Interrupted

by Zondervan

  God seems to be the only one for America to turn to right now. Inside his arms is the only place where one can find comfort—or so I’ve quickly discovered. His words are the only source of peace for me at this time.

  You know, the more I sit and think about it, the crazier I’ll make myself. To sit and wonder … it almost feels worse than to die.

  I know I have to move on, but there seems to only be a small sliver of hope left to cling to. The small sliver that says, “Daniel will return to Irene. Russell will be back in the winter on furlough.” The tiny shred of hope that tells me, “Sam will be home soon.”

  I flipped on the little lamp and settled down at my desk. I pulled out my little journal — expanded and rebound numerous times over the years — and opened it to the first page. A short poem composed on my eighth birthday filled the page. I smiled and turned more sheets.

  Poems and stories and drawings filled the journal, each one sharing a small sliver of my heart and soul. Sketches of Mama and Daphne, stories of magical gardens, poems of the starry heavens — they all had a place in the notebook.

  I looked up and saw Mama’s old Dickinson volume sitting on the edge of the desk. I lifted it and turned to the first page. “The Heart Asks Pleasure First.”

  A lump formed in my throat. Mama loved that poem. Mama loved all of Dickinson’s poems.

  Mama loved my poems too.

  The thought startled me.

  But it’s true—Mama did love my poems. I cradled the book in my hands and smiled as I remembered Mama’s words: “I want you to write and I want you to be happy.”

  I set the volume of poems down and let my finger trace the wood pattern on the desk. Am I happy?

  I searched deep down inside my chest for the answer. I wasn’t expecting to be happy — I hadn’t been happy in years.

  And yet I knew I was happy. I was blessed. When I write, I live.

  Sam had known it. Sam told me I had talent — potential. He had looked at me, and instead of seeing a miserable, foolish girl, he saw a budding poet.

  I opened my journal again and read through the poems. To me, they were personal and simple. They expressed how I felt and why I felt it.

  I closed my eyes. God, what would you have me do with my writing? What can I do to honor you?

  My notebook fell to the floor with a bang. I jumped.

  I leaned over to pick it up and froze. The memory flooded over me of Sam, picking up my journal and studying it intently. That was the day I fell in love with him, looking back. The day he looked at me, without a trace of laughter or teasing in his eyes, and told me, “You’re better than you think, Alcyone Everly. And one day you’ll know it.”

  I picked up the notebook and set it back on the desk without really seeing it. My heart felt like a load of bricks had fallen off of it.

  I’ll publish my poems.

  My chest began to pound. A smile slowly spread over my face. I’ll publish my poems and make Mama proud. I stroked the notebook. I’ll make Beatrice proud too. I’ll let them both know how much I love them.

  Chapter 17

  That I did always love,

  I bring thee proof:

  That till I loved

  I did not love enough.

  — Emily Dickinson

  Here, help me up.” Charlie laughed and placed her hands on her back as she struggled to climb the stairs.

  I grabbed her arm and helped her to the front door, sneaking a glance at her broad stomach. “He’s ready to get out of there.”

  Charlie rubbed her belly. “The feeling is mutual.”

  I opened the front door and led her into the parlor, helping her out of her coat. “It sure is chilly out there,” I commented, shutting out the cold.

  “It’s February.” Charlie exclaimed. “It’ll be spring before you know it.”

  I nodded and led Charlie to the parlor where she eased into an armchair. “Ah.” She glanced around and smiled. “I love the smell of your house.”

  “You mean the smell of dusty books and Beatrice’s cleaning spray?”

  “No, it smells like lemon and leather. Don’t you wrinkle your nose—it’s a good smell! Honest.”

  “The lemon is from the cleaning spray,” Beatrice said, coming through the door with a tray of cookies. “How’s the mother-to-be?”

  Charlie grinned and took a cookie. “Fine, thank you.”

  “Any news from town?” Beatrice sat next to me and reached out to hold my hand. I smiled and let her massage the back of my wrist.

  Charlie’s face fell. “Michael Rosa was killed in action last week. Second man from town this year, and 1945 has just begun.”

  “Oh, that’s awful.” Beatrice’s face grew pained. “I must write his mother and send her our condolences.”

  I shifted in my chair. “How is his fiancée taking the news?”

  Charlie focused on the cookie in her hand. “Mary left town to stay with her cousin after she heard. She took the first available train the day after the funeral.”

  An awkward silence fell over us. “How’s Irene?” Charlie asked.

  “She’s well, thank you. She’s in town right now, actually, helping the ladies aide with the war effort.” Beatrice’s eyes were warm as she offered Charlie a cup of tea. “Daniel’s been given leave, thank the Lord, and will be returning home any day now.”

  “Good.” Charlie smiled, her chubby cheeks dimpling. “I received a letter from Russell yesterday, and he plans to come home in early March. I can’t believe I haven’t seen him since September.” She blushed. “It’s been nearly five months.”

  Both women glanced at me and fell silent. No one mentioned Sam. I lowered my eyes. He hadn’t been sighted since Normandy. Something tore at my throat, coaxing me to cry. I fought it down. I didn’t know if he was alive or dead, and I wouldn’t cry until I got the final word. Until I knew for sure.

  “More tea?” Beatrice asked, holding up the pot.

  We talked for hours. About the war, and the home front, and how much things had changed since the summer of ‘43, when Russell and Sam were here. Charlie glanced at the clock and gasped. “Goodness gracious! It can’t be six o’ clock, can it? I’ve got to get home and prepare supper …” Her face fell. “For myself. And this young one.” She placed a hand on her stomach and gave me a half smile.

  I stood. “I’m sorry to see you go.” I helped her into her coat and walked her to the door. The wintry night wind whipped through my thin dress.

  I hugged her gently, closing my eyes and trying not to cry. Charlie stood back and studied me from the doorway. Noticing my tears, she reached out to touch my arm. “Allie, what’s wrong?”

  I shook my head and smiled at her. “Nothing. I’m just glad to be here with you, because it feels like old times when we were kids.” I wiped my eye. “You know, back when things were simple and happy.”

  “Things were never simple with you.” Charlie frowned, searching my eyes. “But you seem … different since you became a Christian. You seem happier despite …” She cleared her throat. “Despite the circumstances.”

  “Everything changed when God found me,” I whispered, giving her one last hug. “I just … Remember what you said that day in the barn years ago? About how earthly things aren’t enough? When I thought about that, God led me to himself. Now things seem so much easier to bear.”

  Charlie smiled. “How nice to know I had a small part in it.”

  I rolled my eyes and lightly punched her arm.

  “Oh, and, Allie.” Charlie met my eyes. “Don’t give up on Sam. He’ll be back, I know it.”

  “So do I,” I said. And I meant it.

  “Can I look now?” I tried to peek between the fingers sprawled across my face.

  Beatrice laughed and slapped my arm lightly. “No.” She led me into what I guessed to be the parlor. “Okay, now open them.”

  My eyes fluttered open and surveyed the room. But the moment they reached the corner, my whole body froze in shock.

 
“Beatrice,” I whispered, my eyes beginning to swim. “You bought me a piano.”

  It was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen —a simple white piano, sitting by itself in the dark parlor corner. Beatrice had spread a woven burgundy runner over the lid and had a pile of sheet music stacked by the bench.

  “I hope you know how to play something from the stack.” Beatrice bit her lip. “I just went to the store and asked the woman for a handful of her most popular songs. I don’t know anything about classical music — I really just trusted her opinion.”

  I stared at the piano in silence, not trusting myself to speak.

  “I can return it, Allie.” Beatrice waved her hand carelessly, though I could tell she was nervous. “If you really hate it.”

  I shook my head. I reached out and ran a finger across the piano lid softly, half fearing it would crumble at my touch. I looked at Beatrice, tears blinding my eyes. “You actually bought me a piano,” I whispered.

  Beatrice nodded.

  “Where did you get the money?”

  Beatrice waved her hand. “We’re not that poor. Besides, one man’s sale is another man’s treasure.”

  With that, I folded myself onto the bench and burst into tears, sobbing onto the closed piano lid. When I looked up, Beatrice was standing by my side. “Is it okay, Allie?”

  “Okay?” I wiped my face. “It’s wonderful. I’ve never … I could never …” I turned a distressed face toward Beatrice. “What could I have done to deserve this?”

  “Nothing.” Beatrice looked confused. She sat down on the bench next to me and let me rest my head on her chest. “I just wanted to show you how much I love you.”

  “I love you too,” I whispered into her shirt. And I did love her. I loved her so much at that moment, my chest was pained. I loved that she was good, and that she was kind. I loved her because of the fact she loved me and I loved her even more despite the fact that she loved me.

  “Do you like it?” Beatrice asked, stroking my hair.

  I turned toward the piano. “It’s beautiful,” I croaked. I looked up at Beatrice and smiled. “Thank you.”

  She beamed at me. “It made me happy to give it to you.”

  I took a deep breath and opened the heavy lid. I ran my fingers down the keys. “It makes me happy too.”

  The house was dark and quiet. Only a single lamp was on in the parlor, shining almost directly on the new piano. I shut the lid and settled into an armchair, careful not to make too much noise and wake Beatrice upstairs.

  My eyes threatened to close. I forced them open and yawned, closing the book of poetry lying on my chest.

  I rubbed the faded cloth on the armchair and looked around the quiet house. All these years it had felt like a gilded prison; now it was finally beginning to feel like home.

  Beatrice’s crinkled Bible was sitting on the table. I leaned over and picked it up, running my hand down the water-worn spine. I flipped through the pages and sighed. Many of the words ran down the page or stuck together.

  A yellow sheet near the front of the Bible caught my eye. I pulled it out gingerly. It was in surprisingly good condition — very few words were illegible.

  My bare feet pattering on the wood floor when I crossed over to the lamp and held the paper to the light.

  It appeared to be a list of important dates, written in Beatrice’s hand. I smiled to myself and skimmed through the events.

  June 3, 1888 — Beatrice Noble baptized age 10

  May 10, 1896 — Beatrice Noble graduates

  March 11, 1900 — Beatrice Noble and Henry Lloyd Lovell united in holy matrimony

  November 7, 1903 — Laura Alice Lovell born

  February 19, 1904 — Laura Alice Lovell passes on to be with our Lord

  I paused, my eyes beginning to tear. Beatrice had another daughter, one who passed away as an infant? I wiped my eyes and kept reading.

  May 27, 1910 — Henry Lloyd Lovell passes on to be with our Lord

  I frowned. How could Henry have died before the birth of Irene? I skimmed a few more lines and gasped. My hand shook as I put down the paper.

  July 6, 1922 — Adoption of Irene Rosa Harding

  I collapsed in the closest chair, my knees quaking. Irene was adopted?

  The room felt like it was spinning. I placed a hand on my forehead.

  But Irene was the perfect child all along. She’d always called Beatrice Mom, and looked after her affectionately. Irene was her blood … her family.

  The front door opened and Irene called out, “Hello? Is anyone awake?” She came into the doorway, open and friendly as she unbuttoned her coat. “Allie, did Mom already —”

  I turned my tear-streaked face to her. She stopped, looking worried. “What’s wrong? Is it Mom?”

  “You were adopted.” I hadn’t meant it to sound like an accusation, but that’s how it came out.

  Irene stopped in the doorway, coat in hand. “Of course I was. You knew that.”

  “No! No, I didn’t,” I turned away. “No one ever thought to tell me.”

  Irene crossed the room and sank into the chair next to me. She reached out to touch my leg softly. “Allie, I …”

  “I thought you were her daughter,” I murmured. My stomach lurched. “You both deceived me into thinking I was the outsider.”

  “Allie.” Irene sounded hurt. “We never tried to keep it from you. There was no deception or plot, I promise. I honestly thought you knew.”

  I turned and stared fiercely at her, although I knew I was acting like a child. “Then why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Maybe you just weren’t listening.”

  I froze and met Irene’s gaze.

  She reached and tucked back a stray red hair behind her ear. “Allie, over the years you’ve spent a lot of time shutting us out. You tricked yourself into thinking you were an outsider. We’ve done nothing but treat you as a daughter and sister.”

  I leaned back and closed my eyes, my conscience smarting. “I know,” I moaned, “I know. It’s just … a shock.” I glanced at Irene. “You were always so … loving and everything. I was always a little jealous of you. I wanted to be the real daughter, not the outsider. I thought …” I bent my head. “I thought Beatrice loved you more than me because you were a part of her.”

  Irene’s eyes welled up. “No, honey.” She wrapped an arm around my shoulder. “Beatrice couldn’t love you more. I’m no more her daughter than you are. You saw that paper: we’re both from the same situation.” She squeezed my shoulder. “But even if Beatrice did give birth to me, she wouldn’t love you any less. She’s your mom too.”

  I buried my head in Irene’s shoulder and sniffled. “Who was your real mom?”

  Irene sighed. “She was a cabaret dancer from New York City. My father was a philanderer … a rich banker with a love for pretty women. So I’m told — I never met him. My mother left me in the streets when I was about five. Beatrice adopted me two days after my sixth birthday. She’s really the only mother I’ve ever known. My real mother …” Irene trailed off. “All I really remember about her is that she had bright red hair. Like me.” She stroked my cheek. “What about your parents?”

  I pulled up my knees and leaned on Irene’s arm. “My father left when I was three. It was really just me and Mama growing up. She was different … Special.” I fiddled with a button on my pajamas. “She got the sickness when I was ten. Dr. Murphy said it was brain cancer.”

  “What was it like?”

  I took a deep breath and stared at the wall. What was it like? It was hard to think of words to describe Mama and everything we went through that would make sense to someone who hadn’t known her at all.

  I could remember the good times and I could remember the painful times. Most vividly, I could remember the night she died.

  I curled up my knees and rested my chin on them. “It was hard. To raise a mother.”

  Irene nodded and gave me a hug. “Well, you don’t have to struggle anymore. You have a family:
me and Mom and you. We all love each other.”

  I smiled. “I’m glad.”

  She tucked a piece of hair behind my ear and grinned. “So am I.” Her voice softened. “Little sister.”

  Chapter 18

  This is my letter to the world

  That never wrote to me—

  The simple News that Nature told—

  With tender Majesty.

  — Emily Dickinson

  Beatrice gave my dark hair a final brush before standing back and admiring her work. I glanced in the mirror and smiled.

  My deep brown waves had been swept up in the latest fashion, a dashing white hat pinned atop them. I was wearing a blue and white polka-dotted dress, with gorgeous pearl buttons running down the back, and white heels.

  Irene smiled from the doorway. “You look beautiful.”

  I bent toward the mirror to apply a smudge of pink lipstick before smiling and turning to Beatrice. “I’m ready for church.”

  Pastor Davis greeted us at the church door, warmly shaking our hands. “You’re looking particularly lovely today, Beatrice,” he said with a shy smile before moving on.

  I nudged Beatrice. “He seems to be quite fond of you.”

  Beatrice blushed and fanned herself. “Oh, there’s Mrs. Wilkinson.”

  Mrs. Wilkinson walked over, all smiles. She twisted her hands and beamed at Beatrice. “Have you heard about the baby? Charlie delivered just yesterday.” Mrs. Wilkinson asked.

  I grinned. “Russell called, but didn’t give many details at all. What are they going to name him?”

  Mrs. Wilkinson winked. “They’re going to name her Alcyone.”

  A wide smile spread over my face. “I’m flattered. I hope she ends up nothing like me,” I teased. “For your sake.”

  “I must say, Allie.” Mrs. Wilkinson raised a pointed eyebrow as she glanced over me. “You seem … different. More confident and happy.” She tucked her purse under her arm. “I do believe you’ve grown up.” With one last glance at me, she smiled at Beatrice and turned to go. “Good day.”

  As she walked away, I smiled to myself. Happy. I am happy. I sent up a quick prayer of blessing for snooty old Mrs. Wilkinson. Then I tucked my arm through Beatrice’s and guided the way to our pew. “This way, Mom.”