“It was not his nickname!” I snapped, angry now. “He deserves to be on that wall!”
“I’m sorry, miss,” the ranger said calmly. “This happens sometimes. You think you have the correct information, but—”
“Who do I contact about this?” I asked. “How do I make this right?”
She stared at me for a moment. Then she gave me a brochure about the wall, circling an email address at the bottom of the last page. “Try contacting them,” she said. “I’m sorry we didn’t have any better luck.”
I left the kiosk, heartsick, and headed back toward the wall. This was so wrong. I would do whatever it took to get Joe’s name up there where it belonged.
I walked the length of the memorial again, thinking I would keep walking until I reached my hotel. I needed to work off my anger and disappointment. This time, I didn’t even glance at the wall or the thousands of names or the reflection of myself as I walked. I was too upset.
“Miss!”
I turned to see the ranger coming toward me at a trot. I stopped walking and she caught up to me, a slip of paper in her hand.
“I think I found him,” she said. “He’s not on the wall because he wasn’t killed.”
“But he was,” I said.
She shook her head, handing me the paper. “He was a POW,” she said. “Prisoner of war. He came home in February of ’73.”
I stared at the paper where she’d written Joseph M. Sears, POW, 2/12/1973 and my knees threatened to buckle. I grabbed her arm.
“Miss?” she asked. “Are you all right?”
“This is impossible,” I said, letting go of her arm, testing my balance to be sure I wasn’t going to keel over. “They told us—my family, I mean—that he was killed.”
She nodded in sympathy. “Every once in a while, there’s a mistake,” the ranger said matter-of-factly. “It’s rare, but it happens. I checked another source to verify this information, though. He definitely came back in ’73.” Her expression turned quizzical. “I wonder how come you didn’t know that?” she asked.
“I … I don’t know,” I said. My mind was racing too quickly to come up with a lie. Joe came home? He came home?
“I guess it’s possible no one knew, if he kept to himself,” the woman mused. “Some of those guys were in pretty rough shape after spending years as POWs and each of them had to find a way to deal with what happened to them. Maybe that’s your uncle’s story. Maybe he … moved away, or…”
I wasn’t listening. Muttering my thanks, I turned and continued walking past the wall, then along the sidewalk, and then all the way to Union Station. It took me an hour, but I was so lost in thought that I didn’t notice the time. All I knew was that I needed to get back to Summit. Back to my little room with the picture of Joanna and me on the dresser. Back where I would burrow into my now familiar narrow bed and figure out what I needed to do next.
Waiting for the train, I wanted nothing more than to go home. Home to 1970. Home to Patti and Hunter. Home where I would wait for two and a half years with a frightened but full heart, knowing Joe would be coming back to us. Back to me. He would need me. Some of those guys were in pretty rough shape, the ranger had said.
What had he gone through? What was he still going through in 1970? Were they torturing him? Was he injured? He was suffering greatly, of that I had no doubt. It broke my heart to imagine. And yet … and yet he’d lived. He’d lived to come home.
I remembered that TV interview Joe and I had seen with a young soldier who’d been a prisoner of war in South Vietnam. He’d lived in a cage. Had been fed only rice. He’d alluded to torture so terrible he couldn’t talk about it. I began to cry as I waited in line for the train, ignoring the glances of the people around me. Joe had turned off the interview, reassuring me that he’d be fine. He’d be nowhere near the fighting, he said.
A few weeks later, he was dead.
Only he wasn’t.
I thought of Joanna. Our beautiful little girl. She was a self-confident child, far more so than I had been at twelve. Bright and cheerful. She was loved and treasured by her family. And she was loved and treasured by me, however quietly. However secretly.
But she didn’t need me. Not the way Joe would.
How high, I wondered, was the tree house in Joanna’s yard?
56
“I’m furious with you!” Myra said as soon as I identified myself on the phone. It was nearly eleven o’clock Monday night and I was back at the Sleeping Dog Inn, sitting cross-legged on my bed. “Beyond furious!” she shouted. “You abused my trust, Caroline, as well as Hunter’s. You abused Temporal Solutions. Where the hell are you? What have you been doing?”
I wouldn’t let her intimidate me. “I’m in New Jersey,” I said. “I had to find my daughter. I had to know what had become of her.”
She said nothing and I imagined her mind was reeling.
“Are you still there?” I asked. I was afraid of her hanging up on me. I needed her.
“I told you what became of your daughter,” she said. “She was adopted. That was all you needed to know.”
“Maybe that would have been all you needed, but I needed more,” I said. “I needed to see for myself that she was fine.”
“And?”
“She is. She’s better than fine.” I wondered if she heard the crack in my voice on the last word.
“Have you … you didn’t interact with her, did you?”
“Yes.”
Again that silence. I bit my lip, waiting.
“Mistake,” she said.
“No, it’s been all right,” I assured her. “It’s been good. Wonderful, actually.”
“I should never have taken you on in the first place. Hunter should have known better than to send you to me. I should have sent you right back to 1970. Let nature take its course with your baby.”
I sucked in my breath. “How can you say that?” I asked. “She’s a beautiful, bright girl with a tremendous future ahead of her, and she only exists because you helped me.”
She ignored my statement. “What do you want from me now?” She sounded suddenly tired.
“I want to go back to 1970.”
“Well, finally!” Myra said. “That I will gladly help you do. That and only that. You need to go back to 1970 and stay there where you belong. Do you know of a stepping-off place?”
“Possibly,” I said. “It’s not over water, though, and—”
“Screw the water!” she snapped. “Where’s the place?”
“It’s a tree house.”
“A tree house! Well, that’s a first. How high is it?”
“I don’t know exactly, but I think the second story is at least sixteen feet.”
“Measure it to be sure.”
“I will.”
“I’ll need the exact location,” Myra said. “Where is it? I’ll have to be able to find it on the satellite map for you to be able to use it.”
I remembered seeing Joanna’s yard on the satellite map when I was first looking for her house. I didn’t remember seeing a tree house at that time, but I hadn’t been looking for one, either.
“The address is 477 Rosewood Court in Summit, New Jersey,” I said.
“How did you ever find her address?” she asked.
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Let me pull up the satellite while I have you.”
I waited. I could hear the click of her computer keys.
“Hmm, I don’t see … Ah, maybe that’s it? In the southeast corner of the yard?”
“Yes,” I said, relieved.
“All right,” she said. “I’ll work out the coordinates and look for portals. You want to go to Nags Head, correct?”
“Yes. Jockey’s Ridge.”
“When can you measure the height of the tree house?”
“Tomorrow night,” I said. I would find a way to do it while I babysat. “And if you could make it—the travel—in a couple of weeks, that would be ideal.” I wasn’t ready to walk a
way from my daughter. Not yet.
She paid no attention to my request. “If you discover it’s not at least sixteen feet above the ground,” she said, “let me know right away.”
“All right,” I said. “And thank you.”
She hung up without another word.
57
I bought a yardstick at a downtown hardware store the following morning. I thought Joanna and I could use it as some sort of training tool with the dogs when I babysat tonight and that would give me an excuse for bringing it along with me. The Van Dykes surely had a tape measure somewhere, but I didn’t want to have to dig around for one. I would wait until Joanna was asleep, then slip outside and measure the height of the tree house as accurately as I could with the yardstick. I played the plan out over and over in my mind.
At two o’clock, though, my plan fell apart when Michelle called to tell me they’d decided to go to a “family friendly” movie, so they wouldn’t need a sitter.
“I’m so sorry to call you at the last minute like this,” she apologized. “We didn’t realize this movie was still playing, and Joanna’s been dying to see it.”
I waited a couple of seconds, hoping she’d invite me to join them, but it was clear that was not her intention. You are not a part of this family, I reminded myself.
“I’ll still pay you, of course,” she said.
“No, no,” I said quickly. “It’s no problem. Enjoy the movie.” I was disappointed I wouldn’t be able to see Joanna tonight, but the change of plans would make measuring the height of the tree house easier, since no one would be home.
Figuring the movie would start around seven o’clock, I left the inn at six forty-five, Poppy at my side. It was still light enough—barely—for me to see where I was going, but that would quickly change and I carried a flashlight in my purse and the yardstick over my shoulder. By the time I reached 477 Rosewood Court, I needed the flashlight to illuminate my path up the driveway. Opening the gate to the dark backyard, I winced when it let out a squeak, hoping no neighbors would see my light and wonder who was snooping around the Van Dykes’ house.
I let Poppy off the leash and she immediately sped to the back door, barking her head off, looking for Jobs, I supposed. I probably should have left her at the inn; she was only going to be in my way here. I called her to my side and to my surprise, she fell into a heel next to me. I’d trained her better than I thought in my short time in Summit. Illuminating my way across the yard with the flashlight, I reached the tree house where I put Poppy on a down-stay. I set the yardstick against the tree and measured the height from the ground to the first story as carefully as I could, then I climbed the stairs and measured the height from the floor of the first story to the ceiling before ascending the circular stairway. On the deck of the second story, I measured the height of the railing. Nineteen feet, almost exactly. Pulling my phone from my jeans pocket, I texted 19′1″ to Myra.
Almost instantly, my phone chirped. Excellent, she wrote.
I put away my phone, then shined the flashlight toward the ground where Poppy was now standing. She looked up at me, tail spinning through the air in crazy circles, tongue hanging out. I gulped at how small she seemed. How far away. It was a long way down there, with no water below to catch me if something went wrong. Maybe this was a mistake. Maybe I should search for a bridge over water somewhere.
I was halfway down the stairs when Poppy suddenly swung her head toward the house and I heard the slamming of car doors. Damn. It had never occurred to me that they might have gone to an earlier movie. Quickly I descended the rest of the stairs, stumbling down them, wrenching my shoulder as I caught myself on the railing.
“Poppy,” I called as softly as I could. I held out her leash, but she ignored me, running toward the back of the house and up the deck steps. I followed her across the yard and onto the deck quickly, but I was too late. Lights came on, illuminating the deck and the yard close to the house. Illuminating me. The back door opened and Jobs leaped onto the deck and the dogs began chasing each other, sailing off the deck and spinning like whirligigs across the yard.
Brandon stepped onto the deck.
“Carly!” He stopped short when he spotted me. “What are you doing here?”
I trembled all over, guilt and nerves getting the best of me. I offered him a sheepish smile, keenly aware of his gaze on the yardstick I held at my side. “I’m so sorry to trespass,” I said, my mind racing. “I was talking to my cousin this afternoon and told him about your tree house and he asked if I could get some measurements for him. He wants to build one.” I had no idea where that ridiculous story came from. It poured out of my mouth of its own accord.
Brandon simply stared at me. “Where does your cousin live?” he asked finally.
“North Carolina,” I said.
“Did you get your measurements?”
“I did,” I said. “I’m all set. How was the movie?” I added, hoping to get the conversation off me.
“Joanna and I liked it,” he said. “Michelle nearly fell asleep. We dropped Jo over at a friend’s to work on a project.”
“Oh,” I said, then added weakly, “Well, I’m glad you and Joanna enjoyed it.” I called Poppy to my side and clipped her leash to her collar, feeling Brandon’s eyes on me the whole time. “I’m sorry for just barging into your yard,” I said, starting for the gate.
“Where did you write down the measurements?” Brandon asked.
I stopped walking. “All up here.” I smiled, tapping my head. Ridiculous answer, I told myself, and Brandon stared at me with narrowed eyes. He didn’t believe a word I’d said. In the last few minutes, I was quite certain I’d ruined the fragile relationship I’d created with him.
“Hold on a sec and I’ll drive you back to the inn,” he offered.
“Oh, no, thanks,” I said, heading for the gate again. He’d be full of questions I didn’t want to answer. “I love walking this time of night. So peaceful.” I waved as I neared the gate. “Tell Joanna I said ‘hi,’” I said, and I escaped before he could say another word.
58
My phone rang as I was making one of the guest beds the following morning, and I pulled it from my pocket to check the display. Myra. I’d texted her earlier, telling her I was going to look for a different stepping-off point. I couldn’t do it without water below me. She hadn’t texted me back. I quietly closed the door of the bedroom and lifted the phone to my ear.
“Hello?” I said.
“You’re leaving tonight,” she said as greeting.
“What? No!” I said. “Didn’t you get my text? I can’t use the tree house, and tonight is way too soon. I have to … I have to give notice at my job.” And spend more time with my daughter. “I’ll look for a bridge this after—”
“You’ll leave tonight,” she said, as though I hadn’t spoken. “Ten twelve, off the center of the top railing on that tree house. You’ll arrive in Nags Head in the early morning hours. It’s a perfect portal.”
Panic rose in my chest. “Please, Myra,” I pleaded. “Could you give me another week at least?”
She let out a ragged-sounding sigh. “First of all, the tree house turns out to be ideal. You know you’re not going to splat on the ground, Caroline. You need to stop being a baby. Second of all, you’re not sticking around any longer. You’ve already caused me enough grief. You’re leaving tonight.”
I sat down on the edge of the half-made bed. My hunger to see Patti and Hunter and Joe was matched only by my need to have more time with Joanna, but I knew this portal would have to do. Myra held all the cards.
“All right,” I said, my heart heavy. “All right,” I repeated. “I’ll go.”
* * *
I had a lifetime of memories crammed into a few months and they were all I could think about as I did my chores in the inn. I remembered the fetal surgery and all the hope I’d poured into it. All that hope for a healthy baby I could take home with me to North Carolina. I remembered those months in New York when
I’d been on bed rest. The kindness of Raoul and Ira and Angela. Then taking care of my sick baby in the CICU, pouring every ounce of my love into that little fighter, watching her reach milestone after milestone until she was nearly ready to leave. Then losing her through a slip in time. Did I go through all of that for my sake or hers? I wondered. The answer was easy. I did all I could for her. Now I had to give her to the future where I knew she truly belonged.
I wished I could see her one last time, yet I knew it was impossible. She stayed late at school on Wednesday afternoons, and after my weird behavior in the Van Dykes’ yard last night, I couldn’t imagine facing Michelle or Brandon again. Besides, seeing her one more time would only bring me pain.
Instead, once I was back in my attic room, I wrote her a note on a sheet of Sleeping Dog Inn stationery.
Dear Joanna,
I’m afraid I have to leave Summit unexpectedly. Getting to know you has been such a pleasure. You’re a wonderful girl and I know you have an amazing future ahead of you.
I’ll miss you very much.
Love, Carly
I sat on my narrow bed, reading and rereading the dry, vague little note, knowing that the truth lay between the lines. In my mind, I rewrote it:
You are my child, Joanna. My baby. I’ll always remember how you and I fought the battle for your survival together. I’ll remember all you endured when you were just a little thing. The way you’d look into my eyes when I held you in my arms. The way you wrapped your tiny hand around my finger while you were tethered to the machines that kept you alive. I’ll never forget the surprise of your first smile, how despite all you were enduring, you felt happiness. I would have done anything to save you, Joanna. Anything to give you the joy-filled life you deserve. And that’s why I’m leaving you here, my darling daughter, giving you a future I can never be a part of. But I promise you this: I’ll think about you every minute of every day and carry you in my heart always.
I shut my eyes, tears slipping down my cheeks. When I opened my eyes again, I reached for the envelope on the top of my dresser. I looked at my blue and green rubber band bracelet as I slipped the trivial little note into an envelope and wrote Joanna’s name and address on the front. I would wear that bracelet every day for the rest of my life.
The Dream Daughter: A Novel Page 34