The Bracelet (Everlasting Love)

by Karen Rose Smith

  When she’d awakened this morning, Brady’s side of the bed had been empty. He’d already left for his walk. It was just another avoidance tactic. He was avoiding her and she hurt every time he did it.

  She climbed onto the stool and reached for the small antique chest that had been her mother’s. This morning, she had an urge to reread Brady’s letters to her. It had been years since she’d done so.

  Did she want to read them simply for the comfort they gave? Or did she hope to find a clue that would help her get close to her husband again?

  Her charm bracelet jingled as she pulled the chest to the edge of the shelf. Intricate designs decorated all four sides of the cherry-wood lid. She carried the chest into the bedroom and settled on the love seat in the sitting area.

  When she opened the lid, the musty smell of old paper wafted out. Over a hundred letters filled the chest and she fingered them reverently, as if they’d fall apart at her touch. They were arranged sequentially. She was tempted to start at the beginning and read through them all. Instead she plucked one out of the first group, tied with a yellow satin ribbon. These were the basic-training letters.

  As she opened the first letter, a two-by-three-inch photo of Brady fell onto her lap. When she picked it up, she smiled. Brady and a crew cut. All that thick black hair lopped off. The weekend before he’d left for Fort Dix, she’d run her fingers through it over and over. She still loved to run her fingers through it.

  She unfolded the lined tablet paper and read,

  Dear Laura,

  I didn’t know whether to send you this picture. I think I miss the sideburns most of all. Please tell me you don’t love me for my hair!

  Basic training is what I expected. If I had any past lives, I must have been a general, because I like giving orders a lot better than taking them! Learned responses are necessary. Obedience is expected. Once in a while I tend to want to rebel, to shout back and take the chance of doing something my way instead of the “right” way, but all in all, I’m fitting in. I actually like the physical challenge.

  Even though I don’t have a spare minute, you’re always on my mind, no matter what I’m doing or where I’m going or who I’m with. I think about our night together and how I want to spend every night like that with you. I love you, Laura. I never knew what real missing was until I had to leave you behind. Letters aren’t the same as hearing your voice, but letters will have to do for now. I’ll write to you whenever I can. I don’t want you to ever forget or doubt how much I love you.

  Take care, sweetheart.

  Love, Brady

  Sweetheart. How long had it been since Brady had called her sweetheart?

  She pulled a letter from the second stack. The envelopes were mostly cream-colored, with a brown-and-orange band down the side. Brady had been in Hawaii when he’d sent those.

  She slid out the pages, yellowed now from time. Unfolding them, she spotted the first line and felt an old, yet new, stream of joy pour through her at Brady’s words:

  Laura,

  The moon’s full tonight. The waves are breaking on the beach and I wish you were here with me to see them. But there’s no point in making us both long for what we can’t have right now. So I’ll answer your question.

  You wanted to know whether I’d mind if you went to the anti-war protest in D.C. I know how you feel, sweetheart. I know how much you want to see this war end and you want me back home. I would never tell you what you could and could not do. You’re the type of woman who makes up her own mind and I respect that. I’m proud of you for standing up for what you believe in. So my answer really doesn’t matter. If you want to go to D.C., then you go. Patriotism isn’t about standing up for our leaders and cheering them on whether they’re right or wrong. Patriotism is about searching for truth and believing in what’s good for our country. If I’m sent to Vietnam, I’ll be there to fight Communism. I’ve got to believe it’s a war we can win, but I also understand your desire for your voice to be counted. I just want to caution you to be careful. I can only imagine the crowd that will be there. The demonstration is supposed to be peaceful, but you know what can happen. I want you safe, Laura, just as you want me safe.

  So you’re going to help paint the bus with flowers and peace signs? Sounds groovy. Write to me as soon as you get home. I want to know everything about it.

  In some ways, the days here are going quickly. Yet when I think about our last weekend together and how long it will be until I see you again, each day feels more like a year.

  I love you, Laura.

  Brady

  As she slipped that letter back into its envelope, she remembered that antiwar demonstration. The idea for the Peace Moratorium scheduled for October 15, 1969, had swept across the country. Students, working men and women, even schoolchildren, had attended round tables, religious services and rallies. She and a friend from work had traveled to D.C. with a group from York the day before the protest rally and had participated in the candlelight vigil on the steps of the Capitol. She’d sung her heart out, she’d cried, she’d prayed the war would end soon. The massive protests that month and the next in D.C. had made an impact. But not soon enough for Brady.

  Next she chose a letter from the stack with the blue ribbon—the Vietnam letters. As she smoothed it open, a smaller piece of paper fell to her lap. She fingered it, then began reading the longer letter first:

  Laura,

  Do you realize we’ve never spent a Christmas together? I bet you’re saying what a way to start a letter, but it’s all I’ve been thinking about lately—being here at Christmas without you and without my family. Mom loves Christmas. Maybe she’ll let you help decorate. She does a lot of it, even garlands around the doorways, lights down the stairs. Can you do me a favor? Can you buy some presents for me? I’ve already written to Pat. I took five hundred dollars out of my savings before I left and gave it to her for this kind of thing. She’ll reimburse whatever you spend. A bottle of Mom’s favorite perfume would be great. It’s Chanel something or other. You probably know better than I do. Dad’s tough. Maybe you can buy him a box of his favorite cigars. Pat or Matt will know the brand. I thought that for Pat, maybe you could find a necklace with her astrological sign. Chocolate for Matt and a carton of cigarettes for Ryan. If you don’t have time to shop for everyone, I’ll understand. Whatever you can do will be great. I just want them to know I haven’t forgotten them.

  It’s good to hear you and your aunt are talking again and you’re going to spend New Year’s Day with her. I’ll bet she was surprised when you called.

  Thanks for sending the Kool-Aid. It helps kill the taste of the iodine in the water. I never go anywhere without that new picture of you in my pocket. Keep smiling for me. I can’t wait to leave this rat-infested hooch, come home and feel you in my arms again.

  Pat wrote to me about her friend facing the draft lottery. It’s hard to imagine a guy’s fate determined by his birthday and then the order it’s pulled from a jar. That’s almost worse than just simply being drafted. Pat said one of her friends was lucky enough to get a high number. He’s pretty sure he won’t go to Nam. But another guy she dated has number twenty-seven. At least we don’t have to worry about that. Ten more months here, then I’ll be back in the States.

  I volunteered to help the LT write up the after-action report from our last operation so I’d have the chance to write. But I have to close now. Know that I’m dreaming of you, longing for you, waiting for the day when I can hold you in my arms again.

  Merry Christmas, my love.

  Brady

  That Christmas had been both wonderful and lonely. The Malones had embraced her as one of the family and she’d taken part in all their Christmas activities, from trimming the tree to helping prepare Christmas dinner. That had been the wonderful part. Yet she’d been so lonely for Brady, so eager to get each letter, so worried about his safety and the conditions he was living in. He’d described his hooch after he’d arrived. When he was in camp, he was living in
a sort of hut made of plywood, with a tin roof and screen for windows. She couldn’t imagine living like that. But he never complained. He was where he had to be…doing what he had to do. But at what cost?

  Absently she touched the charms on her bracelet, until she came to the angel holding a tiny diamond. Then she picked up the note in her lap. Brady had sent it to his sister for her to tuck into his present for Laura. He’d bought the angel charm before he’d left for basic training. When Laura had opened the charm, the note in the box read:

  If I were there with you, I’d be offering you a diamond ring. I’d be proposing and we’d be getting married. This angel will watch over you until I can give you that diamond in person. I love you, Laura. Merry, merry Christmas.

  How she’d longed for him that Christmas. How she’d yearned to start her life with him.

  When she extracted another letter from the pile, she saw the date and breathed a sigh of relief—February 2, 1970—before the six-long-week gap in letters.

  Laura,

  Whenever I write to you, I try to focus on us, on what you’re doing and on the future because it takes me away from here for just a little while. You and the family are like a light I try to keep my eyes on. I don’t usually tell you what I do each day, what I see each day because I don’t want that tainting us. But—

  Yesterday I watched a buddy—Michael Wolf—get blown up beside me by a booby-trapped mortar round and I couldn’t do anything about it. I felt powerless, Laura. I asked myself what in God’s name I was doing here. What was Mike doing here? What kind of war are we fighting? The VC will use anything as a weapon…anything. We have to bury our C-ration cans so they can’t use those for makeshift bombs.

  I know I should thank God the rest of us made it back safely, but the truth is, when we go on an ambush, God seems so far away there’s no point in praying.

  Laura stopped reading, thinking about everything Brady hadn’t told her in that letter—how he had saved another soldier’s life that day and helped the wounded. How she wished he could focus on the Bronze Star he’d received for that instead of what happened a couple of weeks later.

  Her eyes fell again to his strong handwriting on the pages in front of her.

  If I could see your face, if I could touch your cheek, if I could look into your eyes, maybe I’d have some balance about all this. You know, I’ve heard soldiers say they’re forgetting what their girl looks like, how her voice sounds. That’s not true for me. Every day, I look at the pictures of you and the family that you sent me. The photos are wrinkled and not in great shape. A couple have peeled from the heat. They’ve gotten wet, too, but it doesn’t matter. Even without them, when I close my eyes, I can see you on the courthouse steps with that daisy in your hair. I can hear you singing along to “Let the Sunshine In,” and if I concentrate really hard, I can feel your skin against mine. My body needs yours, Laura. It could be another sixteen months until I can see you and touch you. Today, that seems like forever. I know you’re praying for me and the guys over here. Thank goodness, because I can’t seem to. Seeing Mike die like that—When you get this, maybe you can light a few extra candles.

  I love you, Laura.

  Brady

  Her throat was tight, her heart beating fast as she finished reading. With each letter, with each new part of himself Brady had revealed, she’d fallen deeper in love with him. Every day she’d pushed aside her fear for him and imagined the life they’d share when he got home. She’d imagined his guardian angel protecting him wherever he was. She sent him her love by picturing her arms around him. She’d pictured them getting married.

  Then abruptly her mailbox had been empty for six weeks, the six longest weeks of her life. His father had kept assuring her that if Brady had been injured, killed or even been missing in action, they’d hear something. They heard nothing for forty-one days. On the forty-second day, both she and his family had received letters.

  Laura separated the first letter from the rest of the next stack, which she’d tied with a lavender ribbon. There were only twenty-one of them. His letters had dwindled to one about every three weeks, whereas before that she might get one or two a week. When she drew the single piece of paper from the air mail envelope, she could read it in practically a glance:

  Laura,

  I just wanted to let you know I’m fine. I was out on an operation, but I’m back now. I really don’t have much to say. We’re all beat and ready to turn in. I hope all’s well with you. It might be longer between letters.

  Take care.

  Love, Brady

  She’d received letters like that every few weeks until he’d come home. There was no feeling in them, no sadness, no passion, no joy, no despair. They were words on a page that represented his responsibility to write to her. He’d always signed them “love” and she’d hung on to that. In her letters to him, she’d asked him if something was wrong. But he didn’t answer most of her questions, at least not the ones that mattered. When he was sent to Washington State, his messages became more descriptive, about the people he met and the places he saw, but he didn’t mention getting married. On their second Christmas apart, he’d sent her perfume.

  When he got leave, he discouraged her as well as his parents from flying out. He always had plans. In one of their few phone calls, he’d told Laura he’d be home soon and they could talk then. Seeing each other while he was stationed at Fort Lewis simply wasn’t a good idea. She’d stopped asking why because she’d realized he wouldn’t answer her. She’d told herself that seeing him, then being torn apart from him again, would be worse than not seeing him at all. But she’d known something had changed. He had changed. Did he still love her?

  She was about to pull another of Brady’s first letters out of the chest, when the bedroom door flew open. Kat bounded in, with Sean and Brady close behind her. They were all smiling.

  “Happy Mother’s Day, Mom. We’ve got your brunch all ready. Let’s eat before it gets cold.”

  Laura’s gaze met Brady’s. Now that the bedroom door was open, she could smell pancakes and bacon.

  “Before you say it,” her husband joked, “I made Egg Beaters for me. I’ll just pretend they’re real eggs.”

  “They are real eggs, Dad. They just don’t have the yolks in them,” Kat informed him.

  “And we’re having turkey bacon,” Sean added, as if that should impress her, too.

  It did. They were not only celebrating the holiday, but thinking of Brady’s health.

  Kat motioned to the chest. “What are you doing?”

  “Reading old letters.” This time when her gaze met Brady’s, his smile faded away.

  “I’m surprised they’re not falling apart.” His voice was bland.

  “I’m glad they’re not. They mean a lot to me.” She wondered if he remembered what he had written. She wondered if he remembered how he’d felt.

  Sean looked from her to his dad, then reminded her, “Brunch will get cold. Come on.”

  Closing the lid to the chest, she left her memories on the love seat and went to the kitchen to make a new one. Maybe slipping back into the past wasn’t a good idea. Instead of comforting her, the letters simply made her feel more empty now.

  Brady sat in his kitchen, getting an erection, and he was angrier than hell about it. Angry because he couldn’t control desire he wasn’t ready for.

  Laura’s brown eyes were big and surprised as she opened Sean and Kat’s present. She was holding the little charm as if it were the biggest diamond on earth. She was beautiful this morning, with her hair loose around her face, her lips pink from the lipstick she’d applied, her figure trim but curvy under her pink blouse and striped capri pants.

  Right now he wanted to strip her clothes off her and take her to bed.

  However, more than a lack of sex was causing the rift between them. He really didn’t blame her for his heart attack. If it hadn’t happened during their argument, it would have happened eventually. She and Sean had saved his life. The rift
had to do with his blunt words Friday night and her drive to resolve something that couldn’t be resolved. She wanted to remake him, transforming him back into that man she’d met.

  He didn’t want to be remade or fixed…or forgiven. As he’d told Laura, there was something about forgiveness that wasn’t a gift but a burden. Forgiveness didn’t wipe away a sin; it just muted it.

  Laura took the charm in the form of a number one with the letters “MOM” beside it and held it up to her bracelet. “It’s perfect. This is the first charm you’ve given me.”

  “We know Dad gave you all the other charms,” Sean said. “But we thought it was time we got you one.”

  Laura turned to her daughter. “You two actually went shopping together?”

  “How else was I going to get around?” Kat joked. “Really, it was pretty easy.”

  He could tell by the warm affection in Laura’s eyes that she knew “easy” wasn’t the only reason Kat had bought the charm. She knew her daughter respected her, even when she wanted her own way. Kat might come to him when she suspected her mother would tell her no. But she believed Laura was a great mom just as he was a great dad. Sean appreciated Laura, too. What Sean felt about Brady was something else entirely. Especially now. Though this morning Brady had felt they were actually relating as father and son.

  “We went to a jewelry store at the Galleria. They’ll attach it free,” Sean explained to his mom.

  A faraway look played over Laura’s face as she mused, “I used to always go to the jeweler across the street from the Bon Ton building to have your dad’s charms attached. But they went out of business a few months ago.” She paused for a moment, then added, “I wish the two of you could have seen what a real department store used to be. Someone even ran the elevator back then because they weren’t self-service. There was a mezzanine with a restaurant…that’s the same floor I bought my records on.”