Hidden Scars (23 page)

Much too soon, the week closed in on us. I stayed on the verge of tears as we drove to Memphis. The dam broke that night in a hotel room next to the airport, when Chuck took me in his arms and whispered, “I’ll miss you.”

“How am I going to make it without you? You’re everything to me.” I sobbed.

“Don’t say that. I’m only a man. A man who loves you more than anyone on this earth ever could, but still a man. God always comes first. Remember that. Don’t take your eyes off Him. Ever. He’ll get you through the tough times. He’ll hold you when I’m not here to hold you, and He’ll never let you go. No matter how lonely or afraid you might get, He’s your comfort and strength. Tomorrow, I’m leaving you in His hands, and you’ll have to give me up to Him, also. And if it’s God’s will—I pray it is—I’m coming back. I’ve got too much to live for.”

The next morning, we promised each other there’d be no tears when we said our good-byes. A promise I didn’t know if I could keep.

As we sat talking and holding hands at the departure gate, I studied Chuck’s features, trying to etch each one permanently in my mind: his strong, square chin; the small, faded scar above his left brow; baby blue eyes and ruddy complexion; his callused hands, unafraid of hard work, yet gentle and loving—

“We’re now boarding Flight 226 for Denver and Seattle at Gate 13,” a woman’s voice blasted over the intercom.

My lungs stopped working, I couldn’t breathe. I grabbed Chuck’s neck and held on. His tears wet the edge of my face; mine absorbed into his uniform.

Only after the last call, did he loosen my grip and cradle my face in his hands. “Look at me, Morgan. In order for us to get our life back, this day had to come. The sooner I get on that airplane, the sooner I’ll be back. Read all the books we purchased. I’m counting on you to let me know everything you find out about those states we’ve talked about. We’ve got a lot of planning to do in a year. I love you. I’ve got to go.”

He kissed me one last time and headed toward the corridor doorway. Before disappearing from sight, he turned and mouthed, “I love you.”

As the agent closed the door behind him, pain gripped my body as though a part of me had been surgically removed. I sat in a daze then walked to the large glass window as the plane taxied toward the runway. Engine vapors and fumes reminded me of a dream, something unreal. But when Chuck’s airplane barreled down the runway and left the ground, reality could not be denied.

He was gone.

In the past, Chuck and I’d made several excursions to Memphis, but he always drove. Once I left the airport parking lot, nothing looked familiar. Which way?

The road signs blurred as silent tears slid down my face, and morning commuters, all fighting for their spot, forced me to go faster than I felt comfortable with. I tightened my grip on the steering wheel and eyed the sign ahead—Interstate 40. After merging with the fast-paced traffic onto the freeway, I took a deep breath and tried to relax. That’s when I spotted a huge, metal bridge. I’d gone too far and missed the turn to Interstate 55.

The traffic never really thinned, in fact, the eighteen-wheelers seemed to multiply, their intimidating size sweeping me along to uncomfortable and unaccustomed speeds. Not until I reached the outskirts of West Memphis was I able to pull off the road and stop, climb onto my knees, and retrieve the atlas Chuck had thrown on the backseat “just in case”. Forrest City waited forty miles ahead, a halfway spot between Greer and Little Rock, the town where Marsha and Bob lived. I closed my eyes and massaged both temples. The thought of returning to the empty efficiency brought more tears, and my lack of experience driving in yet another big city invoked fear. I’d become so dependent on Chuck, but he wouldn’t be around for a year. I put the car in gear and headed farther into Razorback country.

For the next hour, I drove mile after mile along fields with barren cotton stalks, all picked clean of their white fibers. Now ugly and drab, much like the farms at home when only weeks earlier they appeared like blankets of snow that refused to melt under the hot autumn sun. How quickly things changed. Today, uncertainty, separation, and somber times replaced the beauty, joy, and peace Chuck and I shared before the draft. What would tomorrow bring? Given the chance, would I want to know?

I pressed harder on the gas pedal, eager—no desperate—to spend time with Marsha and burying my pain if possible by wrapping myself in the excitement of the unborn life she carried.

Ten days after Chuck left, I received my first letter postmarked Vietnam. I tore open the envelope and drank in every word.

Oct. 21
^st

Dear Morgan,

Remind me never to complain about the rain that we get back home. I’ve been here two days, but it has rained nonstop. There’s nothing but water and mud. It’s hot and humid, much like early summer in Mississippi.

The men who’ve been here awhile are anxious to hear any news from back home. But morale is low with talk of all the war protesting and how our troops are being treated when they return.

I don’t know where in Vietnam I’ll be stationed yet, so don’t try to write me at the return address. As soon as they assign me, I’ll let you know. I miss you so much, babe, and can’t wait to hear from you.

By the way, add Colorado to our list. Our plane landed in Denver only briefly, but the Rockies were beautiful from the air. Some of the mountains already had snow.

Tell all the folks hi. Give Amy and Beth a big hug for me. Know that I’m thinking of you and praying for us constantly. I’ll write soon. I love you, Morgan.

Forever,

Chuck

I rested my head against the back of the couch and fought to control my tumultuous emotions. Still, one tear slid free. I wiped it away, picked up a pen and stationary, and began to write:

Dear Chuck,

I was so excited to get your letter today. I’ve been going crazy wondering where you are and how you’re doing. Amy and Beth ask about you constantly. By the way, your talk must have helped; your mom’s allowing them to spend the night with me this Friday. I’m looking forward to it. They are full of energy and great company.

Good news. Marsha had her baby. Bob called this morning. A girl, eight pounds, four ounces, and seventeen inches long. Gram has her namesake, Rachael Lee. They’re planning to come home for Thanksgiving. Of course, Gram and I are thrilled. She can hardly wait to hold her first great-grandchild.

I talked with the librarian Friday and told her about our plans. She’s going to research her files to see if she can find more books to help us. I’ll add Colorado to our list. It’s such an adventure to read about other places and wonder where we’ll call home someday.

Got to go. Can’t be late for work. I’ll add this letter to the others I’ve written and send them once you give me the word, or I should say address. I sure miss you. I know you’ll write when you can. Please be careful. I’m praying for you, also.

Love always,

Morgan

The next morning, I drove over to get Gram. She needed ribbon and buttons to complete the soft, white crocheted cap and sweater she’d been working on for baby Rachael.

At eight forty, there wasn’t a cloud in the sky, and the temperature had already reached sixty-eight degrees. The bare deciduous trees made it easy to spot two red squirrels scurrying across the limbs in a game of chase. Many of the neighbors had decorated their porches with harvest scenes of pumpkins, bundles of cornstalks, and scarecrows, resting like men of leisure on bales of hay. I smiled, Gram would enjoy seeing the sights.

After parking under the carport, I got out and petted the gray tabby at my feet before stepping inside. Gram wasn’t dressed and waiting in the den, so I headed to her bedroom. She sat on the edge of her bed, still in her pajamas.

I knocked on the doorjamb. “Did you forget about our outing?”

She glanced up. “No, but, darlin’, I don’t feel up to it today.”

I stepped over and placed my hand on her cool forehead. “Are you sick?”

She fluffed her pillow. “I’m fine. I’ve had breakfast, taken my medicine, and after a couple of hours sleep, I’ll feel even better.”

“Didn’t you sleep well last night?”

She chuckled. “When you get to be my age, between all the aches and pains, not to mention making a half dozen trips to the bathroom, sleeping through the night’s a thing of the past.” She slipped her shoes off. “I’m fine. Please don’t worry about me.”

As she pushed herself further back in bed and began to draw up her knees, I leaned down, lifted her legs, and placed them under the covers. Before she turned onto her right side, I noticed a dime-sized, gray-blue area on the outer edge of her cheek. “What’s that on your face?”

“Probably dirt or this morning’s breakfast. I haven’t had a bath. That’s another reason I can’t go this morning. It’d be time for you to go to work before I could possibly get ready.”

“It looks like a bruise. Turn this way so I can take a look.”

“Darlin’, I’m tired. Bruise, dirt—at my age what difference does it make? It could be most anything.” She patted my hand. “Now you run on.”

“But how would you have gotten a bruise on your face without knowing?”

She uncovered her left hand. “The same way I got this, who knows. You bump against something without giving it a thought, and the next thing you know, you’re wearing five shades of color before the week’s out.”

She snuggled under the blanket and closed her eyes as if I hadn’t remained in the room.

“I’ll bring you back something for lunch.”

“I may still be in the bed. Why don’t you fix me a sandwich and leave it in the refrigerator? I’ll eat when I get up. Do you mind closing the curtains? The sun’s shining right in my eyes.”

Clearly, the conversation was over, but not my concerns. Gram was acting so…I couldn’t pick a word to describe her behavior—tired, distant, vague? Something wasn’t right.

Weeks passed into the beginning of the holidays, and I felt each and every hour of them. Yet Chuck had only been gone a little over a month.

November 25, 1970

Dear Chuck,

You amaze me. The dress you bought for my birthday and hid at your grandmother’s was a huge surprise, but now roses for our anniversary? Not only are they beautiful, but the efficiency smells like a wonderful flower garden. Thank you for being so thoughtful.

I hope the chocolate chip cookies made it in time. Know each one was baked and packed with love.

I don’t dare think of how you’ll spend tomorrow. Neither Thanksgiving, nor our anniversary, will be the same without you. Your grandmother’s teaching me how to make fresh cranberry sauce. She says it’s one of your favorites, so I’ll pay close attention. We’ll be saying a special prayer for you and the rest of the men.

Marsha, Bob, and the baby won’t be coming home. Rachael Lee’s been sick. Nothing serious. Gram and I are very disappointed though. We planned on giving Marsha the quilt we’d made. I mailed it yesterday. Hopefully, we’ll see them at Christmas.

Oh, I almost forgot. I’m enclosing the information from the Chamber of Commerce in Cody, Wyoming; Pocatello, Idaho; and Bozeman, Montana. Let me know what you think.

I miss you so much. Happy Anniversary and Thanksgiving, sweetheart. Next year we’ll do something special. Of course, just having you back home will be special enough.

Love always,

Morgan

The Monday before Christmas, and I hadn’t received a letter from Chuck in nine days. He’d warned me there might be times when he wouldn’t be able to write. He’d told me I shouldn’t worry. Easier said than done. I’d mailed his Christmas package three weeks earlier—everything he’d requested: Kool-Aid, homemade fudge and Martha Washington balls, canned peaches, raisins, gum, baby powder, Q-tips, socks, and razors, along with other miscellaneous items. The simplest things we’d taken for granted, now a luxury.

I sat on the floor untangling a string of lights, listening to the radio as Charley Pride’s smooth baritone flooded the little efficiency with “O Holy Night”. The scent of the freshly cut cedar, which Chuck’s father brought over last night, reminded me of last year’s tree that had almost touched the ceiling. The Christmas lights forgotten, I cupped my fingers around the porcelain angel, clothed in white lace, and remembered how Chuck had lifted me so I could place her on top. Suddenly, a new song drew my attention, The Carpenters’ “Merry Christmas Darling”.

Tears pooled and threatened to overflow. I reached for a Kleenex. Beth and Amy would soon be knocking on the door, ready to help with the decorations. I stood and busied myself warming milk for hot chocolate. The iced sugar cookies had already been placed on a small silver colored tray. Under normal circumstances, the excitement of watching them expel all their pent-up energy would be contagious, but I couldn’t squelch the uneasy feelings.

God, I need to know he’s okay. Please watch over him.

By the Monday after New Year’s, I still hadn’t received a letter from Chuck, and every reasonable explanation no longer sounded feasible. I’d burned two pieces of toast and knocked over a glass of orange juice. I wouldn’t be able to function if I didn’t talk to someone, so I pulled on my navy pea coat and headed to see Gram. My stomach rolled with waves of nausea as worries ran rampant. Seeing Mom’s car parked in the driveway didn’t help. Maybe she and Dad rode together.

I got out of the car, took several deep breaths of the cool winter air, and walked to the side door. After getting no response to my knock, I let myself in and started down the hallway toward Gram’s room.

Mom’s voice halted my progress. “I’m sick and tired of all this whining and complaining. You don’t do anything but sit around this house all day and think up another ailment. What did Doctor Banks find wrong three months ago? Nothing! Attention’s all you’re after.”

I eased into the room. Gram sat on the bed with Mom towering over her. Soft sobs escaped through the wrinkled hands covering her face.