was in, and the only information I have.
It doesn’t take me long to find a map of the drop zones. I pull up Normandy on Google Maps to cross reference. The little white circles that signify 3rd Battalion landings are numerous. They’re stretched all over from the coast to almost eight miles inland. I click on the calculator app and type in 8 x to find the circumference of the area. 25.12. He could have landed anywhere within a twenty-five-mile range.
He was found in a field, but that doesn’t mean she lived where she found him. Surely she couldn’t have lived far away though. France was under Nazi occupation at the time. I can’t imagine the French were taking leisurely strolls through the countryside during the allied invasion.
I flip the map of Normandy to satellite. The screen is full of green and brown squares. Fields. Hundreds upon hundreds of fields.
The sound of my buzzer fills the apartment. I’m not expecting anyone, and my first thought is that it’s burglars. This is quickly followed by the more rational thought that they probably wouldn’t use the buzzer to announce themselves. Wary, I go to the intercom and hit the button.
“Hello?”
“Hey, it’s me.”
Confused, I buzz Fiona in. We had no plans to see each other. And random drop-bys haven’t been common since Kayla was born.
A minute later, I watch as she puts her umbrella in the stand and takes off her jacket. When she’s finished, she lifts a white paper bag.
“I come bearing gifts.”
She hands it to me, and I look inside. There’s a selection of pastries. “Bakery Nouveau?”
“Of course.”
I go into the kitchen and grab some napkins. Fiona is sitting on the sofa when I return, looking at the computer.
“What’s all this?”
I take a seat next to her. “Research.”
“I wanted to see how you were...” She looks at me, her expression concerned. “After last night.”
I’m not sure what I’m supposed to say. “I guess it doesn’t really matter anymore, does it?”
“Of course it matters.” She shifts position, folding her legs beneath her. “What he did, it’s unforgiveable. I’m so sorry.”
“Did you know?”
She shakes her head. “I had no idea. I haven’t seen him since you guys split.”
It’s the last topic I feel like discussing. I pick up the paper bag, needing distraction, and take out a cream cheese Danish. “Thanks for this,” I say, handing her the bag.
She diverts her gaze to the contents. “Look, I know you’re mad at Zoe. But I think her intentions were good.”
“Fiona,” I warn.
“No, I know. And I’m not here to speak on her behalf or anything. That’s something you two have to sort out between you. I just know that like me, she’s been worried about you these past few months, and maybe that’s where her thinking was.”
“Worried about what? Haven’t I been carrying on like I’m supposed to? I get up, I go to work. I show up to social functions. I’m doing the best I can here.”
“Char.” Her tone is gentle. “What you’ve been through, there’s no blueprint for that. No wrong or right way to navigate it. We love you though, and it’s normal to worry. And it’s okay if you’re not okay. I just want you to know that I’m here. That you’re not alone.”
The tears pool in my eyes at her choice of word. Alone. I’ve never felt it so strongly.
“Oh hon.” She pulls me into her arms. “I’m sorry if I haven’t been as available as you’ve needed.”
I sniff and wrap my arms around her. “You just had a kid, you’re excused.”
“Still.” She releases her hold on me. “With everything that’s been going on, I hate the thought of you having to deal with it all on your own.”
I almost say that I’m used to it, but stop myself, realizing how it sounds. The truth is, I am used to dealing with things on my own. Grandpa wasn’t well for a long time before he died, and I was all he had. It’s why I moved him in with me, to make sure that he had the care he needed. To make sure he never felt alone.
“You know you can talk to me about anything, right?” Fiona gives me a kind smile. “Can I ask you something? About the PhD?” I nod. “You’re not thinking about doing it, are you?”
“I don’t know. It’s something I probably should have done ages ago.”
“Bullshit.” She laughs at my feigned shock. “When we were in college all you wanted to do was play. I’ve never seen you happier than when you’re at a piano.”
I sit back against the sofa. “That was a different life.”
“No it wasn’t.” I look at her, uncertain where she’s going with this. “You had to hit the pause button, that’s all.”
It’s a polite way of saying that I quit touring and moved back home so I could be with my ailing grandfather.
“If you think about it, it’s not that different from what I’m doing,” she says. “Being on maternity leave, I’ve had to hit the pause button on my career. It doesn’t mean I don’t get to go back to social work. I love what I do. Being a mom doesn’t change that.”
“Yeah, but you’re on leave. You didn’t quit and change careers for the past few years.”
“Look, Char, I think you’re amazing no matter what you do. But the fact that you’re hesitant to do the PhD has to mean something.”
I tear off a large chunk of Danish and throw it in my mouth. Fiona’s always been able to read me like a book. Sometimes I think she knows me more than I do myself.
“What is all this?”
I glance up and see her eyeing the documents on the table. “They’re Grandpa’s things. Stuff from the war.”
She picks up the photo and studies the faces. “Is that him?”
“Yeah.”
“Wow. Your grandfather was really hot.” She laughs. “Seriously, look at him.”
Leaning forward, I pull the letter out and hand it to her. “Read that.”
She looks at me skeptically but takes it and reads. When she gets to the end, she turns to me with surprise. “Who’s Charlotte?”
“My grandmother, I think.”
Her mouth hangs open. “Your grandmother was French?”
“I guess. I found it last night. I don’t have any other information about her though.”
Fiona looks back down at the letter. “This is the most romantic thing I’ve ever read. Did he ever get back to her?”
“I assume so. I mean, my mom was born nine months after they met. It had to be her mother, right?”
She scrunches her brow in thought. “He clearly loved her, and he wrote that they spent ten days together. I mean, that’s enough time for things to happen.”
“But if Mom was born in France, how did she end up here? She was raised in the States. She grew up in Eugene, Grandpa’s hometown.”
Fiona goes silent in reflection. “I don’t know. Having a kid out of wedlock back then was kind of a big deal. Maybe she ran away.”
The Sea of Lost Things Page 3
