by Susan May
He was at the end of my path, just where he’d been the night before.
Charlie O’Shea was waiting for me.
He’d always been waiting. As had all the men, who’d pointlessly lost their lives. Because of me.
His lips moved, as they had done that terrible morning. He mouthed words. Seventy-year-old words I had never heard. Words that had haunted me and destroyed any true happiness I might have enjoyed in my life. My life always and forever colored by those unheard words.
Now I was only feet from him. This time I was standing. This time I faced him. Whatever he would say, I was ready to hear it. So very ready, and so very, very tired of waiting.
He lowered his gun and held out his hand. I didn’t expect that. In another time, I would have made a joke. So, you want a dance, Charlie? He was saying the words again, and now I was close enough to hear.
The pain in my forehead was sudden.
At first, I thought it was a rock kicked up by the gunfire. Then blood dripped into my eyes. In the split second between life and death, I understood it all. This bullet was the one that should have been mine. On that beach. On that day.
As I lay on the ground, the sounds and lights fading to a pale pink, then a gray, then a deep, beautiful black, I felt Charlie lean over me, and whisper in my ear. His voice so clear, so close, it was as though it was inside my head.
“Baker, we’re clearing the beach. Stay where you are. Stay down. Stay alive.”
© 2013 Susan May
From the Imagination Vault
The idea for “The War Veteran” came from Salinger, a fascinating documentary on the late, great author of Catcher in the Rye. One of the interviewees (who had served in WW2 with Salinger) talked of the horror flashbacks he still experienced. He shared that, to this day, the mortars and gunfire still erupted in his home, and were just as terrifying as they had been when he’d experienced them in real life. You can view the excerpt here:
https://youtu.be/YHnQVmuWVqY
He didn’t preface the statement with the words “imagined” or “visions”; he spoke as if the armaments were actually real. The idea of that haunted me. How horrific must it be to live with that for all those decades? There was no choice then. I had to write the story of “Jack Baker,” to put myself in the shoes of a man in this position.
In researching the story, I read and listened to firsthand accounts of surviving WW2 veterans. Nothing I could write can ever totally capture the experience, so my apologies to anyone who has witnessed war firsthand. I know my description pales.
Scenic Route
When Pam, Michael, and their young sons take the scenic route through Broken Springs, Population 402, they will never know their terrible mistake. Pam’s monster migraine has her wondering why they ever had these arguing kids in the first place. Worried about Pam, Michael stops at a quaint bed-and-breakfast where they are welcomed by the delightful elderly proprietors, Bev and Snow Stillwater.
But when Pam awakens the next day, something feels very wrong about the place. She has trouble remembering things—like where they are going for vacation and the names of her children—and Michael has disappeared. The scenic route through Broken Springs, Population 402, may have done more than extend their trip. It may have changed their lives. Forever.
CHAPTER ONE
They’d taken the scenic route, but beautiful as it was, it had added an extra two hours to their drive. It was two hours Pam was ab-so-lute-ly regretting. At every turn, she felt as if she should be sighing with the pleasure of it, but instead, only tight little moans left her mouth as the dirt road shook and rumbled the car.
The headache—which she now thought of as a needle pushed between her eyes—was relentless. It wasn’t helped by the two pre-teen boys arguing in the back seat. If they weren’t fighting over who had used the iPad the most, they were fighting over who was smarter or better at soccer or had scored the high score on “Angry Birds.” No, wait. That game was last year—this year the fight was over “Minecraft” or that shooting game that was labeled “R” for violent content, but since every other kid had it she was forced to relent.
The children simply couldn’t travel together—or at least no sane human should ever travel with them. They never stopped arguing. Sometimes Pam felt as if she wanted to lean back, open the door, and shove them both out while the car was still moving.
Her headache superseded all rational thought and emotional control. She turned around to face the boys and, with the last of her energy, said, “If you don’t stop arguing, we will stop this car and leave you on the side of the road. Do you understand me? SHUT UP!”
Both boys stopped and stared at her. Then they simultaneously erupted in some kind of horribly loud mash-up reply.
“He’s had it since we turned off the main road!”
“He lost all my lives last time he used it!”
“You said fifteen minutes, he’s had it twenty!”
“It’s my game. He’s always using my stuff!”
These screams were followed by a loud thump, and Cruise lurched forward as his older brother Connor landed a blow to the middle of his back. Then all hell broke loose. It was as though Pam had said nothing as they returned to the pull and push of the iPad between them while spewing every horrible name ever invented by little boys.
Pam turned to Michael and nestled her hand in his lap. He stared ahead, concentrating on the road, seemingly oblivious to the fracas. He reached down and wrapped his hand around hers and smiled.
“It was your idea to bring them.”
“I know,” she sighed, “but I miss them when they’re not with us.”
“And you hate them when they are.” Michael laughed. “You can’t win.”
“It’s called motherhood.”
For a moment Pam’s headache disappeared, as her mind drifted back to the years before children—the bliss of zero responsibility. She and Michael had enjoyed three good years of romantic getaway weekends, holidays in exotic countries, sleeping in, and dinner parties with friends. Simple, selfish delights, filling every spare moment with experiences that they now treasured as their time “B.C.” Before children… before chaos… before commotion… before crap everywhere.
For a decade, Pam’s marketing executive career was on a great trajectory: a series of promotions, and bigger things expected. Then the little pregnancy stick returned a double line result. Eight months later Cruise arrived, followed two years later by Connor.
Now their lives revolved around the children: the lords and masters of the house. She loved them to pieces, but sometimes she viewed them—if she was honest, and it filled her with guilt to be this honest—as something akin to intruders.
Pam’s reverie was broken by Michael’s concerned voice. “Headache any better?”
The reminder brought it back with an agonizing throb. “No, it’s becoming a migraine.”
Michael glanced over at her, worry etched across his face. “Oh, baby, we need to kill it before it gets going or you’ll be days recovering. We want you well for our vacation.”
These debilitating migraines had troubled Pam on and off since having the kids. She wondered if it was hormones—or simply parenthood. When they came, they packed a punch, but she could head them off if, at the onset, she took some strong painkillers and rested in a dark room. If not, sometimes she would end up in the hospital on a drip.
“I don’t know, honey. If we stop, we won’t make it to the resort. It’s only a few hours until we arrive. What about the children?”
Michael lifted her hand from his lap and gently shook it. “Your health is more important. You know that. Who cares if we don’t get there tonight? What’s one night?”
“No, no. I’ll be okay. I don’t want to disappoint the children.” As she spoke, she noticed a sign along the side of the road.
Broken Springs
Population 400
Inside the last zero of “400” was a handwritten two.
“There,” said Mi
chael, nodding at the sign. “Broken Springs. Population 402. And for tonight, 406.”
Pam shook her head.
“I’m not arguing with you, Pam,” Michael insisted. “If there’s accommodation, we’re stopping.”
Pam began to nod, but as she dipped her head forward the pain doubled. She wasn’t about to argue anymore. The headache had escalated and was now hammering on the front of her skull as if there were a woodpecker in there trying to get out.
“Okay,” she said, laying her head against the car window.
CHAPTER TWO
Pam awoke to the sound of gravel crunching under tires, followed by the squeak and bang of opening and closing car doors. She looked out through the dusty windshield and saw Michael and the kids clambering up the steps of a big old country house. Pausing at the top, Michael banged on a wooden door with an oversized black doorknocker. White picket posts capped by a blue handrail fenced the wide veranda. Every third post bore a hollow carving of what looked like a child. Each carving appeared to be unique.
Any other time Pam would have appreciated the charm, but her headache had now escalated into a migraine that turned the inside of her head into a throbbing, agonizing mass. Nausea was overwhelming her senses, and it took all her concentration to keep down her lunch.
A woman’s voice alongside her husband’s in conversation drifted down to her, then Michael and the boys disappeared inside. Minutes later Michael trudged down the stairs with Cruise and Connor bouncing down behind him; with each step their thick brown curls flopped across their foreheads.
Michael hurried to her side and opened her door. Helping her out, he said, “We’re in luck. It’s a bed-and-breakfast and they have two rooms. It’s old, but it’ll do. And we’re the only guests.”
Pam reached for Michael’s outstretched hand. Waves of dizziness traveled through her as she felt herself pulled out of the car. As her legs took her weight, she glanced up at steps that swayed disconcertingly as though moved by an earthquake, and wondered if she had the strength to make it to the top.
Pam rested against the hood as Michael yanked their bags out of the trunk. The excited shouts of the children drifted back to her. She turned and watched them disappear around the side of the house, off to explore their home for the night.
She turned away as their voices disappeared and, despite the pounding in her head, still took a moment to take in the beautiful vista. The house was on a hill, and looked out through a grove of trees to a green valley below, dotted with sheep and cows and segmented by white posts. The surroundings were so quiet Pam could hear the distant bleating of the sheep.
If it weren’t for the screaming white noise of the migraine, she might’ve believed she’d died and gone to heaven. Instead, she just felt as if she were dying and on a side trip to hell.
“Pam, you are white as a sheet. Come on, straight to bed for you.” Michael dropped the bags, and Pam felt his arm slip around her waist. He half-carried her up the steps, talking the whole way as though conversation would ease her pain.
“Bev and Snow run the place. You’ll like Bev. She’s making you a cup of cinnamon and spice tea to help you sleep. It’s her grandmother’s recipe. She guarantees it will cure the worst migraine. Bev also said—”
Pam barely heard Michael’s words. Her entire focus was required simply to put one foot in front of the other and get herself to the top of the stairs.
The bedroom was cool and pale yellow. That was all Pam took in before she lay her head down on the crisp white pillow. Closing her eyes was the sweetest bliss.
Somewhere between awake and asleep she heard the bedroom door open. A blurred image of a plump, white-haired woman with smooth pink cheeks—someone like a country Mrs. Claus—leaned over her, pulling her up and forward to a half-sitting position.
Pam wanted to tell the woman to leave her alone, but she had no strength. Then the woman held a cup below Pam’s mouth and pressed it to her lips, the whole time making soothing, tutting sounds.
The brew smelled spicy and warm, and yes—there was a cinnamon tang. As she sipped it in, she felt a distinct tingling in the back of her mouth. The feeling quickly moved down her throat, where it turned into an uncomfortable numbness. Just as she began to panic, the sensation was gone, followed by an unexpected, wonderful feeling of peace. She took two extra gulps, and then motioned the woman away.
Her head fell gently back to the comforting pillow. As she fell away into blissful oblivion, the last thing she remembered was the odor of freshly made Christmas cake. The smell took her back to the years before kids—when she had time to bake. When her time belonged only to her. When there was the time to spare—to fuss with Christmas lunch, to sit, to read, to talk to Michael about life, instead of children’s needs, and the most wonderful pleasure of all, to sleep.
CHAPTER THREE
Through a fog of confusion, Pam opened her eyes. She was in a darkened room cloaked by silence. Instinctively, she rolled over to reach for Michael. He wasn’t there. Her hand smoothed along the starched sheets feeling for a warm spot, but the feel of the bedclothes only revealed that she was not in her own bed.
She rolled onto her back and scanned the room. Light filtered through the lace that peeked out from a crack in the blue chintz curtains. In a corner sat a rocking chair, and next to it on the table were their opened bags.
Now she remembered. They were in a bed-and-breakfast. Snatches came back to her. The children running up the side of the house; Michael half-carrying her up the stairs. Something about Bev and Snow. Snow? Was that someone’s name? A nickname, maybe? Then Christmas … the distinct smell of Christmas.
She closed her eyes again and focused on the memory of the migraine. Was it still there? She did a mental check of her usual pain points: middle of the forehead, back of the neck, behind her eyes.
Gone. By some miracle, her migraine was gone.
That woman—she had to be the Bev of “Bev and Snow”—had given her some kind of tea. She made a mental note to ask for the recipe before they left. Whatever was in it, it was miracle juice.
The migraine had left her feeling drained and weak. Although not as weak as she typically felt. Usually after a monster migraine, she would be recovering in bed for at least a day.
Her skirt and t-shirt were laid across an antique dressing table to the side of the room. She had no recollection of taking them off. Michael must have helped her. Pam gently pushed herself up and out of the bed, even though the urge to just lie there tugged at her like a drug.
She pulled on her clothes and found her sandals at the base of the bed. It wasn’t like Michael to be tidy. She was usually the one folding clothes and keeping order. No mean feat when you shared a house with boys. The image of two small faces flashed into her mind, followed by a feeling of frustration at having to constantly clean up after them. Then it was gone.
It was a funny thought; the feeling of frustration was confusing.
She was the most patient person in the world.
As she opened the door to the hall, she noted how bright it was outside the room. Light was streaming toward her from a doorway down the hall. It was clearly the entrance to the kitchen; she glimpsed wood floors, a pine table, a cluttered wood sideboard, and honey-colored chairs.
The sound of a kettle whistling and a female voice happily humming drifted toward her. Pam listened for a moment but didn’t recognize the tune. Something about it evoked in her a feeling of melancholy, yet it was strangely comforting, too.
Feeling like a trespasser, she tiptoed down the hallway, her heart beating a little faster. She had no idea how long she had slept or whether by entering the kitchen she was invading the private domain of the proprietors. She wasn’t good with strangers, and she wished Michael were by her side.
But, then, he must be with the … others. She paused at that thought.
The others.
She remembered sitting in the car, and that even despite the migraine, the charm of the house and the beauty of
the surrounding countryside was vivid.
It was so beautiful. The others must be having a wonderful time exploring. Michael and the—
She stopped, because for the life of her, she couldn’t figure out why that thought had entered her head.
An image slipped into her mind: of children bounding up the side of the house. Chirping voices echoing. Pam couldn’t think about that right now. She wanted to find Michael, and she wanted to eat. She was suddenly starving.
From the doorway, the woman’s humming rose and fell with a tune that Pam couldn’t quite recognize, although it sounded familiar: like a sad version of “Jingle Bells.”
Pam staggered a little, still woozy, maybe from hunger or the migraine hangover. Steadying herself against the kitchen doorjamb, she took a few deep breaths. Then she fixed a smile upon her face and made ready to greet her host.
Even before she placed a foot in the room, the humming abruptly stopped and a warm voice called to her. “Morning, Pam, sweetie. How are you feeling this morning?”
Pam moved into the room to be greeted by the back of a small, round woman standing at the stove. It surprised her that the old lady had, without turning around, realized she was there. Her first impression had been right: she did look like Mrs. Claus. Pam recognized her as the dispenser of the soothing tea. She made a mental note that later she would ask what was contained in the miracle brew. This was not at all how she usually felt after a migraine.
The “migraine whisperer” turned from a large, bubbling pot, spoon in hand, and smiled at her as though she were a long-lost daughter.
Pam smiled back and realized, as she did, that she suddenly felt truly happy. She didn’t know this woman or even this place—Broken Springs, Population 402—but something about being here made her feel good.
