I turn in a circle, searching for the Smiths. “Where could they be?” I mutter. Father tugs on my sleeve, and I follow his gaze to the double doors at the front of the building as Mother Smith, holding Edward’s hand, strides toward us. She’s almost dragging poor Edward behind her. Father Smith and John’s sisters follow behind in quick succession. The breath I’ve had a hold on whooshes past my lips in relief.
“So sorry we are late.” Mother Smith hugs me and then my mother, then embraces Iris in a sideways squeeze. “You’d think all our boys are due home on this particular train, given how busy the streets are.”
The floorboards vibrate. Nothing too noticeable, a slight tremor is all. I hesitate, wondering if all I feel is my own nervous energy. Through the little window in the airless station, I see the faint wisps of smoke.
“The train is here!” I shout, which catches the attention of everyone around me.
The short walk through the building to the platform is a maze. I excuse myself and snake around people gathered about the station. The sour weather doesn’t deter me from stepping onto the uncovered wooden planks and angling myself to stare into the face of the oncoming train. I forget that I’ve spent hours on my hair and let the crisp breeze blow my waves around. The dampness seeps through my shoes and bites at the ends of my toes. Nothing will convince me to take my eyes off this train.
I want only to see his face smile at me, for his eyes to meet my own and know we are all safe. I’ve prepared myself for this moment. I know his family is first in line to welcome him home, so I will be polite and stand to the side to wait my turn to be greeted. I feel both of our families settle in behind me. They chatter as I watch in anticipation for the first glimpse of him.
The train slows to a stop with the squeal of metal on metal before belching out a final plume of smoke.
I survey the tiny windows, but the light’s reflection won’t allow me to see past the grimy glass. The platform is crowded as people jockey for space. They nudge one another, eager to unite with their loved ones. Passengers disembark, and the crowd erupts with hollers and cheers as men clad in military uniforms step off the train and are embraced by their families.
John stands in the open doorway and waits for the line of passengers to move forward. He looks up for a brief moment, squinting into the brightness. His eyes meet mine and a lopsided smile spreads across his lips. In that split second, I feel John’s love surround me.
Before I have the chance to collect myself, to step back and let his mother greet her son, he’s wrapped me up. His strong arms swallow me, and he lifts me off my feet and spins me around. He places my feet back on the ground and squeezes me tight once more before he kisses me on the cheek. As he releases me from his embrace, his lips brush mine, so briefly I question whether there was a kiss at all, before thinking of the appropriateness of such a kiss in front of our families.
I feel the heat in my cheeks dissipating as John locks his mother in a long and teary hug. John’s sisters join in the hug like a huddle in a football game, while Father Smith hooks his arm around John’s shoulders. Edward, still small enough to weave through the crowded legs of his family, captures John’s attention by tugging on his pant leg. Everyone steps back as John picks up his younger brother and cradles him like a toddler, despite his growth over the past three years.
Tears of joy trickle down my face as I watch this happy reunion. John shakes my father’s hand, kisses my mother on the cheek, and nudges Iris like he would a kid sister.
Without hesitation, he rotates to face me. He has a peculiar look that I can’t quite place. With a swift motion, he pulls a box from his pocket and kneels before me on the rain-sodden platform planks. “Violet Sanderson.” He looks into my eyes. “Will you do me the honor of becoming Mrs. Smith?” He opens the box, revealing a silver band with a single diamond at its center.
My hand flies to my open mouth. “Yes,” I say, almost at a whisper. I nod up and down. “Yes.”
John slides the diamond onto my left hand. I am still staring at the ring as he cups my face in his hands and tilts my chin. He kisses me with an intensity that is both new and long overdue.
***
Saturday, June 8, 1946
Though the day began with a light drizzle, the afternoon skies are blue and cloudless. Iris is fussing with my veil in the bedroom we used to share, while Mother and Father fret about the house.
“I am really happy for you, Violet.” Iris places her hands on my shoulders and gives me a squeeze.
“You’re always happy,” I say, adding a more appropriate, “Thank you.”
In the mirror, I see Iris tilt her head, a quizzical expression unfolding over her face. “Did it ever occur to you that I am happy because I choose to be? I won’t allow others to cloud my enjoyment of life.” Iris steps in front of me and meets my eyes. “You taught me that.”
I can’t help but laugh. “How did I teach you that?”
“When you were sick with scarlet fever.” She pauses as her head tilts to one side. “And every day since then, I suppose. Don’t you remember how strong you were? How determined you were to not only survive but to thrive? I’ve admired you so for your strength, Violet. You and Mother taught me to be strong enough to go after what I wanted. I wanted to be happy, so I am.”
Happy tears dampen my eyes, and I pull Iris into a hug.
Iris speaks softly. “Even you get to choose how you experience life, Violet. Maybe now is the time to choose happiness, too.”
Iris’s words reach deep within me, and I realize Iris has been growing up right before me, all this time.
***
April 1949
Calla babbles away at the edge of the garden. Two years and one month old, she is a happy child, content to play with her doll on the blanket I’ve stretched out for her. Bending has become all but impossible for me with my growing baby belly, so I kneel to pull rogue weeds from our little plot of dirt.
The warm spring air tickles the back of my neck as the sun soaks into my bones, warming me from the inside out. I hear the gate click shut and turn to see John walking across the lawn. I shield my eyes from the sun and wave. My heart flutters as I stand to greet him. My view narrows for a split second, darkening the world around me. I steady myself and shrug off the sensation as a side effect of this pregnancy.
In one motion, John’s cap is on the blanket and Calla is in his arms. She squeals in delight as he buzzes raspberries onto her pudgy cheek. Her cornflower blue eyes sparkle—eyes, John reminds me, that I was generous enough to share with her. John wraps me in an embrace before bending to talk to my bulging tummy.
“Lemonade?” I ask as I squeeze his hand. I head toward the back door of the little blue house we’ve called home since a few months after we were married.
“Please,” he says. “Would you like some lemonade, too?” John asks Calla as she squirms and tries to wriggle out of his arms so she can climb the three steps on her own.
“Peeeze,” she says, focusing on the steps before her.
I hold the screen door open and watch Calla’s face, ripe with determination. “How was your day?” I ask John.
“Good. I finished up the Callaghans’ cabinets today. They turned out mighty nice.”
After leaving the army, John took a job building custom cabinets. His attention to detail and his eye for stunning lines has kept him busy these past few years. The Cedar Springs housing boom certainly helped, as military men returned home to resume their lives. The town now bustles as new shops and services open their doors to the growing community.
Calla waddles into the kitchen and settles her dolly on one of the chairs before climbing into her own. John stands close by, watching but allowing her the freedom to have her own accomplishment.
I tug on the refrigerator door. A knife-like pain cuts through my middle and I gasp. I grip the fridge door with one hand and use the other to support myself against the counter. John is at my side with his hand over my back.
“
False alarm, I’m sure.” I smile weakly.
“Vi, are you sure? You’ve still got a couple months to go.” Concern etches across John’s face. “This happen often?”
“Only a bit over the last few days is all. Nothing to worry about. I’ve got a checkup next Tuesday. I’ll speak to the doctor, I promise.” Fully recovered from the surprise attack, I shoot John a more enthusiastic smile and pour three glasses of lemonade—two tall and one small.
***
A few days later, pain sears through me in the middle of the night, waking me from a restless sleep. I clutch the edge of the bed and groan loud enough to wake John.
“What is it?” His voice is groggy.
“Call your mother.” I pant between sentences. “She needs to stay with Calla.” I shuffle to the dresser, pausing with each fiery jab. “We have to go to the hospital.”
By the time I’ve managed to put on a housecoat and kiss Calla goodbye, John is dressed and backing the car around. I spend a few minutes watching her breathe, marveling at the rise and fall of her tiny chest. These moments will be gone too soon, I think as I rub her cheek with the back of my knuckle. “Sleep well, pretty girl. Mommy loves you. I will see you soon.”
Mother Smith enters through the front door as I grab my purse from the hall closet. “Violet, dear. Is everything all right?”
With great effort, I smile reassuringly and pat her arm, trying to squeeze past her before another contraction takes hold. “I’m sure everything is fine. A few early contractions is all. Best to get them checked out.”
“All right, dear.” Never one to hide her worry, John’s mother is already wringing her hands. At times such as these, I wish my parents lived a might bit closer instead of at the farm. Still, I am grateful for the help and the closeness of family.
“I’m sure we’ll be back in no time. Thank you for coming. John’s put coffee on. Should be ready any minute now.” I close the door behind me, and John meets me at the steps to help me into the car.
***
The situation at the hospital unravels quickly. I am admitted, only to discover that my family doctor is away for the week. John is sent to pace the waiting room as a new doctor introduces himself to me. He confirms my fear that I am indeed in labor. A nurse helps me onto a bed as I try to explain that I am not due for another month and a half.
The doctor, with little bedside manner, replies, “I don’t think your baby is too concerned about a due date, Mrs. Smith,” before he turns and walks out the door.
The night is long, filled with contractions on top of contractions. I am barely aware when the sun rises the next morning, either lost in the frenzy or greedily trying to sleep during the calm. I move through the day, eating ice chips and begging for John. The pain does not subside. Instead it intensifies, bringing with it an ache in my heart I’ve never felt before.
The doctor checks in every few hours, though his demeanor does not improve. He advises me in a matter-of-fact tone that pain medication at this stage will not help my baby or my own experience in any way. He says I should focus on breathing and pipe down a little, as my groans are beginning to upset the other patients.
Another sunrise ushers in a new wave of intensity. I swear I can hear John outside my door arguing with a nurse, but his voice is soon forgotten as everything around me closes in and I drift off into nothingness.
***
Drops of moisture are falling onto my forehead, snaking past my temples and into my hair. My eyes open cautiously to the brightness of the room. A moment passes before I remember where I am. “John.” My voice is groggy and weak.
“Vi. I’m here.” He wipes his eyes, the cause of my wet forehead, and lowers his face to mine. His other hand is gripped around my own.
“The baby!” I cry out, searching his eyes for an answer.
“We have a baby boy. Vi, he’s beautiful.”
“He’s all right? He came too early, I was sure…”
“He will be all right. He is smaller than Calla was, but he’ll be fine.” John gives my hand another squeeze before placing a kiss on my dry, cracked lips. “My worry lies with you, Vi.” Tears rim the edges of John’s eyes. “They say—they say your heart couldn’t handle the strain. Jarred was born three days ago, Vi. The doctor said you wouldn’t wake up.”
I feel the heaviness pushing down on my chest. John’s anguish takes up more space than the tiny white-walled room allows.
“Jarred. A strong name for a strong boy.” I offer John a weak smile and turn my face closer to his. I feel the hallowed edges of death creeping in, yet I am anything but afraid. “You’ll be all right. The three of you, you’ll have each other.” The silence in the room is punctuated by each raspy breath. “And our families. Family is everything, John.” I feel the air leaving my lungs. My heartbeat slows, feeling as if it will burst under the weight of each breath. “Do me something, John, will you?
A slight nod is his only reply.
“Tell Mother she was right. I’ll not die of a broken heart, after all. My heart—my heart is so full it’s bursting with love is all.”
“Vi, don’t go. You can fight this. The doctors are wrong, Vi. They said you’d never wake up and look at you now. Don’t give up, Vi. Please, I can’t live without you.” John sobs, and a waterfall of tears streams down his face.
“These years with you.” A broken cough escapes my lips, sending a violent vibration through my battle-weary body. “And with Calla and Jarred. They were my finest. I’ve never been so happy. So loved.”
“Me either.” John rubs his nose with the back of his sleeve. “I love you, Vi. I’ll love you forever.”
“I’ve always loved you, John Smith. You were my dream that came true, after all.” My heart echoes like galloping horses in my ears, drowning out all my senses. My half-open eyes watch in fascination as my butterflies are freed from the cage that was my heart, stealing my breath as they flutter. John’s hand clasps mine so tightly that I am certain his love will go with me, no matter where I go. I close my eyes and the brightness of the room fades to black.
The story continues with Stealing Mr. Smith
Bernice wants what she wants and believes nothing should stop her from having it. John Smith happens to be her chosen escape from a life fraught with disappointment. She longs for a hero all her own and will stop at nothing to secure herself a place in life beside him. The fact that he comes with the baggage of two children and a past he refuses to speak of, has little bearing on her obsession. Bernice has set her sights on changing her name to Mrs. Smith, even if she has to steal it from a dead woman.
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For more information about the author or for updates about new titles, visit the author’s website at www.tanyaewilliams.com.
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