Hidden Scars (20 page)

The tears wouldn’t stop. The road remained a constant blur as I drove home. Back at the efficiency, I locked the only door and pulled the curtains on both windows. A desperate loneliness gripped me.

God, I can’t do this!
Why wouldn’t He talk to me? I reached for my Bible, flopped it open, and began reading.

God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble. Therefore will not we fear, though the earth be removed, and though the mountains be carried into the midst of the sea.

I stopped and reread the first two verses of Psalm 46.

God, my world has been turned upside down. I don’t have any strength left. Help me!

Three days after Chuck left, I drove home from work and found a box on the front steps. My heart fluttered when I recognized his handwriting. What could he be sending? A schoolgirl giggle burst into full laughter as I scurried into the house and tore open the package. I closed my eyes and reached into the box, savoring the moment. My fingers touched fabric. I pictured a dress. Soft cotton, maybe pink, my favorite color. Instead, my mouth slid open as I removed the contents. The pants, shirt, socks, shoes, even the underwear Chuck had worn the last time I saw him, now lay scattered across the bed. He’d been stripped of all reminders of home as if the Army wanted to make a powerful statement. He belonged to them now.

I wrapped my arms around the precious items and hugged them tightly. The faint, familiar aroma of his aftershave intensified my loneliness.

A knock at the door jolted me from my feeble attempts of imagining his arms holding me. I buried my face against his clothing and wiped the tears away, then trudged to the door and opened it.

Chuck’s two little sisters thrust handfuls of daffodils at me before turning and running away. At a safe distance, the oldest one stopped and faced me. “Chuck said we should help him look after you while he was away, so you wouldn’t be lonely.” Then she spun, pigtails flapping, and continued her dash home.

I choked on the words
thank you
. Sobs racked my body. Even in his absence, Chuck was trying to take care of me.

Work should have helped fill a portion of the void in my life, but didn’t. Men came in, ordered parts, and lollygagged around the counter. Sooner or later, someone always brought up Vietnam. Everyone had an opinion, and sometimes their discussions grew heated and foul.

Today a loud voice rang out, “Did y’all see that mess on the news last night about how many of our men have already died in the war over there in Vietnam?”

An angry voice responded, “I wonder how many more are going to have to lose their lives before President Nixon sees the light?”

“Give the man a chance, Harvey. He’s only been in office a few months.”

“Try to keep it down, guys. Morgan’s in the office,” came the owner, Mr. Latham’s, voice.

A floorboard creaked. For a moment, no one spoke. Then a deep unknown voice asked, “You think she heard us?”

How could I not? My workspace consisted of four walls without a ceiling. Only the metal rafters and a tin roof kept out the rain. But nothing locked out the dust, which coated everything like dirty snow after a blizzard. Or the rotten-egg odor of a battery being charged or smells of rubber hoses, gasoline, and Gojo—a hand cleaner, every mechanic’s cologne.

Every afternoon but Sunday, I put in my four hours and returned to an empty house. The nights seemed never-ending, the mornings maddening. I had too much time on my hands. Last night, an idea popped into my head that I was anxious to share with Gram.

First, I stopped by the efficiency, changed clothes, and reread the letter that came in the morning mail.

Dear Morgan,

I miss you more every day. Most nights, I’m too tired to dream, or I never remember them. But last night, you and I were at home in Waitsville, putting up our first Christmas tree. Do you recall how excited you were when we finished decorating the pitiful thing and I plugged in the lights? You stood there laughing like a little girl while the different colors and happiness sparkled in your eyes. That’s the vision I had. The dream was so real. When I woke, I could still feel the warmth of your body as I held you against me. I can hardly wait for the day when dreams become reality again.

Your last letter questioned if I’d heard from Kyle. I haven’t. I hope you have by now. I know you’re keeping both of us in your prayers.

I’ve got to go, babe. It’s almost time for chow, as they call it. The food could be most anything, and I’d never know it. The Army’s teaching us all how to eat without taking the time to taste or chew.

Keep those letters coming. They’re the best part of my day.

Forever,

Chuck

The soft tick of the clock penetrated my consciousness. I glanced toward it—five thirty. I slid the letter in its envelope and sprang from the vinyl recliner. I’d have to hurry if Gram and I were to have any time before my parents came home. I jumped in the car and drove much too fast. When I pulled under the carport, Gram stood with the glass storm-door open, peering at me.

“You better slow that car down, young’un. I didn’t figure you’d get it stopped before you hit the barn out back.”

I snuffed the desire to laugh and stepped into the family room. “Sorry, Gram, but I wanted to make sure we had time to visit.”

Her gaze dropped to her gnarled hands. “I wish you’d come see me more often.”

I cupped those hands in mine. “Well, I’ve been thinking about that, and I’ve got an idea. You know I don’t know anything about quilting, but you do. How do you feel about making a baby quilt for Marsha? We could work on it almost every day if you felt like it.”

She removed her arthritic hands from mine and held them up. “That was before these fingers got so twisted.”

“I can do the work if you’ll teach me.” I sat on the couch, patted the empty space beside me, and grabbed pen and paper out of my purse. “Come on, Gram. What do you say? Tell me what all we’ll need.”

The lines around her eyes multiplied as she smiled. I listed everything she suggested and slipped the paper and pen inside my purse. Then I noticed a half empty glass of milk on the coffee table and a tube of broken saltine crackers still sealed.

“Was that your snack today?” I pointed at the mauled package.

“My lunch. But the factories make everything so difficult for people to open these days.”

“Gram, have you had anything all day other than milk?”

“I had a bowl of cereal for breakfast. Dot…your mom, opened the box and the carton of milk before she left this morning.”

I looked at Gram. Really looked at her. Her spindly legs. The housedress hanging from bony shoulders. Marsha was right. I’d never seen Gram so skinny—why hadn’t I noticed sooner?

“You didn’t have any lunch?”

She examined the stain on her housedress. “Sometimes I’m not hungry.”

“You’ve got to be starving.” I headed toward the kitchen. “I’ll fix you something.”

She shuffled her feet trying to keep up with me. “That’s okay. Dot’ll be home before long.”

I opened the refrigerator and moved bottles of mustard, pickles, and mayonnaise. Other than the condiments, only an opened can of cat food, a sack of flour, a pitcher of tea, and a dried-up lemon cluttered the shelves.

“What do y’all normally eat for supper?”

“They eat steak a lot. Dot says it’s quick and easy. Sometimes she’ll bake potatoes. I like them, but I can hardly chew meat anymore. We’ll have sandwiches or soup some nights. I guess whatever they decide before leaving town.”

I got down on my knees and stuck my head in the corner cabinet where Mom kept canned goods. I nabbed one labeled potato soup and backed my way out. “I’ll warm this up for you.”

“No, that’s okay.” Her voice wavered. “Dot might get mad if we mess up her kitchen.”

A jolt of panic, like a lightning bolt, struck me. Gram was
afraid
of her own daughter.

“I need to make sure you eat something. I’ll clean up everything before I leave. It won’t take but a few minutes.”

Gram sat at the table while I poured her a fresh glass of milk.

“I remember when Wayne and Marsha and I were young, sometimes Mom would come home in a really bad mood. She’d throw dishes and scream and holler. We never knew why she was so mad.” I glanced at Gram as I talked, searching for clues, waiting for a response.

Gram kept her head down. “Dot puts in a lot of hours at work. I expect she’s tired.”

I placed the warmed soup in front of her with a few crackers. She spooned in the meager supper in a slow but steady rhythm, saying very little while she ate. Once she finished, I cleaned up all the evidence, including what remained on the coffee table.

“I hate to run, Gram, but I’ve got to go. I’ll be back tomorrow.” I yanked up my purse and raced to the car. I gripped the steering wheel, backed out of the driveway, and headed home to call Marsha.

She answered on the third ring.

“I’m so mad, I could spit fire.” The words spewed from my mouth without the courtesy of announcing who was calling.

“Morgan, what is it?”

“You were right. Something’s wrong with Gram. She’s starving to death.”

“What are you talking about?”

I explained everything: the crying I saw days earlier, the lack of food in the house, the unopened crackers, the conversation. I tugged on the phone cord. “I don’t understand.”

“Sure you do. You just don’t want to admit it.”

“But she’s her mother, Marsha!”

“And we were her children.”

Pain gripped my stomach. “You don’t think she’d ever hit her, do you?”

“I don’t know why she wouldn’t. Let me ask you, do you think our parents have changed?”

Reality smacked me like an open hand.

“Answer the question, Morgan. Do you think our parents have the capability of mistreating a defenseless old woman?”

My hands began to tremble like they hadn’t done in months. “What are we going to do?”

“We need to talk to Gram. I’ll be at your place Friday night.”

Gram was so excited when Marsha and I walked in Saturday morning lugging sacks of groceries and the day’s lunch. Marsha had purchased things for Gram to keep in her room. Cookies, Hershey bars, peppermint sticks, bananas—the kinds of snacks she’d always had around when we visited her. We ate our meal and stashed the items before sitting down for a serious conversation.

Marsha didn’t mince words. “Morgan and I know Mom, and more than likely Dad, are mistreating you. We don’t think you need to stay here.”

Gram denied it, even after we told how we’d been abused. “Dot’s helping me manage my money.” Her hands trembled. She wouldn’t make eye contact. “I don’t know what I’d do without her help and a place to live. It’s impossible for me to keep the old home place open.”

After coaxing her to confide in us, we learned Mom had full control of Gram’s finances, and she intended to inherit Gram’s house even though there wasn’t a will.

“Dot says before her daddy died, he told her she could have the house.” Her voice cracked.

Marsha and I swapped glances and backed off. We talked about the baby and teased about some of the names Bob picked out if he “got his son.” Clarence, after his father. Arnold, after one of his grandfathers.

A tear trickled down Gram’s face when Marsha announced their choice if they had a girl. “We’re naming her after you, Rachael Lee.”

With Gram’s denial of mistreatment, we couldn’t do more than make sure she had food, quality time with people who loved her, and watch for the signs.

Once Marsha and I said good-bye to Gram and got back in the car, I asked, “Why won’t she tell us?”

“Why didn’t you ever tell?”

“I was afraid.”

“That’s right, and so is she.”

After Chuck finished basic training, the Army sent him to Fort Benning, Georgia for communication training. He’d be taught how to repair radios in the field. I didn’t want to think about what that meant. Instead, I concentrated on the dark wet roads as I traveled between Greer and Meridian, Mississippi. He’d gotten a forty-eight-hour pass and hitched a ride from an Army buddy who lived there.

I slammed on the brakes. My purse and all its contents toppled to the floorboard as the car slid sideways across wet pavement. It took everything in me to stop fighting the steering wheel and simply lift my foot from the pedal. After ten hours of driving—five of them in heavy rain, wind, and darkness—I’d almost missed the turn. It was after one in the morning, forty minutes past the expected arrival time Chuck had predicted. After two more blocks…There! Finally, I spotted the Howard Johnson.

Chuck stood at the entrance pacing under the canopy. When I sighted him, a rush of excitement erased my body’s exhaustion.

As I parked beside him, he hurried to the driver’s door and opened it. “I’ve been worried about you.” He reached for my hand, practically drug me out of the car, and wrapped his arms around me. “I’ve missed you.”

The breath from his words brushed against my ear, sending a tingling sensation through my body. We clung to each other until thunder shook the air around us.

“Here.” He reached in his pocket and handed me a large key. “We’re at the end of the hall. Room 142. I’ll move the car and bring in your suitcase.”

Moments later, Chuck stepped into the room. His drenched uniform lay limp against him. Water dripped from the bill of his cap, adding to the saturated carpet now surrounding him.

“You’re soaked! You better get out of those clothes.”

He winked as the corners of his mouth turned upward. “Why, Mrs. Mathews, are you trying to seduce me?” Not waiting for an answer, he dropped my luggage and started toward me with his arms open wide. “But first—”

“Don’t you dare.” I giggled and stepped backward.

We both laughed. Then he grabbed my wrist and pulled me against his drenched body. My free hand pressed against him, playfully protesting, until I connected with the tight muscles in his chest. The change took my breath away.

“Stop it,” I squealed, wiggling, trying to break his hold. “You’re getting me all wet.”