The Silver Suitcase

by Terrie Todd

  Instead, she went to the city for one entire school term. The folks back home believed she was teaching in a city school to expand her experience. None of them knew she’d actually had a baby girl, whom her brother and his wife took in and raised as their own.

  Her brother.

  Daddy.

  Of course I didn’t believe her. I thought she must be getting delusional in her old age, but then she pulled out a birth certificate with my name on it that clearly names her as my mother, and an adoption certificate with my parents’ names.

  Miriam, Mother, and Daddy had all agreed: Whichever one of them survived the others would tell me. I suppose if I had died first, I’d have gone to my grave without knowing this family secret. She said they even went so far as to pretend Mother was pregnant when Miriam’s time came closer, all to protect Miriam’s reputation in the community. Naturally, I asked about the identity of my father, but she insisted this was enough news for me for one day.

  I’ve never been so angry in my life. I went to the creek, where I found a broken hockey stick and railed against the trees with it and shouted at the top of my lungs. How dare they? How could they keep such an enormous secret from me? Who was my father? How could they deceive me like this? This means Jimmy and I are actually cousins! I yelled and hit trees and kicked stones until my energy gave out. I swore, too, you better believe it. Then I flopped on the ground and sat there, staring at the water. I know Jesus heard it all, and I don’t care.

  I don’t know how long I sat there. Long enough for sparrows to land, and I threw stones at them to scare them off. Stupid sparrows. I went home then, but I’m still mad.

  Jordan flipped the page over.

  April 24

  I visited Miriam today, with every intention of giving her a piece of my mind. If my parents were there, I’d give them a piece too, but as the last survivor Miriam would have to take the whole load. On the drive over, though, something changed. It was almost as though a familiar voice spoke to me—not audible, but just as clear as if I’d heard the words with my ears. Gently, the voice said three things:

  Corrie, who are you to be angry at others for keeping secrets?

  I’ve given you someone who knows exactly how your loss feels.

  I’ve given you a mother again.

  In that moment, I realized Miriam had been through much the same thing as I had. Could this be why she was such a difficult person, why she so often wanted to be involved with my life beyond what seemed appropriate? How might I behave if my Mary Sarah was growing up in my brother’s home?

  By the time I reached Miriam’s house, my anger had dissolved. Instead of lashing out, I ended up telling her about Mary Sarah, and that’s when I got the biggest surprise of my life. She already knew. She had kept my secret too, even from Daddy, all this time. I now understand that, whether misguided or not, Daddy and his sister both kept secrets out of their deep love for each other. Do Jimmy and I love each other that much? I could fill pages with the memories we have together . . . fishing by the creek . . . sleeping on the front porch in the summer time . . . my teaching him how to drive, although I’m not sure who taught whom . . . my forcing him to dance with me for practice before my first big dance. What a good sport he was! There are a million precious moments like that recorded in my mind (if not in my diary!). I hope he knows how much I love him, even though I haven’t always shown it.

  Lord, help me be a good sister all the way to the end of my life, no matter who else comes and goes from our lives.

  Jordan tossed the dirty diary page into the wastebasket with his lunch wrappings, but its words echoed in his mind through his entire shift. He had not missed the tears welling up in Meagan’s eyes when he’d yelled those hurtful words at her.

  I guess it wouldn’t kill me to apologize when I get home, he thought.

  Nicole Kwan sat at her husband’s grave for the fifth day in a row. Had it really been only a week since they’d laid Kyle to rest here? It seemed like months. Three-year-old Mee flitted from gravestone to gravestone as though this was merely a playground obstacle course, and Nicole watched her with a tired sigh.

  She still bore the numbness that had settled on her the day the flag-draped casket was carried to the cemetery by six uniformed men from Kyle’s regiment. She remembered all the wonderful words that had been spoken about Lieutenant Kwan, about how committed he was to the cause and how firmly he believed that Canadian soldiers were making life better for disadvantaged people in Afghanistan. She remembered throngs of people standing in the rain to pay their respects, remembered the rifle salute, remembered the chaplain’s words from the Psalms.

  She also remembered the pain she had seen in Kyle’s parents’ eyes as they tried to grasp that their twenty-six-year-old son was lost to them. She had clung to her own parents with one hand, clutching Mee tightly with the other. If there was any good in this, she thought, it was that Mee would not miss what she had already lived without.

  “But how will I go on?” she whispered. “God, if you can hear me, please help me. I can’t do this. I need help.”

  “Look at me, Mommy!” Mee cried suddenly, running toward Nicole with her chubby little arms full of fall leaves. “Mee pick up leaves. Mee a good girl, Mommy?”

  She dropped the armload into her mother’s lap and Nicole swooped her up into a hug.

  “Yes, baby. You are a very good girl.” She smoothed Mee’s curls and straightened her mittens. But the little girl would not be held down long. She scampered away to gather another bunch of leaves. Nicole was brushing away the first offering when she realized it wasn’t all leaves in her lap. From the pile, she pulled two sheets of lined paper with old-fashioned handwriting on them. Curious, she began to read.

  Dear Diary,

  It is Valentine’s Day and I can’t believe it was only a year ago that I danced with Jimmy at the community dance in Roseburg. I never thought I’d say this, but I sure do miss my little brother. I feel as though I have lived an entire lifetime since then. Meeting Henry . . . our wonderful summer together . . . our big fight before he insisted on going off to that dreadful war . . . the nagging suspicion that I might be carrying his baby . . . then getting the most horrible news imaginable, that my Henry was dead. And then . . . the biggest event of all, my encounter with the angel down by the creek.

  Nicole stopped reading. Had she read that right? She read the words again.

  . . . the biggest event of all, my encounter with the angel down by the creek. In my darkest moment, the person I had so bitterly hated for five long years sent me an angel who offered nothing but love and comfort and hope. That visit seemed to go on for days, yet took only moments. I will never be able to explain it, and I’m afraid to speak of it lest people think I am a complete lunatic. All I know is this: that encounter remains as real to me today as it was that day, and it sustains me in my loneliest hours, of which there are many.

  I can feel the baby moving a lot now, and it helps me to feel I am not so alone. Someone depends on me, needs me for life and sustenance and, eventually, deliverance. What a weighty responsibility! Already I feel such a deep love for this little one. I wonder whether he or she will look like me or like Henry . . . or perhaps a little like both of us. And then I remember I may never know, and my heart is broken in pieces. I know I suffer the consequences of my own wrongdoing, but oh, life can be so hard sometimes.

  The writing ended there, but Nicole felt as though she had been handed a priceless gem. Mee came running at her with another pile of leaves and dumped them in her lap, but this pile contained no surprise messages.

  “Where did you find this, honey?”

  But Mee was oblivious to anything but the leaves. Nicole spent the next half hour searching the cemetery for more papers, but found none. The days were growing shorter, and she knew it was time now to head for home. She skimmed the diary entry once again, then tucked it inside her coat ne
xt to her heart, where it seemed a fragile flame of hope had just been lit.

  Besides fatigue, this hope was the first thing Nicole had felt in over a week.

  Jenny Murphy clutched her cane a little tighter as she made her way down the sidewalk, her mop of a dog on a short leash to prevent the two items from tangling. These twice-daily walks around the block were becoming more challenging every day.

  “Slow down, Molly,” she scolded the dog. “You’re not as young as you used to be.”

  Together the pair made their way through the creaking gate and up the walk to the front door of Jenny’s tall, narrow brick house. Her neighbor Lou Warner waved at her from behind his rake in the next yard. A mere three feet separated their houses.

  “Good morning, Jenny. Would you like me to come do yours when I’m through over here?” Lou had recently retired and, at 68, seemed like a spry youngster to Jenny.

  “That would be lovely. And then come in for some tea.” Jenny unlocked her door and let Molly scamper inside. She bent to retrieve a few pieces of trash that had collected in the corner by her steps.

  “Oh, don’t you go bothering with that,” Lou called. “I can pick all that up when I do the leaves.”

  “Well, thank you, but I’ve got this batch.” Jenny clutched the pieces to her so they wouldn’t drop. “I ’spect there’s a lot more where that came from, and we’ll probably see it before this blustery day is done.”

  Once she was inside, Jenny dropped the trash into her kitchen wastebasket and washed her hands. She put the kettle on for tea, and when she turned to throw out the tea bag wrapper, she saw something in the collection of litter that she hadn’t noticed before. It reminded her of the letters she used to write with her fountain pen back in the 1940s, and she carefully separated the page from the other trash and pulled it out of the basket.

  It did, indeed, appear to be a letter of some sort, but it started in the middle of a sentence. With her free hand, Jenny poured boiling water into her apple-shaped teapot, a gift from a student years ago, and then she sat to read while she waited for the tea to steep.

  . . . and Mr. Reynolds liked my presentation so well, he asked me to take it to the next Board meeting where they showcase one student’s work each time they meet. “Cornelia,” he told me, “this is the best presentation I’ve seen in all my years.”

  I’m so nervous, I could throw up. But I figure it will be great practice. After all, if I’m going to teach, I’ll be up front talking to groups of people every day. And not just students, but their parents too, at special events and such.

  Jenny read the paragraph again. She remembered a Mr. Reynolds from her Normal School days. Could this be the same person? Jenny couldn’t recall any girls named Cornelia in her class, but her memory was fading more each day. The next entry gave her the clue she needed. Jenny had started Normal School in the fall of 1941. She probably missed Cornelia by a year.

  We served our 1940 Thanksgiving Dinner in the cafeteria. With rationing and all, there was no turkey, but the cooks found enough chickens that everyone was able to eat their fill. We had plenty of mashed potatoes, gravy, stuffing, corn, and even apple pie. Apple trees grow on campus, and I was part of the crew that picked them last month and helped store them in the cellar.

  I miss Dad and Jimmy and wonder what they ate today.

  Jenny poured herself a cup of tea and pondered her unusual discovery while Molly lapped at her water dish. Through the window, Jenny could see that Lou Warner had finished his own yard and was now working on hers. She read the diary entry page one more time, then folded her hands on top of it and closed her eyes.

  “Lord,” she began, “I don’t know why you brought this my way today, but you always have a reason for everything. Usually it means you want me to pray for somebody, but you’ll have to guide me to the right words. So I pray for this Cornelia, whoever she is, wherever she is. Gracious, she’s probably older than I am! Is she even still around, Lord? Perhaps not. Well, bless her if she is, God. And I pray for her family. You know who they are and what they need today. Bring peace and light to their home as only you can, Lord Jesus. May it be a place of unity and . . . and reunion, maybe. Yes, reunion. Bless them, Lord. Bless them richly with every good thing from your mighty hand this day. Guide them and draw them to yourself.”

  A knock on the door interrupted Jenny’s prayer and she mumbled “Amen” as she shuffled over to show Lou Warner in for tea.

  Two sixteen-year-olds sat on a bus-stop bench holding hands across the street from the community health-care center. The girl pulled her hand free and blew her nose into a tissue. The boy flipped through a fistful of brochures that he had already flipped through a hundred times. They had told the clinic they needed a half hour to think about it.

  “How can I make a decision like this in half an hour?” she said. “I don’t know what to do.”

  “You know I’ll support you, whatever you decide.” He wrapped one arm around her shoulder.

  The girl gathered her brown hair into a ponytail and then let it drop. “I wish I could be that sure about everybody else. My mom and dad will die if they find out. They’ll die.”

  “Mine, too.” He sighed. He wanted to kick himself for getting her into this mess. He also wanted to run far, far away and never have to face her again, whatever she decided. Deep down, he feared he’d do exactly that sooner or later—run. But for now, he would try to be there for her. He felt so helpless, watching the tears run down her face. “If we don’t decide soon, they’ll find out anyway.”

  “I know, I know. We’re running out of time. Might as well get it over with, I guess.” She stood and pushed the button that would make the pedestrian crosswalk light come on. As she waited, a transit bus slowed for her, but she waved the driver on. As it whizzed by, a swirl of debris floated up and landed at the boy’s feet. He looked down briefly and then stopped and looked down again. He picked up a sheet of paper and studied it quietly, still standing in front of the bench.

  “Come on,” she said. “You’re not going to chicken out on me, are you?”

  “Wait. This is weird. I think there’s something here we’re supposed to see.” He sat down again.

  “We’ve looked at every one of those brochures a dozen times already. What more is there to know?” She kept her eyes on the clinic doors across the street.

  “It’s not a brochure. It’s some kind of letter or diary or something. And it looks all old and stuff.”

  The girl crossed back to the boy and joined him on the bench again.

  “I can’t even read that,” she said, looking at the page. “It’s smudged and—I don’t know, it’s somebody’s handwriting. It’s probably private. Throw it away.”

  “No. We need to read this. We’re supposed to read this. Listen.” He began to read, his voice rising above the noise of the traffic as it thundered past just feet in front of them.

  “Last night I dreamed it was all a horrible mistake, that I wasn’t pregnant after all, and that a nasty big tumor grew inside me and the doctors were cutting it out. Everybody stood around me in the hospital room—Daddy, Jimmy, even Henry. Mrs. Marshall was there and Henry’s parents and Aunt Miriam and some of the girls from school back home. I was afraid. They all said such wonderful things to me, telling me to be brave and promising it would all be over soon.

  “Henry said we could get on with our lives after the operation and everything was going to be fine. And then one by one, they began to fade away until I was all alone again. I looked around the room but no one was there, not a soul. I started to cry and when I looked up, Jesus stood at the foot of my bed. I knew I was dreaming, because he looked the same as that silly Sunday School picture behind the attic mirror.

  “‘Corrie,’ he said. ‘It’s going to turn out okay. I’m going to go through this with you, you’re not alone.’ Then he reached out his arms and suddenly, I had a baby in
mine. I placed the baby carefully in his arms, and he smiled at the baby. I asked if it was a boy or a girl, but he didn’t answer. He turned and walked away, carrying the baby with him.

  “Then I woke up. Strangely, I felt comforted. I believe God has a plan for my baby. He will make sure my little one is safe and loved. He won’t let me down on this. I can trust him.”

  The boy and girl looked at each other with wide eyes.

  “Where did you find this?” she asked, taking it from him with one hand while the other lay across her stomach.

  “It just . . . sort of . . . landed at my feet.” They read the page again. A bell from a nearby church began to peal.

  “It’s one o’clock,” she said. “Our half hour is up.” She looked up at him, her eyes glistening with unshed tears.

  “I don’t want to do this.” The boy sighed. “I want to find a different way.”

  She nodded her head only slightly and let out an involuntary sob. The boy walked over to a nearby trash bin and tossed the brochures inside. The diary page, however, he folded carefully and put in his pocket. He walked back to the bench and held out his hand. The girl took it.

  Together they followed the sound of the church bells and sat on the front step of the church until the priest, who was just returning from lunch, found them there and invited them inside to warm up.