Letters From Home

by Kristina McMorris

  “I am indeed,” he replied, charmingly smug.

  She shook her head, rolling her eyes. “With all that bravado, your mother should’ve named you Joe.”

  He scrunched his forehead, perplexed.

  “As in Joe Byrne,” she explained. “Ned’s lieutenant.”

  He folded his arms, nodded thoughtfully. “I’m bloody impressed. You know some bushranger history.”

  Rosalyn had recently passed along a book on Australian historical figures. Of late, all things related to the outback had become fascinating to Betty. Specifically any chapter with the name Kelly in it.

  “So what else do you know?” he asked as she leaned over to dress the vacant cot. She tucked the sheet’s corners, perfect Army creases, but could feel his subtle gaze tracing her curves. Her mind battled to focus on relevant reading material.

  “I know Mr. Byrne was an outlaw who thought himself a hero.”

  “Which he was.”

  “Sure. If you consider an opium addict a hero.”

  “Ah, merely a means for his poetry.”

  Betty laughed. “Writing drinking songs about himself didn’t make him a poet.”

  “He penned more than that. One day I’ll hunt down a book of his poems and prove it to you.”

  “Now, now, Lieutenant.” She stood, smirking. “Don’t go making promises you can’t keep.”

  In an instant, his face darkened. Her sentence hovered like a thundercloud blocking the sun. A reminder that wartime promises were a dangerous commodity.

  “Betty, there you are!”

  She turned to find Stella and Shirley entering the ward. Cradled in Stella’s arms was something that appeared to be a brown fur hand muff. The gal had clearly been sipping too many jungle cocktails if she thought the sweltering temperature warranted the accessory.

  “You have to see this!” Shirley set down the bundle, which sprang onto its paws. The little dog’s pointy ears reached Shirley mid-calf.

  Betty knelt to pat its head. “Where did it come from?”

  “Some GIs found her in a foxhole a while back,” Shirley said. “Apparently she’s been going on bombing raids with them ever since.”

  Stella added, “Dutch soldiers must have abandoned her after the invasion.”

  The mutt gazed up with sweet, beady eyes. A tiny pink tongue peeked from her mouth. She had a ragged look about her, but her fur felt silky and clean, fine as human hair. Betty scratched the dog’s lower back and happened across a tickle spot that sent her hind leg thumping.

  “What kind is she?” Betty asked, giggling.

  “Doc Powers used to be a vet,” Stella said. “Says she’s a Yorkshire. Just about the cutest thing you ever saw, isn’t she?”

  “Hey, watch this!” Shirley stepped away as Betty rose, and called out, “Tell them how the war’s been, Smoky.”

  “Ruff!” the dog barked proudly.

  Soldiers sat up in their beds, drawn to the show.

  Shirley fashioned her hand into a gun, her barrel finger pointed at Smoky. “Bang!” she yelled. The dog collapsed, spurring applause and much-needed laughter.

  Betty was savoring the smiles in the room when, out of the corner of her eye, she glimpsed Kitzafenny speaking to an orderly.

  Confirmation awaited: White sandy beaches. Shimmering blue water. Beauty shops and rec halls. The images flowed on an endless reel in Betty’s mind as she took off down the ward.

  She came to attention beside the captain as the orderly walked away. “Excuse me, ma’am,” she said.

  Kitzafenny mumbled something while scribbling on a clipboard.

  “Permission to speak?”

  The captain raised a hand, signaling her to wait, and wrote some more.

  Betty watched the pen’s erratic movements, the pages flip. Excitement tingled her fingertips as the seconds trudged on. Then a bout of laughter pulled her attention to the middle of the tent, and the sight overtook her thoughts. Leslie tossing a ball for the pup. The beaming smile on the pilot’s face was the same she envisioned every morning when she woke, every night while drifting off.

  Wasted efforts.

  He was too incorrigible to be the prince of her future. Too frustrating to bear. Even now, she could visualize the look he would give her upon hearing her grand news. A look that said she had given up, abandoned her patients. That she’d let this place get the best of her. Worse yet, that she would so easily walk away from her team—Shirley, Stella, and Roz—the family she’d found in Hollandia. More of a home than she’d ever known.

  And all for what? Fancy dances and glossy hair?

  “Private?” The captain.

  “What? Yes?”

  “Make it brief. We’ve got supplies going a dozen directions.”

  Betty struggled to realign her question. “It’s about my transfer …to Port Moresby, ma’am.”

  “Yes, yes, Cordell.” She sighed, impatient. “I’m sure you’ve heard the latest. But the first sergeant will let you know—”

  Betty interjected before sense could take hold. “Actually, ma’am, a transfer won’t be necessary.”

  Kitzafenny squinted as though missing prescription glasses. “Oh?”

  “I’d prefer to stay here, ma’am. If it’s all right. That is, if it’s not too late.”

  She angled her head, evaluating. “Any reason in particular for the change of heart?”

  Betty swept a glance over the row of patients that she and the girls, her sisters in arms, had helped nurse back to health, and returned her gaze to the captain. “I just can’t imagine wanting to work with any other staff.”

  “Uh-huh.” Devoid of expression, Kitzafenny took in a breath, let it out. “It would take some calls and putting a stop to the paperwork, neither of which I have time for.” She paused. “But…I suppose that can happen.”

  Betty hid a smile. “I’d appreciate that, ma’am.” When the woman nodded, Betty started to pivot. “And, Cordell.”

  She stopped. Fearful of an added task in exchange for the favor, she swallowed hard before answering. “Yes, ma’am?”

  “Folks here, they’ll be glad you’re sticking around.”

  Gratitude spread over Betty’s cheeks, curling the corners of her mouth. “Thank you, Captain.” As the officer ducked out of the tent, Betty headed toward Leslie, slowing only when she heard a voice. It was her heart, whispering a warning. But before she could make out the words, she burst into giggles at Smoky. With a sparkle in her beady little eyes, the dog seemed to grin straight at Betty—while relieving her bladder on Lieutenant Kelly’s cot.

  30

  January 3, 1945

  Evanston, Illinois

  Though struggling to stay awake on the bus ride home, Liz was thankful for her rigorous day at work. The nonstop pace had helped the time pass with few opportunities to gauge how far away her father’s Washington-bound train might be. And how soon he would discover her letter.

  She ambled up the pathway to her house. Each footfall brought her closer to an afternoon nap. A catnap, at least, before her evening rail departure to Pittsburgh.

  She squeaked out a yawn while passing through the entry, headed straight for bed.

  “Elizabeth.” A deep voice lunged at her.

  Liz grabbed her stalled heart. She sighed at the sight of her father off to the right, seated in the living room. But just as her pulse returned, it quickened from fear over his extended stay.

  Don’t panic, don’t panic. He could have merely changed his travel schedule.

  She smiled. “Father, what are you still doing here?”

  “Elizabeth, sit down. We need to talk.” His clipped tone and rigid posture alerted every nerve in her body that Chicago weather wouldn’t be the core of their discussion.

  “Of course,” she replied, feigning casualness. She took her seat on the couch, opposite him in the rocking chair. Toes clenched in her loafers, she fidgeted her thumbs over clasped hands. A witty line to break the tension had nearly reached her lips when she spied the
paper on his lap. Her eyes stretched wide; her temperature rose. The confession—not meant to be read until her father was at least four hundred miles away—had become the centerpiece of the room.

  “Father, please. Let me explain.”

  “No,” he said firmly. “I have something I need to say, and I want you to listen to every word.”

  It was already clear: She had pried open a vault her father wanted sealed, and now he’d be closing the door on her as well.

  Bracing herself, she lowered her gaze to the copy of Life magazine on the coffee table. On the cover, Judy Garland offered empathetic eyes. How Liz wished she too could be transported into a magical world far from reality.

  “The first time I ever saw your mother, I couldn’t breathe,” he began.

  Liz blinked at his words. Tentative, she edged her head up.

  “Beyond beautiful was the only way to describe her. She glided across the stage as if she were skating on ice. She wasn’t the company’s prima ballerina, but it didn’t matter. Everyone in that theater was entranced by her.” With unseeing eyes, he stared into the reflective glass of the china closet poised against the wall.

  “I went backstage to meet her as soon as the show ended. When I found her in the corner untying her slippers, I just stood there. My mouth was so dry it was hard to swallow. Finally, I marched over and introduced myself.” He smiled faintly and his voice lightened. “The second I heard her speak, I actually forgot my own name.”

  Liz couldn’t imagine it. Professor Emmett P. Stephens, an esteemed scholar and speaker, intimidated by a ballerina.

  A ballerina. The Nutcracker. On her mother’s last present. The wrapping itself had carried a secret all these years. Before storing the box, Liz had memorized every figurine on that paper, unaware of their importance, their message.

  Her father continued. “I’m not sure how I managed it, but somehow Isabelle agreed to go out with me. Once my nerves settled, it was as though we’d always known each other. We ate and talked and laughed. Then later that night, we were dancing at some back-alley jazz club, when a guy on the cornet starts playing a solo. It was Louis Armstrong himself, just a kid back then, but the song was like nothing I’d ever heard. It was a slow, moody tune, the kind that seeps under your skin. I remember feeling like we were the only ones in the room. And that’s when I knew. I’d found the woman I wanted to spend my life with.”

  Liz understood completely. For that brief moment dancing in Morgan’s arms, the notes had seemed mystical and perfect, powerful enough to evaporate the world around them.

  “We talked for months, about the exotic places we wanted to visit, all the things we were going to accomplish. Your mother was so full of life. She had so much to offer, just like you.” He paused, let the words take hold. “And, like you, she had big plans. She wanted to become a famed dancer in New York more than anything. But in the midst of all those dreams, we were handed a surprise.”

  Liz was still grasping that she and her beautiful yet aloof mother had once been anything alike, when he looked straight into her eyes.

  “It was you,” he said.

  “Me?” she whispered, not entirely sure she’d voiced the word.

  “When your mother told me she was pregnant, I didn’t know what to say. My first thought was about all the sacrifices we’d have to make. Then I realized what a blessing we’d been given. I didn’t waste another second. I ran out and bought the nicest ring I could afford. Our dreams would have to adjust, but we didn’t have to give them up. We’d do it together, as a family. That’s what I told her.

  “But then, soon after, I was offered a good position in California. Since jobs were growing scarce, I didn’t think twice.” After a quiet beat, he moved the letter to the coffee table. Leaning forward, he clutched his hands. “Once we’d settled there and you’d grown up a bit, Isabelle auditioned for a dance company in L.A., but she’d become a little rusty. When she didn’t make the final cut, I encouraged her to try out again, that all she needed was practice. Yet she wouldn’t. Said she’d missed her chance. And as time passed, your mother grew more and more resentful of a life that never suited her.”

  The fresh implication of blame seized Liz’s thoughts. Filtering through in a murmur came the lyrics her mother had played endlessly in her bedroom. The phrases—describing the gloom and misery of stormy weather, of growing old and losing all she once had—gained a heart-wrenching meaning. Each line rolled and blended in an elusive spin, until all Liz could grasp was how little she knew about her own parents.

  “So you see, Elizabeth, her leaving had nothing to do with some trivial argument between the two of you. Your mother loved you—even if she didn’t know how to show it. She just finally realized how much of herself she’d lost along the way, and it terrified her. She was convinced that leaving was her only chance at salvaging what was left. That if she stayed for even one more day, she might never have the courage to go.”

  And there it was. The absolution Liz had spent years waiting to wrap her arms around.

  Yet she couldn’t. For she had just learned that her sole existence was the knife that had severed her parents’ relationship.

  “You’re wrong,” she told him, a quiver in her voice. “It was my fault. Don’t you see? Things would’ve been so much better for you both, if only I were never born.”

  “Don’t you ever say that.” His stern tone verged on anger. “Elizabeth Marie, you are the best thing that ever happened to me.”

  She fisted her hands, struggled to withhold the emotions building inside. “But if that’s really how you feel, then why have you been so distant? All this time, why?”

  He sighed, his expression falling, his shoulders sinking. “Elizabeth,” he said, “I never meant to hurt you. I was just so afraid of interfering with your life and your plans, afraid of letting you down. As I’d done with her.”

  The irony balled in Liz’s throat. She fought her way through, tossed out her feelings. “I always thought I had disappointed you. I thought, if I became a teacher, if I married a man like Dalton, then maybe, just maybe I’d finally earn your approval. All I wanted was to make you happy.” Her voice cracked, as did the dam holding back her tears.

  “Oh, sweetheart,” he told her. “Your happiness is all I care about. Whatever dreams you have, you follow them, and I promise, I will be there to support you. No matter what.”

  She nodded slowly, his words creating a bridge between them. And in his eyes, glimmering with moisture, she could see he’d at last met her halfway.

  In a rush, she knelt before his chair. She hugged his waist, as she had as the young girl who never should have let go. “Daddy, I love you so much,” she whispered.

  Folding over her, he kissed her temple. “I love you too,” he said. “More than anything in the world.” There in his embrace, strong enough to carry her through a lifetime, Liz came to understand she had been wrong: Even two made a family.

  After the tears ceased, Liz joined her father on the front porch swing. Side by side they sat, no invisible border dividing them. Just a daughter relishing the adoration of her daddy and wondering why she had waited so long.

  They talked for hours. They spilled their hearts. And for the first time in her adult life, Liz felt as though her father really knew her.

  Once evening had cooled into night, they bundled in wool blankets and sipped from mugs of steaming mint tea, swinging and talking until the early hours of morning. She wished she had the power to stop time. Part of her feared she was dreaming and the ring of an alarm clock would take it all away. Yet she quickly decided it mattered little. She was going to enjoy every bit of this feeling even if she had imagined it all.

  “Elizabeth,” a voice said as something tapped her arm.

  She opened her eyes and discovered she had fallen asleep. When her vision cleared, she sighed. For seated beside her was her father. She had drifted off with her head on his shoulder, her hand resting in his. The corners of his eyes crinkled as he smiled,
and without his saying a word, she knew she was loved.

  “Honey, look.” He pointed to the sun, its orange rays reaching up from behind the fortress of rooftops, painting the sky powder blue. She turned her head and found the most glorious sight before her: the fading image of a crescent moon, the kind out of storybooks. She closed her eyes, took in the crisp smell of coming snow. Through her eyelids, she could see the golden glow of the sun, and her face basked in its warmth.

  Thank you, Morgan, she offered silently, and squeezed her father’s hand.

  31

  Mid-January 1945

  Near Rheims, France

  Morgan increased his pace as he hobbled past bedded soldiers in the wide hall outside the gymnasium. The closer he got, the more certain he was about the identity of the guy parked at the end. He felt a smile coming on, despite the soreness in his underarm from the wooden crutch. Only for a second did he consider the topic their reunion could trigger, explosive as an S-mine.

  At the foot of his buddy’s hospital bed, Morgan sprang his greeting. “Those Dodgers gonna win the pennant again, or they gonna wait another twenty years?”

  Frank raised his eyes from a worn issue of Time magazine. Gray light pushing through the frosted window outlined his freshly buzzed hair and clean-shaven face. “Guess they let anyone in here these days,” he muttered.

  “Hadn’t you heard? Joint’s under new management.”

  “Must be desperate for patients.”

  “They let you in, didn’t they?”

  Frank laughed and laid the magazine over his blanketed lap. He edged himself up to recline against the pillow cushioning him from the concrete wall. His undershirt hung loose over his dog tags and withered torso, verifying he’d lost as much weight as Morgan since their tour began. Good ol’ Army rations.

  “Take a load off, Mac.”

  “Yes, sir,” Morgan shot back. He negotiated his way to the wooden chair beside the bed. Judging by the number of floor tiles between Frank and the next soldier, a lumped form completely covered in a blanket, this wing of the school had fewer patients to tend to. The smell of disinfectant, however, wasn’t any less potent.