Letters From Home

by Kristina McMorris

  You see, Charlie died in my arms on December 19. The last words he spoke were to tell me everything was going to be okay. He’s lying there, body pegged with lead, and he’s offering me comfort. Maybe it’s because he knew me well enough to know how much I was going to blame myself.

  Over and over, every detail of that day comes back like a movie running in my head, but in slow motion so I can see all the mistakes I made. I keep thinking one of these days I’ll find a way to change the ending. All along there hadn’t been a single battle when I wasn’t at his side. So why is it that the one minute I leave him, God decides it’s time to take him back?

  There are moments I almost expect Charlie to wander through the door and gloat about how he managed to put one over on me. That it wasn’t really blood covering his shirt, just ketchup he smuggled from the mess as a dramatic touch to his prank. I’d give him a good smack, then we’d both end up getting a laugh out of it.

  I think that’s what I miss the most—his laugh. So genuine it was contagious. More often than not, it was at himself. That’s a rare quality in a person. I realize now it’s just one of the wonderful things about him I took for granted. His storytelling and humor, his free spirit—they were all traits anyone with decent vision and hearing could have sized up about Charlie from a dozen rods away. But I was among the few who really knew his other side. He had a caring nature, a solid heart of gold. He would have given the shirt off his back in the middle of a snowstorm to anyone who needed it. Now that he’s gone I wonder how many people besides me were lucky enough to know that about him.

  A chaplain named Father Bud passed through the

  other day, visiting guys in need of direction and spiritual guidance. I must have looked like I needed both, because he pulled up a chair right next to my bed. A nurse had told him about me losing my brother, so he tried to offer comfort. He told me how pleased I should be for Charlie, knowing he’s at peace and resting in a better place, and that someday we’ll be reunited in a world without violence and hatred and suffering. Truthfully it’s hard to imagine a place like that about now. Though I do hope he’s right. It would definitely make the rest of my time on this earth easier to get through. Then maybe I wouldn’t be filled with so much anger over Charlie’s death—anger at the damn Kraut who shot him down, at God for stealing the only close kin I had left, and at myself for not keeping it from happening.

  It’s odd, isn’t it? People die every day and the world goes on like nothing happened. But when it’s a person you love, you think everyone should stop and take notice. That they ought to cry and light candles and tell you that you’re not alone. Sometimes I feel so lost without Charlie that my chest physically hurts. Like he took part of me with him. After all, I can’t recall a single memory when he wasn’t in my life. And now here I am, some days searching for a reason to breathe. What do I do if I’m not looking after my kid brother? Guess only time will tell.

  Although you couldn’t have known it, your letter helped me appreciate how lucky I was to have him in my life at all, even if it was a shorter time than I wanted. I’d give anything to spend one more day with him. But at least those nineteen years were full of memories I know I’ll keep forever, memories even the devil can’t take away. And if there’s truth to heaven and the afterlife, no doubt Charlie’s up there grinning because he beat me to the answers. I tell you, I could sure use some of those answers right now—like what this war is really all about, and when, if ever, I’ll be leaving this hellish place and going home.

  Home. It’s such a simple word, one I never knew would come to mean as much to me as it has. It once was my dad’s house, then my uncle’s farm. Mostly it’s meant wherever Charlie and I were together. Now, though, it’s you. It’s your letters, your words. They’re the place I go to with my fears, where I find comfort, where I feel safe.

  So thank you, my darling Betty. I would be one lost, empty-hearted man without you. Please write soon.

  Yours always,

  Morgan

  Hot tears coursed over Liz’s hand covering her mouth. Morgan’s anguish invaded every inch of her heart—a heart that perhaps was never meant for anyone but him. She laid the letter over her chest, against the brittle-edged emptiness they shared. The scenes that haunted him were unimaginable, but she understood loss. And regret. And guilt from an irreversible act.

  At the thought of replying, Viola’s advice rushed back to her, though this time with little impact. For Morgan had offered Liz more than a passionate kiss or the admission of a teenage crush. More than a letter, even. This was a man’s soul poured out on paper, real and precious as life itself. Names aside, his words were meant for her. And it was time she told him who that was.

  Wiping her cheeks, she forged toward the stationery waiting in the vanity. She had never felt more ashamed of deceiving him. Yet as she gripped the drawer handle, a question halted her: How could she tell him now, in the midst of all he was going through?

  What he needed above all was someone’s support. What he needed was assurance he wasn’t alone. And what she needed was …him.

  It now dawned on her how hard she had worked all these years to avoid really needing someone. As though the moat she’d constructed with her independence could save her from getting hurt, shield her from loneliness in her locked-away tower. In the end, those very efforts had caused her to suffer all the same.

  How ironic to think, it was Swinburne’s poem she had presented to Morgan—about the beauty of spring’s blossoms in the wake of winter’s rains. And meanwhile, out of fear, she herself had been sustaining a life without seasons. Although scared, she wanted more. She wanted to start by revealing her identity. But would the truth hurt him as much as his father’s well-intentioned lie? Perhaps it would cut even deeper in the aftermath of his brother’s death.

  Eventually, she’d tell him—of course she would tell him—once his grief lessened over Charlie. Oh, Charlie …full of such energy, such confidence. Like a shooting star, his brilliance glowed, and then he was gone.

  The same as Liz’s father would be one day.

  Life is too short not to say how you feel to the people you love. The passage blared like a flashing banner, a phrase from one of Morgan’s letters. Repeated readings, whether she liked it or not, had branded his words into her heart.

  And he was right. If she didn’t reach out to her father now, she could lose him forever.

  Pen and paper in hand, she planted herself on the cushioned seat. Her mind hunted for a proper opening, leafed through her archive of profoundly succinct literary works. And somewhere in the tunnels of her thoughts, she mistakenly exhumed three sentences—the three sentences that had changed everything.

  Go away! I hate you! Why can’t you just stay out of my life?

  She was only thirteen when she’d screamed the words at her mother, climaxing a year of constant arguments, but the memory returned with burning clarity. Her mother, Isabelle, had uncovered a note while laundering Liz’s skirt. The note came from an older boy Liz barely knew, a schoolmate asking her to sneak out for a movie. Isabelle took the liberty of phoning his house. What kind of upbringing, she’d asked his mother, could the boy have possibly had to think Elizabeth was old enough to date, and that encouraging such delinquent behavior was acceptable? And by the way, a mechanic’s son wasn’t about to ruin her daughter’s reputation and bright future.

  That was the story making the rounds during gym class, anyway, before Liz had come storming into the house. Tempers flared, scorn flew, concluding with her three-sentence finale: Go away! I hate you! Why can’t you just stay out of my life? From physical to personality traits, never had she and her mother seemed more opposite. Liz had fled to her room then, slammed the door, and fumed through the night. Come morning, she’d learned that Isabelle had taken the spiteful exclamations to heart.

  “Your mother left,” her father had explained in a voice as barren as the look in his eyes—a look that said she wouldn’t be coming back. His next words had blurr
ed in Liz’s ears: Mother …unhappy …tried …blame. Everything she already knew.

  Then unblinking, not breathing, Liz had watched him retreat into the seclusion of his pile-ridden study; the compassionate side of him never came out. She’d spent every night for weeks weeping in her room, where even the tiny yellow rosebuds on her wallpaper withered from guilt. All the while, she had brainstormed ways to locate her mother. But without maternal relatives to consult, and with the suspicion that no apology could lure the woman home once found, the search had ended before it began.

  How strange that one little note—from a boy Liz hadn’t even cared for—and the family she’d known was gone. No accumulation of dandelion wishes or coins in a fountain could reverse that day. Not even the enticement of a gift, addressed to Liz and wrapped in red Nutcracker paper, had brought Isabelle home to see the present being opened.

  Perhaps Liz would never have the chance to make amends with her mother. But her father was still here, now, in this house. She would knock on his door this instant if she felt confident her mouth wouldn’t fumble the words. No, she trusted her pen tonight to see this through. And if a scrawled message caused the mess, the same ought to end it.

  Dear Father,

  I wish I had the courage to say what I need to in person. Because I do not, I am pouring my thoughts onto paper.

  Few days go by when I do not think about the closeness you and I once shared, or the sadness I feel, knowing we barely know each other anymore. And yet the widening gap between us is no one’s fault but mine.

  For the year that led up to my final argument with Mother, no matter what I did, I felt unable to earn her love and praise. In hindsight, I see how my acting out and talking back were merely attempts to gain her attention, even if that attention was no better than a scolding. I explain this not as justification, but to take responsibility for what I have done.

  Please know I would do anything for the power to reverse time, anything to take back the hateful words that caused Mother to leave our home and lives forever. For this, and for causing you such pain, I am so very sorry.

  I realize this letter cannot undo the damage I have caused. However, I hope that someday you will be able to find it within your heart to forgive me.

  Your daughter,

  Elizabeth

  Not until Liz signed her name did she so much as pause. Forbidding herself the chance to read or regret her composition, she sealed the page in an envelope marked Father.

  It was done.

  Drained of all energy, she crawled into bed with her clothes on. She decided to make a wish—if ever she needed magical help, it was now. But before she could finish the thought, sleep shrouded her in its arms.

  Only seconds seemed to have passed when Liz awoke. The lamp still alight but window dark, she strained to read the face of the bedside clock. 5:47 A.M.

  She’d forgotten to set the alarm!

  Panic shot through her body like lightning, hurling her out of bed. She had eighteen minutes to ready herself for work and sprint to the bus stop.

  At the pedestal sink in the bathroom, she washed her face and teeth, trussed her hair into a ponytail. No time to change clothes. She shook lint off her sweater and skirt, then threw on her overcoat.

  She tiptoed down the hallway, shoes in one hand, her father’s envelope in the other. As she entered the kitchen, a sharp clank from the radiator gave her a start. Quietly, she reached into a coin-filled jelly jar on the counter and pocketed bus fare for her commute.

  Nine minutes left.

  The letter—she didn’t know where to place it. What she did know was he couldn’t discover the envelope until long after walking out the front door.

  That was it! The front door.

  In the entry, her father’s leather satchel slumped against the wall. She slung her shoes on as she strode over to the bag and unfastened its wide center buckle. The first book she grabbed was coincidentally the present she had given him for Christmas. The Greatest Sonnets of All Time. She hid the envelope inside the front leather cover. There it would remain until he happened across it while on the train at least halfway back to D.C., or perhaps in one of his classes, scanning for reference material.

  Book in the satchel, she refastened the buckle and sped out the door. She forged her way down the slushy street, cloaked by dawn’s early darkness. The jingling of her coins blended with the clinking of a neighbor’s milk-bottle delivery. Her unbuttoned coat flapped as if preparing to soar.

  As she barreled around the corner, the bus revved its motor and started to pull away.

  “Wait! Please, wait!” Her volume surely woke a few neighbors.

  The wheels halted with a squeal.

  Onboard, she collapsed in an empty row. Her pledge to Morgan fulfilled, she sat proudly gazing out the window. The transition of night to day would soon appear; twilight would rule the sky, utterly unstoppable. Just like the game she had set in motion. She’d moved the pawn, she’d tossed the dice. The next move lay with her father.

  29

  January 3, 1945

  Dutch New Guinea

  Unofficial word had reached Betty just after dawn. A med tech, her replacement, would be arriving within the week.

  Despite her dizzying euphoria, Betty embarked on her usual morning rounds. Yet all she needed was confirmation of the news, and not even a full-fledged monsoon would be able to stop her from racing to the barracks. Faster than a person could say “Coconut Grove,” she’d have her belongings gathered and clothing packed. Well, whatever the engulfing humidity hadn’t literally devoured.

  Until then, not wanting to jinx the transfer, she would simply go about her work. She would distract her mind with other things. That was the plan anyway. Nothing proved effective, however, before seeing Leslie Kelly seated in his bed.

  “Perfecting your koalas, Lieutenant?” she asked, hugging her shield of linens.

  “Not today.” He hinted at a smile without looking up from his sketchpad.

  “A wombat, then.”

  “Wrong again.”

  “Wallaby?”

  He tilted his head at the drawing, pencil briskly moving. “This creature’s a touch more rare. Wild as a dingo, with all the grace and beauty of a brumby.”

  “So let’s see this wonder of nature.”

  He added a few finishing touches. Briefly hesitant, he flipped the notepad around, displaying the picture upright between his casts.

  She recognized the features: the light hair, the rounded face, the dot of a birthmark high on the cheek. She brightened from the inside out.

  “It’s me,” she said to herself. Then, downplaying her delight, she pointed out, “Except for the cockeyed smile.” She set the linens on the empty cot beside her, and took the sketch into her hands for a closer view.

  “Oh, but this one’s a study on realism,” he said.

  “My smile is not crooked.”

  “Not always.” He reclined against the wall. “Only when you’re thinking of something that makes you happy, but you don’t know anyone’s watching.”

  The fact he’d analyzed a trait of hers not even she was aware of made her squirm beneath her skin. What other flaws had he catalogued? Dismayed, she reviewed the drawing again, focusing on the eyes. In them, he’d captured something—a vulnerability made of sadness and yearning—that all the giggles and flirtations in the world couldn’t hide. At least not from him.

  She glanced up timidly, discomforted by his x-ray gaze. Once again, like that night in the supply tent, she’d somehow shared with him more than she planned.

  “Can I keep it?” she asked.

  “Absolutely.” He nodded. “For three bob.”

  “Bob?”

  “Shillings.”

  She shot him an appalled look. “You’re going to charge me for my own drawing?”

  “A bloke’s gotta eat.”

  She pursed her lips, tossed the sketchpad onto his lap. “I should’ve expected as much, from a descendant of the notorious Ned Ke
lly Gang.”

  He laughed, a delicious sound, a confection she could feast upon for decades. “We’re no relation to those Kellys, I assure you. Although my sister Nellie used to spin quite the yarn, telling her schoolmates otherwise.”

  The name snagged her thoughts: Nellie Miles, his most faithful correspondent. “Nellie—she’s your sister?” Betty ventured.

  “Eldest of the four girls. Ten years between Nellie and Caroline, the youngest.”

  Caroline was another name she recognized from his envelopes. Now it all made sense. He wasn’t the Don Juan she had presumed him to be. Simply a beloved sibling.

  But then, what did it matter? Even if fraternization with an officer wasn’t strictly forbidden—although foreign military might be an exception—pursuing a relationship with him would be pointless. Australia was his home. If he ever made it back. There was a war on, after all, and in only a few weeks the removal of his casts would be freeing him for duty.

  What’s more, she herself could be leaving any day now. The transfer she’d begged for, fought for.

  Earned.

  She ought to be thrilled. Prickles of disappointment had no right crawling up her arms. Unfolding the bedsheet, she resumed her casualness.

  “So are you the only boy in the family?”

  “Got two brothers as well, both smack in the middle. Took a while for Mum to realize no babe could be as splendidly handsome as her firstborn.”

  “Don’t tell me. You’re the oldest.”