by Sarah Jio
No one knew what was happening above. After two hours, or what felt like twelve, Nurse Hildebrand enlisted Stella to help pass out rations, water, and beans in tin cans. Enough to last days, even weeks. I thought about the prospect of living in the dark, eating canned Spam, and I shuddered.
“Here,” said Stella, offering me a canteen. I took a swig and swallowed hard. It tasted of rust.
We all froze when we heard footsteps on the floor above.
“Nurses,” Nurse Hildebrand whispered, reaching for a rifle on the wall, “put out your lanterns.”
We obeyed, and listened in the darkness, as the footsteps grew closer, louder. There was a thud, and then the creak of the trapdoor opening. I squeezed Kitty’s hand harder. Dear Lord. The Japanese are here.
But instead of a foreign accent, a familiar voice rang out in the cellar. “Nurses, it’s all clear. The ship’s turned west. You can come out now.”
The women let out a cheer—all but Kitty, who just stared ahead. I reached for her hand. “Come on, dear,” I said. “It’s over. We can go now.”
She looked startled, as though I’d roused her from a dream. When she turned on her lantern, I could detect the familiar cloudiness in her eyes. The distance. “Yes, of course,” she said, standing up and walking ahead of me.
“Can you believe we ship out tomorrow?” Liz marveled at breakfast the next day.
Tomorrow. I’d been dreading this day since the moment I fell in love with Westry. Leaving the island meant the end of our reality, and the beginning of a new one—one, I feared, that would be more complicated than we might know.
“The men ship out in the morning,” Stella added. She didn’t like that Will was joining the fight in Europe any more than I liked that Westry was.
“I was thinking,” she continued. “If I went to serve in Europe, I’d at least be closer to him. In case—”
I shook my head. The war had taken its toll on Stella, who was now shockingly thin. She needed leave more than any of us. “Going to Europe won’t protect him,” I said. “Go home. Wait for him there.”
She nodded. “Can you believe Kitty? I hear she’s heading to France, right in the middle of the action. She’s joining a group headed for Normandy.”
My cheeks flushed. France? Why didn’t she tell me the extent of her plans? Does she think I don’t care?
“Well, speaking of the devil,” Stella said, pointing to the door.
Kitty walked into the mess hall, smiling. Her cheeks looked rosy, the way they once had. As she approached our table, I could see that she was holding a cluster of yellow hibiscus, and my cheeks burned at the sight.
“Morning, ladies,” she said. “How are the rations today?”
I felt Stella’s eyes boring into the side of my head.
“Fine,” Liz, said, oblivious to the tension in the air, “if you like rubberized eggs.”
Kitty giggled, setting the flowers, tied in a single white ribbon, on the table. “Aren’t they beautiful?” she said, admiring their yellow petals against the contrasting sterile beige tabletop. I knew them instantly, of course—the hibiscus that grew near the bungalow. They had to be.
“Well, well, well,” Stella said. “It looks like someone has an admirer.
“Oh, Stell,” Kitty said, playing coy.
“Then where did you get them?” she said relentlessly. I wished she’d stop. I didn’t want to know.
Kitty grinned and twirled around toward the buffet line, leaving us to our imaginations.
Stella cleared her throat and smirked. “What did I warn you about the first day on this island?”
I stood up abruptly and began walking to the door.
“Anne,” Stella called out. “Wait. I didn’t mean anything by it. Come back.”
Outside on the path back to the barracks, my heart pounded as I retraced the past few weeks. I thought of the way Kitty lit up whenever Westry appeared, and the way she had pulled back from me. Of course Kitty feels something for Westry.
I froze for a moment. Could he possibly share her attraction? Every man in our past—well, except Gerard—had favored Kitty over me. She was asked first to dance. She had received a half dozen invitations to the Homecoming banquet, when I’d had one. My mind raced. The letter. My God. Westry didn’t seem at all concerned about the prospect of someone taking it. Did he pretend it had been stolen so he wouldn’t have to face my declaration of love, my hope for the future—of a future together?
I kicked a rock on the path and shook my head, dismissing the disturbing train of thought. No, I won’t think of it a moment longer, not when we are leaving tomorrow. Not when we have mere hours left together. There isn’t time for nonsense.
“That’s it,” Kitty said the next morning after breakfast, sighing. She bent over to zip up the side of her bag, which looked, strangely, smaller than the enormous duffel I’d lugged into this room ten months prior. Like the bag, Kitty had lost some of herself on the island.
“My flight leaves in an hour,” she said in a distant voice, her gaze turned to the hillside outside the window, a scene that often captured her attention. I wondered what she was looking for up in those hills. “Nurse Hildebrand and I will meet up with a squadron flying into France tomorrow. And then . . .” Her voice trailed off.
Kitty in France. All by herself. I hated the thought of it, just like I had hated the thought of her coming here, to the South Pacific, alone. It didn’t matter what I thought of her feelings for Westry. I knew that somewhere beyond the layers of emotional scars draped over her like armor, my best friend resided. But this time I wouldn’t insist on going with her.
“Oh, Kitty!” I cried, leaping to my feet. If I could only get through to her. “Why did things turn out the way they did for us?”
Kitty shrugged, reaching for her bag. She looked at me for a long moment. “The island had its way, I guess,” she finally muttered.
“No, Kitty, you have it wrong,” I said, hearing the panic in my voice—panic at what seemed like the end of a friendship, the end of an era. I thought about my transgressions as a friend. I could have spent more time with her. I might have been more supportive through her final weeks of pregnancy—but wasn’t I? Most important, I should have been honest with her about the bungalow, about everything. I had let too many secrets creep in between us. Secrets I had promised never to keep. “Kitty,” I pleaded. “I haven’t changed. I’m still the same old Anne. And I’d wager that you’re still the same old Kitty in your heart. I want nothing more than to go on being Anne and Kitty.”
She looked at me with eyes I didn’t recognize. They were tired and older, hardened. “I wish that too,” she said softly, turning away from me. “But I don’t think we can now.”
I nodded, feeling tears rise from a place deep inside. They welled up in my eyes before spilling out unbidden on my cheeks.
“Good-bye, Anne,” Kitty said without turning around. Her tone was businesslike, the way I’d witnessed her speak to the servants in her home growing up, or the clerk at the drugstore. I felt the urge to scream, “Kitty, stop this right now! Let’s end this charade.” But I could only stand there, mute, too stunned, too sad to open my mouth. “I wish you the best of luck,” she said, reaching for the door handle. “With everything.”
The door clicked closed and the silence in the room pulsed. I fell to the floor, sobbing into my hands for what felt like hours. What right does she have to leave like this, to declare our friendship over? How could she behave so coldly?
When the clock told me it was eleven, I willed myself to stand, prying my tired limbs off the floor. I’d promised Westry a farewell on the tarmac, and his flight left in a half hour, just after mine.
I set my bag by the door and glanced in the mirror at my red, swollen eyes. I hardly recognized myself.
For a moment, I feared I wouldn’t find him. I squinted as I looked out at the thick and frenzied crowd of men, awash in army green. A small cohort would stay on the island, but the majority, Westry inclu
ded, had been tapped for new assignments. France. Great Britain. And a lucky few, like me, would go home.
I squinted, scanning faces, and then toward the edge of the crowd, our eyes met.
Ignoring the orders over the loudspeaker for the nurses to begin boarding, I set my bag down by Stella and Liz and ran to Westry. He lifted me into his arms and we kissed.
“Don’t cry, my love,” he said, wiping a tear from my cheek. “This isn’t good-bye.”
“But it is,” I said, running my hand along his freshly shaven face. “We don’t know what will happen out there.” I realized the statement was as much about him as it was about me.
Westry nodded, pulling a nosegay of yellow hibiscus from his bag and tucking it into my hand. A white ribbon loosely tied the blooms in place. Kitty. “These flowers,” I stammered. “You gave the same ones to Kitty yesterday, didn’t you?”
Westry looked confused, then nodded. “Well, yes,” he said. “I was—”
Another voice piped through the loudspeaker. “All men proceed to board.”
“Westry,” I said, feeling panicked. “Is there something you need to tell me? Something about Kitty?”
He looked to his feet momentarily and then back at me. “It’s nothing,” he said, “but I still should have told you. A few weeks ago, I found her weeping on the beach. I was on the way to the bungalow, and I invited her to join me.”
My cheeks burned. Westry brought her to our bungalow—alone, without me?
I shook my head in disbelief. “Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t she tell me?”
“I’m sorry, Anne,” he said. “I really didn’t think anything of it.”
I turned to glance at the plane that would take me home. Stella was standing beside it waving her arms frantically at me.
“Anne!” she screamed. “It’s time to go!”
I took a final look at Westry. The wind had tousled his hair. I longed to run my hands through the sandy blond strands the way I’d done a hundred times in the bungalow, to take in the scent of his skin, to surrender myself to him. But this time, something told me no.
“Good-bye,” I whispered in his ear, letting my cheek brush his a final time. I reached for his hand and placed the flowers in his palm before running toward the plane.
“Anne, wait!” Westry shouted. “Wait, the painting. Did you get it?”
I froze. “What do you mean, did I get it? I thought you were going to get it.”
Westry threw his hands in the air. “I’m sorry, Anne,” he said, looking panic-stricken. “I intended to go back, but there just wasn’t time. I . . .” His unit had already boarded the plane, and I could see his commanding officer walking toward him. I turned toward the beach and wondered—if I ran fast—could I make it back to the bungalow to retrieve the canvas before the plane departed?
“Please,” I pleaded with Stella, who was standing at the base of the stairway that ascended to the plane’s cabin. “Please tell the pilot I just need fifteen minutes. I left something on base. I promise, I’ll be quick.”
The pilot appeared behind her. “I’m sorry, ma’am, there simply isn’t time,” he said firmly. “You need to board now.”
My legs felt as though they’d been strapped with lead as I climbed the steps. Before the pilot’s assistant pulled the hatch shut, my eyes met Westry’s. I couldn’t hear him over the airplane’s engine, which was roaring like a monster, but I could read his lips.
“I’m so sorry,” he said. “I’ll come back. Please don’t you worry, Anne. I—”
The door slammed shut before I could interpret his last words. What did it matter, I reasoned, blotting my tears with a handkerchief. It was over. The magic we’d found in the bungalow was gone, and I could feel its spell lifting as the plane gained speed and altitude. I watched as the island grew smaller, until it appeared a mere dot on a map. A dot where so much had happened, and so much had been left behind.
Stella leaned over to me. “Will you miss it?”
I nodded. “Yes,” I said honestly.
“Do you think you’ll ever come back?” she asked cautiously. “Will and I have talked about returning for a visit. When the war’s over, of course.”
I looked out the window again before responding, unable to take my eyes off the speck of emerald floating in the turquoise sea. “No,” I assured her. “I don’t think I ever will.”
I squeezed the locket resting on my chest, grateful for the scrap of wood from the bungalow nestled safe inside. With it, I could always return—in my heart, at least.
Chapter 13
“We missed you, kid,” Papa said as I climbed into the car, grateful not to see Maxine in the backseat. Even with months to process their affair, the revelation that had destroyed the family unit I belonged to, I still couldn’t make sense of it.
I sighed, leaning back into the soft leather of the Buick as Papa started the engine and began to back away. Here there would be no jeeps, no gravel roads or potholes.
“It’s good to be home,” I said, taking in a deep breath of the temperate Seattle air. The return trip had been a harrowing one, with multiple flights and a four-day sea passage. It gave me time to think, to get a grip on the loose ends that plagued my mind, and yet when I stepped out of the airplane onto the airstrip in Seattle, my body trembled with uncertainty.
“Gerard’s home,” Papa said a little cautiously, as if to test the waters.
I looked at my hands in my lap, hands that had loved Westry, still loved Westry. Hands of betrayal.
“Does he want to see me?” I asked.
“Of course he does, sweetheart,” Papa said. “Perhaps the real question is do you want to see him?”
He could read my heart. He always could. “I don’t know, Papa,” I muttered, beginning to weep. “I don’t know what I want anymore.”
“Come here, honey,” he said. I inched closer to him in the front seat, and he draped a firm arm around me, one that told me that despite everything, I would be fine. I only wished I could believe it.
Windermere looked untouched by time, by war. As we passed the familiar estates, however, I knew that appearances were deceiving. The Larson home, for instance, still had its beautiful lawn and exquisite garden with the elaborate urns and the cherub fountain in the center of the circle drive, and yet I knew that heartache clung to every wall, every surface. The twins weren’t coming home. Terry had died in a fight near Marseilles; Larry in a plane crash two days later—on the way home to comfort his mother.
The Godfrey mansion also kept up appearances, even though I knew there was a bigger story lingering behind the gates. As we drove past, I held my breath, remembering the night of the engagement party, Kitty’s face, and how we’d sat on the curb outside making plans for the future. If we’d known the way things would turn out, would we have gone anyway?
The memories pierced, and I looked away quickly.
“He came home Friday,” Papa said. “Got sent home a bit early on medical leave.”
I stiffened. “Medical leave?”
“Yes,” he said. “He took a bullet to the arm and shoulder. He may never regain functionality in his left arm, but in the scheme of war wounds, that’s no tragedy.”
Waves of emotion rolled through my body. Papa was right. Boys were getting maimed, dying. Gerard’s injury hardly compared, but for some reason the news made me grieve in a way I hadn’t expected.
“Don’t cry, dear,” Papa said, stroking my hair. “He’s going to be fine.”
“I know,” I cried. “I know he is. It’s just that—”
“It’s hard to take,” he said. “I know.”
“This war,” I cried, “it’s changed everything, all of us.”
“It’s true,” Papa said solemnly, pulling the car into the familiar driveway. Everything was the same, of course, just as I’d left it. But it wasn’t; I knew that. And I could never get it back to the way it had been.
I heard a muffled knock on my bedroom door. Where am I? I sat up and tr
ied to get my bearings. The old lace curtains. The big trundle bed. Yes, I was home. But what time is it? What day is it? The darkness outside the window told me it was late. How late? How long have I been asleep? The rain pelted the roof overhead, and I closed my eyes, remembering the rainstorms in the tropics, particularly the way Westry and I had showered together in that downpour on the beach. I could still feel his embrace, smell his soapy skin. I blinked hard. Was it only a dream?
I pulled the blanket tighter around my body and ignored the knock that sounded again at the door, this one a bit louder. I couldn’t face Maxine. Not yet. Go away. Please go away. Leave me to my memories.
Moments later, a slip of paper slid under the door along the wood floor. I stared at it for a while, trying to ignore its presence, but it seemed to pulse, to flash like a bright light I could not block from my view. So I sat up, forced my feet to the floor, and retrieved it.
I held the square of beige stationery in my hands and took a deep breath as I took in the familiar handwriting.
My dear Antoinette,
I know you are hurting. So am I. Please let me comfort you.
Maxine
I wrapped my fingers around the cold doorknob and turned it slowly, opening the door far enough to see Maxine standing in the hallway outside, her hair pulled back in the usual fashion. An apron, pressed neatly, encircled her slim waist. She held a tray of sandwiches. A single pink rose rested inside a glass bud vase, and puffs of steam seeped from an ivory mug. I could smell the Earl Grey.
I released my grasp on the doorknob. “Oh, Maxine!” I cried.
She set the tray down on my bedside table and took me into her arms. The tears erupted with volcanic power, first in little spurts, then in great big heaves, pouring out of my heart, my soul, with such ferocity, I wondered if they’d ever stop.
“Let it all out,” she whispered. “Don’t hold back.”
When the tears had subsided, Maxine handed me a handkerchief and the cup of tea, and I leaned against the headboard, tucking my knees to my chest under my pink cotton nightgown.
