Letters From Home (33 page)

A few wrong turns and several stumbles later, Morgan located Gare du Nord station. In a matter of hours the train would arrive to return them from their furlough.

He curled into a fetal ball on a wooden bench and clenched his eyes, desperate to fall asleep. Yet every creak and footstep reverberated in his ears. He tossed and turned, couldn’t get comfortable. Which really made no sense. After months of dozing in the dirt, the bench should have felt like a lofty mattress.

It was useless.

He might as well journey back to the pub, despite a barrage of ridicule that surely awaited from the guys who’d been debriefed, in both senses of the word, by Monique. Not the ideal, but at least it would be better than camping alone in a cavernous station with too many noises and too many hiding places. Another night of trying to force sleep that refused to come.

He was about to sit up when an image stopped him. In his mind, Betty materialized. Her flaxen hair flowing in the breeze, her eyes shining like blue glass in the sun. She smiled her perfect smile, then offered her hand, welcoming him home. He folded his arms over his chest, imagining he was holding her, imagining their reunion, and before he knew it, he faded into tranquil sleep.

37

Mid-September 1945
Evanston, Illinois

“L
adies and gentlemen, it’s official. The Japanese have surrendered. President Harry Truman has announced that the war is over. I repeat, the war is over.” On a beautiful August day, the male broadcaster’s voice on the floor model radio had sung like an angelic choir.

Liz’s father had dashed into the kitchen, swooped Liz up, and spun her around until they’d spent every ounce of their laughter. His personal reasons for jubilee needed no explanation. “Victory Over Japan Day” marked a cease to the killing and maiming of his former students and the safe return of those who had survived.

Finally, a period of healing began for those who had lost so much. Veterans everywhere, no matter the color of their uniform or skin, licked their wounds and headed for home. Prisoners of Japanese internment camps and Jewish concentration camps alike lamented their stolen lives. And broken families around the globe mourned the loss of a generation of young men: boys who became men through valor but whose hair would never gray; soldiers who would never bask in the glory of a victory parade, never smell the warm, milky breath of their newborn babes; sailors who would never turn their sweethearts into brides.

After taking a hiatus from the university, Julia had returned for summer school to catch up on her missed credits. Liz, oddly aware the roles had reversed, became a regular advocate of nonacademic activities: comedic film showings in the city or sundaes at a local diner. Anything to revive her friend’s smile. In some ways, they’d become closer than ever; in others, they’d never been more independent. And while Liz wanted Julia beside her for support this particular evening, it was a task she had to conquer on her own.

Alone in the living room, Liz gazed wistfully out the open window. The natural creaks of her house harmonized with those from her rocking chair. Outside, purple clouds rushed over the sky as if floating down a river. She closed her eyes, inhaled the scent. Electricity and moisture. The smell of an approaching thunderstorm.

Begrudgingly, she lifted her lids and found it was still there. Atop her skirted lap, speckled with dust from the basement, the box waited patiently.

The gift from her mother.

Seven years, and yet it appeared exactly as Liz remembered. Against the backdrop of red wrapping, the Mouse King swung his sword. The Nutcracker stood stoically with his tall hat and narrow beard. In ballet tutu and pointe shoes, the Sugar Plum Fairy elegantly stretched her arms, her face a featureless blur. No expression, no clear identity. The box’s skinny white ribbon, just as before, cut through her figure, dividing her in two.

Liz had spent countless nights back then peering at this very package, hoping to one day see her mother again—unaware Isabelle’s image had been right in front of her the whole time.

And here they were, face-to-face once more.

It had taken months of internal debating for Liz to retrieve the gift. Who knew if it was still stored in the basement, or how long it would take to find the thing, or if a pile of clutter had crushed it beyond recognition or repair.

Of course, the real reason for her delay—as Morgan had seen straight through and told her so—was her fear of letting go. As always, and on more levels than he knew, he was right. Liz hadn’t been ready to forsake her anger or resentment, not since fully grasping the selfishness of her mother’s departure. The woman had left just before Christmas, and after an argument, no less. What else was a daughter to think or feel?

But when those emotions had subsided, a more challenging form of letting go loomed: the relinquishment of hope. A young girl’s hope. The dream that a wrapped present could reverse time, or at least earn her mother’s approval.

Touching the rectangular gift tag now, Liz flashed back to the rumored phone call that had ignited their fight, about a mechanic’s son ruining her reputation, her bright future. And suddenly she realized: In all the years since, her check-off list of acceptable standards had been, in some odd way, linked to the possibility of Isabelle’s return.

Which, Liz finally accepted, wasn’t going to happen. Even if the package stayed sealed forever.

Nudged by the revelation, she stepped through her progression, first by untying the ribbon. Next, she carefully edged away the tape. The ripened adhesive detached with little effort and the paper fell away. No resistance at her touch. As if it had needed but her unspoken permission to unveil the lone brown box now resting on her lap.

At last, so close to its contents, she felt a youthful charge of anxiousness. She removed the lid and plunged her hands into the crinkled layers of matching brown tissue. At the bottom, her fingers closed on an object. A book. Before she could speculate further, she pulled it out.

A pattern of irises flowed over the cover, shades of purple and green. The flowers were her favorite, the same as she’d helped Nana plant in her garden as a little girl. Two imprinted words stated the title in white calligraphic lettering:
My Story.

It was a journal filled with blank pages. Not a mark, save a handwritten note on the bottom inside cover.

An inscription.

She steadied herself with a long breath before reading.

Follow your passions, follow your heart.
Create your own story in life, Elizabeth,
and never stray from your dreams.
Love and blessings,
Mother

Liz examined the precise script, startlingly similar to her own. She detected no trace of the quiet suffering that had spurred the message. No regrets or indication of her mother’s ultimate plans. Yet the words sent unexpected warmth through her chest. It was a lesson hard won and offered none too late:

Never lose sight of who you are.

How alike they had been, breaking free of the logical molds that defied their hearts’ demands—even when it required painfully leaving others behind. Liz had severed her relationship with Dalton, in spite of her deep care for him, due to her confidence that each of them would be better off in the end. Maybe her mother’s intentions had been the same.

Maybe, true to her father’s claim, Isabelle had simply loved both of them the best she knew how. And in accepting that, in allowing that bittersweet reality through the gates of her soul, Liz could finally let her go.

She traced the inscription with her fingertips. Her skin brushed every angled stroke. When she completed her mother’s name, she closed the book, knowing she would soon take a pen to its pages.

Through the window, she again admired the streaming lavender clouds. A thin glaze of pink added a lining to their edges. The masses shifted and shapes reconfigured, and she now understood the scent. Electricity and moisture, energy and water. The symbols of change, and of strength.

After several minutes, her task complete, Liz rewarded herself by unsealing another gift. Morgan’s latest post. The letter, as welcoming as a heated hearth, provided comfort before she’d read even a single line.

My dearest Betty,

THE WAR IS OVER! I can hardly believe the news. Fellas over here have been so loud whooping it up that I wouldn’t be surprised if you could hear them clear to Chicago. I, on the other hand, might be the only one who’s afraid to cheer too wildly. Can’t help thinking some colonel is going to break up the party and tell us it was a big mistake, that the war is still on and we’re moving up to the front. Just seems too good to be true, sweetheart, after all this time. Even reading the news and dirt in “Stars and Stripes” hasn’t done much to convince me. Guess I won’t really believe it until I’m boarded on a ship headed for the good ol’ USA.

No surprise that the boys have already started tallying up their rotation points—how long they’ve been overseas, how many battles and decorations. Apparently we’ve all forgotten how seasick we were on the ride over. Although even I’d agree that two weeks of nearly any illness would be worth suffering to get back to American soil. And most of all, back to you. With all the old-timers here, unfortunately, it will be quite a stretch before I see our outfit listed on the bulletin board.

Until then I shouldn’t have much to squawk about. The German apartment I’m billeted in is grander than any place we’ve stayed in so far. With soft mattresses and sheets, fancy drapes and paintings, and a real working toilet! I know it must sound silly, but the simplest things, like bathtubs and electricity, have become the most appreciated inventions for us doughboys. We’ve found so many storage rooms full of fine china we don’t even bother with our mess tins anymore. Boy, what luxuries! I have to admit I’m growing a tad tired of spud soup, black bread, and kraut, but it beats Army chow any day.

Right now I’m sitting on a terrace overlooking the town. How I wish you could be here with me. But then, of course you always are. The warm sun is shining down, making for an awfully quiet and relaxing afternoon. Should be that way until the kids get out of school and GIs start handing out chocolate bars. Amazing how little it takes to bring a smile to a kid’s face. Not much different from the happiness a handful of cigarettes brings to the local barber here in exchange for a cut and shave. Guess we all have our indulgences.

Well, sweetheart, I don’t have much in the way of writing time today, so I best lay down the pen. There’s a USO camp show scheduled tonight that they say Dinah Shore and Jack Benny will be performing at, and I’ll be on detail until it starts. Hopefully sooner than later I will be spending an evening with you at a USO club back in the States, dancing the night away (dancing, I admit, being mostly an excuse to hold you close). I so look forward to that day—so often dream about finally being with you in person.

Please write soon. Thinking of you always.
Yours forever,
Morgan

Liz read the closing again.

Forever.
So much meaning conveyed in a word. But with such a word came conditions, the most essential being honesty. A trait he undoubtedly placed high value upon.

Since breaking off her engagement, she had been more anxious than ever to tell Morgan everything. But with the war still on, she couldn’t help fearing her confession might be the last letter he ever read. And so she’d held off, selfishly, compassionately delaying.