Back in her time

by Patricia Corbett Bowman

  “Mom? Why?” asked Taylor.

  “Now, Junior, you’ve had enough excitement for one day. There’s some pretty bossy nurses around here and if they notice we’ve been in here too long, they’ll throw us out.” Pops patted Taylor’s shoulder gently and signalled for the others to leave.

  “We’re in town for a couple of days, Junior. We’ll catch you later,” said Mac as they filed out of the room.

  Taylor leaned back against her pillows. She was tired. Getting shot took a lot out of you. She closed her eyes, wondering what her mother knew about Reid.

  * * *

  Margaret was sitting in the chair beside her bed when Taylor opened her eyes.

  “Mom. How long’ve you been here? I want to talk to you. Why didn’t you say something and wake me up?”

  “You need your rest, Miss Heroine. Everyone stops and talks to me about you and how courageous you were.” Margaret smiled as she handed Taylor a brown, wrapped package tied up with yellowed string. “Happy birthday, eighteen-year-old.”

  “It’s my birthday? I didn’t even know the date. What’s in here?”

  “Something your grandfather said I should have given to you a long time ago.”

  Taylor looked puzzled, but tore at the string and paper. Inside were some old pictures, a small bound book marked, “Canadian Army, Soldier’s Service and Pay Book,” and some official-looking papers marked “Province of Ontario.” Taylor handled the papers first. “My adoption papers?”

  Margaret pointed to some words on the yellowing paper: “Mother, Diane Lynda Reid, age fifteen, freely gives up all rights …”

  “It was Reid!” Taylor beamed at her mother.

  “You knew about this?”

  “No, the name. I knew in my heart I was a Reid.”

  “You looked through this stuff hidden at Uncle Eddie’s?”

  “No, Mom. I didn’t. It’s a long story. Someday maybe I’ll explain it. What’s this other stuff?”

  “Your biological mother left a letter and some family mementos for you.” Margaret leaned over and fingered the snapshots. “Here are some of her grandfather, your great grandfather, who served in Italy in the Second World War. My father served in Italy, too, you know.”

  “I know. Mom, this is so great. Thanks for keeping this stuff for me. You don’t know how I’ve wanted to see it.”

  “Well, you certainly are excited about it.”

  “Mom, would you really mind? I’d kind of like to see what all’s here. Alone.”

  “I knew this time would come. It’s all yours. I need a coffee anyway.” Margaret left.

  Taylor paused momentarily and then picked up the pictures first. There was Reid, her great-grandfather, looking so much like Taylor that she shuddered. On the back of the black and white photograph, so similar in size to the ones Taylor had found in Pops’s attic, was written, “Grandpa Reid, Sept. 1945.” Reid smiled up at the camera, squinting into the sun, probably. He was sitting on a chair on an expanse of lawn.

  A hospital? Wouldn’t he be convalescing from the wound in September? What’s this one? I don’t know these soldiers. Wait, that corporal that was going to take me back to the Highlanders. This is him. Reid must have been reunited with his platoon. Maybe he got his memory back.

  The other pictures were meaningless to Taylor. She didn’t recognize any of the places. She guessed they were overseas. In one picture, Reid was being pushed in an old-fashioned wheelchair by a young nurse who looked like Nurse Alma, but the picture was blurry. I’m glad my birth mother put these in here. It explains so much about why I was back in Reid’s time and Alma and her handkerchief. Taylor put the pictures aside and carefully tore open the sealed envelope that was made out to Baby Reid, from Diane Reid. Inside was a letter.

  May 31

  My Dearest Baby,

  This is a very difficult letter to write to you. I wish I could be there to tell you this when you are of age. I am giving you up for adoption because my family will not let me keep you. Please understand that I want to keep you very much but my family convinced me not to. I still have to finish high school, and my family wants me to go on to university. I’d like to be a history teacher. I have always been interested in the past, especially World War II. I love the stories, especially of my grandfather during the war, and of how he won a medal and lost his memory and met my grandmother. Since I can’t be with you I have enclosed some pictures of myself and some of your great-grandfather. Maybe you will inherit my love of history.

  As for your father, he is a year older than me, aged 16. He and his family moved away soon after I started to show. He didn’t leave a forwarding address, I am sorry to say. His name is Ethan Johnson. We are very much in love but our parents say we are too young. I put in a picture of him and me that we took in a booth at the C.N.E.

  If ever you want to get in touch with me, I would be glad to meet you. If you cannot forgive me for giving you up then I understand. I will contact you on your eighteenth birthday, if I can.

  I hope your adopted family gives you a good home. They were chosen especially because your grandfather knew my grandfather during the war and kept in touch.

  Please know that I love you and I will think of you every day. I will always be your mother,

  With all my love, forever, Diane Reid

  Putting down the letter, Taylor sat still. Pops made the arrangements. He never told me any of this. My birth mother was three years younger than I am right now when I was born. Wow. I can’t imagine being a mother even at eighteen. It must have been awful for them when both sets of parents were against it.

  I wonder if she’ll try to get in touch with me now? I would like to see what happened to her. I’m kind of curious, because she liked history, especially the Second World War. I would love to talk to her and tell her my story about the war. Would she believe it? Let’s see — how old would she be right now? Eighteen plus fifteen — thirty-three. Wow, she’s years younger than Mom. I’ll think about this. Right now everyone tells me my job is to get better. Hell, Mr. Hardie is arranging for a teacher to come to the house when I go home so I don’t lose my year. Would Diane like to know I’m thinking about going to university now to take history? Where’s this picture of her and my father?

  * * *

  “Taylor, can you get the door? I’m up to my elbows in flour,” said Margaret.

  “Got it.” Taylor treaded slowly to the door and opened it to Kyla and a woman who looked a lot like her.

  “Hi,” said Kyla. “Your mom said it was okay for us to drop in this afternoon.”

  “Sure, come in!” Taylor led the women into the very neat living room that her mother had been cleaning daily. Now that Margaret wasn’t drinking, she was always doing something around the house.

  “I’m Kyla’s mom. Is your mom home?” asked the woman.

  “Oh, sorry, Taylor. This is my mom, Carol Thompson.”

  “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Thompson.” They shook hands.

  “I’ll go tell my mom you’re here. Have a seat.”

  Margaret hurried into the living room, wiping her wet hands on a towel. “Sorry, I’m baking. So nice of you to come.” Margaret reached for one of Kyla’s hands. “It’s so good to see you again. I can’t thank you enough, Kyla, for staying with Taylor and giving her first aid. She could have bled to death if you hadn’t been there.”

  “You’re welcome, Mrs. Wilson. I am so glad I could help. This is my mother, Carol.”

  Margaret put out her hand to shake Carol’s. “Nice to meet you in person after talking to you on the phone. Have I told you you’ve raised a lovely daughter? I’m sure you’re as proud of her as I am of Taylor.”

  Carol smiled and turned to Taylor. “Taylor, I’m sure by now you’ve figured out who we are.”

  “You mean our relationship? Yeah, I knew when I received the package on my birthday. Let m
e see if I have it right. You’re a close relative of Diane Reid, my birth mother. Are you her sister?”

  Carol nodded.

  “You and Kyla even look like her from the pictures she sent. So Kyla and I are first cousins, right?”

  Kyla nodded her head solemnly.

  Margaret glanced from Carol to Kyla. “How long has Kyla known?”

  “Mom just told me after the … shooting how Taylor was adopted.”

  “So, when do I get to meet Diane?” Taylor beamed, looking back and forth at the women.

  Carol answered, “She lives in Ottawa. She asked us to find out if you want to see her. She’d love to meet you. She’s been waiting eighteen years for this, Taylor.”

  “Tell her yes. Soon. Mom, do you mind? I’m sorry, I haven’t thought about how you’d feel.”

  “I knew this day would come, too, Taylor. I’d like to meet her to thank her for giving me a gift that I didn’t cherish enough.”

  Taylor said, “It’s okay, Mom; you had your own problems. Tell me about her, Mrs. Thompson.”

  “Call me Aunt Carol. She’s a wonderful person, Taylor. She’s a part-time history professor in Ottawa, is happily married, and has one child, a daughter, Helen — your half-sister. She’ll fly down as soon as I say. Her husband is very supportive.”

  Taylor clicked her absent tongue stud, looked down at her tattooed fingers and covered one hand over the other. “Give me another week. I have to see my surgeon tomorrow about having something removed.”

  “Didn’t they get out all the bullet fragments?” asked Kyla.

  “They did, but they didn’t get out all of the evil.” Taylor grinned at her puzzled guests. Margaret smiled knowingly.

  About the Author

  Patricia Corbett Bowman was born in Toronto, graduated from the University of Western Ontario, and lived in London, Ontario, where she taught elementary school for many years. She loves the outdoors and lived for several years in cottage country near Burks Falls in the East Parry Sound Region. Presently, she and her husband reside in North Vancouver to be near their daughter and family. She winters in Florida.

  Patricia’s other publications include short stories and articles in magazines and local newspapers. She writes articles about life in Florida for her local community, enjoys golfing, quilting, and visits to the gym. Patricia has also written a couple of children’s novels and several short stories that she plans to publish one day.