“Wade and I were having intercourse while we were in the prison camp, one of our only pleasures. When I discovered I was pregnant, I had no way of knowing the father. After Barbara Ann was born, it was obvious to me that the doctor was her biological father. I haven’t told Wade, and I don’t intend to.”
“Might the doctor come back into the picture?”
“No. He died a few days after the rape. The Japanese shelled Santo Tomas and a wall fell. The medics brought him to my field station with a head injury.” She felt such a strong need to wash her hands that she balled them into fists. “I relived that day. How is that possible? One minute I was driving my car and the next the flash of exploding shells blinded me. I steered into a ditch. Everything seemed as real to me as the day it happened. I even felt his blood on my hands.”
“There’s a medical term for what you’re describing—hypnagogicregression, the reliving of a traumatic experience. It’s common among veterans who saw combat and POWs who suffered years of abuse. Not much is known about it. Right now, it carries a stigma, so it’s not often talked about openly.”
“I thought I was going crazy.”
“You’re not going crazy.” He rat-a-tapped his pen on the notebook. “You felt his blood on your hands?”
“Yes.” She wiped wrinkles from her skirt. “He was injured and covered with blood. Because of what he had done to me, I wanted him to suffer, so I threatened him with a syringe full of morphine. We struggled, and he grabbed my throat. I fell forward onto him, and stabbed the syringe into his neck.” She lowered her voice. “I killed my daughter’s father, and every day she reminds me of how evil I am. What can anyone possibly do to help me?” She studied Dr. Garber’s face, seeing that it showed no horror, rejection, or even surprise.
“I can give you something to hold on to,” he said.
Over the next few sessions, Margie couldn’t stop talking. She told Dr. Garber in great detail about the deprivations and humiliations suffered by Santo Tomas’s internees, and their elation when the American soldiers arrived. For the first time since her encounter with Evelyn on Saipan, she talked about Helen. The memory of her death from starvation and of praying with Gracie at her bedside while church bells pealed gaily brought tears of pain. “I was on my way to get plasma for Helen when . . .” She choked back a sob. “If Max hadn’t . . .”
Dr. Garber nudged a box of tissues forward and waited for her to regain her composure. He said, “Your life turned into a nightmare in the worst sense of the word. Listen to me carefully now: this is vital for you to understand. When you live in a nightmare, you react as if in a nightmare. I’ve seen it a hundred times—soldiers broken down, then beating themselves up later over things that happened in the heat of battle. Frames of reference change. Horrors occur. What you did can’t be undone, but I can help you understand why it happened, and change your reaction to the memory of it. You are guilt-ridden and anxious, and, believe it or not, that’s a good sign.”
Margie startled. “What I’m feeling is good?”
“Yes. I’d be far more disturbed if you showed no reaction at all. We can work with it. At home, when you are relaxing, I’d like you to reflect on this statement: An abnormal reaction to an abnormal situation is normal behavior. Think about what it means and how it applies to you.”
Margie repeated the statement in her head: An abnormal reaction to an abnormal situation is normal behavior. She didn’t comprehend it.
“You’ve been making good progress,” the doctor said. “Many of my patients take months to get to where you are after only a few weeks.”
When at home, she didn’t feel like she had made any progress at all. The relief she hoped would come by confessing the rape and Max’s murder didn’t materialize. She couldn’t evoke the relaxed state she’d experienced in the doctor’s office, and anxiety still overwhelmed her, sending her scurrying to the bedroom with her cigarettes until the worst of the episode passed. She obsessed about Abe, Royce, and Helen, feeling an overwhelming desire to connect with them; because she couldn’t, guilt brought on crying jags. One afternoon, while Barbara Ann napped, she crept up the stairs to the attic to look for her army duffel bag, which she found tucked under the eaves.
Unfastening the hook from the grommets released smells that brought back memories of the months on Bataan, and the thousands of injured and dying soldiers lying under the trees. Was it a bad dream? She took out a pile of wrinkled uniforms, unearthing a packet of letters and some snapshots Evelyn took during those early, untroubled weeks in Manila. She thumbed through the pictures. We had some good times.
A small box contained a few pieces of jewelry. Abe’s silver pilot’s ring had tarnished; she polished the blue stone thoughtfully on the sleeve of her shirt. What if . . . ? She put the ring down gently, those dreams dashed long ago.
She clipped on the string of pearls Royce had given her and admired herself in a dusty mirror. She tried to bring back the sound of his voice, the feel of his hands on her skin. You’re more beautiful than I ever dreamed possible.
Wade came into the attic. Involved in her memories, she jumped at his entry.
He surveyed the contents of the duffel strewn on the floor. “What’s all this?”
“I’m sorting through it. Some of these things shouldn’t be in the attic. Like this.” She held up the mahogany ring he’d carved for her while a prisoner of war.
“You kept it?”
“Of course I did. It’s a work of art.” She slipped it on her ring finger, wondering what to do with it. She loved the source, but not the association.
She held up a fountain pen and read the inscription aloud: “To Helen, Happy Birthday. Love, Mabel. We should have sent this back to Mabel months ago. Do you think it’s too late?”
Worry lines creased Wade’s forehead. “Are you sure you should be doing this?”
“I’ll be okay.” She opened the four small leather cases holding her medals: the Philippine Defense Medal for protecting the islands against the Japanese; the Presidential Unit Citation for extraordinary heroism against an armed enemy; the American Pacific Campaign Medal with a Foreign Service clasp; and the Bronze Star with two oak-leaf clusters. She picked up the latter, the fourth-highest combat medal awarded by the military, and read the inscription on the back—Heroic or Meritorious Achievement, Marjorie Olivia Bauer.
Looking over her shoulder, Wade said, “We should have these mounted and framed.”
“No, I was no hero.”
She stuffed the uniforms into the now-empty duffel and gave it to him. “You can throw these out.”
“The duffel too?”
“Yes. It smells moldy, like a dirty tent.”
She found a pretty hatbox, its surface printed with spring flowers. Removing the hat, she replaced it with her medals, letters, and mementos of her friends, then carried it to her bedroom, where she added the stacks of letters she and Mama had saved.
Wade held out a large envelope.
“What’s this?” she asked.
“Pictures of the war Kodak sent me. Do you want to see them?”
“Of the war? Not yet. Maybe some other day.”
He lifted the lid of the hatbox and dropped them inside.
Searching through her drawer, she found a blue ribbon to tie the hatbox shut, then put it in the cedar chest and closed the lid, feeling like she had completed an important task.
Her sense of accomplishment was short-lived, however. That night, Dr. Garber appeared in her dream, saying, “You may have to face some things you don’t want to.” She woke up in a sweat.
Margie got out of bed quietly and padded downstairs. In the kitchen, she poured a glass of wine and sat in the dark, contemplating what the psychiatrist had told her: An abnormal reaction to an abnormal situation is normal behavior. She mulled over the years of hunger and fear, the surreal aura of the liberation, the physical pain of the rape, and its mental devastation—when you live in a nightmare, you react as if in a nightmare.
; She envisioned Max covered with blood and begging for mercy, and Reverend Markel’s sermons based on a verse from the Gospel of Matthew came to mind. But I say unto you, Love your enemies, bless them that curse you, do good to them that hate you, and pray for them which despitefully use you, and persecute you.
Muddled in mind and drained of spirit, she struggled to reconcile her rational mind with her religious conscience. She prayed, Please, Lord, accept my love, and forgive my sins. Help me understand what has happened to me and lead me to the path to become whole again.
One afternoon, Mama thumbed through Good Housekeeping magazine, concentrating on appliance advertisements. Her oven hadn’t heated evenly for several months. “Have you seen this, Margie? The new Frigidaire stove has a burner that recesses for slow-cooking soups and stews. What will they think of next?”
Margie looked at the ad. “It’s electric. I didn’t think you liked electric stoves.”
“I wouldn’t know. I’ve never cooked on one.” She looked up at the ceiling. “I think I hear Barbara Ann.”
Margie climbed the stairs to the nursery, where Barbara Ann lay on her back in the crib, playing with her toes. Margie cooed, “How long have you been awake? It’s past your lunchtime. You must be hungry.” She changed the baby’s diaper while Barbara Ann’s little legs kicked wildly, making an unpleasant job extra difficult.
Barbara Ann seldom cried anymore. Margie often found her awake in her crib, entertaining herself for long stretches with her toys or her toes. “She’s a different sort of child,” Mama said. Where Margie had been a happy baby, and Frank stubborn and impatient, Barbara Ann displayed a serious temperament.
Margie ran a finger under the baby’s double chin. “Can you smile for me? Come on, you can do it.” Or not, she thought. As Barbara Ann stared unblinkingly at her, Margie had to look away.
Dr. Garber continued to reinforce the message that a person beaten down by hunger and fear did not function normally, and that that, in itself, was normal behavior.
“I understand, but all my life I’ve been taught to love my enemies.”
“It’s a tall order. We mortals are a fallible bunch even in the best of times. God gave us prayer. Have you prayed for forgiveness?”
“Every night.”
“Then find it in your heart to forgive your weakened self . . . as you would a burdened friend.”
Margie nodded, seeing a glimmer of light.
“Today, if you don’t mind, let’s reflect on your years in the Philippines. Did anything good come from it?”
“I guess, in retrospect, I’m not totally sorry for the experience. I served my country proudly. I helped hundreds of soldiers when they needed it, lying cut up and shot up in the jungle and in those horrible tunnels. I don’t think I did anything to deserve those medals they awarded me, just my duty and what I had to do to survive. Some good things did come from it. I met some brave, selfless people, like Helen. She was at Camp John Hay. Did your nephew mention her? Helen Doyle? She hated it there. She wanted to go to Europe so she could serve closer to the front. And Gracie. She got shot in the shoulder when we evacuated to Corregidor from Bataan. They gave her two chances to leave, but she wouldn’t go. She said she was in for the duration. There were others, lots of others—like Royce, a doctor I fell in love with, and Wade.”
She went to the office window and watched people coming and going on the street for a while. “Truthfully, I mostly think about being so hungry my stomach felt like it was eating itself. I try to push it out of my mind, but it always comes back.”
“Don’t fight it,” Dr. Garber said. “It’s important you not bury your sufferings. And you did suffer, terribly, but now it’s as much a part of your history as your accomplishments. Turning misfortune into triumph is a way to conquer it.”
“I can’t begin to imagine how I would do that.”
“It’s a problem you’ll have to solve at some point. You’re a young woman with years and years still ahead of you. I want you to think about what you’d like to do with your life. What would bring meaning to it? When contemplating that, consider your sufferings as well as your accomplishments. Both are a part of who you are and what you have to offer.”
During the summer of 1947, Margie and Mama harvested bushels of sweet corn, cucumbers, beans, beets, squash, peas, and cantaloupe. Sweet potatoes and the second crop of broccoli and cabbage had yet to mature. They canned and preserved everything they could, filling the pantry with mason jars of tomatoes, peaches, and applesauce. The cellar began to overflow with bags and baskets of produce.
Margie had been seeing Dr. Garber for over a year, her appointments only once a month now. She felt his message had become repetitive, and against Wade’s advice, she decided to discontinue therapy.
She arrived at the psychiatrist’s office feeling jumpy, wishing she’d taken the coward’s way out and just telephoned. He didn’t greet her immediately, as he usually did. She waited in a huff, pacing the reception area while checking her watch—thirty minutes, sixty minutes. Just as she’d made up her mind to leave, the office door opened. Out stepped the elderly woman she had seen on her first visit, the one with the shaky husband. Dr. Garber helped the woman into a waiting cab and paid the driver.
Striding back into the office, he said, “Come in, Margie. I’m sorry to have kept you waiting. Mrs. Bender’s husband died last night. A lovely couple. They were together for sixty-two years.”
She settled in the easy chair, feeling contrite. “I’m sorry. What’s going to happen to her?”
“She has a son in town and many friends. Mr. Bender owned the drugstore on Main Street years ago. You may remember him.”
“Mr. Bender. Of course I do. He gave me lollipops when I was a kid.”
Dr. Garber opened her file. “Now, how about you?”
She told him about wanting to discontinue therapy—the feelings of anxiety and depression rare now, and she was able to calm herself with the techniques he had taught her. She thanked him for helping to put the horrors of her past into perspective. She was no longer burdened with guilt.
Tenting his fingers, he sat back in his chair. “You’ve come a long way, Margie, but you still carry around a lot of tension. In itself, it is not a bad thing, if directed toward a worthy objective. Have you given that any more thought?”
“I don’t have time to do anything more. I work part-time at the Red Cross and have a large garden that always needs tending. Barbara Ann keeps me busy too.”
“Of course she does. How old is she now?”
“She’s almost two.”
“Lots of hugs and raspberries on her tummy?”
“She doesn’t go without.”
“From you?”
Margie nervously fidgeted with the clasp on her purse. He was close to the truth that she avoided the daily care of her daughter. Just recently her mother had sat her down for a talk. “The child is craving your love, but you turn your head, or your back, or you push her aside. Don’t you see the hurt in her eyes? Do you even know you’re doing it? Why can’t you embrace her?” Mama had been in tears.
She said to Dr. Garber, “I cuddle Barbara Ann on my lap when she’s tired. She loves to be read to, so that’s what I do.” She felt her eyes blink rapidly.
“These are the years to build strong bonds,” he said. “As she grows older, especially when she enters her teen years, she may take on characteristics of her father. It could be a crisis time for both of you. It’s better to head it off by preparing for it.”
Margie opened her purse to fish out her keys and sunglasses. Things at home had stabilized. Physically healthy and precociously curious, Barbara Ann was a happy child, according to Mama and Wade, who both doted on her. And Margie had promised her mother she would be warmer and more loving to her daughter. She said, “We are okay for now, and I don’t foresee any problems.”
He shut her file. “Come in and chat with me next year at this time. Will you do that?”
She nodded but didn’t
commit.
“What are your plans for the future?”
She told him how busy she was with the garden’s harvest.
“And beyond that?”
She hadn’t really thought about her future, and she left his office feeling distraught. Dr. Garber’s therapy had taught her how to calm her anxiety and rationalize her tremendous guilt, but not how to stop the vivid memories of Barbara Ann’s conception and its evil aftermath. Was there no help for her? Sitting in her car, she wept inconsolably.
CHAPTER 28
Little River, 1947–1948
Margie couldn’t get Mrs. Bender off her mind. In the weekly newspaper, she read her husband’s obituary: Richard, pharmacist, married to Marla for sixty-two years; a son, Michael; a daughter, Marcy, died in infancy; and a grandson, John, killed in Europe. Margie looked up the address in the telephone directory, then waited a couple weeks before driving across town to visit.
The house sat back from the road, a huge maple tree dominating the front yard. A stone path edged with a flurry of fall flowers led to the porch, where a two-person swing hung invitingly at one end. Margie lifted Barbara Ann from the car seat and automatically removed the thumb from her mouth: outraged, she stiffened and screamed. Margie sighed, not wanting a scene in Mrs. Bender’s front yard.
Entranced by the new surroundings, Barbara Ann quieted down after a second. With the toddler on one hip and a bag of fresh produce on the other, Margie kicked the wooden screen door with the toe of her shoe, hoping it sounded like a knock. She watched the elderly lady slowly approach across her living room. Through the screen, she called, “Mrs. Bender. I’m Marjorie Porter. I saw your husband’s obituary in the paper. I remember him from when I was a child. I just wanted to say I’m sorry for your loss, and I brought you some strawberry preserves and vegetables from my garden.”
Mrs. Bender’s face creased into a smile. She opened the door and stood back so Margie could enter. “My dear, how kind of you. What a sweet baby. What’s her name?”
A Pledge of Silence Page 29
