Letters From Home (23 page)

“Medic!” Morgan’s head was pounding. “Man down! I need help up here!”

The blanket. He could use his blanket.

Keeping one hand on Charlie’s chest, he grabbed the wool bundle from their ditch. He scrunched the fabric into a ball and held it firm to the wounds. “Please …please …” He begged the fibers to resist the outpouring of his brother’s life.

Charlie weakly grasped Morgan’s fingers with a shivering hand. He was trying to say something through his labored gasps. Morgan lowered his ear toward his mouth. “What is it, buddy?” He tightened his hold on his brother’s hand, wanting to squeeze away the pain.

“It’s okay,” Charlie wheezed. “It’s okay.” His breath spread hot over Morgan’s cheek, burned his skin with words that sounded too much like good-bye.

“Don’t you dare give up,” Morgan commanded. “You got me?

We’re gonna get you outta here.” Nose running, eyes tearing, he shouted again.
“Medic!”

Then he felt Charlie’s body relax.

Morgan looked into his eyes, tired eyes that were slowly closing. He nudged his brother’s shoulder with a brisk shake. “Come on, kid, stay with me.” A flutter of Charlie’s eyelids sparked Morgan’s hope, told him his brother was fighting. “That’s it. Open ‘em up. Look at me, look at me.”

Another strained flutter and his lids drooped shut.

“Charlie,” he said, clenching his brother’s jacket collar. “Stay awake, goddamn it! You hear me? I said
stay awake!”
But Charlie’s head drifted to the side in degrees, his soul slipping away. He yielded his final breath, left only a shell.

Horror torched everything Morgan possessed, his body and mind, the air in his lungs. “Charlie, no!” He shook his brother without restraint. “No! Don’t you do this to me! Don’t you leave me here alone, goddamn it!”

Morgan squeezed his eyes shut. This couldn’t be happening. This was just a dream. A nightmare.

“Wake me up,” he urged Charlie in a whisper.
“Wake. Me. Up.”

Yet he wasn’t asleep.

And this was real.

“Charlie, no. No.” Morgan pulled his brother’s face to his chest. He rocked him forward and back, just as their mother had done to soothe them to sleep as children. This time, though, her sweet baby boy would never awaken.

Morgan pressed his cheek to Charlie’s temple, sobbing with his entire body. Sobbing so hard he felt he might explode. How he wished he could burst into nothing, disappear into the space where his brother had been taken. Where everyone in the McClain family now dwelled but him. “Please,” he choked out. “Don’t go, Charlie. Please don’t leave me.”

Then a loud roar rang out from the heavens and the world turned to black.

24

December 24, 1944
Lincoln Park
Chicago, Illinois

P
anic bloomed in Liz’s chest. She strove for traction, running backward in place. Her arms fluttered in a frenzy until her tailbone pounded the ice, shooting pain up her back. Obviously, Sonja Henie made fancy spins seem much easier than they were.

Dalton’s blades scraped as he braked beside Liz and knelt on one knee. “Are you all right?” he asked, touching her shoulder.

What a spectacle she must have been: graceful as a swan, before a bump in the surface transformed her into a turkey, flapping away uselessly. “You mean, other than my doomed skating career?”

He smiled above his plaid scarf, his nose stained pink from the morning chill. Shaking his head, he offered his gloved hand. “Come on, twinkle toes. Time for a break.”

She wrung his fingers and coat sleeve to pull herself upright. Guided by prudence, she didn’t let go until they’d coasted to the edge of the frozen lagoon, where she recalled the value of solid ground.

Fluffy snow blanketed an empty park bench. He cleared space for them with a swipe of his arm. Once they’d settled, he grabbed his thermos from under the seat and poured her a lidful of hot chocolate. She held the cup to her chin and warmed her face with the sweet, milky steam. Heat moved through her mittens, thawing her palms. As she took a sip, a little boy wobbled past on shoe skates, a pillow three-quarters his size strapped around his hind end.

“Now, that,” she told Dalton, “is the way I’m doing it next time.”

He laughed, his familiar youthful laugh. How she wished she could store that sound in a jar, like the butterfly she’d caught as a child, releasing it into the open when the need arose. Then again, there was no use holding on to something that wasn’t hers to keep.

Together they downed their cocoa while watching the show go by. They took turns commenting on skaters of every age and size, all gliding counterclockwise in their bundled wool. In the eye of the whirlpool, a polished pair danced effortlessly to a song of giggles from rosy-faced children.

The melody relaxed Liz all the way down to her bruised behind. She was still smiling when a man several yards off the lagoon drew her focus. The father, she presumed, lifted his little girl to reach a snowman’s head and helped her place the rock eyes, an old derby hat, a carrot nose. What a wondrous time in life that had been, believing in flying reindeer and enchanted elves.

Liz must have been seven when she first voiced her doubts about Santa Claus’s existence. On the playground, a precocious schoolgirl had taken great pleasure in exposing the gift-giving conspiracy.

“That’s preposterous,” Liz’s father had declared of the allegation. “And how sad for that poor girl who doesn’t believe in Santa. It’s a pity she won’t be receiving Christmas presents anymore.”

Years later, Liz had learned it was her father who stood outside her room that Christmas Eve, jingling a string of bells in the pouring rain. He’d even staged boot prints in a pile of ashes next to their fireplace to reinstate her faith.

Bells and ashes. How she wished it were that simple to restore her father’s faith in her.

Apprehension rebounded at the thought of him. “What time is it?” she asked Dalton.

“We’re not going to be late,” he assured her.

“I just don’t want to keep him waiting, with the holiday crowds at the station.”

“And we won’t. I promise.” Dalton’s gaze reflected the usual certitude in his voice. Then, as if to distract her, he reached into his pocket and produced a gift. A tiny box covered in glossy green paper, dashed with a silver bow. “Merry Christmas, sweetheart.”

“Oh, drat,” she said. “I left yours at home.” When he’d surprised her with an invitation for an outing that morning, it hadn’t occurred to her to bring his present along.

“There’s no hurry. Technically, Christmas isn’t until tomorrow.”

Cup and mittens aside, she removed the wrapping with care, reluctant to damage the flawless display. Beneath the lid lay an intricate gold necklace. She dangled the chain in the air, inviting the cloud-filtered light to sparkle on the heart-shaped locket. “Dalton, it’s lovely.”

“Open it up,” he told her, and smiled.

Liz used her thumbnail to divide the halves. Two photos had been cut to fit: on the left, a little boy in his Sunday best; on the right, a young girl in a queen’s ruffled collar. She examined their faces, attempting to place them, then realized, “Oh my gosh, they’re us.”

Her mother had made that costume, sewn every stitch, every frill, for a week. How could Liz have forgotten? She’d adored that outfit. Loved it so much, she had worn the velvety garb whenever and wherever allowed, and only quit once the long strip of buttons in the back no longer reached the holes.

There were moments, she now recalled, warmhearted moments she’d shared with her mother. As rare and fleeting as they might have been, they had indeed existed.

“Where did you get these?” Liz asked him.

“I pulled mine out of an old scrapbook. Your father gave me yours in D.C. last month.”

She knew the two had met for lunch, along with Dalton’s father, but she’d presumed their exchanges had been limited to politics and academia—not a childhood snapshot her father had surprisingly retained.

“So what do you think?” Dalton asked, to which she wrapped him with a hug.

“It’s perfect, just perfect,” she answered. For it was more than a gift of a lost memory, more than a sentimental keepsake. Without knowing, he had provided proof that choosing him had been the right decision. The token, linking their history and families’ blessing, served as tangible affirmation that they were always meant for each other.

“Let me get that for you.” He leaned back, lifted the necklace from her hand.
“This
one ought to fit.”

Smiling, she held up her hair. While he clasped the chain around her neck, she studied the pictures again. “I have to say, we were awfully cute.”

“You think
we
were cute, just wait until you see our kids. They’ll be the stars of Chicago.”

In an instant, the balloon of happiness within her deflated. She first attributed the feeling to the obvious: the strained relationship with her parents, the fear of mimicking the distance with her own children. Then she moved onto the unease of living in high society’s glaring spotlight.

Neither, however, was the case this time. Rather, what troubled her was the tone of Dalton’s voice, a surety that encompassed even the unpredictable subject of raising a family. Wasn’t there anything that caused him doubts? Anything at all, about his life, his future?

She replaced her mittens, trying her best not to dwell.

“Lizzy,” he said with a gentle smile, “I didn’t mean we’d be having babies
tomorrow.”
He evidently sensed her mood shift. Exposing vulnerability in her letters must have left her careless with her expressions. “I know I jumped ahead on the proposal. But I’m still fine with waiting until our careers are settled to start a family.”

Oddly, concerns over interrupting her profession hadn’t occurred to her just now. And its mention, somehow, seemed insignificant. “No,” she replied, “it’s not that.”

A herd of kids trampled past their bench. They launched into a snowball fight several yards away—laughing, chasing, pitching the frosty powder. The epitome of spontaneity, they were too busy living for the moment to worry about spring’s rains that would melt away the magic.

“What’s the matter?” Dalton asked her. “Just tell me and we can solve it.”

She paused, seeking a means of explanation, of peeling back the armor covering his weaknesses, his fears. Or more important, to confirm he had any.

Subtlety seemed best. “You know I’ve always believed in sticking to a plan. But lately I’ve been thinking, maybe that isn’t what life’s about. Things happen all the time we don’t see coming.”

He squinted slightly, waiting to see where she was leading them.

“Let me ask you this,” she ventured. “If you could have any job you wanted, live anywhere in the world, parents and pressures aside, what would you do?”

“Sky’s the limit?”

She nodded.

“That’s easy.” He sat back and shrugged. “I’d be a lawyer, living in Chicago.”

Her chest lowered, gapping her woven layers. A cold draft grazed her skin.

“Although,” he added, considering, “I’d probably delve into civil rights from the get-go, instead of down the road. Help out the underdog straightaway.” He quirked a brow. “But don’t go spreading that around. Wouldn’t want Judge Porter thinking I’d gone soft.” He finished with a smile.

It was far from an ideal answer, but at least his altruistic aspirations were a nice discovery.

Dalton titled his head at her. “Is that what’s bothering you? Are you having second thoughts about teaching?”

Now that she thought about it, her chosen vocation was one more aspect of her life that had shifted from the “certain” category to “uncertain,” all thanks to Morgan. Ever since he’d asked that ridiculous question of why she wanted to be a professor—ridiculous, given that the answer should have been a simple one involving her own desires, not someone else’s.

There was no denying she had a passion for literature. Yet she didn’t have to be a teacher to enjoy the classics. The power of the written word was what she revered, how thoughts on paper could change your perspective, and, on occasion, your life. Corresponding with Morgan had reminded her of the emotions penned prose could evoke—specifically when presented from the heart and free of fear over being judged.

In fact, authoring letters to the soldier had been just as rewarding as reading the pages he’d sent. As rewarding as scrawling the sweet notes she used to trade with her father, and the journals of poems, reflections, and short stories she’d created. All that had ended, of course, when her mother left. And until recently, Liz had forgotten the fulfillment of touching another’s soul through ink.

Perhaps a truer part of her had been packed away all these years, and had merely been waiting to unfold.

“Lizzy?” Dalton prompted.

Driven by her revelation, she blurted her answer. “I’d be a writer.” It then occurred to her that she’d addressed her own question, not his. “If sky was the limit,” she explained. “That’s what I’d be.”

“Huh.” He nodded, taking it in. “I had no idea.”

“I didn’t either,” she admitted. “Until now.” A steadiness came over her as she straightened in her seat.

“You know,” he said, “there’s no reason you can’t. If you’d rather write than teach, you should do it. It’s not like we need the money. And hey, if it means we could start a family sooner”—he smiled—“then you’ve got my vote a hundred percent.”

It was no surprise he’d be supportive. He always had been. Even when it would make him the only lawyer in the city married to a professional, he never challenged her ambition. And, naturally, the timeliness of his becoming a father served as a rewarding draw. In his eyes, she could already see the pride that would overflow the minute he first held his baby son. He would tuck him into his bassinet and kiss his forehead, warming him with a coverlet of security.

“I’ll definitely give it some thought.” She smiled back, just as a fresh wave of giggles entered the air. A pack of teenagers had engaged in the snowball skirmish. Their voices rose with their laughter, but still couldn’t drown out realism whispering in Liz’s ear: Best intentions aside, with Dalton’s foreseeable path, he wouldn’t be home for family dinners by five. In many ways, their children would be reliant on the guidance of one parent—the same as she had been.

On the upside, at least Liz wouldn’t be alone in her circumstance. For the betterment of society, Eleanor Roosevelt must have made her own share of sacrifices. And with a man like Dalton, a good husband and father, surely the sacrifices would be worth it.

“We still have some time,” Dalton said. “How about giving that spin of yours another try?”

Her tailbone protested. “Better not. I’m saving up for my big performance in the ice ballet.”

“Then I’d say you need a little practice before your debut.” He set aside the lidded thermos and stood. “Come on, one more round. I want to make all the guys here jealous.”