A Pledge of Silence (37 page)

Barbara Ann spat out the binky and began to cry. Margie jiggled the bassinet, telling the baby, “In a minute! In a minute!” Taking a bottle of formula from the refrigerator, she put it in a pan of water to heat up. Barbara Ann’s protests and Margie’s anxiety level escalated. Without taking the time to test the liquid’s temperature on her wrist, she offered the bottle to the fussing child. In her haste, however, she neglected to tighten the cap: the heated milk cascaded onto Barbara Ann’s face. She sputtered, then howled, her little arms and legs alternately stiffening and flailing.

In tears herself, Margie picked up the drenched and furious baby, and paced the kitchen with Barbara Ann on her shoulder, agitatedly patting her back. “Mommy’s sorry! Mommy’s sorry! Please don’t cry. I can’t stand it when you cry.”

She stopped long enough to remove the sodden nightgown, wrapping Barbara Ann in a blanket. After warming another bottle—and testing the cap—Margie placed the baby on the couch in the living room, propping the bottle on a pillow. Sucking greedily at the nipple, Barbara Ann quieted, but kept her eyes open. Margie took a step sideways. Barbara Ann’s condemning gaze followed. Fighting the persistent wave of panic she knew would reduce her to jelly, Margie snatched a diaper off the pile on the hall table, and draped it over the infant’s face.

Her hands still shaking, she looked around for something to do to calm herself. She opened the newspaper to the crossword puzzle, scrabbling for a pencil in Mama’s stationary drawer. Tucked at the back, she found a packet of letters in her own handwriting postmarked Manila, The Philippines, 1941, those golden days of golf in the early morning, pool parties, and dressing for dinner. Curious, she opened the one on top.

Manila, Philippines

December 8, 1941

Dear Mama and Daddy,

It is early morning, my favorite time of day. If I sit real still, I can feel a breeze coming through my shutters, and it’s refreshing. I received your last letter and will watch for your Christmas package. I sent one to you too, and it should arrive soon.

Enclosed is a picture taken a week ago at a holiday dinner dance. It was at the Manila Hotel, and as Evelyn said, mucho swanky. Royce wore his dress uniform. Isn’t he handsome? We looked spectacular together. I can’t wait for you to meet him. He’s very special to me.

Evelyn’s doing fine. She loves her job at the navy base. The other man is her fiancé, Max Renaldo. Mama, I despise that man. I know it’s unchristian to feel that way, but the man is just evil. I think she is making a huge mistake, and I don’t know how to tell her.

The picture was still in the envelope, two couples toasting the camera—Royce’s arm draped over her shoulder, Evelyn cuddled up to Max. She stared for a long time at Royce’s much-loved visage. Memories flooded back, of their dancing on the patio of the Manila Hotel, the heavy scent of the flowers, a love song’s romantic strains, the twinkle of Christmas lights on boats out on the bay. She remembered the feel of Royce’s hand cradling her head when they kissed, and his voice,
I love you. I love us
. Her tears flowed freely as she grieved over all the tragedy, so many young lives lost.

Her gaze shifted to Max and his mesmerizing eyes. When she touched the scar on her ear left by his vicious bite, a shudder started in her chin and spread downward until her whole body trembled. With a shaking hand, she grabbed a pencil. “Rot in hell!” she hissed from between clenched teeth, stabbing at his image until she obliterated it. Hyperventilating, she staggered to the kitchen to find her cigarettes. Sitting on the floor with her knees tight to her chest, rocking back and forth, she chain-smoked as she sobbed, shattered by the reliving of her worst nightmare. She wondered if she was losing her mind.

Around 8:30 that evening, Wade returned home from his trip a day early. Letting himself into the eerily silent house, he found Barbara Ann left alone, asleep on the couch, milk dried around her mouth, an empty bottle on the carpet, and a diaper covering her head. He whipped the diaper off her face, then touched her lips, relief filling his heart when she suckled. He found another blanket to tuck her in with, then went to find Margie. On the dining room table, he noticed a packet of letters; on the floor, a pencil lay beside a picture with one man’s face stabbed beyond all recognition.

He located Margie, still rocking back and forth on the kitchen floor, hugging her knees to her chest, her face mottled and tear-stained, her dress damp and smelling sour. Whimpering, she lit another cigarette from the ash of the one she’d just finished. The ashtray near her feet overflowed with butts.

He glowered down at her. “What the hell is going on here?”

Chapter 28

The next morning, Wade scheduled an emergency appointment for Margie and himself with Dr. Garber, the psychiatrist. Adamant about keeping it, he told her he couldn’t trust her alone with Barbara Ann anymore. Margie cried, swearing she would never hurt her daughter.

They arrived at the doctor’s office just as the previous patient came out, a flat-faced and shuffling old man, presenting symptoms of Parkinson’s disease. Wade held the door for the man’s slim, white-haired wife as she steered him through it. The couple looked vaguely familiar, Margie thought.

Waiting in the reception area, Wade tapped his foot while Margie paced until Dr. Garber opened the office door.

A tall man, he filled the doorway. He wore a well-tailored suit, starched shirt, and a paisley tie. His plentiful dark hair had grayed gracefully at the temples. He indicated he would like to speak with Margie alone first; Wade could join them later.

His office contained an antique oak partner’s desk, the requisite couch, a round table with four tub chairs, and two matching wingback chairs upholstered in a heavy William Morris print fabric. The doctor directed Margie to the table, which held a file folder with her name on it. While he flipped through her medical history and Dr. Middleton’s report, she sat primly with her hands in her lap, surreptitiously picking at her thumbnail. He peered over half-glasses perched on the end of an aquiline nose. “You were a nurse in the Philippines?”

“Yes.” The word came out as a squeak. She tried to swallow, but her rhythm was off, so she clamped her teeth shut and tried to look nonchalant.

He handed her a cup of water from a dispenser in the corner. “My nephew, Vince Robb, was stationed at Camp John Hay.”

She remembered Dr. Robb. After the Japanese invaded, he and Helen had tried to escape to the mountains with the enemy right behind them. Both had been captured, and Helen eventually got sent to Santo Tomas.

“I met him once,” Margie said. “What happened to him?”

“He survived the Bataan Death March. He was shrewd enough to fill his gas mask with C rations and rice, and pick up canteens of water off the dead. He spent three years at Cabanatuan working as camp doctor and living on fish heads and rice.”

“Lugao,” Margie said. “The watery fish soup. They made it in huge cauldrons. He told you about it?”

“He’s writing a book about his experience. It’s gruesome.”

“He’s okay now? Going on with his life?”

“No one gets off that easy. The human body determined to survive is a hard thing to kill. The mind, though … it’s more fragile.”

“Can’t you help him?”

“He’s coming along. Progress is slow.”

“Do you think you can help me?”

“I can’t promise that. I’ve worked with many veterans, and I’m a World War I veteran myself. One thing I’ve learned in my practice is whatever progress you make is entirely up to you. I can guide you, but can’t bring you to wholeness unless you’re willing to work. You’ll have to be truthful. Sometimes it will be painful. You’re going to have to face things you may not want to.” His well-modulated voice was calming, and he appeared relaxed, sitting back in his chair with his long legs comfortably crossed. He balanced a leather notebook on one knee and held a gold pen in his right hand, poised to jot notes. “This is a safe place to talk, and I want you to say whatever comes to your mind. Start by telling me why you think you’re here.”

“I … I …” she stammered. She swallowed and tried again. “I’m having bouts of intense fear … anxiety. I try to control them, but I can’t. They started after Barbara Ann was born, and they’re getting worse.” She blinked rapidly. “My family doctor, Dr. Middleton, says it’s post-partum depression.”

“And you don’t agree?”

She felt herself flush. “I didn’t say that. How can you tell?”

“It’s not hard if you know what to look for. Little things give a person away—facial expressions, body position, hand signals, even voice inflections. Right now, I know you’re very uncomfortable.”

She held herself stiffly erect, hands folded, her face blank. “Yes, I am. You said this is a safe place to talk. How safe is it?”

“Our sessions are confidential. Without your consent, I can’t release any of your records, not to your husband, parents, or children; not even to law enforcement, nor would I. Before you leave today, I’ll discuss my confidentially policy with your husband. Do you have any other concerns?”

“There’s this … ” She took a sip of water. “I signed a pledge before I was discharged that said I couldn’t talk about what happened while I was in the Philippines.” She plucked at a hangnail. “And there are other things I don’t want anybody to know.”

The doctor nodded. “Most of my patients carry the burden of secrets they can’t disclose for one reason or another. I’m bound by law and professional ethics to honor your privacy. This pledge—” He strode to the file cabinet, pulled out a document and handed it to her. “Is this it?”

She read the first line:
Restricted. Subject: Publicity in Connection with Liberated Prisoners of War.

“Yes, this is what I signed. I was sick at the time. The language was hard to understand. The doctor told me to sign it and keep quiet, and I have.”

“It’s a standard form the military requires all prisoners of war to sign upon release. Technically, it’s to safeguard sensitive information. The paragraph pertaining to you is right here, number 2a. It says persons released from liberated areas may relate their experiences, but only after clearance by the Public Relations Officer of the War Department. Then it lists a number of things they cannot talk about under any circumstances, like the names of organizations or persons who helped prisoners escape.”

He threw the document on the table. “I understand the intent, but I’m angered by what I hear about how it’s presented. The POWs have to sign it at a time when they can barely think beyond their next meal. Most of them hear only one thing—keep quiet or face punishment. So they internalize all the horrible things that happened and it eats away at them for the rest of their lives.” He took a long breath. “My policy is that you tell me as much as you are comfortable revealing, and, in time, I hope to earn your trust.”

Margie gazed at the piece of paper on the table, contemplating just how much she might want to tell. Dr. Garber knew about the ravages of war, and how they could alter a person’s mind. Gruesome, he had called his nephew’s memoir. He assured her nothing she said would go beyond this office. That he was recommended by Frank, who seemed to be stabilizing, encouraged her. Besides, she needed a release from the crippling guilt she felt. And she needed to protect Barbara Ann and regain Wade’s trust. Looking Dr. Garber in the eye, she said, “There are some things it’s important you know.”

She told him about Max, a doctor and the fiancé of a friend, who first attacked her at a party in Manila before the Japanese came. Their next encounter came when he arrived with the liberation forces. On that occasion, he brutally raped her, leaving her torn, battered, and pregnant. “I haven’t told Wade that he’s not Barbara Ann’s father.”

Dr. Garber listened impassively. “Do you plan to?”

“No. He thinks she looks like his mother. I’m not going to take that away from him—or her.”

“Questions may come up later.”

“No, they won’t.”

“Might the father come back into the picture?”

“He’s dead. He died a few days after the rape. The Japanese shelled Santo Tomas and a wall fell. The medics brought him to my field station with a head injury.” She felt such a strong need to wash her hands, she balled them into fists. “I relived that day. How is that possible? One minute I was driving my car and the next the flash of exploding shells blinded me. I steered into a ditch. Everything seemed as real to me as the day it happened. I even felt his blood on my hands.”

“There’s a medical term for what you’re describing, hypnagogic regression, the reliving of a traumatic experience. It’s common among veterans who saw combat and POWs who suffered years of abuse. Not much is known about it. Right now, it carries a stigma, so it’s not often talked about openly.”

“I thought I was going crazy.”

“You’re not going crazy.” He rat-a-tapped his pen on the notebook. “You felt his blood on your hands?”

A prickle worked its way up her spine. “Yes, he was injured and covered with blood. I wanted him to suffer, so I threatened him with a syringe full of morphine. We struggled, and he grabbed my throat. I fell forward on to him, and the syringe stabbed into his neck.” She lowered her voice. “I killed my daughter’s father, and every day she reminds me of how evil I am. What can anyone possibly do to help me?” She studied Dr. Garber’s face, seeing in it no horror, rejection, or even surprise.

“I can give you something to hold on to,” he said.

Once she started, Margie couldn’t stop talking. She told Dr. Garber in great detail about the deprivations and humiliations suffered by Santo Tomas’ internees, and their elation when the Americans arrived with their tanks, food, and medical supplies. For the first time since her encounter with Evelyn on Saipan, she talked about Helen. The memory of her death from starvation and of praying with Gracie at her bedside while church bells pealed gaily brought tears of pain. “I was on my way to get plasma for Helen when …” She choked back a sob. “If Max hadn’t … ”