A Bridge Across the Ocean

by Susan Meissner

  Annaliese would not kill to escape Rolf, she knew that. But she would die to escape him.

  Yes, she would.

  She would not go back. Ever.

  She would be free of him one way or another.

  Thirty

  RMS QUEEN MARY

  1946

  The sun deck was empty of people.

  A late-afternoon sun had dipped into the bottommost part of the daytime sky, and a bank of clouds prevented any low-lying trails of radiance from bathing the ship in any real warmth. The last night on the Queen Mary would be a wickedly cold one, and the ship seemed to lean into the approaching twilight with a desire to hold its occupants close.

  Simone pulled her coat more tightly around her torso and fished in a pocket for a cigarette. She’d spent most of the day contemplating the conversation she’d had with Katrine the night before, and the brisk air felt good against her warring thoughts.

  It had been a while since she had dreamed of the man with the gold tooth. She had begun to think maybe he was someone who no longer mattered, that perhaps finding love and safety in Everett’s arms and in his bed had chased that demon away for good.

  But all of Phoebe’s talk the night before about what they’d be able to forget when they got to America had no doubt dredged the Gestapo officer out of the buried place where he’d been flung, a jab from a conscience that didn’t know how to live with what she had done.

  Everett had assured her that in war, good people must do things they would never do in times of peace, to preserve the good. Katrine had said something similar: To kill in a time of war is to survive.

  But where was the joy in surviving if the soul was tortured by the desperate acts of the will?

  What bothered Simone the most was not that she had shot the man who had participated in the killing of her father and brother and then raped her, but that she would do it again. And again. And again. If the day were to replay itself and she woke up tomorrow morning in that destroyed clinic with that man chasing her, she would kill him a second time. A third. As many times as she opened her eyes and she was there and he was there, she would grab his gun and pull the trigger.

  She would pull it for every Jewish person in her neighborhood who was there one day and on a train to Auschwitz the next. She would pull it for all the fathers and brothers in the Résistance who had risked so much and paid with their lives. She would pull it for every girl like her who didn’t have a gun when her innocence was torn from her.

  There had been a time when the man with the gold tooth had been a little boy who loved playing with his dog and fishing with his grandfather and eating ice cream on hot summer days. Back then he didn’t have a gold tooth, or the uniform, or the desire to kill and steal and destroy. He had been like her. Young and curious and hopeful.

  Something had happened to that little boy.

  He became someone different.

  Did he even remember what he had been like before? When he was following her, sneaking into the ruined clinic behind her, tackling her to the ground, reaching for his zipper, wanting her to know there would be others who would want to do to her what he was doing, was there an echo of a voice inside his mind, whispering to him, This is not who you are?

  When Everett had taken her into his arms the first time they’d made love, he’d been so gentle. He had kissed her everywhere first, showing her that physical intimacy begins with the sweetest of touches. There was nothing about Everett’s body that was like the man with the gold tooth, and nothing Everett did was like what that other man had done. But still she could sense the man that she’d killed hovering at the periphery of everything good in her life.

  What we did in the war will not define who we are, Everett had said.

  But then what would?

  Simone put the cigarette to her mouth. She attempted to light it, but the wind on the deck was too fierce. She ducked into a covered area just outside the telegraph office and tried again. The flame caught and she inhaled, slipping the lighter back in her pocket.

  Her hand went to the rounded bump at her middle, the tangible evidence that life goes on after the dust of war settles.

  Katrine had said survival was the only goal of war for those who had no desire to fight in the first place.

  But perhaps survival was only half of it. Perhaps the other half was hanging on to who you were before the guns were drawn.

  She leaned back against the wall of the telegraph office, only half-aware of voices inside.

  She would have tuned them out completely if she’d not heard a name that made her turn her head to listen more intently.

  “Get this, mate. There’s a stowaway on board traveling under someone else’s name. Katrine Sawyer,” said one of the men inside. “She’s one of the war brides. Real name’s Annaliese Kurtz. A German.”

  “You’re kiddin’ me,” said another.

  “I got the wire right here. She stole the passport and tickets off a dead friend and took her place on the ship. The friend was a war bride. Belgian, though. And died in a car accident a week ago.”

  “That so? Where’d that wire come from?” said another.

  “The Port Authority in Southampton. They want the commodore to detain her when we tie up in the morning.”

  “Crikey. How do you suppose she managed to get aboard?”

  “Beats the hell out of me. Best get that telegram right up to the bridge. Southampton wants a reply that we’ve received it and are ready to comply.”

  “Right.”

  Simone dashed around the corner and back out into the elements on the sun deck as the man fully opened the door to the telegraph office.

  Her thoughts were flying in all directions.

  Katrine’s real name was Annaliese.

  She was married to a Nazi, not an American serviceman.

  She was German.

  She had lied to Simone. Lied to them all.

  Lied about everything.

  Thirty-one

  SAN DIEGO

  PRESENT DAY

  Brette spent Saturday morning doing laundry and tidying up the condo for Keith’s return. His conference had ended at noon and he’d managed to snag an earlier flight home for that evening.

  She had yet to accomplish either of the two things she’d promised to do while he was gone, and yet she was still convinced that helping the Drifter on the Queen Mary was part of coming to terms with her own predicament. She didn’t have an explanation for that hunch, only a sense of quiet urgency that finding out what had happened to Annaliese Kurtz that wintry night in 1946 somehow mattered. It was the “somehow” part that she wished she had a better answer for because then it would be easier to convince Keith, if he was going to need convincing, that going to Albuquerque was a good idea.

  When Brette wasn’t contemplating how to explain the upcoming trip to Keith, she was pondering her visit with Simone Robinson, assuming the woman was still alive and able to have a conversation. Phoebe had retained all her mental faculties, but there was no guarantee that Simone Robinson had. On the other hand, if she was still able to recall everything about that night, then she would remember her part in Annaliese Kurtz’s death, and surely she’d played a role. If that was the case, it might mean she’d have no desire to talk to Brette.

  If confession was good for the soul, Brette hoped Simone’s conscience was hungry for absolution, and that Brette’s ethereal connection with the German woman Simone had hated would compel her to spill the details in exchange for Annaliese’s forgiveness. If Simone was dead, the most Brette could do for the Drifter was return and offer assurance that her death had to have been an accident, and that there was no point hovering for an ironclad answer that no one could provide.

  • • •

  SHE WAITED FOR KEITH’S PLANE AT THE AIRPORT’S CELL PHONE lot and swung by arrivals after he’d texted that he had his
luggage and was outside waiting for her.

  The minute he got into the car and they kissed, Brette was overcome by how much she needed Keith to fully get behind the new task she’d undertaken. He’d always been her rock, her steady voice of reason. His solidarity with her was suddenly what she wanted more than anything.

  “I’m so glad you’re home,” she said as she eased the car into the outgoing lanes. “It seems like longer than a week that you’ve been away.”

  “I’ve missed you, too. I wish we’d worked it out so that you could’ve come with me. You would love Chicago. I had plenty of downtime.”

  “Next time, maybe?” she said, with little inflection. “You hungry? Want to stop and get a bite somewhere?”

  “Let’s just get home and make sandwiches or something. I just want to hear about the rest of your week.”

  She gripped the wheel a little tighter as she merged onto Harbor Drive. “I’m anxious to tell you about it. But let’s wait until we get home. Tell me about Chicago.”

  Keith filled the drive home with highlights from his trip and conference, but Brette could tell he was only minimally interested in telling her what his week had been like.

  They made turkey, prosciutto, and avocado sandwiches when they got to the condo, and while they ate, Brette told Keith in detail about her experience on the Queen Mary, leaving nothing out. She also told him about the phone call to Phoebe Rogers and the flight she’d booked for Monday to Albuquerque.

  He ate and listened in silence, his expression difficult to read. He did not look pleased, especially about the impromptu trip to New Mexico.

  “You really think that’s a good idea?” he said at last, as he pushed his plate away and sat back in his chair. “Running off to New Mexico without even knowing if this woman is there? She might not even be alive.”

  “I know it’s possible she doesn’t live there anymore, but I feel like I have to try. I have to meet with her. In person.”

  Her husband stared at her for a second. “And tell her what? That you think she killed this German girl?”

  “I’m not going to accuse her of anything. I just want to know what really happened.”

  “But why would she tell you, hon?” Keith said. “If I were her and had done what you think she’s done, I’d say it was none of your business. I’m just being realistic here. There’s no reason for her to tell you anything.”

  “But what if she’s lived her life carrying this terrible secret? What if she’ll welcome the chance to confess at last? Or maybe what happened to Annaliese Kurtz was just an accident.”

  “Or maybe she really did jump.”

  Brette stiffened. “She didn’t. I know she didn’t. I’m probably the only one besides Simone Robinson who knows.”

  “Because her . . . ghost told you she didn’t?”

  He’d said it gently, but the implication still stung.

  “You’re saying I made it all up?”

  “No. That’s not what I said.”

  “You think I didn’t talk with her ghost?”

  “How do you know for sure that you did? You didn’t actually see her.”

  An ache was starting to bloom deep in her gut. The idea that she could’ve been lied to by the Drifter sliced into her like a knife. She said nothing.

  “What if you were just taken in by the surroundings and the aura of the place. You went there looking for a particular Drifter, whom you didn’t find, right? So maybe . . .”

  His voice dropped away but she knew what he was implying. “Maybe I imagined the whole thing? Is that what you’re saying?”

  “That is not what I’m saying. I’m saying this—all of this—is not like you. You’ve never wanted to get involved with them before. You’ve told me your Drifters are illogical and impossible to reason with.”

  “This one is different,” Brette said, and the minute the words were out of her mouth, she knew they were true. Annaliese’s ghost was different. It was almost as if this Drifter still had the ability to be aware of someone else’s desires and fears, not just her own. She still knew how to care.

  Keith, deep in thought, said nothing.

  “What are you thinking?” Brette asked.

  He hesitated before answering. “Just that this wasn’t what I thought you were going to be doing when I left for Chicago.”

  “It’s not like I planned it.”

  “You did what you said you would do for your old high school friend. You don’t have to do anything else.”

  “But I feel like I do. I made a promise, Keith.”

  “To a ghost.”

  “Yes.”

  Keith reached for her hand across the table. “What about the promises you made to me?” he said gently. “You said you would talk to your mother. And that you’d find a professional to help you deal with . . . this.”

  He hadn’t meant for the comment to sting, she knew that. But his one-word summation at the end of his comment made it sound like everything she’d experienced on the Queen Mary was just another wild flight of fancy meant to further delay the decision to have children.

  “What happened to me on that ship was real. You weren’t there. You didn’t see that book I bought come flying out of the bag and open by itself to the page about Annaliese’s death.”

  “I’m not saying it didn’t happen. That’s not my point, Brette. Whatever did or didn’t happen to this woman all those years ago has nothing to do with us.”

  But it does, Brette wanted to say. Somehow it was all linked. She needed Keith to allow her the freedom to do what she needed to do even though he didn’t—and couldn’t—fully understand it.

  He was staring at his empty plate, probably feeling as isolated as she was.

  “I love you, Keith. And I want to have children with you, I really do. But this is part of my journey to understanding who I am, not just as your wife and perhaps someone’s mother, but who I already was when I met you. You told me I had your trust, remember?”

  He stroked her thumb with his, indicating that he’d heard her, but he said nothing for several seconds.

  “I know you feel alone in this because so do I,” he finally said, looking up at her. “You promised me you’d talk to your mother—”

  “I know. And I will.”

  “But you haven’t, because you are keeping those who know what you can do out of the loop, Brette. You always have. You feel alone in this because you are alone. By choice.”

  The realization that he was right fell over her like a crashing wave. It suddenly made no sense at all that she and her mother hardly ever talked about the life-defining talent that had been passed on to Brette. The Sight came from her mother, a carrier, but their scattered conversations about it never lasted more than a few minutes.

  They had talked about Brette likely also being a carrier only once before, when Nadine sat her down at the age of eleven and gave her the facts-of-life talk. Brette hadn’t brought it up again, by choice.

  “I’ll go see her tomorrow.” She squeezed his hand. “All right? I’ll talk to her tomorrow.”

  Thirty-two

  Weekends at the B and B were usually busy in late August. When the summer days of leisure started to thin, the urgency to get in one last getaway usually kept Willow House at No Vacancy status until after Labor Day.

  Brette had reached out to her mother, as she’d promised Keith.

  Mind if I swing by sometime tomorrow afternoon? she’d texted. Want to ask you something.

  The reply came a few minutes later. Sure. You want to bring Keith and stay for dinner?

  Brette and Keith arrived Sunday afternoon at the agreed-upon time of four o’clock to find the makeshift lobby brimming with newly arrived guests. While Keith helped Cliff with luggage and parking, Brette pitched in getting extra bath towels and bed pillows, assisting with Wi-Fi login, and recommending rest
aurants. By five, all the guests had left to seek out dinner or a show or a walk along the beach, and the big house was quiet. Nadine sent Cliff and Keith to the grocery store for artichokes and heavy whipping cream, leaving her alone with her daughter.

  The two women went into the kitchen, where Nadine began to clean and devein two pounds of jumbo prawns that sat in a colander in the sink. Brette offered to help, but her mother handed her a glass of Chardonnay and told her to relax and keep her company while she got the meal ready.

  “Keith had a good trip to Chicago?” Nadine asked, as Brette took a seat on a stool next to the counter.

  “As good as those conferences can be.” Brette didn’t want to waste the time the men would be away talking about Keith’s business trip, and while she was eager to finally have the conversation she and her mother should have had long ago, she was still unsure how to start it.

  Nadine peeled away an outer shell and tail from a shrimp and tossed its waste into a paper towel spread on the countertop. “So, what did that old friend of yours from high school want the other day? That Trevor . . . What’s his last name?”

  “Prescott.”

  “Yes. Did I do the wrong thing in calling you while he was here? Is that why you wanted to talk to me?”

  Brette suddenly thought of a way to begin. Telling her mother the details of Trevor’s request would easily segue into a conversation about herself.

  “No, I’m glad you did call me. He needed my help with something.”

  “Oh?” Nadine said.

  “He lost his wife in a car accident six months ago, when he was still living in LA. He and his little girl moved to Texas not long after that.”

  “Oh, how sad for him.”

  “Yes. Very. His daughter, Emily, is only six.”

  “And so what did he need your help with?” Nadine, who had paused a moment in her messy task, picked up another prawn.

  “He and Emily came back to LA to visit his mom before school starts, and they went to the Queen Mary to see the Princess Diana exhibit. While they were there, Emily said she heard her mother speak her name. She felt her put her arms around her.”