Hope's Daughter

by Joani Ascher

  Jane rushed to her sister’s side, helpless to relieve her pain but wanting nothing more in the world than to be able to comfort her. She stroked her hair uselessly, knowing that Olivia was too deep into her grief to even feel it.

  Mrs. McGill, bless her heart, had picked up Z.Z. and taken him into Jane’s room, leaving the sisters alone. Jane could hear her singing a little song to the child, to block out Olivia’s sobs.

  Olivia was inconsolable, then and for weeks after. No words could relieve her agony. She sat in her room, the drapes drawn, eating almost nothing, for the rest of the weekend. Even the baby could not make her smile.

  On Monday morning, Mrs. McGill was kind enough to take care of Z.Z. so Jane could go to work, and she promised to take care of Olivia as well. She arrived bright and early, but her mood was somber.

  The work day passed slowly while Jane worried about her sister. She left the office as soon as the market closed and rushed home. It seemed to take forever for the subway car to come, and then the trolley rumbled so slowly down Rogers Avenue Jane thought she would scream. When she reached her block, she hurried into the building and ran up the stairs.

  A strange silence greeted her when she opened the door. She could tell in an instant that Z.Z. wasn’t there. He always greeted her the moment she came in, crying out, “Mama!” and even though she was an hour and a half early, she had expected to see him.

  The sound of running water answered her questions. Olivia was probably giving him an early bath. Although Jane usually bathed her son after dinner, if he had become particularly dirty, Olivia would put him right into the tub.

  Jane opened the door to the bathroom, expecting to see two surprised faces. But what she saw horrified her. Olivia was alone in the bathroom, sitting on the edge of the tub with a razor blade in her hand, slitting her wrist. A brand new package of blades lay open on the sink.

  “Olivia!” Jane shouted, grabbing her sister’s arm and pulling it away. Blood dripped from the wound into the tub Olivia held it over. “No!”

  “I have to,” she wailed. “I can’t live without Horace. I love him too much.”

  Jane bound Olivia’s wrist in a towel and held it tightly. She didn’t think the wound had cut too deep, but Olivia needed help. Where was Z.Z.? And where was Mrs. McGill, who had promised to watch them both?

  She reached over, turned off the water, and wrapped her arms around her sister, waiting until Olivia stopped sobbing so loudly. Then she asked softly, “Where is Z.Z.?”

  “I asked Mrs. McGill to take him for a walk, since I didn’t want to go out and it was a nice day.”

  “You mean you sent them away so you could try to harm yourself.”

  Olivia nodded.

  “Do you think this is what Horace would want? For you to kill yourself?”

  “I can’t go on,” Olivia cried. She tried to wipe her face, and the wound opened and bled more. Jane found a clean rag and wrapped it around Olivia’s wrist.

  Lifting her sister into a standing position, Jane led her out of the bathroom, across the apartment, and to the phone. While still holding onto Olivia, she dialed Dr. Mann’s number and told his nurse to send the doctor right away. They sat huddled together in silence, waiting for him to come.

  From the first floor she could hear Mrs. McGill shouting a few minutes later. “What’s happened?” Carrying Z.Z., she trailed the doctor into the apartment and, seeing them on the couch, stopped and stared open-mouthed.

  Dr. Mann ran to Olivia.

  Because she was still holding Z.Z., Mrs. McGill quietly said, “Do you think you are the only one going through this? There are hundreds of girls with the same pain.”

  Dr. Mann looked at the landlady. “Did someone—” He broke off as he realized who it was. Over Olivia’s head he mouthed to Jane, “Horace?”

  The doctor grew pale.

  “I’ll go sit with Z.Z.,” Mrs. McGill murmured.

  Dr. Mann knelt beside Olivia, and took her hand, inspecting the crude bandage Jane had fashioned. No blood leaked through.

  “It’s just a scratch,” said Olivia, her voice sounding dead. “She didn’t give me time.”

  “Thank God,” Jane whispered.

  “I know you won’t understand, but I can’t live without Horace.”

  Jane could not speak. There were no words to ease her sister’s pain.

  Dr. Mann took Olivia into her bedroom, dressed the wound, and administered a strong sedative. Jane noticed that his hand shook and there were tears in his eyes. He had been Horace’s doctor. When the boy’s parents were killed in an automobile accident, Dr. Mann had spent hours with the grieving child and spent countless more helping his immigrant grandmother properly raise a young American adolescent.

  When they left Olivia sleeping in her bedroom, Jane suddenly felt she should comfort this man who had not only delivered her and her sister but cared for the whole family for so many years. “I’m sorry. I thought you knew. We left a message with your wife.”

  The doctor pulled a large white handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped his eyes. “She told me there was something she had to tell me, but she said it would keep. I guess she was waiting for the right time.” He shook his head. “I don’t know why I’m acting like this. I’m a doctor, after all. I’ve seen death.”

  “Horace was like a son to you,” Jane said. “We know you checked on him daily after his grandmother died, to make sure he was taking care of himself.”

  Dr. Mann looked at Jane and smiled weakly. “And you and Olivia gave him dinner four nights a week.”

  “We wanted him healthy. I always knew he was the one for Ol—” She could not continue. That dream was gone, just like her dream of happiness with Lloyd. For a moment, Jane had a glimpse of the future—with the two of them alone with each other, no men in their lives.

  For herself, that was fine. The future would be brighter for her sister, Jane resolved. Someone else would come along, if anyone was left after this terrible war.

  She walked Dr. Mann to the door. “She’ll sleep for a long time,” he said. “When she wakes, I want you to have her take these,” he held up some packets of powder, “mixed with water, twice a day. Mrs. McGill will have to watch the baby until the crisis passes. Call me if anything else happens, and I’ll stop in on Friday.” He reached for the doorknob, and turned, a question on his face. “How is little Z.Z.?”

  “Healthy,” said Jane.

  “That’s good. I know I told you that you shouldn’t bring Z.Z. home, but I was wrong. He’s good for you, and he’s good for Olivia. He’s even good for that old coot Mrs. McGill.” He chuckled, and Jane could see that some of his color was coming back. But his face turned serious again. “It’s a lucky thing he didn’t get polio. Last summer was very bad. Too many children died.”

  Jane had heard. Not only had it been in the newspapers, but a woman on the next block had lost her child. Another child was confined to an iron lung. There was panic in the neighborhood for months after that. None of the mothers wanted their children to be around Z.Z., though, which turned out to be a lucky thing. He never had a chance to be exposed. Nevertheless, Jane never let him go near a puddle and never took him to the beach.

  “Goodnight,” said Doctor Mann. “Take care of them.”

  To Jane, the instruction was unnecessary. They were her entire reason for living.

  Dear Mr. Weaver,

  I hope all is well with you. The business totals are favorable.

  Thank you for your kind thoughts about Horace’s death. Olivia is still despondent. Our family doctor tells me to be patient with her, but I fear she will never be the same.

  It had taken weeks for Olivia to regain her color and months before she smiled. The light in her eyes seemed as if it would never return. One day they received a letter from the commander of Horace’s unit. He expressed his sorrow and praised Horace, explaining briefly how he had sacrificed himself to save several others. At the end he wrote, “He always spoke of you and of how much he love
d you.”

  Learning about Horace’s bravery seemed to help Olivia recover. “He gave his life to protect all of us. It wouldn’t be right for us to forget that.” She made arrangements for a gold star, and she and Jane put it in the window, signifying for all who saw it that they had lost a family member.

  But a week later Olivia received a letter from Horace himself. It had been delayed in the mail, and his words of love and hope for the future sent Olivia back to her bed for days.

  Jane continued her letter to Mr. Weaver.

  I’m hoping to find things that will interest Olivia in life again. Mr. Dobbin comes to dinner every Sunday. He and Mrs. McGill spend the whole afternoon trying to make this apartment seem like a home with a family.

  The afternoons were partial successes. With Z.Z. as the center of attention, there was much laughter and warmth. But naturally, Jane could not mention him to Mr. Weaver.

  She concluded her letter, Please take utmost care. Yours, Jane.

  ****

  Months later, Olivia was still not the same. She spent many hours with Z.Z. in the victory garden across the street from their block of walk-ups, giving him fresh air while she pulled weeds. She went back to college, with the help of Mrs. McGill as stand-in babysitter. In the evenings, she worked at the factory. Other than her student teaching, which she loved, she had no interest in life, and Jane despaired that she would ever regain her sunny outlook.

  As the troops infiltrated Germany and the war effort showed results, worry about postwar economic disruption temporarily put the stock market on the defensive. Nervous and indecisive investors kept Jane busy in the office, and she had to write lengthy explanations to Mr. Weaver overseas. He wrote back that the newly created Office of War Mobilization and Reconversion intrigued him, and for Jane not to worry. He would be home to see to everything and relieve her of her burdens.

  A nagging question haunted Jane when it looked like the war would finally end. In contrast to the propaganda in the earlier war years that encouraged women to work outside their homes, new advertisements and articles in magazines started to remind women that once the war ended their places were in the home. Did Mr. Weaver consider her Rosie the Riveter? Did he think she was only talking to clients as his replacement while he was away but had no future in such an elevated position at his firm once he returned home? She only had the job she did now because of the war, she knew, and because he was away.

  Everything she read, however, reminded her that when the boys came home, the women should be willing to give up their jobs and go back to being wives and mothers, tending the family hearth. Jane bristled at the concept. She saw no future for herself in that.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Jane worked late on April 12, 1945. She had so much paperwork she could not leave her office until six-thirty. She expected to find the street outside empty, but instead she encountered dozens of people, standing in shock. The news was written on every tear-washed face—President Roosevelt was dead.

  All the way home she remembered his voice on the radio and the day she and Olivia stood in the pouring rain in October, watching his motorcade go by. It had seemed as if he would be president forever. Now it was nearly unbelievable that he was gone.

  The entire country grieved, and Olivia went back to her bed. She ate nothing for days, and Mrs. McGill sat vigil again, watching over her every moment, in case she tried to do herself more harm. At night, Jane was awakened by Olivia shouting for their father, the same way she did after he died. It seemed as if President Roosevelt had somehow become mixed up with him in Olivia’s mind.

  She had still not recovered when school ended less than a month later. She barely managed to finish her last papers for college, and refused to go to graduation. She had also lost more weight, and her once lustrous deep brown hair hung limp and knotted until Jane came to Olivia’s bedroom and picked up her hairbrush.

  “Sit up. I want to fix your hair.”

  “Why bother?” Olivia asked while Jane worked on her tangles. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  “You’ll feel better. You are a college graduate, you know, and you should be proud of that. You had to work very hard to achieve this.”

  “Maybe tomorrow.”

  Jane stood up, went to the closet, and took out Olivia’s best dress. “Put this on.”

  “Why?”

  “Just do it. And wash your face and put on some lip pomade.”

  Olivia lay back down on her bed and pulled the covers up. “I can’t.”

  “Would you do it for me? Please?”

  She watched as her sister got out of bed and went to the bathroom to wash up. When she returned to her room, Jane went out to the front door and motioned to the people waiting below.

  By the time Olivia came out of her room—dressed, Jane was relieved to see—the party was set up. She joined Mrs. McGill, Mr. Dobbin, and Z.Z. in shouting, “Surprise!” Mrs. McGill led Olivia over to the cake she’d spent a whole day—and many ration coupons—decorating with sugar roses. In the center of all the flowers, it said, “Congratulations, Olivia.”

  Olivia put on a smile, cut the cake, and accepted everyone’s best wishes. She thanked them all for coming and thinking of her. But after they left, she went right back to her bed. Even the news of the victory in Europe did not cheer her up for long.

  When Olivia’s friends began to return from Europe, they rushed to her door. The change in them was striking. When they left, in their immaculate new uniforms, they were attempting to hide the fear they felt. Now, upon their return, their youthful roundness had been replaced by a maturity and self-confidence that would have taken many more years to acquire otherwise.

  One young man, Henry, expressed shock upon seeing Olivia so gaunt and pale. Another, Sal, met him descending the steps and was told, “She’s not the same girl you dreamed about.” Sal seemed to be unwilling to believe it until he saw the truth for himself. Mrs. McGill, who saw the exchange, told Jane about it later. When he raised a hand to the door, he was greeted by the pathetic creature Olivia had become, in Mrs. McGill’s words. She said he nearly fled.

  Many of the boyfriends had known about Olivia’s feelings for Horace but had hoped they would change. In the past, she had truly enjoyed the other boys’ company, and there should have been at least one among them who would make her happy. But now, one by one, the potential suitors drifted away and did not return. Jane thought of pleading with them to wait, explaining that Olivia would recover, but she knew it would be futile. No right-thinking individual, long away in a terrible war, would put his life on hold, even for someone like the girl Olivia had been, who now gave no one any reason to hope.

  After VJ day, another boy, Martin, whom Jane had not met before, came to see Olivia. Jane watched as he approached her sister, waited for his inevitable shock upon seeing her and subsequent recognition that hope of a future with her was gone. Olivia barely nodded hello, as if she, too, was expecting the visit to be short. She halfheartedly gestured to the couch but made no move toward it herself.

  Martin plopped himself down and smiled at Olivia. Without waiting for her to ask, he mopped his brow and said, “It sure is hot out there today. I could use a glass of water, unless you have something stronger.”

  In her surprise, Olivia fetched him a drink. Where the other boys had immediately become solicitous of her, Martin was oblivious to Olivia’s despair. He did not even seem to notice that Olivia had not spoken a word.

  “I don’t recall meeting you before,” Jane said, hoping to fill the void.

  “Olivia and I know each other from college,” said Martin. “Although I guess she finished her education while I was away.” He leaned back and took a deep breath, which puffed out his chest. “Yes, we men made some big sacrifices, but Uncle Sam is going to do right by us now.”

  “Oh,” said Jane, when she realized Olivia was not about to open her mouth, “do you have a job lined up?”

  “Not yet. But there are jobs being held for the returning vet
s, and I’m going to get myself one.”

  “So you don’t plan to continue with your education?”

  “I’ve learned enough and waited long enough. It’s time to start my life.” He looked over at Olivia. “And find myself a wife. I’m going to make some lucky woman very happy.”

  Neither Jane nor Olivia said anything. Jane was trying hard not to laugh at this pompous boy, and Olivia did not indicate she had heard.

  “Where will you start looking for work?” Jane asked, after a suitable interval had passed and there was no longer a need to respond to the previous statement.

  “I’m going straight to the top,” said Martin. “I’m going to get a job to suit my qualifications. I’m going to live in a mansion someday, and have a driver and butler and maids. I’ll travel to Europe, this time not courtesy of the government, and I’ll buy anything I want.”

  Jane walked him to the door when he was ready to leave. That was about an hour after she was ready, but she had held up one side of the conversation so as not to be rude. “We would like to wish you well,” she said. She did not invite him to call again.

  But he called every evening, after his day spent job-hunting, and sat with Olivia until nine o’clock, telling her all about his dreams for the future. It did not seem to matter to Olivia that the dreams were pie-in-the-sky; she showed no sign of having heard him. He never seemed to notice.

  ****

  Early one morning in September, Jane sat at her desk, reading a newspaper filled with news of those returning from the Pacific. There had been joy throughout the country since Japan formally surrendered.

  The front door of the office opened, and Jane went to see who was there. She had not hired someone to fill her own position when she took over for Mr. Weaver, and so she personally greeted every arrival.

  An officer stood in the doorway, straight, lean, muscular, and more handsome than anyone Jane had ever seen. Thunderstruck, she realized it was Mr. Weaver and he was staring straight at her. In all the time she’d worked for him, she had never felt herself so drawn to him. The flame of determination in his eyes, which she had noticed before he left, now burned with passion.