“I’m so sorry.”
“She loved you,” he says. “Used to show me all those letters you sent her. She was so proud of you.”
I can’t speak through the knot of unshed tears clogging my throat.
“There’s some money,” he says. “A life insurance policy. Five thousand dollars. You’re the beneficiary on the policy.”
My jaw drops. It is an unimaginable sum.
“She paid it faithfully every week. Knew she wanted it to go to you. She was proud of you, but she also worried about you. She didn’t like Tom, and with your parents gone, you wouldn’t have anyone if something happened to her. She wanted you to have options.”
“I can’t—”
“She told me what you were running from the night you came to see her, the night before she died. That you wanted a fresh start for yourself and the baby.
“That inn was her life. No one would blame you if you wanted to take the insurance money and go, least of all your aunt. But if you don’t, if you wish to stay and rebuild, I’m happy to do whatever I can to help out. She owned the land the inn was on, and it’ll be yours, too. People around these parts loved her. That inn she built meant something, gave people jobs, gave them a chance. It would be a shame to see her legacy wiped out by the storm.”
Tears spill down my cheeks. It’s hard to envision a world without Alice in it, the letters we sent back and forth a constant in my life. If I am to be comforted by anything, it is the knowledge that she is surely with her beloved husband now, that she is in a better place. And still—it seems wrong that she is not here.
“I’m staying up at my sister’s in Miami while we wait for them to let us go home,” Matthew adds. “I’ll leave you the address in case you need anything.”
“Aunt Alice—are there plans for a funeral? I’d like to be there when she’s laid to rest.”
“She lived her whole life in Islamorada. She shouldn’t be buried anywhere else.” He swallows. “Her husband was buried on the edge of the property. She’d like to be buried with him.”
* * *
—
When I lost my parents, I felt a profound sense of sadness, but it was still early enough in my marriage that having Tom beside me was a balm. I don’t remember him being particularly kind, but I remember taking comfort in the notion that I belonged to someone. I was no longer a daughter, but I was a wife, and in that, I wasn’t alone.
But now Alice is gone, and I have no living family save my daughter. I have left my husband. I belong to no one.
Is this how Alice felt after her husband died? Her letters to me were filled with stories of the life she’d built in Islamorada, and I always admired that she’d forged her own path rather than following in the expectations others had for her.
Sometimes I can’t understand the way this world works, why good people like Alice are taken while others are saved in spite of their wicked ways.
All of the emotions of the past few days flood me, and once I start crying, I can’t seem to stop, as though a valve has been turned on inside of me.
“What happened?”
I glance up as John crosses the threshold into my hospital room, concern on his face.
“Your aunt?”
I nod.
He sits beside me on the bed, wrapping his arms around me, and holds me while I cry, my tears wetting his shirtfront.
I pull back and meet his gaze, struggling to get my breathing under control.
“The man who worked at the front desk at the inn came to tell me what happened,” I say. “There were only two survivors. Everyone else perished. They want to bury her there.”
He holds me tightly while I cry some more, the sobs racking my body, until I fall asleep.
When I wake in the middle of the night after another nightmare, the tears wrung from my body, John is asleep beside me in the hospital bed, half his body hanging off the edge, his feet dangling over.
In the darkness, while he sleeps, I allow myself to watch him. He spoke of how the loud noises unsettled him after the war, but I wonder if he’s plagued with nightmares as I am, if the horrors of the war haunt him in sleep.
I lay my head against his shoulder, listening to the sound of his breathing, and when I fall back asleep the nightmares are gone.
* * *
—
When they print the names of the missing and the dead in the newspaper the next day, there is one notable addition to the list of the missing:
Thomas Berner
Thirty-Two
Elizabeth
I wake in the dark with a jolt, the sight of Sam sleeping in a chair near my hospital bed, the soft sound of his rhythmic snores, doing little to calm my racing heart.
In the dark, in sleep, I’m back in the train car, in a coffin filled with water. I relive those final moments, the hope that was snatched so swiftly away from us. It’s the ones who suffered through all of it, who died slowly, that haunt me most. For me, it was an instantaneous sense of darkness that overtook me, but what about the others? Those who came so close, who saw escape within their grasp, only to have it snatched away from them as they descended into despair, as they likely realized their death was unavoidable, as they watched their loved ones pass away in front of them.
Why do some suffer, and why are others spared?
The stories trickling out of the Keys are truly horrific. Bodies are showing up far from the storm’s path, blown miles and miles away, some dead from their injuries, others too weak to be expected to survive. It seems that it’s not enough to have lived through the storm itself; others have survived the immediate aftermath only to languish and ultimately succumb to their injuries.
I’m not sure I’ll ever sleep through the night again.
I have no news of my brother.
Now that the government offices are open, Sam was able to confirm that my brother was indeed working at the camps—the one by the ferry landing that we never made it to.
What happened after that is anyone’s guess. So many are missing, unaccounted for.
Dead.
My physical injuries are mending, the bump on my head lessening, the pain subsiding, the mottled bruising transforming to an ugly color the nurses assure me is a sign I am “healing.” I wish I could say the same about the rest of me, wish it was easy to put the awful things out of my mind.
I take Sam’s hand, his arm resting near my blanket-covered leg in the hospital bed. I roll onto my side, lacing our fingers together.
The flowers are gone, removed by one of the nurses when I asked her if she could get rid of them. If only I could erase the memory of Frank’s words with such ease.
There’s so much Sam and I have yet to speak of, his lies I have not begun to fully unravel, but right now it doesn’t matter. The things I worried over before pale in comparison to the losses so many have suffered, and at the moment, all I care about is that I am alive and I am safe.
I close my eyes and drift back to sleep, Sam’s hand in mine.
* * *
—
By Friday, the doctors are ready to release me, and Sam helps me secure a room in Miami at a hotel where he’s been staying when he’s not by my side at the hospital. I wait in the hospital sitting area while Sam goes to make a phone call for work.
A woman sits down next to me, a baby curled in her arms.
“She’s beautiful,” I say.
She beams. “Thank you. Her name is Lucy.”
“That’s a lovely name.”
Something about the woman—
“We met before, didn’t we?” I ask, recognition dawning. “When you were still pregnant. In Key West at Ruby’s Café. You’re Helen. You gave me the pie.”
Her eyes widen. “We did. Elizabeth, right? You were searching for your boyfriend. Did you locate him?”
“Not my boyfriend.
My brother, actually. And no, I haven’t. We found out he was working at one of the camps, but no one knows what happened to him. So many of the men are missing.”
“You were caught in the storm?” Helen asks.
“Yes. We tried to take the evacuation train in Islamorada. The storm surge swept it off the tracks.”
Helen’s eyes widen. “That must have been terrifying.”
“It was. I hit my head, and they kept me here for observation. I’m finally leaving today, though. I’ve had enough of hospitals to last a lifetime.” And then I remember why she recommended the Sunrise Inn, and what Sam told me about the rest of the people who stayed behind. “I heard about your aunt. I’m sorry for your loss.”
Her eyes well with tears. “Thank you.”
“I didn’t spend much time with her while I was at the inn, but from what I saw, she seemed like a wonderful woman. It was a welcoming place.”
“She was.”
“Were you caught in the storm? Is that how you ended up here?” I ask.
“Yes. I left Key West right before the storm hit. Bad timing, I suppose.”
I gesture toward the babe in her arms. “Was she born before the storm?”
“During.”
My jaw drops. After everything we experienced, I can’t fathom giving birth in such conditions. “How did you survive?”
“I’m not entirely sure,” Helen answers. “We were fortunate.” She smiles. “And we had a guardian angel of sorts who helped us.”
“What will you do now?” Helen asks me.
“I haven’t decided. I’d like to know what happened to my brother. I came down here hoping he could help me, but now I want to know he’s all right.”
“I have a friend who was at one of the camps,” Helen replies. “He might know your brother or be able to help point you in the right direction. I’m happy to ask him.” Her expression changes, a smile lighting up her face, as she glances past me to someone over my shoulder. “Here he is now.”
I turn in time to see a big man walk toward us, his clothes worn, his eyes on Helen and her child.
I grip the arm of the chair.
“The nurses told me you were getting some fresh air,” he says to her. “How do you feel?”
It’s his voice I recognize first, the sound of it unchanged despite time, distance, and the war between us. He sounds like our father.
“John.”
He turns away from Helen and faces me. He blinks. “You look like someone—” His face goes slack with shock. “Elizabeth?”
I burst into tears.
* * *
—
A few days ago, I might have hugged him. Now I understand a little more what he’s been through, now I am more cautious, ready to give him space.
Helen excuses herself, returning to her hospital room with the baby so that John and I can catch up.
“You’re alive,” I say. “I feared you were dead.”
“What are you doing here? Why aren’t you in New York?” he asks.
I take a deep breath, steadying myself. “I came down here searching for you. But I didn’t know where you were, so I ended up in Key West, since your last letter was postmarked there, and I went to this café—Ruby’s—and a waitress—your friend Helen—told me the veterans lived up north. So I traveled to Islamorada. And then the storm came. We tried to get out, but it was too late. We were on the rescue train when the hurricane hit.”
Horror fills his eyes. “Thank God you’re alive,” John says, stepping forward and wrapping his arms around me. “I can’t believe you’re here.” He pulls back, his gaze running over me. “It’s been so long since I saw you. You were just a girl, then.”
“Not anymore.”
“No. Not anymore.” He frowns. “Did you come down here by yourself? From New York?”
“On Mr. Flagler’s railroad.”
“I should be surprised, but somehow I’m not. You always were the bravest one of all of us.”
“I don’t know about brave. Desperate, more like. And it’s not like there’s anyone else. You left us without a way to get in touch with you.”
Something that seems a lot like shame flashes across his face. “I didn’t think you’d need me. You’re right, I should have kept in touch.”
“Why didn’t you?”
His expression is pained. “I don’t know. I wish I could give you a better explanation, wish I could explain it to myself. I felt like I was drowning in New York, like it was choking me, and I needed to get away, needed to get lost somewhere where people didn’t know me from before, didn’t expect me to be the same person they knew before I went away to war. I told myself you were all better without me.”
“We weren’t. We aren’t. Things are bad. My mother isn’t well. With George and our father gone, the money went, too.”
A curse falls from John’s lips. “I’m sorry, Elizabeth. I had no idea about the money. Not the full extent of it, at least. I figured their finances took a hit after the crash, but I didn’t think they’d lose all that money.”
“But you knew they were gone. You knew we were alone.”
“I thought they would have made sure you were taken care of.”
“They didn’t. We weren’t.” I laugh bitterly. “Business was bad. Father tried to save it as best he could, but in doing so he borrowed a lot of money from the kind of people you don’t want to owe money to.”
“Who?” John asks.
“No one you would know. Trust me, no one you would want to know.”
“Is this man threatening you? Trying to collect on the money?”
“In a manner of speaking. There was no way we could repay the debt, so he agreed to renegotiate for something other than money. We’re to be married.”
“You’re joking.”
“I’m not.” I pull the gaudy diamond from my purse.
He winces. “That’s some ring.” He sighs. “You shouldn’t have to marry someone you don’t love. How could our father be so reckless?”
“He was probably just desperate. It’s expensive to live the way we do—the way we did. He likely didn’t want to disappoint us.”
“And in doing so, he all but sold you to a gangster.”
“I thought it would help—kill two birds, so to speak—clear the debt and ensure we had enough money to survive.” I shudder. “I can’t marry him, though.”
“No, you can’t. What will you do?”
“I don’t know.”
As hard as I try, I can’t figure a way out of this mess.
“Do you think of them?” I ask. “Father and George?”
“Sometimes.”
“Me too.” I take a deep breath. “There was this moment before the wave hit the train when I knew I was going to die. And it hit me then that I didn’t want to. Do you think it was like that for them before they killed themselves?”
“I don’t know. God, I hope not.”
“I was angry with them for a long time. Angry they left everyone here to clean up their mess. I was angry with you for a long time,” I admit. “Upset with you for leaving, for not being stronger, I guess.” Shame fills me. “I didn’t know what it must have been like for you.”
“No one does. Not until you live it.”
“I have nightmares,” I whisper. “The screams. The crying. The bodies. The dark. It was so cold, and I felt my body being pulled away—”
“The nightmares will stay with you. I wish I could tell you they won’t, but they’ll become a part of you.”
I take a deep breath, asking the question I came down here to ask him, even if I already know the answer, even if I’ve already worked out for myself somewhere along the way that John isn’t the solution I’m looking for.
“Will you ever come home?” I ask.
I understand now—
the boy who went off to war has been replaced by the man before me. A man I no longer recognize, but one I’d like to get to know just the same.
“I don’t know,” John replies.
* * *
—
We spend the rest of the day together, and I introduce him to Sam. After we’ve spent hours talking in the hospital waiting room, it’s time to go, and I give John the name and address of the hotel where Sam secured us two rooms.
“Are you sure you don’t want to stay with me?” he asks me.
“That’s kind of you, but I’ll be fine. I want to get out of this hospital and sleep in a normal bed, wear regular clothes, feel like myself again.”
“I have some money,” he offers. “It’s not much, but I saved most of what I made working.”
I lift the diamond engagement ring Frank gave me out of my pocket. “Don’t worry. If I get into trouble, this will help.”
I was too afraid to pawn it before, but it could be the start to a whole new life.
“That guy—” John jerks his head toward the front door, where Sam left to get his car. “He seems like a good one.”
“I hope he is. I’m not sure I’m much of a judge of character anymore, but when you’ve been through something like this—”
“You see people at their best and worst, and from there you can take the measure of a man,” John finishes for me.
I nod. “What about you?” I ask.
“What about me?”
“The woman here in the hospital. Helen. With the baby. Is that my niece?”
“No.”
Surprise fills me. “And the father?”
He doesn’t answer me.
“What are you going to do?” I ask.
“What do you mean?”
“With the woman? The child? You care for them.”
The Last Train to Key West Page 23
