Opening the envelope quite gingerly I paused to listen again to the sound of the house and of Lydia’s quiet breathing. Then I read:
Annie:
Who knows when or how you will receive this letter? If I have the opportunity to deliver it to you myself, I imagine that the war will be ended, finally resolved, and that I have arrived with a bouquet of flowers asking if you will agree to stay with me. There are a few things I need to tell you. I just wish I could say them to you in person.
Until I met you, I’d never been able to express much of anything to anyone. Now, I realize why. It’s because I’ve never really known how to feel at all, as if doing so would make me vulnerable to pain, so I resisted feeling much of anything. I went along without any real understanding of my convictions.
However Annie, as I spent time with you, whether it was watching you in your garden, or in the kitchen cooking a meal or making concoctions for the hospital, you always showed a genuine sense of spirit; a love of life that inspired others. Annie, your compassion, strength and empathy towards the wounded, whether wounded by gun fire or another’s greed , brought me to a place where I could look at myself differently. Indeed, by knowing you, I’ve changed.
You see, in you I’ve found a person of wit and charm and radiance, a woman imbued with an overpowering sense of love for what is good and what is right. And, because of our love, the love that we’ve built in this short time, I am empowered to get through all this and not give in to my despair or malaise. My only hope besides seeing you again is that I can pick up your work where you left off. I will do that. My convictions have changed and I will take on your work as best I can, knowing full well that every action we take, no matter how small, can have an impact on another’s life.
It is my hope that there is a bottom to this pit of war. I’ve concluded that if we humans do have several life times then we are intended to forget them one by one, degree by degree to allow the pain of each lifetime to fade. Indeed, the effects of this war’s agony could be enough to keep new souls from choosing to be born for a while.
“But that’s not how it goes,” you’d say, “Love is perpetuated through life.” Then I’d smile at you and mane you hair and kiss you again, thanking you for that essential reminder. I deeply hope that someday my father’s home can be our home and the home of our children. That is what I want. And to see you again.
Yours with all my love,
Warren
By the end of the letter I was wet with my own tears. They’d found their way to my chin. Reaching in my pocket for a handkerchief I patted my nose and face as the tears continued to flow.
I wept for all we had had and I wept for all we had lost.
***
Lydia didn’t awaken when Edward came in to inquire after me. He simply asked, “May I assist you, Madame?”
“Yes, I’m ready to go,” I replied trying to hide my face from him. I glanced toward Lydia and then back at the trunk. “Could you take this to my carriage please, Edward?” touching the trunk with one hand and holding Warren’s letter in the other.
“Certainly, Miss Cunningham,” he said. Deftly, despite his age, Edward picked up the trunk by its worn leather handles and proceeded to carry it into the hallway.
Behind him, I paused at Lydia’s bedside for a moment. With her chin angled away from me, her breathing was timid. I turned to go, and then I paused, moving back towards her bed.
Reaching gently for her hand I whispered, “Thank you Lydia, thank you so very much.”
At the bottom landing, I paused again, taking in Warren’s portrait. I found it haunting how the artist had captured his demeanor in oils. The glint in his eye was a dab of white paint or was it a reflection from the oil lamp perched across the hallway? I looked at the light, then back to the oil painting before taking my leave, with his letter still my hand, I silently thanked him and instinctively put it to my lips and proceeded towards the door.
Reaching the carriage, I saw that the driver was busy lashing the yellow trunk to the back end of the carriage while Edward spoke with you, a tall, beautiful woman in your late twenties.
As I write this and remember his portrait, I see that your eyes are just like your father’s.
Approaching, I turned to look at Edward who handed me my coat and gloves and said, “I see that you’ve met my daughter, Charlotte Dodd.”
Looking up, Edward smiled at us. “Yes indeed, Miss Cunningham.” Then he turned to me and said, “Mrs. Dodd has asked that I give you this letter explaining that she wants Mr. Dodd’s daughter, his only child, to inherit the house and its contents.”
Turning to you, Charlotte, I’ll never forget how you looked. We were both in shock, I’m sure when Edward added, “Her attorney will be contacting you after her passing.” Then he kindly added, “I hope to see you both again as that time comes.”
***
This early summer night of writing has seen two tides and the marsh birds are restless with the early light of dawn. A retreating current brings the salty scent up on the wind again and as my memories have been recorded here for you, I must sleep now. I was determined to write down these details over the last few weeks for you, Charlotte, so that you may know every fiber of this tale as I do. For this is also your story, and as so, it is my gift to you. You see, I am convinced that only because of each other, are we ourselves.
About the Author:
Pamela Erickson is an artist and librarian who lives in northern Massachusetts with her husband and pets. Having taught for over 30 years, she seeks writing as a form of reflection, exploration, conversation and solace. Each Other is her first novel.
Each Other Page 46
