Katie nodded. “Mr. and Mrs. Anderson?”
Katie began to cry with the almost overwhelming pain over the loss of Joe, with sympathy for Maggie and Jack Anderson and with the beginning of hope in the form of Joe’s child. She felt that at last she had come home.
Epilogue
The older couple stood together in front of French windows, open to let in the fragrances of a mild spring day. The tall, soldierly erect, blond-haired man had his arm around the woman’s shoulders, who was equally as tall as her husband but plump in a motherly way with a mass of softly waving gray hair. Silently they stared out through the windows into the garden, watching the young woman with her baby. A gentle breeze stirred the older woman’s hair and she raised a hand that shook slightly to brush back an errant strand.
The room they were in was large and elegantly decorated in dove gray and dusky pink. It obviously belonged in a house of wealth, but was homely and lived-in, with vases of fresh flowers positioned on small side tables and on the hearth of the spacious marble fireplace. Numerous gilt-framed photographs of children and family members stood in groups on shelves and on a vast antique dresser. The furniture was comfortable with oversized plush pillows and scatter cushions piled haphazardly on sofas and armchairs. The air smelled of cinnamon, lemon-scented furniture polish and the fresh scent of flowers. A large, framed picture of a US marine in dress uniform hung above the fireplace, below it on the mantelpiece sat an ornate candle together with a single red rose in a slim, long-stemmed vase.
The woman turned her face up to her husband’s and regarded him with misty dark blue eyes. Her lips trembled and there was grief etched on her face. “Jack,” she began in a soft American voice, “I’m worried about Katie. She looks so lost and sad. You would think that over these last few months with baby Josie to distract her, her grief would have eased, but it hasn’t.”
Jack Anderson turned his attention to his wife, looked down at her, and squeezed her shoulders gently. “Maggie, has your pain diminished a little as the months have gone by?”
Maggie Anderson’s eyes filled with tears and she shook her head. “The pain of losing my son will never go away,” she replied in a trembling voice.
“Hey,” Jack said, stroking his wife’s arm, his voice quavering slightly. “We don’t know that Joe is dead. He’s just missing in action. They never found his body. Until they do, we have hope, just like Katie has hope.”
“Does she, though, Jack? Does she really? Does she honestly think that Joe is going to come walking through the door? It’s been nearly a year and there’s been no word,” Maggie continued, the grief she was feeling a massive burden on her shoulders.
“Honey,” Jack soothed again, trying to raise his wife’s spirits. “You can’t talk like that. To lose hope is to betray our Joe and all that he stood for. You have to think positive. Katie is here and so is our granddaughter. We have to love Katie like Joe said in his letter. We have to love them both, look after them, and believe that he will come home one day.”
A tear trickled down Maggie Anderson’s lightly powdered, smooth cheek, “I would love to believe that,” she said, and a soft sob escaped her.
“Well, I believe,” Jack responded firmly, “he will come home.” He turned to look back out of the French windows again at the slim figure standing some distance down the broad expanse of garden.
Katie looked down at her tiny daughter asleep in her arms and wondered how she could love this little girl so much. From the time the baby had come screaming from her womb, looking so much like her father, with Joe’s deep blue eyes and her own copper-colored hair, Katie had been consumed with a love so strong that she wondered how it could be real. The presence of this little life that she had nurtured and adored, even before she was born, had slightly eased the devastating pain and loss of Joe’s disappearance. Her child had given her something to live for, something to cling to while she tried to cope with the loss of the man who she had loved so much.
Now she tenderly kissed her baby’s forehead and carried her slowly and carefully to the pram. Bending down, she laid the child in its cool, shadowed interior, the little girl barely stirring, and made sure the baby’s body was shielded from the sun by the protective shade from the old-fashioned canopy. She smiled slightly, tenderly cupped the little girl’s delicate head, and then went to sit down in the garden chair that had been placed close to the pram.
The spring breeze, fragrant with the smell of flowers, pine trees and green grass, tossed Katie’s curly hair with teasing fingers. She could hear the rustling of the branches of the tall pines and firs that formed a dense forest at the bottom of the garden, and birds called and sang abundantly.
Ordinarily, those sounds would have been peaceful and soothing, but Katie barely noticed them or the beauty of her surroundings. She felt numb and empty of all emotion, the loss of Joe leaving behind nothing but a dark shadow inside her. She had lost the one thing in her life that had meant something to her. She had loved him more than she had thought possible, and for those last few weeks in Afghanistan, he had been everything to her. Having lost her parents tragically some four years before, she knew what loss and grief were all about, but Joe’s disappearance had torn her very world apart. If it hadn’t been for the birth of her baby, she suspected that she would have been hard-pressed to go on without him. She sat with bowed head, hands clasped limply, staring at her lap, wondering where the detachment of self that had served her so well in Afghanistan had disappeared to. She needed it desperately, now more than ever. Katie closed her eyes as they filled with burning tears, something that happened very frequently nowadays and that she tried so hard to control, but she failed dismally. One silvery drop eventually trickled down her cheek.
“Joe,” she murmured brokenly, “where are you, Joe? Please come home to me.” Her shoulders suddenly jerked with grief and a small wrenching sob escaped her.
Back inside the house, Maggie Anderson straightened her shoulders and turned away from her view of the forlorn-looking figure seated in the garden chair. “I’m going to put the kettle on,” she said. As she spoke, there came a single heavy knock at the front door.
The man and woman glanced at each other with expressions of fear mirrored in their eyes. Jack’s lips thinned with concern. Over the past months, a knock on the door or the ringing of the telephone had filled them both with pessimistic terror, in case it signaled bad news.
“You get the kettle and I’ll get the door,” Jack announced firmly.
Maggie nodded silently and the couple left the lounge, Maggie going into the large kitchen and Jack continuing on across the large, spacious hallway to the front door.
Maggie filled the kettle with water and put it on to boil then went to the kitchen window and stood motionless, staring out into the garden, not seeing the expanse of smooth green grass or the sunlight playing on the colorful flowers in the cottage-style flower beds. She was thinking only of her missing son and feeling the terrible sense of loss deep within her heart. Sighing deeply, she began to set a tray with a complement of sugar bowl, milk jug and cups and saucers. She remained absent-minded and preoccupied with her thoughts until an odd noise coming from the hallway caused her to turn her head in that direction and stiffen, her hand freezing in the act of setting teaspoons on the tray.
The noise had sounded as though someone had choked just once. Holding her breath, Maggie tried to hear if the sound repeated. All remained silent in the house except for the rapidly boiling water in the kettle. She shrugged and continued to prepare the tea tray. Her head jerked up again when she heard another sound, only this time it was a soft moan. Heart leaping into her throat, Maggie called out, “Jack?” There was no response, and feeling a little unnerved, she moved toward the door of the kitchen that led out into the spacious hallway. “Jack?” she called out again and went into the hallway, turning in the direction of the front door.
Maggie stopped dead in her tracks, staring in shock and disbelief at the scene before her. Jack an
d a tall soldier clad in camouflage combats stood in a still-life tableau just inside the front door, the soldier with his hand on Jack’s shoulder. Maggie’s hand, shaking as though with palsy, fluttered to her throat and her heart began to pound heavily in her chest. She couldn’t speak and her legs suddenly threatened to collapse beneath her. Reaching out a trembling hand to support her against the wall, she continued to stare with dazed eyes at her ashen-faced husband and what she thought must be a ghost standing next to him.
The soldier turned from the gasping man and surveyed the elderly woman across the hall. “Mom?” Joe Anderson queried.
Maggie heard the familiar voice of her son and her shocked immobility was broken. She almost ran across the hall, calling Joe’s name repeatedly, as though not to say his name would cause him to disappear and therefore be a figment of her imagination.
Keeping one hand on his father’s shoulder, as though to keep him upright, Joe held out his other hand to his mother and upon Maggie reaching his side, he clasped her to him in a bear hug. Maggie began to cry as though her heart would break and clung onto her son, feeling his uniform and the warmth of his body through it and finally realizing with pitiful joy that he was real and blessedly alive. For a long time, there was emotional confusion until Maggie, wiping away her tears, looked up at Joe and was horrified at what she saw.
Joe’s face was thin and haggard, almost to the point of gauntness, his eyes sunk deep in their sockets, where they gleamed a deep blue. However, it was the expression in them that caused Maggie to wonder in anguish about what her son had been through. There was an extraordinary pain, anger, and grief that had dulled the usual brightness in her son’s eyes, but she believed that those emotions went far deeper than expressed in his gaze. A livid scar ran from his right eyebrow to the corner of his mouth, but the worse thing of all was the angry red web of scar tissue encircling his neck. He looked exhausted, and had lost far too much weight, his uniform looking far too big for his body and hanging from his frame.
“Joe, my God,” Maggie exclaimed. “What…?”
“Mom.” Joe raised a trembling hand in a warding off gesture. “Don’t ask me any questions yet. I can’t—and don’t—want to talk about it.”
Maggie was horrified as she saw tears fill her son’s eyes. She had never seen him cry and it nearly broke her heart.
“Come on, son.” Having regained his composure, Jack put his arm around Joe’s shoulders. “Your mom was just about to put the kettle on. Let’s get you into the lounge. Leave your bag where it is. We’ll collect it later.”
Joe nodded silently and the three of them, clinging onto each other, moved awkwardly across the hall toward the lounge. Maggie was again horrified to see that Joe now walked with a bad limp, and she realized then that he must have gone through something terrifying out in Afghanistan. She bit her lip, refraining from asking any further questions. Joe would talk when he was ready. It was enough for now that he was home, safe.
Jack and Maggie stopped at the doorway of the lounge and watched as Joe walked slowly into the room, paused, and glanced around him, surveying the furnishings as though he had never seen them before. He appeared restless and uneasy, as though he was unsure of where he was or what to do next. Turning, he walked to where there was a row of framed photographs set on a table. Bending slightly he looked at each of them in turn but remained silent. He straightened without comment, turned and began to walk to the opposite end of the room. Jack and Maggie tensed and looked at each other with alarm on their faces. If he looked out into the garden, he would see Katie and the baby. They needed to tell him first, warn him that she was there—to lessen the shock—but then it was too late.
Walking past the open French windows, Joe glanced out into the garden. At first, what his eyes perceived out there did not register and he continued on for two more paces before he stopped abruptly, as though he had crashed into a wall. His whole body went rigid with tension as he continued to stare at the woman in the long white dress bending over a stroller. He would have recognized that short, gleaming copper hair anywhere.
The room was deathly quiet as—still keeping his eyes focused on the scene in the garden—he turned slowly. Finally taking his gaze from what he had seen, he turned to face his parents.
“Who’s that?” Joe asked. His voice was devoid of emotion, completely at odds with the expression on his face—his body and his mind under an iron-hard control.
Maggie walked toward her son and placed a hand on his arm. He instantly recoiled and she knew that there was something deeply wrong with him. “Joe,” she began gently. “That’s Katie. She’s been living with us here for eleven months now.”
Joe turned to stare out into the garden again. He cleared his throat. “What’s that in the stroller?”
The tears began to trickle down Maggie’s cheeks. “That’s your daughter, Joe. Katie was pregnant before she left Afghanistan but didn’t find out for sure until she returned to the UK. She was pregnant when you went missing. Josie was born about two months ago. Katie sent us the letter you asked her to send to us and one of her own, telling us that she was pregnant and asking us if we would want to be a part of the baby’s life. She also managed to transfer from the British to the US Army. Your father and I jumped at the chance and we invited her over to live with us. She refused at first. She’s a stubborn woman.”
At that statement, a small smile twitched about Joe’s mouth, “Yeah, that’s Katie.”
“Anyway, she came over and gave birth to Josie here. Joe, Katie never gave up hope, never gave up the belief that you would come home. She said that you were still alive. She believed in you. She kept us going.”
Joe still hesitated. “I’ve changed,” he said sadly. “I’m not the man she once loved.”
“Son,” Jack began in a choked voice, “you’ll always be the man she loves, and you’ll always be our son, no matter what. War changes everyone. There’s no shame in that.”
Joe glanced at his father, doubt in his eyes, about to say something in contradiction to his father’s statement, but then he took a hesitant step toward the French windows, followed by another.
Katie, on hearing a small whimper from the pram and shaking herself out of her self-pity, had risen from the chair and gone to her child. The baby was still sleeping, and placing a gentle hand against the rose petal soft cheek, she checked to see that the child wasn’t too hot. Straightening up, she looked around the large garden and decided apathetically that she would take her daughter for a brief walk around the boundary. It would give her some exercise and might help her to relax. She was just about to release the brake on the pram when she froze.
The hairs on the back of Katie’s neck were rising and it felt as though someone was watching her. Nervously, she glanced around the garden, in particular toward the forest, but all appeared normal. The feeling, however, was becoming stronger and more uncomfortable, so she turned around abruptly in the direction of the house. Completely stunned and disbelieving, she swayed, as the world spun around her and all noise seemed to fade away to nothing as she saw the tall soldier standing on the steps leading from the patio down into the garden. The combat-clothed figure was completely still as if watching her. Katie would have recognized the man anywhere.
They both remained motionless, gazes locked on each other until Joe moved laboriously down one step. Katie saw that he limped badly and watched breathlessly as he descended another step. Even over the expanse of grass, she could see the difference in him—how thin he was and how his once-upright stance was now stooped, as though with mental as well as physical exhaustion. She watched as Joe finally reached the foot of the steps and stopped. The dark shadow inside her, representing months of loss and sadness, suddenly dissolved, and a white-hot blaze of immense joy and happiness soared inside her. It was Joe. He was home. Katie began to move toward him, slowly at first, and then she was running, flying across the grass as though she had wings on her feet, laughing and crying, calling out his name over and
over again. Joe held out his arms and as Katie reached him, she threw her arms around his neck and Joe swung her off her feet in a circle. He quickly lowered her to the ground then he was kissing her, tenderly at first then hungrily, his arms crushing her to him as though he would never let her go again.
Sobbing with overwhelming emotion, Katie clung to him, kissing him back with all the longing and intense love that she felt. She couldn’t believe he was here. She could feel his arms, his kisses, smell his skin, but part of her mind was insistent that she had fallen asleep in the hot sun and this was a nightmare, because when she woke up, he would be gone again.
Joe stopped kissing her and drew back to study her face.
Katie watched in horror as his eyes suddenly filled with tears, then he was crying, great heart-rending sobs that shook his whole body. Katie’s heart tore at his grief and she put her arms around him, holding him as she would have held a child. She felt the bony gauntness of his body, felt him trembling, and held him tighter, but such was Joe’s exhaustion and grief that his legs began to buckle and he fell to the ground on his knees, dragging Katie down to the ground with him.
Kneeling on the ground in front of him and holding his head against her shoulder, she hugged him as hard as she could, trying to instill her strength into his exhausted body. “Sssshhh, Joe, I’m here. You’re home. You’re safe,” she murmured to him soothingly, but he was unable to stop crying. His sobs were pitiful and came from some deep well of grief and pain inside him, some place where even Katie couldn’t reach and comfort him. She had always remembered him as being strong and tough, and she had never seen him in this much pain. He held her in a crushing grip, and even though it hurt, she ignored the pain and held him. After a long time, his crying began to abate and he lifted his face away from her shoulder and ran a hand across his face. “What a dumb fuck,” he said in a choked voice, embarrassment evident in his tone.
For the Love of a Marine Page 29
