Calling Me Home

by Julie Kibler

  “You’re the girl I’ve waited for. I know it. I want to marry you.”

  He released one of my hands and reached his gloved finger to press it to my lips when I began to protest. “Not today,” he said. “When you’re ready. I’m not stupid—I know you don’t feel the same way. But you do care for me. We make a good team. I earn enough to buy us a nice little house—maybe with an extra room to start a family one day.”

  He couldn’t know those words were the worst he could say. A tear formed in the corner of my eye. It froze in place and stung my skin.

  “Think about it? Please, Isabelle?”

  I wanted to explain that marriage between us could never be anything but a mistake. But he was right. His thoughtful proposal deserved my careful consideration.

  We walked home in silence, as though it might be the last time we’d walk together.

  * * *

  MAX WAS STEADY, dependable. A good man. Handsome in a quiet way.

  I had great affection for him. But I didn’t love him. No matter his good points, I didn’t love him.

  I had loved Robert with my whole being, and that marriage had ended.

  Ultimately, I realized my heart was closed to love or marriage because I’d been tending a glimmer of hope that Robert would return for me. Some way, someday. Seeing Nell should have doused that glimmer. To think he might have fallen for another girl battered me. Like a hard-boiled egg slammed against a countertop on all sides, my heart was cracked and ragged.

  I left Mr. Bartel’s lab in early February, wind cracking around my uncovered ears. I’d forgotten to stuff my hat in my handbag that morning. After a few blocks, I ducked into a café. I knew I’d never make it home without filling up on hot coffee. The scent alone warmed me, rushing to greet me when I dragged the heavy door open against the wind.

  I waited at the counter, observing those seated at the café’s small tables. One couple shared a newspaper. The young man read over his girl’s shoulder. Occasionally, she’d nudge him away, as though he’d encroached on her space. Good-naturedly, he’d nudge her back but give her room. Eventually, he slid around to face her. A ring sparkled on her finger, but the flames between them seemed more like embers. They seemed content and happy to be embarking on life together. They seemed the best of friends. I saw Max and myself in them.

  At another table, a young woman crossed her arms and hugged herself, petulant lips poised to issue a sharp word. Her uniformed fellow leaned past her to chat with a man at an adjoining table. She was jealous. She didn’t want to share her beloved. Yet, when he turned briefly and slid his hand up her arm, she relaxed, dropping her hands into a calm lover’s knot in her lap. Now she watched him with admiration and obvious, fiery passion. I saw Robert and myself in them.

  Neither couple seemed right or wrong. They just were.

  It had been long months since I’d lost what mattered most—first Robert, and then our baby. I’d made it clear to Nell I was independent now, able to make my own decisions. If Robert had been going to seek me out, he would have done so by now.

  The metaphor played out by the couples in the café seemed clear. I could stay frozen in place, grieving my losses forever, or I could take steps to try move on, too. The answer seemed dictated by the signs around me.

  34

  Dorrie, Present Day

  MISS ISABELLE HAD awakened from her nap in the chair in an unusual mood—pensive, said the puzzle book. We were going to a funeral, so who wouldn’t be pensive? But this was something extra. I’d wanted her to let things rest for a bit, but she seemed driven now to finish her story, so I’d finished touching up her hair while she talked.

  I struggled to imagine Miss Isabelle giving up on her forever love. Hadn’t there been any other way she could have found Robert? How could she have given up on him? Given up on them? Had Max really been the best answer?

  But I knew how this turned out. I’d seen the photos at her house. It was kind of like a sad movie: You’d heard what happened—maybe you’d already watched it five times, so you knew what happened—but you kept hoping the end would be different.

  After I finished with Miss Isabelle’s hair, I changed clothes. I’d brought two nice outfits—one for the funeral service, and a pair of dress pants and a silky top Miss Isabelle had said would do for the visitation. I dressed, then fussed with the little fuzzies springing up all over my hair. It was time to see my own stylist, but obviously there wasn’t much I could do about this in Cincinnati.

  “Dorrie?” Miss Isabelle called across the room. “I haven’t been forthcoming about the details for this funeral.”

  No, she hadn’t. We’d established that. I kept going about my business, doing my best to make my fingers work the microscopic clasp on my necklace. I never wore much jewelry, but this was a special occasion—even if it wasn’t mine. I didn’t want her friends or family assuming I was some low-class companion she’d hired to drive her out to this funeral.

  “I’m nervous. And I don’t want you to think badly of me, but I have to tell you—”

  “What? You nervous? No way, young lady.” I squinted at her, trying to beam a little light into the conversation. She was making me nervous, too.

  “I’m serious now, Dorrie. You’re going to think I’m a horrible old lady.”

  “I’d never think you were a horrible old lady,” I said. “Well, maybe there was that one time, back when we met.” I chuckled. “But we got that straightened out.”

  “I may be the only white person at this funeral.”

  So. She’d finally spit it out. I can’t say I was shocked. I’d figured that all this remembering had to be going somewhere. In fact, I had a pretty good idea whose funeral we were attending, and I completely understood it was going to be difficult all around—for me, too, now that I knew the story. I hated how things had turned out for her and Robert.

  But nervous because she might be the only white person? I couldn’t help it. I snorted a little. Which I regretted when her face crumpled in on itself like I’d poked her with a sharp needle and let all the air out. She was serious.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to laugh.” I hurried over and squatted down next to the chair. I grabbed her hand and squeezed it. “Thank you for being honest with me, Miss Isabelle. I always appreciate that about you. But what are you afraid of? I mean, all anybody will think is how nice it is you’ve come for this funeral.”

  “I know, Dorrie. I just had to say it. I don’t want anyone to believe I’m some uppity white woman riding in on her white horse. I know it sounds ridiculous.”

  “But you were invited. Your friend knows you’re coming, right?” This worried me. I could see her point. If she showed up at this funeral unannounced, some people might be curious about her presence. And was she right? Might they even be offended?

  “Yes,” she said. I released my breath.

  “Well, that’s settled, then. Don’t worry.” I patted her hand and stretched up, groaning when my back muscles clenched into a little knot halfway up. All the standing I did every day wasn’t just hard on my feet; it killed my back, too. One of those massages the brochure on the nightstand mentioned sounded very tempting. But who was I kidding? Massages were on my to-do list for when I was rich and famous. Or maybe married again.

  Teague. I hadn’t thought of him for at least an hour. In fact, I’d only thought of him in snatches between worrying about my kid’s foolishness and Miss Isabelle’s sad history. But hearing that she’d likely given up on her one true love sent me into action. “Miss Isabelle. It’ll be fine. You’ll see. Do I have time for a phone call before we leave?”

  A tiny bloom of hope transformed her face. Maybe she saw something in mine that made her optimistic about my own seemingly hopeless situation. Who knew? Maybe she had a reason for telling me her story, besides explaining this funeral.

  I glanced around outside our room. A door led to a long, deep porch with lots of comfy chairs. I felt funny checking the door to see if it was unlocked, as if
I were in someone else’s house, doing things I wasn’t supposed to, but the innkeeper had told us to make ourselves at home. On the porch, I paced before hitting the speed dial code I’d set up for Teague a few weeks before.

  Voice mail.

  That was fine. More than fine, actually.

  “Hey, Teague. It’s me, Dorrie.” I paused, already feeling silly. “I just want to say I’ve been doing it all wrong. I don’t know if we can work this thing out, whatever it is, but I want you to know how much I appreciate you. I assumed you’d think the worst when you found out my kid went and did something dumb. In fact, maybe you’re freaking out right this minute, putting two and two together—and, yes, you’re getting the correct answer. But I didn’t even give you a chance. For that, I am truly sorry. I don’t have time for the whole story right now. I’m kind of getting on my knees here—even though I’m actually standing on a porch at a bed-and-breakfast—and begging for your patience. The next few days are about Miss Isabelle, about finishing this journey. Then, when I get home, it has to be about me dealing with my kid and figuring out whether we can salvage his life, clean up this mess, and move forward. But there’s something else … I really dig you. I really, really do. So. Will you be patient with me? Will you let me play this by ear for a while? I realized all this a few minutes ago—though I think it’s been in the back of my mind all along. Teague, I don’t want to lose you, whatever it is we—”

  Teague’s message system cut me off with another beep and I slapped the porch railing. I’d used up my allotted time. And that never happened unless you had something important to say.

  But I’d said what I needed to. For that moment. He’d get the gist, and hopefully … well, hopefully, he’d give me another chance.

  I said a silent thank-you to Miss Isabelle. Her story couldn’t have the ending I’d hoped it would, but if nothing else, it had shown me something important.

  When the right guy comes along? Don’t blow it.

  35

  Isabelle, 1941–1943

  I GAVE MAX an out. I told him he would not be my first, that I was not a virgin. He was not put off. He said I wouldn’t be his first, either, and it seemed fair and reasonable that we begin on level ground.

  Both my weddings were simple, quiet ceremonies. At the second, like the first, only four people were present. This time, it was me, Max, the justice of the peace, and my friend Charlotte, who took full credit—she’d invited me to the dances where we met. In the photos, she and Max beamed, as if they were the happy couple, whereas my face appeared pasted into a half smile.

  In the second, as with the first, I didn’t notify my parents. I’d proved I could live without their approval. Max’s parents lived hundreds of miles away. He telegrammed the news, saying he’d understand if they couldn’t attend.

  My attire was simple again, but the good dress I’d worn for my first wedding remained in my closet, the bittersweet dust of memory settling on the fabric, for I never brought myself to wear it again—nor to discard it.

  One wedding was in bitter January. The second was in late, bright spring.

  My mood had been spring the previous January, and was January that spring.

  Max brought me a plain gold band—though I thought of nothing but the symbolic thimble Sarah Day had provided. I still wondered what had become of it. Had Robert retrieved it, or in my haste to leave, had it been knocked under the bed and rolled into a crevice, where it still remained? Or perhaps the landlady used it now for sewing and mending, unaware of its significance.

  No warnings were spoken before Max and I exchanged vows. The justice glanced at our paperwork and pronounced us married. He’d wed countless couples by then who had met only weeks or even days before, but he was one of few who didn’t question why Max wasn’t shipping out, and he didn’t seem to care.

  As we left city hall, the crowd flowed around us without a glance. Nothing set us apart.

  Max had mortgaged a small house in a newer section of Cincy. One trip had transferred my still-meager possessions there before our wedding night.

  And that, our wedding night, was altogether different.

  I didn’t enter the house with anything like the fear I’d experienced the night Robert and I climbed the stairs toward our wedding chamber. I wasn’t afraid anyone might chase us down or deem the union unfit or illegal. I wasn’t afraid as Max took me gently in the modest bed he’d installed in our tiny master bedroom. I can’t say I was an enthusiastic bride. I was resigned to the act, and over time, I even enjoyed its mindless, numbing pleasure.

  I took care to avoid pregnancy, and Max agreed to a delay in starting a family. With the uncertainty of war and the newly recovering economy, I insisted we should hang on to our stable jobs and not even consider it until we’d established our home and accumulated a cushion of savings.

  It would have been fair to say outright I didn’t want children at all. I’d never shared my history with him, had never breathed a word about Robert. I hoped I’d never have to. The thought of another pregnancy terrified me—even without the possibility of someone tearing my child from my arms before I’d even had a chance to kiss her too tiny, too quiet lips goodbye. I also worried the fall had permanently damaged my womb. Perhaps I’d never carry a child to full term. I didn’t want to know. I couldn’t imagine seeing another newborn emerge from my loins without conjuring my daughter’s face—one I knew only in my imagination.

  The United States entered the war in December. It changed everyone. The bombing at Pearl Harbor, though far away in Hawaii, challenged the belief that our country was invincible. The news sent me to bed in tears. Max thought I wept because of the inevitability of war; he couldn’t have known I was weeping for Robert. I wondered whether Robert would survive now that we were really and truly at war, just in time for his departure if Nell’s information held true. Max attempted to soothe me when he came to bed, caressing my shoulder, trying to draw me close, but I turned away. I felt as unfaithful to Robert as ever.

  I worked fewer hours each month as Mr. Bartel’s business dropped in response to the inevitable tightening war brought. Max’s job as an accountant in an industrial supply firm was regular as clockwork. The war only increased demand for the goods his company produced. I cooked his breakfast each morning and packed his lunch box. He pecked me on the cheek, as though we’d already reached our silver anniversary, and waved as he walked toward the stop where a trolley bus would pick him up. We were saving for an automobile, but with fuel rationing, we wouldn’t hurry.

  On weekends, we still attended movies or went to concerts by local civic orchestras—though so many men had left for the war, the music was thin.

  I could see far into the future: Even at the war’s end, our life would continue as it already was, slow and steady, year after year, decade by decade.

  Max thrived on predictability. I withered inside. I cursed our dull utopia. Max wasn’t interested in conversation that kept my mind alive—there was no discussion of current events, popular fiction or the classics, music or film. I tried to draw him in, to lift him—as I began to view it, self-righteously—to my level. He seemed puzzled, but not overly frustrated by my attempts. He chuckled, insisting he really didn’t desire to look beyond the surface.

  He was a good husband, but for his inability to stir any wonder in me—wonder at who or what lay beneath his surface. After less than two years of marriage, I felt I knew him completely, and the knowledge could be poured into a single coffee cup. Conversely, he knew me little beyond realizing he’d married a woman who seemed to enjoy sparring for the sake of it. He took that in stride, like everything else, with an amused sense of pride.

  On a day like that, in 1943, Max strolled away to the bus stop. I spent my frustration on the innocent potatoes and carrots I peeled for our supper, on sweeping the porch, on trying not to explode in my desire to engage someone—anyone!—in conversation more stimulating than a discussion about the weather or the price of a dozen eggs. I turned to an unrul
y rosebush we’d planted the spring before. The country was deep in the war by then, and most of our gardening efforts went into growing lettuce, beans, and anything else we could cultivate to preserve commercial produce for the troops and cut transportation costs to move it. But we’d splurged on one rosebush for a barren corner of the front yard. We never expected it to be such a needy plant, however, forever demanding attention. If I wasn’t fighting mildew, it was time to fertilize. If I wasn’t fertilizing, I was pruning.

  It seemed an awful lot of work for a medium-size plant that hadn’t given much in return. A few buds had opened after we’d planted it, but mostly, it had remained dormant all summer, fall, and through the winter. I’d read that pruning it in the spring would encourage the prolific blooms I longed to see—perhaps they’d give me hope for more than just the rosebush.

  His voice came from behind me. “You were never great at trimming bushes.”

  I dropped the shears clutched between my bulky gloves and pulled my hands to my belly. I sank to my knees, my legs collapsing beneath me. I’d never expected to hear his voice again. But even after nearly four years, I’d have known it anywhere.

  I didn’t dare turn around. I wondered whether the sound had issued from my imagination, an illusion born of the images that still haunted me. Of course I would hear Robert’s voice as I pruned a bush, dreaming of the hours we’d spent grooming the arbor. Of course I would.

  I let my eyelids droop closed and sat still, commanding my mind to do it again.

  I heard throat-clearing, and I turned my head only enough to glance over my shoulder.

  Robert waited, resplendent, in military uniform. He held his sharply angled cap between his hands and moved it out a bit, jiggled an awkward greeting.

  Emotions flooded me, some directed at Robert, some simply at the situation: relief, shock, joy, fury, skepticism, hope, bitterness.

  Love.