by Lisa Bingham
What was she doing? Was she seriously considering visiting Paul with more deceit in mind? She’d put everyone in this position by allowing herself to be talked into taking Sara’s place once before. Was she thinking of carrying out the same charade, this time of her own volition?
But as she squared her shoulders and retrieved her pocketbook, she told herself that there was no other option. Paul thought that he’d gone to the fancy dress party with Sara. He believed that he’d been writing to Sara. To suddenly visit him as someone else with far too much knowledge of their correspondence could be distressing to a man who might be gravely injured.
• • •
The ride to Nocton in the rickety delivery van was made without a hitch. As Susan made her way to the front door, she huddled deeper in her coat. If she hadn’t been contacted and told Paul was injured, that it was important for her to visit, she would have lost her courage long before reaching the worn stone steps. But as she ascended the same treads which had probably hosted the cream of aristocracy, she felt small and as false as a two-headed shilling.
She’d been wrong to come to him as Sara. She could have explained things. She could have told him that Sara couldn’t come.
But even as the thought appeared, she dismissed it. A fine how-do-you-do that would have been, to meet an injured man and inform him that he hadn’t been important enough to warrant a visit from the woman he most wanted to see.
A woman dressed in a WVS uniform had planted herself behind a small table. Amid the pajama-clad patients and uniformed doctors and nurses, she looked incongruous behind the delicate marble-topped sofa table—one which had probably been moved from a sitting room somewhere.
“Yes. May I help you?”
“I-I’ve come to see Paul Overdone. A nurse sent me word that he was here.”
The woman didn’t appear particularly interested in Susan’s explanation. She referred to a small box, much like a recipe holder, bristling with index cards. Rifling through the contents, she finally found what she wanted, pulled it nearly completely out in order to peruse the information typed in faded ink, then put it back in its proper position.
Barely glancing at Susan, she pointed toward the massive marble staircase that wound in stages to a spot high above.
“Two floors up. Ward Six. You’ll stay to your right, about halfway down the corridor. He’s in treatment right now, but should be returning to the ward shortly. If you’ll look at the ends of the cots, you’ll see the patients’ names printed there.”
“Thank you.”
Gripping the strap of her pocketbook with both hands, Susan wound her way up, up, up, until she reached the appropriate floor. The climb gave her a spark of hope. Unless there was a lift hidden somewhere within the bowels of the building, Paul must have been well enough to navigate the stairs, hadn’t he?
It was quieter up here, making her feel even more like an interloper. She unconsciously tiptoed down the hall—past the first door which opened into a ward of about a dozen cots crammed tightly together. Patients sat on their beds smoking, playing cards, and writing letters. Although they all sported bandages, she was relieved to see that their injuries seemed minor—cuts and scrapes, bandaged hands, patches of inflamed skin.
The second door held another ward nearly identical to the first, as did the next. But the fourth ward was quieter. As she glanced in, Susan was shocked to a standstill. This ward held men who were clearly more ill. It was smaller than the others, holding only four beds, but the men lay with hands swathed completely in thick white bandages that couldn’t completely disguise the fact that they’d lost several digits. Their faces were also wound with strips of white, leaving mere slits for their eyes and noses.
A patient cried out suddenly, then began to moan piteously, the sound lifting the hackles on her neck. Hurrying past, Susan bit her lip.
Dear God, why had she come here? What had she thought to find? A happy ending? There could be no happy ending to the deceit she’d propagated.
But as much as she wanted to turn and run from the manor, she couldn’t force her body to obey. She was almost there. She would say her hellos to Paul, be bright and cheerful and raise his spirits, then she would be on her way back to London with the evening train. After a few weeks, she would find a way to end the correspondence between them.
Moving quickly now, she passed a door that was ajar. A small card tacked to the wall read “Saline Baths.”
Unbidden, she glanced inside, then grew rooted in place. Paul?
She almost didn’t recognize him. Almost. He had been stripped completely bare save for his shorts, disclosing his body and more. Burned flesh, some if it so deep and raw it exposed the musculature beneath, covered his hands, extending up past his elbows and down the full length of his legs. More burned flesh nearly obscured one side of his face, while the rest of his body was covered with welts and lacerations. His body was a brilliant pallet of bruises, especially around his knees and his midsection. And his face…his face was swollen. Distorted. But she recognized him nonetheless. Not from the whole, but from the parts—dark, dark hair, the jut of his shoulder, the slenderness of his hips, long lean legs.
As she watched, four men each grasped a corner of the sheet on which he lay and lifted him over a porcelain tub—one of many in the room. Gradually, they lowered him into the water, ignoring the screams that burst from his throat and the flailing of his body. When he lay completely under the water except for his head and a small portion of his neck, the four men knelt to hold him there when he continued to buck and cry.
“It looks cruel,” a voice said from behind her.
Susan started, whirling around to see a young blond woman in a nurse’s uniform moving toward her. She gently inserted herself between Susan and the baths, reaching behind her to close the door. Even so, the screams continued unabated.
“One of our doctors discovered that the chaps being pulled out of the salt water in the Channel healed much quicker than those who didn’t go in the Drink. So he’s begun an experimental treatment with warm saline baths. It’s proving to be quite successful.”
At what cost? Susan wondered. Paul’s cries were so heartbreaking, she feared she would be torn apart from the mere sound of them.
“May I help you?” the nurse asked with a bright smile, but it was clear from the way it stayed in place far too long that she resented the fact that Susan had been privy to one of her charge’s misery.
“I’m Su…Sara Blunt. I received a letter…” She blinked against the damning sting of tears. “I’m here to see Paul,” she whispered hoarsely, weakly lifting a hand toward the room where his screams had subsided into heartrending sobs.
“Oh, dear.” The woman’s too-perfect smile faded as soon as it had appeared. She pondered the situation for a moment, then said, “Come with me. He’ll be soaking for a while yet.”
She led the way down the corridor, but having already seen the man she’d come for, Susan didn’t bother to peer into the other rooms.
The nurse ushered her into a tiny area at the end of the hall—a space little bigger than a closet. A rickety bridge table surrounded by four mismatched chairs had been crammed inside as well as a supply cabinet, a hot plate, and a battered teapot with a stack of white mugs.
“How ‘bout a cuppa?” the woman asked. She didn’t wait for Susan’s response, merely turned and poured tea into two mugs.
“Sorry, we’ve got no sugar or lemon. But I could probably find a little milk.”
“No. This is fine.” Susan sank into one of the chairs, wrapping her fingers around the hot mug.
“I’m sorry you had to see him like that.”
Susan could hardly hear her over the roaring of her ears. She kept seeing Paul’s mangled body and hearing his screams of pain.
“He will get well, you know, provided we can stave off any infection. The baths help with that.”
“Will he be in a lot of pain?”
The woman nodded. “It’s unavoidable. Think
of burning your finger on a hot pan and magnify that by a hundred.” She took a sip of her tea. “I’m the one who wrote you.” She stared down into the rippled surface of her tea. “A few of your letters were found in his pocket. His mates said you wrote faithfully to him.”
Susan nodded.
“A man needs a reason to fight when he’s in this much pain.” She glanced up then. “I’ve seen lads only half as bad as him who fade away because they think things are over for them—either that they’ll be scarred, or incapacitated, or will never be allowed to fly again.”
“Will Paul…fly?”
The woman shook her head. “It’s doubtful. Once an airman is injured that badly, he rarely gets a chance to return to a Spit unless it’s as an instructor.”
“And will he be…incapacitated?”
The nurse regarded her again, before saying, “That remains to be seen.” She leaned forward, resting her arms on the table as if too weary to even sit up straight. “No one will blame you if you don’t stay.” Her head tipped toward the hall. “You’ve seen what you’re up against, and no one will think badly about you if it’s just…too much.”
Susan suddenly realized that she was being given the opportunity to leave, now, before Paul ever knew that she’d come.
“Some of the girls who come to visit—wives and sweethearts—find that they just can’t stomach the change in their loved ones. It would have been far better if they hadn’t come at all than to leave after offering a little bit of hope.”
It was a challenge and a warning. Would Susan prove to be one of those women? Or would she have the courage to stay?
“I’ve come a long way to see him,” Susan finally said. “And I have no plans for returning anytime soon.”
Glancing at the watch pinned to her uniform, the woman said, “Well, then. He should be back in the ward by now. Let’s take you to him.”
The nurse led Susan back down the hall to Ward Six.
“He’ll be very tired after his treatment. Don’t worry if he’s sleeping and doesn’t immediately wake up to greet you.”
“C-Can I touch him?” Susan asked.
The woman hesitated. “He’s badly burned and in a great deal of pain…” She relented, saying, “You may touch him anywhere without a bandage. Lightly, mind you. He’s got a lot of scrapes and bruises.”
Susan nodded to show she understood, but she couldn’t speak as she was led into the ward. It was one of the larger rooms. There were a dozen hospital cots crammed tightly together, only half of them presently occupied.
Susan was taken to a bed near the window. The nurse pointed to a rickety chair nearby, then stepped away.
Susan was immediately conscious of curious eyes following her as she pulled the folding bridge chair closer to the bed and sat. But she soon forgot them as she drank in the sight of Paul.
Just as the nurse had warned her, he appeared to be asleep. The raw burns she’d witnessed had been swathed in fresh white bandages, so much so, that if she hadn’t seen him without them, she probably wouldn’t have recognized him.
Unsure what she should do now that she was here, she set her pocketbook on the table next to his bed. Then, needing some point of contact, she gently laid her hand on his chest.
The rise and fall, rise and fall was comforting. As was the faint bump of his heart.
Dear God, he’d nearly died—could still die.
Tears filled her eyes. She longed to draw even closer to him, to burrow up next to him and rest her ear against that same spot and listen to the steady rhythm of life that thrummed within him. But she had to content herself with that single point of contact. She didn’t want to do anything that would bring him any extra pain. He’d already been through so much.
Though she swiped them away, the tears began to fall silently down her cheeks. Damn. Now wasn’t the time to cry. Not with all of the mascara she’d applied.
Paul’s eyes flickered. Opened.
Susan offered him a watery smile, swiping the last of the moisture away.
“Paul?”
At his name, he reared back, a sound of distress bubbling from his throat.
“Paul, it’s me.”
He shook his head, his hands scrambling as he batted her away.
“Get…out.”
“Paul, it’s—”
“Out! I don’t…want you…here.”
Shock rushed through her system so quickly that Susan felt as if she’d turned to a solid block of ice.
“Out! Get out!” He scrambled against the bedclothes as if he were a trapped animal suddenly cornered in his enemy’s lair. “Don’t…come…back!”
The nurse rushed into the room, followed by a pair of orderlies. While the men rushed to Paul’s side, the woman pulled Susan into the corridor.
Susan’s limbs trembled so fiercely, she could hardly stand. She tried to make her way around the sister, but the woman held her firmly in the hall.
“I’m so sorry,” the nurse said. “Sometimes this happens.”
Susan wrapped her arms around her waist, sobbing. But where only minutes ago she couldn’t control the tears, now they locked painfully in her chest, robbing her of breath.
“What…Why?” she choked out.
The nurse’s eyes grew sympathetic.
Susan struggled to find her equilibrium. Above all, she didn’t want to make a scene. Nor did she want this woman or anyone else to become witness to her pain.
He didn’t want her.
He didn’t want her.
“I think it would probably be best to…give it some time before you visited again.”
Susan wasn’t fooled by the woman’s diplomatic suggestion. The nurse clearly thought she should board the next train and head for home.
Nevertheless, Susan nodded, backing toward the staircase. But just as the woman was about to re-enter the ward, she hurriedly asked. “My sister…could she try visiting tomorrow?”
The woman hesitated, then reluctantly nodded. “Visiting hours are from eleven to three.”
Susan thanked her, then scrambled down the marble staircase and out into the cold. Taking deep breaths, she hurried down the lane, away from the curious stares and good-natured catcalls from some of the patients. Once she reached the main road, she turned resolutely toward town.
Tomorrow, she would be back.
This time as herself.
Charlie,
You’ve read my letters, I suppose. I’ve come to terms with that. I can’t imagine that you’ve had them all this time and haven’t read them. I’m not sure what your reaction will be after hearing the kind of family you’ve married into. I think about that over and over and pray that you’ll judge me by my own character, and not by my father’s.
Nevertheless, I find myself drawn to pen and paper once again. I refuse to believe that you’re dead and the thought that you’re out there where I can’t reach you haunts me. So once again, I’ve begun to write my letters, but this time, rather than writing down my hopes and fears to Jesus, I’ll write directly to you. One day, I know you’ll read them. Until then, at least I’ll know that I’ve completely purged my soul.
What you’ve read so far is grim. But I haven’t told you everything. There were things that happened that I couldn’t bring myself to set down on paper until now. I thought I could tuck them away so deeply that they would never again see the light of day.
But after everything I’ve seen, I’ve become keenly aware of the fragility of life. And like so many others, I find myself needing to make a more permanent mark on the world—or at least to make sure that if something happens, I’ve left no loose ends behind. So I may as well finish the sordid tale so that you understand that the time I spent with you was not a casual affair.
Just as I told you the day you left, I have never been prone to rushing into relationships. In fact, I’d sworn to myself that I would never allow a man a place in my life. Not ever. Not after what I’d endured at the hands of Jacob Boggs.
After I cau
ght my father with Rebel Mae Patroni, he punished me. Not just that night. No. He seemed determined to break my spirit, if not my body, and I would never have another peaceful moment in his presence. Where once, his gaze had caused my skin to prickle with unease, now I felt as if I were a rabbit being stalked. Every move I made had to be plotted carefully because I could not be alone with him. Not without a cold fist of fear gripping my chest.
At the time, I didn’t understand the subtle change in power that had taken place. It wasn’t until later, that I realized my father was afraid. He feared I would reveal his true nature, like lifting a rock in the forest to expose a nest of maggots beneath.
But before I could fathom what I had seen, what my father had done—the depth of his betrayal to my mother—my father changed. Where once his physical strength, his power over his family, and his work at the sawmill had been the axis of his existence, he now turned to God.
I didn’t know then that he intended to bury his ugliness beneath a veneer of righteousness. I only knew that suddenly the days became longer in order to include prayers—morning and night, at meals, at special events, or whenever the mood took him. We were flayed with my father’s interpretation of the scriptures, commanding us to be meek. Obedient. Subservient to the will of our patriarch.
And through it all, my father seemed to cling to one single commandment: “be fruitful and multiply the earth.”
Despite her fragile health, my mother was destined to be pregnant or nursing, so we had a succession of young girls who came to help with the housework. None of them lasted long. Invariably, within a few months, their clothes would begin to grow tight around the middle and soon after, they would disappear. Not just from our house, but from Defiance altogether.
And still I watched, waited. Knowing instinctively that no matter what sorts of muffled noises I heard late in the night, I should not leave my room.
My mother, worn out with childbirth and a deep sadness that could not be alleviated, sank into a fervent, mindless devotion to anything that might ease her inner torment. Her room became cluttered with pictures of Catholic Saints, tacky dime-store picture postcards, and clippings of film stars—most predominantly, Shirley Temple. She began taking “medicinal sips” of alcohol and laudanum-laced cough medicine.
