It's You

by Jane Porter

  “It’s different. I don’t have memory issues.”

  “Well, neither do I.” I glance at my watch. It’s nine. Diana will already be in the shop. I should be there, too. I start towards the exit. “I’m sorry I can’t help—”

  “It wouldn’t kill you to do something for someone else,” Edie interrupts.

  I freeze in the doorway, my entire body stiffening until I feel hard and cold from the inside out.

  I blink, taken aback. “That was mean and uncalled for, and I am helping someone in need. Diana is in a jam—”

  “Flowers?” She snorts derisively, her blue eyes fierce, bright. “You’re telling me you can’t help Ruth because you have to muck about with flowers?”

  I should walk away now.

  I should.

  I should remember that Edie is ninety-four and counting.

  I should remember that my father is fond of her and she’s Craig’s great-aunt.

  I should remember she’s upset because she’s protective of Ruth and she thinks I’ve refused to help Ruth.

  But I don’t remember any of that because I’m so tired of trying to keep it together so that no one worries about me, or is troubled by my grief.

  And so I come swinging right back at Edie.

  “Maybe more people would help Ruth,” I say tightly, “if they didn’t have to deal with you.”

  And then I leave, walking quickly to my car. But I don’t feel better.

  I’ve just hit below the belt, and worse, I’ve hit a ninety-four-year-old lady.

  ELEVEN

  Edie

  I can’t sleep tonight. That McAdams girl has upset me. I shouldn’t let her upset me. She’s what? Twenty-eight? Twenty-nine? What does she know of the world? What does she know of life?

  It’s not easy, living. But it is what it is.

  It is what it is.

  For a long time I sit, and stare at the small framed etching of Rothenburg by Ernst Geissendörfer. I bought it in Germany on the trip with Ellie back in the late seventies. It was to replace the beautiful black-and-white etchings that Franz and I had bought for our home, following our honeymoon in Bavaria.

  Ernst’s original etchings were all black-and-white. This one is colored and quite pretty but it’s not as valuable, having been produced after the war.

  Looking at it, I think more of Ellie than Franz. I wish I’d been a better sister to Ellie. Perhaps if I’d been the younger sister I would have been a good sister. Perhaps I would have admired Ellie the way she always admired me.

  Or how she admired me until I married Franz. No one understood that. I’m still not sure anyone does. That’s why Ellie wanted me to publish my journals. She thought people should see. She thought people should know.

  But I’ve gone through them, the early journals and the later ones, from the last two years I kept during the war, and I don’t think they say anything that explains what was really happening. How could they? I was just a girl and couldn’t understand what was happening.

  Slowly I rise, and make my way to the small spare bedroom, turning on the light to look into the room I think of as my office. There’s a narrow twin bed against the wall, with an upholstered spread and bolsters, a simple oak desk that once belonged to Father, and a large closet filled with filing cabinets and stacked cardboard boxes that I have Chad and Craig vacuum for me once a month to keep from collecting dust.

  The boys are good like that, always happy to help me. Sometimes when they visit, we pull out photos and letters. We are a shell of a family. Ellie only ever had one child, and Elizabeth had just the two boys.

  They—Ellie and Elizabeth and the boys—were the reason I moved to California after the war. Well, Ellie was the reason. The others didn’t come along for years. But Ellie was working for the San Francisco Chronicle as a reporter and hoping to become a feature writer. She thought if she could write enough bylines she could maybe find work in New York, and then get into publishing.

  I couldn’t imagine returning to New York after the war. I couldn’t be anywhere that people might know me. I feared what they might say . . . both behind my back and to my face. I needed to be invisible. Anonymous.

  In California I could be.

  Almost right away I found work doing translation, and I did that for several years before earning a teaching credential and becoming a language teacher in Northern California schools.

  I liked teaching, even though I know the students weren’t always very fond of me. I know they complained that I assigned too much work, and had terribly high standards. I was also very strict and lacked a sense of humor. But I was there to teach, to help them succeed so they could get jobs and go to college and have a life that mattered. A life of meaning.

  Sliding open the louvered doors on the closet, I take in the stacked boxes with the neat ivory labels, each label typed, carefully identifying the contents.

  Baby Albums & Keepsakes 1920-1925

  Father’s Foreign Service 1925-1934

  Music Studies 1934-1939

  Berlin 1940-1944

  San Francisco 1944-1949

  Teaching I 1950-1964

  Teaching II 1965-1980

  Germany 1978

  There are more recent files, but those are all in the filing cabinet. Labeled, of course. Once I retired from teaching in 1981, I did a little bit of tutoring and some freelance translation work here and there, but I didn’t really want to work anymore. I had had enough teaching and translating. I was ready to return to my music. It was, after all, my first passion, and next to Franz, my one true love.

  Each box has letters and papers, photos and souvenirs from the time period. I am not a hoarder but I have compulsively collected cards and letters, along with playbills, ticket stubs, and even the paper slips from Chinese fortune cookies.

  I don’t know why I’ve kept everything. Maybe it’s because I don’t have children, who would be a living legacy. Instead, everything is organized here, preserved for . . . what?

  Perhaps it’s time to edit some of these items. Consolidate. These old envelope boxes I use for storage could be crushed and recycled. There’s no point in saving items no one will ever want to look at.

  Studying the labeled boxes I know which ones I could easily discard. The boxes from the teaching years. The box of translation work. Even the trip in 1978—although maybe my grandnephews might want a few of the photos since I went with their grandmother—could go.

  It would be harder for me to throw out the boxes from the war. In fact, I know I couldn’t, not unless I saved the journals as they are all I have of Franz.

  I reach for the box labeled Music Studies, and carry it to the oak desk. I sit down and lift the lid, and draw out the leather diary hidden beneath the bundles of letters, each stack tied with string.

  I don’t look at this diary often. I was so young when I started it. A seventeen-year-old girl who’d only just graduated from high school.

  Flipping through the first twenty pages, I skip most of the entries about my boyfriend Patrick, the Harvard Law student who proposed Valentine’s Day 1937. My parents were upset—I was far too young to think of marriage—and would only give their blessing if I promised to follow through with my music studies in Germany at the Hoch, where I’d been accepted for a certificate in music and composition.

  Initially Patrick didn’t have an issue with me spending a year abroad, but his attitude changed as my departure approached.

  I stop turning pages and read.

  June 6, 1937

  Patrick and I quarreled terribly last night. I cried all night. He and I have had disagreements before but never like this. He doesn’t think I should go abroad to study music next year. He doesn’t think it’s essential, especially in light of the growing tensions in Europe.

  June 7, 1937

  Mother keeps asking if everything is fine. Apparently I’m not myself. I tell her everything is wonderful and then spend the next hour at the piano playing the most melancholic music imaginable.

/>   June 8, 1937

  Spent so long at the piano that Father finally asked me to cease and desist with the funeral hymns. I told him they weren’t funeral hymns but requiems.

  June 9, 1937

  Mother wonders when Patrick will call or come by. I promptly burst into tears as I am wondering the same thing.

  June 10, 1937

  Patrick showed up this afternoon. At first he was so very stern and grave that I was certain he’d come to break off the engagement. He asked to see my hand and I was shaking, thinking he was about to take the ring back. Instead he lifted my hand to his lips, kissing it most tenderly. He said he loves me very much and believes in his heart that we are meant to be together, but he feels my parents have given me too much freedom and independence. If our marriage is to work, then we must learn to yield and compromise. I was so happy to sit with him on the couch, to feel his arm around me and be showered with kisses that he could have said anything . . . but now I can’t help worrying that when he says we must learn to yield and compromise that he actually means me.

  June 13, 1937

  Patrick and I went for a walk this evening once it’d cooled down, and everything was pleasant until he remarked that his father says I am obviously attractive and intelligent, but he’s concerned I might be “overeducated.” (!!) He said his father found me a bit too lively. I’m aghast. I fully expected Patrick to defend me but he agrees with his father that I have not been given enough discipline and direction. (!!!) I couldn’t respond. I was close to tears the entire walk home and didn’t trust myself to speak, lest I broke down.

  June 14, 1937

  Father and I had a long talk this morning about Patrick and Mr. McDougal. Father doesn’t seem particularly surprised by Mr. McDougal’s opinions, and has said for me not to judge him too severely, as Mr. McDougal hasn’t had the luxury of travel and higher education, and might not place the same value on music and the arts, either.

  This gave me much to think about.

  I could give up books and the theater but I couldn’t ever give up my music.

  June 15, 1937

  Father, Mother, and I have been trying to decide the best date for sailing, and we’ve decided that we should try to book a one-way passage for me for late July or early August. If Father comes with me, we’d probably sail on the Washington on July 27th so he could see his friends in Vienna at the embassy. If Mother accompanies me, we’d leave early August so she could see Ellie settled into her summer camp. Ellie doesn’t want to go to summer camp but Mother isn’t about to leave her to her own devices for all of August. Ellie has become a terrible flirt. Everyone comments on her beauty and she hasn’t even yet turned fifteen.

  June 16, 1937

  Patrick came over this afternoon while Mother was on the phone with the travel agent, inquiring about availability on one of the USL ships. She’d been on the phone quite a long time, as it seems we’ve put off booking our passage until rather late in the season. But Mother is very good at dealing with travel agents and such, after all the years overseas, married to a member of the Foreign Service, and of course there are options, just not the options Mother wanted.

  Patrick is there with me as Mother jots down fares and sailing dates for the Washington and Manhattan. The Roosevelt and Harding have nothing but Third Class, which we wouldn’t take. Father isn’t particularly fussy but he does like to be comfortable when traveling, particularly crossing the Atlantic.

  It’s not until Mother leaves to the kitchen to go consult with Father about the options that I realize Patrick is in a state.

  He’d thought I’d given up the idea of studying abroad. He thought we were in agreement about the future. I told him we are—we’ve agreed to marry next year, after he finishes law school. Yes, he answered, but that plan doesn’t include me going away.

  He left after giving me an ultimatum. It’s him, or Hamburg. I can’t have both.

  June 19, 1937

  I cried all night. Mother says to give Patrick time. He just needs to calm down. Father says that I should listen to Mother. She is Mother and knows. But then later he pulls me aside and tells me that regardless of what happens, it’s better to have this happen now, than later. The whole point of a long engagement is for people to discover if they are truly compatible before they marry.

  Father means well but I feel worse.

  June 20, 1937

  Patrick came over tonight. He was cool, almost aloof in the beginning, so I swallowed my pride and told Patrick I was sorry for the fight and hoped we could put it behind us. He visibly thawed and kissed me, saying I’d given him a great deal to think about but he was relieved that I’d “come round,” saying that it was important to him that I respect him and could yield to his leadership, as a horse can’t have two heads, and a car can’t have two drivers, and so on.

  That’s when I realized he thought I’d given up on going to study abroad.

  He looked so happy and had become so affectionate that I dreaded telling him the truth because I knew the moment I did, it would ruin everything.

  I don’t even remember how I told him. I just did. Very fast.

  He held his hand out for the ring and he left. I don’t think he even said good-bye. This time I know he won’t be back. Not unless I abandon my studies and go crawling back to him to beg forgiveness.

  And I won’t do that.

  June 21, 1937

  Ellie was the one who first noticed that I’m no longer wearing my ring. She was pestering me with questions that I wouldn’t answer. Mother finally told her to leave me alone.

  June 23, 1937

  I’d always thought Mother liked Patrick a great deal, but the fact that Patrick would demand I give up my music infuriates her. “But you gave up your music for Father,” I remind her.

  “But he never asked me to,” she answered.

  June 27, 1937

  Father is glad the engagement has ended. He says I’m far too young to marry, and even if I were ten years older, Patrick wouldn’t be the right one.

  Father also said that he’d vowed to not interfere in Patrick’s and my relationship since his parents had interfered in his (Had they? That was news to me!), but since Patrick and I aren’t together anymore he feels at liberty to say that educated women are far more interesting than uneducated women and he would view his life as a failure if Ellie and I should turn out to be dependent, weak-minded young women.

  I burst into tears. I have the best father in the world.

  July 1, 1937

  We’ve booked the last Cabin Class room on the Manhattan’s July 13th sailing.

  It’s finally been decided that it’s Mother accompanying me, not Father. I can’t say anything to them, but I’m secretly disappointed. I have far more fun with Father. And he doesn’t get migraines.

  July 3, 1937

  The radio news broadcast tonight said that Amelia Earhart is missing. It’s been twenty-four hours since anyone has heard from her. She was supposed to have landed for refueling. Instead she’s disappeared over the Pacific. So sad.

  July 4, 1937

  The search is underway to locate Amelia and her plane. There is still a good chance she could be alive . . . or at least, that’s what Mother and I were saying before Father said he thought it most unlikely, considering the location of the island and the wide expanse of sea.

  Tonight the entire family attended a picnic and outdoor concert at Iona in honor of the nation’s birthday. Patrick McDougal was there. He pretended I wasn’t there.

  It’s after two now and I can’t sleep but I refuse to cry. He’s not worth it. He’s not.

  July 12, 1937

  We leave tomorrow. Can’t wait. I am so ready to leave all of this behind.

  Patrick dropped by tonight to say good-bye. I was shocked to see him here and everyone quickly found other things to do so he and I could be alone. He didn’t stay long and he was oddly formal and aloof while here, but just before he left, he kissed my cheek and told me to be careful. Perhaps
I’m imagining it, or only wanting to imagine it, but as he leaned in to kiss me, I thought he looked quite sad.

  July 13, 1937

  On the ship and settled into our room. The luggage was here when we arrived and our butler introduced himself. I think he’s Greek. Mother thinks he might be Turkish or Croatian. Both of us agree that he’s quite handsome, as well as most out of bounds. Mother doesn’t need to worry about me falling for a handsome foreigner. I’ve had enough of men. I’m ready to focus on my music studies.

  July 14, 1937

  Being at sea makes me think of Amelia Earhart. There has still been no sign of her plane, but now that we are in the middle of the ocean with just water, water everywhere, I can’t imagine how one would ever find her plane. It’s so morbid but I find myself wondering if she was even aware she was in trouble . . . did she know she was going to crash? Did she try to save herself at all . . . ?

  I don’t like these thoughts. They are not cheerful at all, but I don’t feel cheerful when I think about poor Amelia and selfish Patrick and how very disappointing life can be.

  July 15, 1937

  Mother and I spent the day reading in deck chairs and then came in to dress for dinner. It was a lovely dinner, too, and Mother was in such good spirits. She seems so gay on this trip, as if she’s just a girl and not a forty-year-old mother of two.

  July 16, 1937

  Can’t write much, far too seasick. We were woken in the night by the groaning and rocking of the ship. Even this morning it continues to list. Our cabin steward said it is quite normal and Mother puts on a brave face, but I think even she is a little afraid.

  July 17, 1937

  Thank goodness it’s just a six-day crossing. The weather is terrible and the ship is rocking so much that if the furniture weren’t fastened to the floor, everything would be flying across the room.

  Mother and I spent most of yesterday in bed, but because our cabin is in the middle of the ship, we are mostly queasy but not as violently ill as some.