Nightingale (8 page)

“They demand that?”

“I demand that.”

Caroline handed her the letter. “Open it. See if he's really dead.”

Sadie took the letter. “And if he's not?”

“Then you open Linus's letter and learn the truth. It's the only thing that's going to set you free. Either way, you'll have an answer. You'll know what to do.”

“What is Esther going to do?”

The voice startled her nearly off her chair. She turned.

Dr. O'Grady stood in the doorway, his stethoscope in his hand. “Excuse me, ladies. I am in search of coffee.”

She'd always considered Dr. O'Grady kind, probably because of the texture in his hazel eyes, but also the way he treated the nurses as more than servants, knowing their names, speaking to them with a hue of respect. That and the compassion in his voice the day she showed up, two and a half years ago, six months pregnant in his office, desperation in her voice.

Back then, he didn't ask questions, didn't glance at her empty finger. Just folded his long fingers together on his wooden desk and listened to the mostly truth.

He always seemed younger than his forty years, with his dark hair slicked back, and a flash of memory of him with the saxophone at the victory dance made her smile. Now, standing in the doorway, he looked at her with those same kind eyes. “The war is over. It's a question for all of us.”

Caroline got up. “I'll make a fresh pot.”

Esther took the letter from the table, crumpled it into her pocket. “How is Charlie?”

“I just checked in on him. He's in God's hands now. We just have to wait. And pray.”

Pray. Yes, well, she could hardly expect favors from a God she'd betrayed.

“And talk to him. I believe Charlie can hear us. Knows we care.” Dr. O'Grady winked at her. “He might even know when someone cheats at gin.”

Oh. She allowed another smile, though.

Caroline lit the burner on the stove, started a pot of coffee perking.

O'Grady sat down at the table. Set his empty cup on it, ran his long surgeon's finger around the rim.

“I sit on the grading committee for the nursing superintendent program from my alma mater at the University of Madison. We offer a fellowship at the hospital for a one-year program, and I believe you'd be perfect for it.”

She froze.

“You'd have to take the graduate exam, of course. But if you pass, I'll write you a letter of recommendation, and… Well, like I said, I am on the board.” He looked up at her, smiled.

Yes, he had kind eyes. So kind they whisked tears into her own. She glanced at Caroline, who turned away, her back to them. “I…”

“I know the war is over, and that your husband—I'm sorry,
fiancé—
will return and you'll probably want to think about your family, and Sadie, of course. But with all the injured soldiers returning every day, we need nursing superintendents to help manage the staff, to assist our boys as they get back to their lives. Think about it, Esther. You already make an excellent scrub nurse, and you display great calm in an emergency. Madison is only a few hours by train—you might be able to return here on weekends, occasionally. Mercy Hospital could certainly use your skills.”

She opened her mouth, not sure what she might say. But he picked up his cup, glanced at Caroline. “I have rounds. I'll be back.” “Yes, doctor.” Esther watched him leave, unable to look at Caroline. “Open the letter, Esther.”

June 1945

Markesan, Wisconsin

Dear Miss Esther,

I should have guessed that you were a nurse, proved by the compassion of writing this poor sot, who too much had hoped you'd receive my not-so-subtle hint. With joy I stepped forward during mail call, and your letter became the light in a sunless, rainy day. Indeed, for a week now, the sky has refused to cooperate, and I drag back to camp each night, soaked to my pores, anxious for a cup of joe, and today, to reply to your kind note.

As to what I look like? Better to ask my bunkmates, although they would probably reply that you are better off not knowing. My ego would like to suggest that I resemble the dashing Errol Flynn, although I'm not nearly as good-hearted as Robin Hood. Perhaps a biography would serve best. I am around six feet tall. Have unremarkable muddy blond hair, blue eyes, and a scar on my chin where my cousin once tried to spear me with a pitchfork. He has a similar scar on his upper arm. If I were at a dance, I fear
you might rebuff me for some other chap, and worse, I am cursed with two feet that seem to have their own minds. I am a fan of literature rather than sports, although I played point guard for our basketball team in Conroy, Iowa until my junior year.

I will admit some envy that you are pressing forward with your studies to become a nursing superintendent. I remember standing at my own crossroads, my commitments behind me, my future before me. I sat in a café beside the Elbe, drinking a bracer of espresso, the scent of marigolds in the air, watching ferries and excursion boats parting the undulating shadows of the opera house in the theaterplatz. At that moment I could taste the wideness of my future as surely as if I were lying in the middle of a cornfield. Or as Huck Finn might say,
It's lovely to live on a raft. We had the sky up there, all speckled with stars, and we used to lay on our backs and look up at them, and discuss about whether they was made or only just happened.

It is the wideness that I miss the most, perhaps.

Unfortunately, duty called me, and while I couldn't deny the peace in it, the road left untraveled in my life haunts me. I wonder, perhaps, if I would be here today if I had stayed the course of my studies. Perhaps.

Second chances are rare, and I applaud your courage to leap out and grasp yours. I am praying for my own second chance. Regrets are not easily digested when one lies in his bunk at night, only the chill and old porridge in his gut for comfort.

I am returning this note to the hospital, as you requested. I hope it finds you studying, and well. And although you did not mention it, I hope your efforts to find your friend's fate resulted in happy news. He is in my prayers daily, as are you.

With warm regard,

Peter

“It's from him, isn't it?” Caroline sat at the round pine table, setting a bowl of freshly washed strawberries between them.

Esther slid the letter into the chapter entitled “Sterilization and Care of Common Supplies” and closed the
Textbook of Surgical Nursing
.

“Let me read the letter.”

“No. Shh, don't wake Sadie.” She cast a look at her sleeping daughter on Caroline's bed, her little mouth open, drooling into her rabbit.

Caroline's expression softened and she cut her voice to a whisper. “I love her curly hair.” She touched her own, tied into silky brown rag curls around her head.

“She can already read. I'm telling you, I gave birth to a genius.”

“Of course you did. Now—let me see the letter.”

Esther made a face.

“It's only fair—I tell you about my dates with Teddy.”

“I can assure you, your dates are far more exciting. It says nothing, just an encouragement to continue my studies, and a quote from
Huckleberry Finn
.”

“A quote from
Huckleberry Finn
? Are you sure he's a doctor?”

“He's also a farm boy from Iowa. One who seems to have seen the world.”

Caroline raised an eyebrow.

“Okay, fine. Here you go.” She slid out the aerogram then got up to pour herself a cup of sludge from the coffeepot on the stove. The afternoon sun pressed through the window, creeping across the wooden floor, the rag rug. The July breeze tickled the eyelet curtains, tangy with the smells of fresh-cut grass and summer roses.

“Thank you, by the way, for letting me study in your room.” She stood at the window of Caroline's second-story boardinghouse and bit into a strawberry, captured by the sparkle of the sun on the limey grass, the way the peonies in the front yard exploded in pink and white, the daylilies, tall and sleek, the bleeding heart and its fragile pink blossoms weeping in the front lawn. And right outside her window, a yellow climbing rose, its heady scent meandering into the room. “No more victory gardens?”

“Are you kidding me? Mrs. Delano spent last week planting a late crop of potatoes. And I weeded the strawberry bed for an hour to earn this paltry basket. She's downstairs, sweat caught in the cracks in her neck, fanning herself as she stirs up strawberry jam. I fear victory gardens are here to stay.” Caroline began to untie the rags from her hair, the sun sweet on her face. “I hope the curls stay. My hair is taking forever to dry.” The hair fell out, one spiral curl at a time. “Your Peter sounds handsome. Just the way he describes himself.”

“I simply said that I wanted to picture him as he sat in the dark next to Linus, in my mind, and he assumed I wanted a description. Who knows what he must think of me.”

“I think he's grateful for your letters. Why do you write to him?”
She ran her fingers through her curls. “Do you like him?”

Esther shot her a look. “Of course not.” Except, yes, maybe something stirred inside her this morning when she discovered his letter in her box, neat and crisp, like a gift.

But probably, simply the sense of someone wanting to know more about her dulled the blade of loneliness inside. At least for the few minutes it took for her to read—no, savor his letter.

Caroline held up her hand. “Calm down, it's me. He seems smart—like you. And what does he mean by the Elbe? Where is that? Ohio?”

“I don't know. Maybe it's a place in the South. Or maybe in Europe. He did say theaterplatz—what's that? Funny, his quote—I actually remember that passage, ‘We said there warn't no home like a raft, after all. Other places do seem so cramped up and smothery, but a raft don't. You feel mighty free and easy and comfortable on a raft.'”

She looked over her shoulder to catch Caroline's smirk. “I don't do a Mississippi accent very well.”

“No, you don't. But it's sort of strange that you can both quote the same book.”

“Maybe it's because we both grew up in Iowa. The prairie can feel like a river, constantly moving. And maybe, like me, he wanted to see the world.”

From the bed, Sadie stirred. “You did, didn't you?”

Esther cut her voice low, her words almost for herself. “I was going to Europe. I was just waiting for my official orders when I met Linus.” She blew into her coffee. “Did you know that Linus has the complete collection of Hardy Boys mysteries? And a stack of about a million comic books. But not one copy of
Tom Sawyer
or
Huckleberry Finn
or even something bolder, Hemingway, or Fitzgerald.”

Caroline turned over the letter. “This Peter moves around a lot. This is the third location he's written you from.”

“I noticed that too. I wonder if he's not with one of those army units, you know, the ones with the German prisoners of war?”

“Prisoners of war? In Wisconsin?”

“I read an article in the newspaper. I can't believe you missed it—we had a crew of prisoners pass through here a few weeks ago, on their way to Fort McCoy. They hire the prisoners out to pick peas and work in processing plants.” She helped herself to another strawberry. “He's probably making sure they all stay healthy—a traveling medic.”

“I don't know how I feel about having Nazis in our backyard.”

“Not all the POWs are Nazis. I read a letter to the editor from a woman who said she heard some of them singing ‘Amazing Grace,' and that they held regular church services at their camps.”

“Germans, singing hymns?”

“Half our town is German, Caroline. You might be Dutch, or whatever, but I would bet that your neighbors still have relatives in Germany. Even Bertha—she hasn't said anything, but I suspect her family was fighting for the other side.”

“I don't know. If I saw a Nazi, I'd spit on him where he stood.” Caroline bit into another strawberry, catching the bloody juice as it ran down her chin. She slurped it up. “I just hope they don't come to Roosevelt. We might have the Battle of the Bulge right in the middle of the convalescent ward.” Caroline finished off the strawberry then opened Esther's book. “I'll quiz you.”