To Have and to Hold

by Fern Michaels

  “There’s nothing for us to do,” Della said, examining the oversize closet that was to be her room.

  “I think you should share my room, Della. This is too tiny. We can use it for storage.”

  “No. Your room is your room. When Captain Starr comes home, he might be upset if he knew I shared what should be his space. This is fine for me. All I’ll be doing is sleeping in it. Now it’s settled, I don’t want to hear another word.”

  Kate gave in, just the way she always gave in when someone else made a decision that affected her. “I wonder if he’ll ever see this room,” she mused.

  “Of course he will. Never, ever think negative. If you don’t think and act positive, the girls will sense it.”

  “But what if he doesn’t come back?” Kate whimpered.

  “He will come back. I don’t know when, but he will. I hear the moving truck,” she cried excitedly. “Take charge, Kate.”

  “All right, girls,” Kate said, dabbing at her eyes. “Forward, march!”

  It was five o‘clock when the last dishes had been washed and placed in the sparkling white cabinets. At six o’clock the sheets were on all the beds. At six-thirty Della served up hamburgers and french fries and then did the dishes. At seven-thirty the last of the girls’ clothing had been placed in the drawers and hung in the closets. By eight-thirty the girls had had their baths and were sound asleep in their beds.

  When Kate returned to the living room, Della had a small fire going and the coffeepot was full and waiting. “We deserve this,” she said happily as she placed Fig Newtons on the saucer along with the cup.

  “Oh, Della, this is so nice. Thank you. Thank you so much for everything,” Kate said, flopping against the soft cushions of the worn sofa.

  “How are the little ones?”

  “Sound asleep. Betsy is ... anxious. We’re off our routine. We didn’t write Patrick today, so she wanted to know if that meant we were starting to forget him. We had this routine . . . God, Della, I had every minute of the day accounted for. Now when I think back to those ten months Patrick was gone . . . it seems so ... so cruel. I had those girls jumping through hoops. Now this. I just know Betsy isn’t going to like her new school. She adored her teachers.”

  Della let loose with a string of Spanish, then switched to English. “Today is a new day, a new beginning for all of us. What we do from here on in is what’s important. Drink your coffee. Did I tell you I brought some packets of flower seeds with me, a dozen or so? They came in the cereal boxes and I saved them. Tomorrow while you go through the papers, the girls and I will plant them. This little house will look like a rainbow surrounds it when the flowers bloom.”

  “That’s nice,” Kate said sleepily. “You know, next month is Patrick’s birthday.”

  “I’ll bake a cake,” Della said.

  “Double chocolate fudge with real frosting, and colored sprinkles for the girls. Candles, all colors. And a present. One with a big red bow. We’ll keep it in the closet until . . . he gets back.”

  “Wonderful! Now why don’t you take your shower first. I’ll clean up, damper the fire, and get ready for bed. Everything is going to be fine, Kate, I promise.”

  Kate believed her. Della was wonderful, the next best thing to a mother. Maybe even better. Her mother had rarely hugged her or praised her; she’d always seemed too busy. Della was a hugger, and she always seemed to say the right words. “Thank you, God, for Della,” she said aloud.

  That night, for the first time since Patrick left, Kate slept deeply and soundly.

  She awakened the next morning to the smell of coffee and frying bacon and hurried to the kitchen. There, seated at the table, was Donald Abbott, and in front of him was a plate of scrambled eggs and bacon. She could hear the girls in the backyard. Della was smiling. And Kate herself smiled when she beheld her landlord in a smartly tailored dark suit, a snowy white shirt, and flowered tie. His black shoes gleamed with polish, and his gray hair had been neatly barbered.

  “Morning, Mrs. Starr. I just stopped by after church to see if everything was to your satisfaction and to collect the rent.”

  Kate sat down across from him. “Mr. Abbott, everything is fine. I can’t thank you enough for . . . for everything. I am so pleased. We didn’t have to do anything but move in. When I get a job and things are better for me, I’ll pay you more rent. I promise. The military has everything mixed up right now, and it will probably be a while before things get straightened out. You’ve been very good to us. I think you’re a very nice man.”

  “Thank you, ma’am, I am. Guess you thought I was a bit disheveled when you saw me last. I was, but I was working on some property a ways from here. I was in my work clothes.

  “And listen, if the military is giving you a problem, you go straight to the top. You call Washington, D.C., and get hold of the general in charge of Air Force personnel and tell him what your problem is. I’d recommend you start with your caseworker, and if you don’t get any results, call Washington. I had to do that when my son . . . I had to do that.”

  “Thank you for the advice, Mr. Abbott.”

  “That was a real good breakfast, Miss Della,” Abbott said when he’d finished eating. “I’ll be going now.”

  “Let me get the rent for you,” Kate said.

  “Do you need a receipt?”

  “I guess not,” Kate said.

  “That’s good. I like it when people trust each other. Nice little girls you have there,” Abbott said, pointing to Betsy and Ellie. “They told me they’re making a rainbow around the house for their daddy so when he gets back he can see it from his airplane.”

  “They said that?” Kate said in awe.

  “That’s exactly what they said. Guess I won’t be seeing you till next month. If there’s any problem, call me. Miss Della has the number.”

  “Why don’t you come for dinner next Saturday, Donald,” Della said. “I’ll make some real Mexican food and you can tell me how you like it.” Kate’s eyebrows shot upward, as did Abbott’s.

  “I’ll be here,” he said, then left the house. Kate waited for him to hitch up his pants, which he did when he got to the bottom of the back steps. She smiled. Della smiled, a merry glint in her eyes.

  “He looks like he could use some fattening up. He’s going to lose his pants one of these days. I wouldn’t want the girls to see his drawers if that happened. After all, he is our landlord. We have to be nice to him.”

  “I agree,” Kate said. “I take that to mean he’s a widower.”

  “Yes. He likes us, I can tell.”

  “Can you now?” Kate teased.

  “Get on with you, finish unpacking your clothes. I’ll wash up here and help the girls. Get the Sunday papers for yourself. Don’t worry about a thing. I think, and this is just my opinion, Kate, but I do believe Donald is going to be a surrogate grandfather to those two little girls, and it’s going to be the best thing in the world for them.”

  “That would be really nice. Do they like him?”

  “Ellie does for sure. Betsy was a little reserved. I heard him tell her he had a bicycle he was going to spruce up and did she know anyone who needed one. She told him she was someone and would be glad to take it. He kind of chuckled over that. I think he’s looking for a family, Kate, and if you have a mind to share yours with him, he’d be eternally grateful.”

  “We didn’t make a mistake coming here, did we, Della?”

  Della shook her head. “Some things are meant to be. Just accept them.”

  “I think Patrick would approve of all this. No, no, no, I know he would. I can almost hear him say, ‘good choice, Kate.’ ”

  It was Sunday, a day of rest for Kate.

  Tomorrow her life would continue, but down a different road.

  CHAPTER THREE

  It was December 1971, a year since Patrick had ejected from his plane; twenty-one months since he’d left their little apartment in the desert. And still there was no concrete news of her husband’s whereabouts. H
e was still listed as Missing. Kate still called Bill Percy every day, and every day he said the same thing: “Everything is being done that can be done. We haven’t forgotten about your husband. Be patient, Mrs. Starr, and for your own sake, don’t stir up a hornet’s nest that you can’t control.”

  Her language was stronger these days, she’d found, born of anger, frustration, and despair. “Fuck you and don’t hand me that fucking bullshit! I want to know. You keep telling me the government is doing things, but you won’t tell me what things. I have a right to know. I’m going to call the newspapers and I’m writing a letter to President Nixon.”

  To which Percy replied with an edge to his voice: “Please don’t do that.”

  The conversation usually ended at that point with Kate slamming down the phone.

  She’d prayed for Patrick’s return for Christmas, realizing she was praying for the impossible. The government said he wasn’t a prisoner, so how could he be returned? Still listed as Missing, he would literally have to call someone to come and get him, or simply walk out of the jungle and say, “Here I am, come and get me.”

  Kate now belonged to various support groups and had signed on as a member of the League of Families. She continued to read everything she could, stuffed envelopes, and did mailings for her various groups. It was neither rewarding nor fulfilling. She cried more, lost weight, grew gaunt and irritable with the girls, and with Della as well. She still hadn’t found a job that paid her a decent amount of money. She suspected her sallow complexion and look of desperation turned off personnel interviewers. Her part-time job in a used-book store allowed her to stay in the back room pricing and cataloging books. There was little interaction with the other employees, who were out front dealing with the public. She found it easy to withdraw into her shell, and sometimes didn’t speak to anyone at all during her four-hour shift. She always cried when she deposited her pitiful check each Friday.

  She was tired all the time, and at Della’s insistence was taking megadoses of vitamins, which did nothing for her energy level. Going to school at night, taking secretarial courses again at Della’s and Donald Abbott’s insistence, and studying in the morning, left her drained.

  Christmas was upon them before Kate realized it. It was Della and Donald who put up the Christmas tree, Della and Donald who wrapped presents for the girls, Della who baked the Christmas cookies while she kept to her bed, refusing to go to work or to class. She was neglecting the girls but seemed unable to help herself. She lost more weight, grew more gaunt. More than once Della had to drag her from bed and push her into the shower.

  From somewhere in the apartment she could hear the sound of Christmas carols being played. And the sound of whispers. Or was that in her mind? she wondered. Lately she wasn’t sure of anything. Maybe if she lay there long enough, she’d die. She was so tired, so weary. Patrick, where are you? You promised me tomorrow, and tomorrow is here. She buried her face in the pillow, sobs racking her thin shoulders.

  Outside in the hallway, the two little girls whispered to one another.

  “I just want to see her. Maybe if we sneak in, she’ll wake up. I won’t make a sound, I promise, Betsy,” Ellie pleaded.

  “She doesn’t want to see us. Santa Claus is coming tonight, and she didn’t make Christmas cookies. We can’t go in, Della said so.”

  “I don’t care,” Ellie whined. “Please, Betsy, just a peep. I’ll hold your hand. Will she still be in bed when the Easter Bunny comes? That’s a long time, isn’t it?”

  “A lot of days,” Betsy said flatly. “Promise you won’t tell Della and Donald, okay? We’ll just look at her. You have to promise, Ellie.”

  Ellie danced from one foot to the other. “I promise,” she said.

  Betsy licked her lips. Daddy had told her that only lazybones lay in bed for no good reason. The little girl’s heart fluttered in her chest as she led her sister to her mother’s bed. She wished the blinds were open so she could see her mother better. She felt frightened suddenly, wishing she hadn’t come in here. Ellie’s hand was wet in hers.

  They tiptoed to the edge of the bed, and Betsy stared down at the stranger there. Her hand moved on its own volition. The bedside lamp came on, all rosy and pink. Her eyes bulged when she saw her mother up close. She backed up a step and then another, dragging Ellie with her. Her mother wasn’t playing lazybones. Lazybones leaped out of the bed when the light came on, and then giggled and laughed. Lazybones was a game. She knew instinctively, as only a child could know, that her well-being and that of her sister was on shaky ground.

  “What’s wrong with Mommy’s hair?” Ellie whispered.

  “That’s how hair gets when you don’t wash it,” Betsy said quietly.

  “It smells funny in here,” Ellie said.

  “I know,” Betsy said.

  “If Mommy stays in here forever, does that mean we don’t have a mother anymore? We don’t have a daddy. If we cry, will she hug us and get up?” Ellie sobbed.

  Tears rolled down Betsy’s cheeks. She didn’t know how to answer her sister. What if her mother died in bed because she didn’t wash her hair or take a shower? What if Daddy never came home? She squeezed her eyes shut. She was supposed to be a big girl and not cry unless she was really hurt. Daddy said so. She hurt now, so bad she didn’t know what to do.

  Her feet moved, closer, until she was at the edge of her mother’s bed. She dropped to her knees, one hand on the mattress for support, the other clutching her sister. “Mommy,” she whispered. When there was no response, she whispered again, her face inches from her mother.

  “Is she dead, Betsy?” Ellie blubbered. “I want her to hug me.”

  “You promised to be quiet,” Betsy hissed.

  “I don’t care. Make her wake up.”

  Betsy felt frightened now that she was so close to her mother. Maybe she was dead. When you were dead, you didn’t move, and then you went to heaven, where all the dead people were. She wanted her daddy, more than she wanted Christmas presents, more than the big turkey, more than the Christmas tree. Daddy could carry Mommy out of bed. Her daddy could do anything.

  Her hand shot out to touch her mother’s shoulder. She reared back when Kate’s eyes snapped open. “I’m sorry . . . Mommy, I wanted you to wake up,” Betsy cried. “Are you going to die? Ellie wants you to hug her. Are you being a lazybones?” She wanted to run, not look at this person who was supposed to be her mother. Daddy wouldn’t like it that Mommy looked so terrible.

  Kate stared at her cowering daughters, unable to comprehend what they were doing in her room. She had no idea what time it was or even what day it was.

  “Santa Claus is coming tonight,” Ellie sobbed.

  Kate saw Patrick through a haze. A handsome, sturdy little boy with a rusty bike he rode everywhere. “Oh, Patrick,” she crooned, “God made you an angel.”

  “Are you going to die?” Ellie whimpered.

  Betsy waited for her mother’s answer. Her mother wouldn’t lie about dying. She heard her sister repeat the question. She thought her heart would blow out of her chest until, in a funny-sounding voice, her mother said, “I don’t think so.”

  “Oh, goody,” Ellie cried happily.

  Betsy ran from the room, giddy with relief. God wasn’t going to make them orphans. “If You made us orphans, Daddy wouldn’t know where to find us,” she whispered. “I knew You wouldn’t do that on Christmas.”

  In her room, Kate crushed her face into the pillow. The day before Christmas. She dozed then, dreaming about a little boy with the face of an angel on a rusty bike, his wings flapping in the breeze as he careened past her house.

  Patrick.

  Kate woke with a pounding headache, knowing it was still the day before Christmas because she could hear the girls singing “Jingle Bells.” Ellie was babbling about Santa coming down the chimney. She had to get up, take part in whatever was going on outside her room. She managed to pull on her robe and stagger to the kitchen, where Della, Donald, and the girls looked at her
with wide, staring eyes. Della shooed the girls into the living room with fat sugar cookies in the shape of Christmas trees.

  “I’m glad you’re up, Kate,” Della said sternly. “I have something to say to you. I’m sorry it’s today, it being Christmas Eve and all. I’m leaving the day after Christmas. Donald here, well, he’s asked me to be his bride, and I’ve . . . accepted.”

  If Kate had been looking anywhere but at Della, she would have seen the look of shocked surprise on her landlord’s face. “But . . . you never said anything about leaving,” she cried. “I can’t . . . what will the girls do without you?” Her heart was pounding as fiercely as her head.

  “I’m just your housekeeper, Kate. You’re their mother. Somewhere along the way, you forgot that. They need you, not me. This is Christmas, and you didn’t lift a finger to help, didn’t care enough for those little girls to make any kind of effort. They’re going to remember this. If you can’t take care of them, Social Services will place them in foster homes. How will you explain that to your husband when he gets back? He left you in charge of his daughters, trusting you to keep . . . his home for him until he returned. Instead you lie in bed, refuse to eat, and leave it to me to do everything. I can’t do it anymore. I’m getting to be an old woman, in case you hadn’t noticed. Donald has promised to make life easy for me.”

  “That’s a selfish attitude,” Kate mumbled.

  “Perhaps you should look in the mirror and see who the selfish one is. You haven’t even paid the bills. Do you know the electric company is shutting off our electricity the day after Christmas? There’s no more wood for the fireplace, and Donald has been buying our food. And it won’t do any good to cry. I’ve had enough of your tears and your whining. Your husband would be so disappointed in the way you’re acting.”

  Kate’s shoulders shook and tears rolled down her cheeks. She wiped her eyes on the sleeve of her robe. “I have a terrible headache,” she cried. “I had this dream ... it was awful . . . I was a child back in Westfield, and Patrick had just moved in around the corner with his family. He ... he had his old, rusty bike and he was pedaling it past my house. In my dream . . . he was leaning over my bed, but I was me, like I am now. He said he was an orphan or something like that. I wanted to put my arms around him, but I couldn’t move. His voice was funny, like he was trying to cry. Patrick never cried. He was so proud of that. I can’t comprehend that, Della. Never crying, I mean. I cry all the time. It’s such a release. Men . . . men should cry, too. God, my head is killing me.”