The Memory of You

by Laurie Kellogg

  Matt analyzed the smooth, youthful face in the picture. He was a good-looking kid, but he looked nothing like Mac—or, uh, Matt. The boy’s soft face had perfect symmetry, whereas his had irregular, chiseled features.

  “This can’t be me. My hair’s a lot darker brown—at least what isn’t gray. On top of that, my nose is slightly crooked and broader. And there’s a big difference between the two sides of my face. Someone must’ve made a mistake.”

  The doctor took the picture and glanced back and forth between him and the photo. “He’s right, Major. He doesn’t look like this boy. Are you sure there wasn’t a mix-up?”

  “No. I thought the same thing, so I went back and had your ID double-checked. Your fingerprints are a match. You’re definitely Matthew Foster.”

  “Maybe someone else’s picture got stuck in my file.”

  Dr. Grant scrutinized the photo. “Mmm....no-o, I don’t think so. I see a resemblance in the eyes.” She tapped the three-by-five glossy. “You were probably a late bloomer.” She flipped through his medical chart. “The remodeling in your x-rays show half the bones in your face were fractured at one time or another. They’ve healed nicely, but I’m sure those skeletal changes could’ve altered your facial structure significantly.”

  The major studied the picture again. “Maturation alone could account for a lot of the difference. What you went through probably aged you faster than normal.”

  “If you didn’t have the evidence to prove it, I’d never believe I’m this Matt Foster guy.”

  The doctor sorted through the folder. “Matt, some people change a lot more than others as they age. Being twenty pounds underweight and that beard don’t help. And your bridgework probably changed the whole shape of your mouth.”

  It felt weird being called something other than Mac. “I guess it makes sense. What else do you know about me?”

  Doctor Grant glanced back at the file. “At the time of your capture, your parents lived in Texas.”

  That was odd. When Leonard had talked about his home in Philly, Matt had known a lot of details about the area. Having that in common with Leonard was partly why they’d grown so close—and why he’d requested to eventually be transferred to the Philadelphia VA hospital. “I would’ve sworn I grew up in Pennsylvania.”

  “Your records show you attended high school there, so you probably did. Your parents and sister may have moved while you were in college.”

  “Then I was right about having a sister. Is her name Abby?”

  “No. It’s Sheri. Does that bring anything back for you?” the doctor asked.

  Closing his eyes, he tried desperately to connect it all to a memory. After several moments, he tossed his hands up in frustration. “No.”

  “You also have a wife, Matt,” the major added. “Her name is Abigail. She lives in Pennsylvania.”

  Matt’s chest felt as if an armored tank had rolled over it. Great. He could just imagine his reunion with a wife who was a complete stranger. Hi, Honey, I’m home. Oh, and by the way, I don’t know who the hell you are.

  After so many years, she’d probably moved on with her life and wouldn’t even want him back. He gritted his teeth to steel himself. “Is she remarried?”

  Major Jensen pursed his lips. “It took the Army way too long to identify you as it was. We were in a hurry, so we didn’t get much information on her. She’s still receiving DIC benefits, so she has to be single. We haven’t notified her you’re alive yet.”

  The constriction in Matt’s chest increased. “Then please don’t.”

  The doctor squeezed his arm. “Why don’t you want her to know you survived?”

  “I-I don’t remember a thing about her. She’s lived under the assumption I’ve been dead for all these years. She’s had to make a new life for herself. Why should I disrupt it when I don’t even know what she looks like?”

  “She may help you remember.” The doctor laid his file on the table. “It’s her name that’s haunting you. She may be at the root of your amnesia.”

  Matt slanted a dubious look at the doctor. “How do you figure?”

  “It’s my theory your captors managed to kill all your hope. I think your subconscious repressed your past to escape the mental anguish of never seeing your wife again.”

  “Okay, so she may help me remember, but I don’t want to turn her life upside down by suddenly showing up. I could simply go take a peek at her. If she seems happy and nothing comes back to me, I don’t see the point of involving her in my problems.”

  The lines deepened around the major’s mouth. “Since your wife’s widow’s benefits will be rescinded, the Army will be forced to inform Mrs. Foster that you’re not deceased.”

  “Can’t you at least give me a little time?”

  The major hesitated a moment and nodded. “I suppose I can drag my heels a few weeks on submitting the paperwork, but that’s the best I can do.”

  A long breath hissed out of Matt at his reprieve. The military was good at moving slowly.

  “The army is releasing you with an honorable discharge,” the major continued. “I’m sure you’re eligible for some degree of disability compensation. Although, the VA will have to determine what percentage.”

  “I can’t imagine it’ll be much. My memory loss doesn’t affect my ability to work.” Unless, of course, someone offered him a job writing a book on the life and times of Matthew T. Foster.

  “I like your attitude.” The major clapped his hand on Matt’s shoulder.

  “So when do I get shipped stateside for release?”

  “Don’t you think you need a little more time here to readjust?” the doctor asked.

  “No way. I’ve already had over six years stolen from me.” He wanted out. The hospital was just a more humane prison. “Keeping me cooped up will only prolong my problem.”

  “You’re probably right.” The doctor smiled. “But the military has a responsibility to help you.”

  “I don’t need to be looked after like a two-year-old. I want to get a job and pick up the pieces of my life.”

  The doctor glanced at the major and shrugged. “Now that most of the POWs have been processed, I’ll be returning to the States the day after tomorrow. I suppose we could release the lieutenant with a provision to be readmitted if he experiences any difficulty. However,”—she turned to Matt—“you’ll need to be seen as an outpatient. You originally asked to be sent to the Philadelphia veteran’s hospital, which is where I’m normally assigned, so I can personally follow up with you and release you from there.”

  Major Jensen smiled at him. “Your initiative is admirable, Foster. You’ll do fine.”

  Once the major left, Matt flicked a glance at the doctor. “If the government cuts off my wife’s income, I guess I don’t have much choice but to go back and take care of her.”

  The doctor laughed. “You missed the bra burning, Matt. You’re not living in the fifties any longer. You do have a choice.”

  “Bra burning?” Why would a woman want to set her lingerie on fire?

  “A couple of years after you were captured, a group of feminists planned to burn their brassieres outside the Miss America pageant as a protest for equal rights. The cops wouldn’t allow them to start a fire on the Atlantic City boardwalk, so everyone threw their bras into a trashcan in a symbolic burning. That’s when some women began going braless.”

  No bras? Hot damn. Apparently a few things had changed for the better.

  “My point is women support themselves all the time these days. I suspect while you’ve been gone, your wife has become quite independent. The two of you are completely different people today than when you fell in love.”

  “What would you do if you suddenly found out you had a husband you hadn’t seen in over half a decade?”

  Anguish and indecision strained the doctor’s beautiful face. “Exactly what I did. My husband came home last fall after commanding a MASH unit for almost four years. We tried for a few months to save our marriage,
but it didn’t work. I’d become a doctor, and Jack came home toting a lot of the same problems other Vietnam vets share. We’d both changed too much. It’s why I wanted to work with the POWs being released.”

  “Maybe I should just drop my wife a note and wish her all the best in her new life.”

  “For the sake of your recovery, you should at least meet her.” Dr. Grant pursed her lips a moment. “Just remember, couples evolve together as a unit. You and Abby have been apart a long time, having different experiences. It’ll take time to readjust.”

  “That’s why I don’t see any reason to disrupt her life.”

  “Well, if you’re thinking about not visiting her, let me point out your wife’s home is less than an hour from Philadelphia in a small town called Redemption.”

  So he and Len had guessed right about him living in eastern Pennsylvania.

  “Redemption?” He snorted. “That’s definitely the town meant for me, don’t you think?” He closed his eyes as the image of a road sign flashed through his mind. “Welcome to Redemption, Pennsylvania—A stone’s throw from New Hope, less than two hours from Paradise.”

  “Huh?” Dr. Grant’s brow knitted.

  “Don’t ask me how I know it, but that’s what the town’s welcome sign says.”

  “There you go. You’re already remembering something.” The doctor smiled. “If I were you, Abby’s proximity would make me wonder if fate was trying to tell me something. It’s possible you really did have something special. Maybe it’s worth trying to get it back.”

  ~~~

  Wednesday, April 4, 1973

  Redemption, Pennsylvania

  How could she refuse him again?

  Abby Foster smoothed the figure-hugging skirt of her ebony cocktail dress while Robert opened the historic inn’s door. The floral scent from the lobby floated into the night with the melodic strains from the piano.

  Nobody could say Rob wasn’t romantic or persistent. But three proposals inside a year were a bit much. She wished he’d take her for a fast-food burger, instead. Then she wouldn’t feel so guilty when she turned him down—again.

  He slid her satin evening jacket off her shoulders and kissed the slope of her neck. “I love your dress. If you’ve gotten Mrs. Dalton’s to fit anything like you did yours—”

  “Don’t get me started on Helen Dalton’s gown,” Abby muttered, letting Rob guide her into the elegant dining room. They waited for the host to check Rob’s name on the reservation list. “I have to let out every damn seam. I swear, if she gains another ounce, I’m going to have you wire her jaw shut so she can’t eat until after her son’s wedding.”

  “So I take it you had a good day?” Rob teased, following the maitre d’ to a table near the rustic stone fireplace.

  She hoisted her eyebrows in a you-must-be-joking arch.

  “I’m sorry, Honey. As much as I’d love to help you out, it would be a clear case of malpractice—not to mention, I fitted Mrs. Dalton for a full set of dentures last year. So there’s nothing left to wire together.”

  “Okay, I’ll just break them.” She chuckled. “To top it off, the babysitter canceled at the last minute.” Abby sank into the upholstered chair the maitre d’ pulled out and smiled her thanks as he laid the menus on the table and left. “I’m just glad my brother is on leave and could stay with the boys.”

  “Not as glad as I am.” Rob rolled his eyes toward the restaurant’s beamed ceiling. “An evening with a couple of six-year-old chaperones isn’t my idea of a hot date.”

  “Pleease.” She laughed, spreading the napkin in her lap. “Tommy and Royce are my virtue’s last line of defense.”

  Robert’s clear hazel eyes searched her face. After several seconds, he apparently abandoned trying to come up with a diplomatic retort and blurted, “You’re a fraud, Abby.”

  “Well, thank you.”

  “I’m serious. That innocent Madonna façade you use to hold men at a distance is completely transparent. You think guys keep breaking up with you because you can’t give them their own children. That’s a load of bull.”

  She raised her menu to hide the flush creeping up her neck. “That’s easy for you to say. You don’t want a family.”

  “No, but I want you as my wife and in my bed.”

  She glanced around, thankful it was early and the nearby tables were still empty.

  “If having more kids is that important to you,” he continued, “I might consider adoption. The only reason those other guys bailed was because you weren’t willing to get serious.”

  “Get serious?” She sputtered softly. “Don’t you mean put out?”

  He shoved her menu down so he could look her in the eye. “Not necessarily. But, yeah, sex probably would’ve helped. When a relationship’s going somewhere, a couple usually takes it into the bedroom.”

  Apparently, at almost twenty-five she was still as big a dork as she’d been in high school when other girls were having sex and calling her a prude. She just couldn’t sleep with a guy unless she had strong feelings for him. And look where that had left her with Matt—pregnant and widowed at only eighteen.

  Robert took her hand. “Why are you still dating me, Abby? And your excuse that I’m not interested in having a family, doesn’t fly. There’re plenty of single dads out there who already have children and would be happy to have you as their kids’ mother.”

  She’d tried the whole Parents without Partners scene. Most single dads had at least a decade on her and were divorced—sometimes more than once. “There’s a good reason a lot of those men are alone. They’re deadbeats.”

  “Not all of them. Sometimes I think the only reason you’re still dating me is because I haven’t tried to drag you into the bedroom to exorcise your husband’s ghost. And believe me, I’d do it if I didn’t think you’d end up hating me.”

  “I’m sorry. I really do care for you, Rob.” At least as much as she was capable of caring for any man other than the one she’d loved and lost. Her real problem was she wanted Matt back.

  “Sorry doesn’t cut it anymore, Honey. I’m not some horny teenager who can be satisfied with a little foreplay forever,” he told her, alluding to all the times she’d made out with him and stroked him until he burst so she could continue to delay the inevitable and lighten her guilt.

  “I know that.” She squeezed his arm. “But I feel like I’m cheating on—”

  “Your husband is gone,” Rob insisted. “It isn’t healthy to keep fantasizing he survived. I understand it helped you cope when you were eighteen. But enough’s enough. Operation Homecoming is over. The last of the POWs came home over a week ago. Please admit he’s dead and marry me.”

  She knew in her heart Matt had most likely been killed. But she’d kept him alive, envisioning him at the dinner table with her and the boys and imagining him holding her at night. Everyone had insisted she was young and, in time, would forget Matt. However, after six years of reading his old letters and living with him in her imagination, her love had only grown deeper.

  “But they think the North Vietnamese still have prisoners they aren’t admitting to.”

  “The government declared your husband dead over six years ago.”

  Matt’s chopper had gone down on a classified mission so the military had refused to reveal where he’d died. All they’d told her was Matt’s dog tags had been recovered from the crash site among the men’s charred remains.

  Robert stabbed his fingers through his tawny hair. “What’s it going to take for you to accept he isn’t coming back?”

  She stared down at her rings sparkling in the candlelight and caught her lip between her teeth. “I don’t know.”

  “If I didn’t love you so damn much, I would’ve given up on you a year ago. Marry me, please.”

  How could she promise herself to Rob when she only wanted Matt? “I’m sorry I keep putting you off, but I just can’t sleep with you, feeling the—”

  “I know. I’ve tried to understand, but I’m tired of
waiting, Abby. Say yes, or I’ll have to move on.” Apparently, there was a limit to Rob’s patience.

  She had to stop living in denial, or she would lose him. Struggling to swallow, she whispered, “Let me think about it until after dinner.”

  While Rob ordered Maryland crab cakes and salads with champagne vinaigrette to start their meal, Abby’s mind wandered back to the evening her brother had brought Matt home during spring break.

  She’d been carefully setting the dining room table, making sure the silverware lined up the proper distance from the plate and the edge of the table.

  “Can I help?” an unfamiliar tenor asked.

  Abby spun toward the doorway where a Greek God dressed as one of Hell’s Angels leaned against the doorjamb, his arms crossed over his chest. A cigarette butt hung from his lip, its smoke curling around his head like a hazy halo.

  The chandelier accentuated the highlights in his short hazelnut hair, topping off over six-feet of muscles, the likes of which she hadn’t seen on a guy in....forever.

  Okay, play it cool. Don’t let him see what a big dork you are. “I don’t know,” she croaked, trying to work up enough spit to speak coherently. “Can you?”

  “Maybe. Sure you don’t want a ruler to double-check your precision?”

  “Do you have one handy?”

  He patted all of his pockets, then snapped his fingers and grinned. “Sorry, I’m fresh out of rulers. Although, my friends tell me I have a great eye for measurements.”

  She held her breath while the appreciative glint flickering in his hot fudge gaze warmed her from head to toe.

  “I’d say you have it all situated—perfectly. You must be Abby. I’m Matt Foster, a friend of your brother’s from ROTC.”

  “Oh, another maniac with a death wish.”

  He took her offered hand and held it, staring into her eyes while he stroked her palm, making her tremble. “Believe me, I enjoy breathing. When I graduated high school in ’62, Cuba and the Soviet Union were more of an issue than Vietnam.”

  “That’s true,” she admitted, yanking her hand away. No one had expected the situation to escalate there.