He had changed,
but I knew without a doubt it was Richard. My head pounded and my heart
joined in the rhythm. After all of this time—to meet him on a
battlefield in France was astonishing. For a fleeting instant I hoped he
wouldn’t recognize me, as I was an awful sight. The last time I’d
seen him was over ten years ago, in 1934. Richard’s dark hair was
streaked with white. His mustache was gone, and a scant white beard
stood out from his olive skin.
"Mrs. Giles,
come over here and meet Dr. Jackson," one of the nurses
called. Richard glanced in my direction,
and our eyes met. His eyebrows raised in recognition. I slowly
approached with my hand extended.
"How are you,
Janey?" he asked quietly. His eyes took in my appearance and
assessed every inch of me. If he was shocked at seeing me here he didn’t
show it. His grip was warm and comforting, like an old friend.
"Hello, Dr.
Jackson, it’s nice to see you," I said, hoping he hadn’t
noticed the tremble in my hand.
The questions
would be many, but the time was not right. My pulse quickened as we
stood in the circle of people. I couldn’t help stealing occasional
glances at him—and he returned those glances. Dr. Roberts, the head
physician, eventually led Richard around for a tour of the camp. Some of
the nurses tittered as they walked away.
"’Bout time
we had a menu change ‘round here."
"Heard he’s
single—"
I turned toward my
tent. I didn’t have the stomach to listen to the speculating of lonely
women.
I changed into a
semi-clean uniform before supper. It was the usual clamor and din in the
mess hall. After ladling the unsavory soup into my metal bowl, I found a
table away from the others and sat down. I’d taken only one gritty
swallow, when to my surprise a deep voice spoke behind me.
"Is this seat
taken?"
I swallowed
another mouthful and turned, looking up. I was barely able to choke out
the words. "Of course not."
He glanced around
the room as he sat across from me. Instead of eating he propped his
elbows on the table and folded his hands beneath his chin. "It’s
been a long time, Janey."
I offered a
crooked smile, hoping that there weren’t any lentils clinging to my
teeth.
"How on earth
did you come to be in this place?" Richard asked, his gaze
immobile.
I was suddenly
aware that I was rapidly stirring my soup. I deliberately placed my
spoon to the side and let my hands drop in my lap. "I wanted to
help out in the war effort, so I became a nurse. And here I am." I
paused. "What about you? How did you end up here?"
His expression
seemed to darken and he ignored my question. "But what about your
husband?"
"Edward died
over a year ago," I answered, looking down at my clenched hands.
Richard let out a
long breath. "I’m sorry to hear that. I remember reading about
his mother’s death some time ago. But, I had no idea Edward . .
." his voice faded.
I looked up to see
why he’d stopped. He was staring at my neck. My hands flew to my
collar and I discovered the top button had come undone.
"You’re
wearing the jade necklace."
Heat flared in my
cheeks immediately, and I quickly fastened the delinquent button.
"It makes me feel . . . closer . . .to . . ."
Richard placed his
hand over mine. My cheeks flamed once again. "I know. You don’t
have to explain," he said quietly.
I nodded, feeling
the corner of my eyes prickle, and withdrew from his touch. Inwardly I
breathed a sigh of relief. At least I hadn’t been wearing the matching
jade bracelet he had given me so long ago. I had never worn it while
Edward was alive, but I found myself wearing it once in a while for
additional comfort. It was tucked beneath my cot with my mother’s
journal and my father’s letter.
Richard began to
stir his soup that had grown cold. I thought hard to change the subject.
"We received the flowers and letter you sent to my mother in law’s
funeral. There was no return address on the envelope, so I never had a
chance to thank you."
The spoon stopped
its motion and he studied me for a moment. "I was between addresses
at the time, and I didn’t know where I would be living."
"Where did
you end up?" I asked.
He released his
spoon and propped his elbows on the table again. Just then another
doctor approached the table. "Dr. Jackson, we’re ready to begin
the night shift."
Richard picked up
his untouched bowl of soup and turned to me with a smile. "Well,
Mrs. Giles, it was nice visiting with you." And he left.
***
The next few days
were as frantic as ever. I only caught a glimpse of Richard a few times.
I had to train myself to ignore the conversation among the nurses about
him and pretend that I didn’t have any special connection.
The battle raged
on and injured soldiers arrived by the dozens, many of them beyond hope.
Father Bourne, the military chaplain, administered last rites around the
clock. I had gone to fetch him in the middle of one night when I ran
into Richard.
"When does
your shift end?" he asked.
"As soon as I
tell Father Bourne his services are needed," I replied.
He nodded.
"Meet me for coffee in the mess hall?"
I tried to keep my
_expression nonchalant. "Sure, I’ll see you in a minute," I
answered.
I literally
sprinted to Father Bourne’s tent and delivered my message, then
hurried to my living quarters and splashed my face with water. My hair
was pretty hopeless, but at least I could replace my soiled apron.
Stepping into the
deserted mess hall I saw Richard in a far corner with two cups of
steaming coffee in front of him. Coffee was a luxury and usually
reserved for the doctors or special circumstances—such as a dying
soldier’s last wish—although a cigarette was given preference. I
savored the strong hot liquid as it coursed down my throat, the coffee
relaxing my schoolgirl nerves.
"It’s nice
to have a familiar face about the camp, " Richard said, smiling.
I nodded in
agreement and tried to think of something to say. "I feel closer to
home seeing you here. Although I was trying to forget how life was for
me in the states, I’m grateful to see a familiar face."
Richard’s gaze
held mine, amusement in his. "You still haven’t told me what you’ve
been doing for the last ten years."
"Nor
you," I answered.
He laughed.
"Touché." Then he sobered and began to speak earnestly.
"I’ve thought about you a lot, Janey. About your health and the
research you were helping me with."
I
felt my stomach harden. The memories came rushing back: the first day of
school, typing letters for him, the hypnosis sessions, the entrancing
tenor of his voice, the time I poured out my deepest concerns about
Edward, and the tears that I shed at our departure on that night so long
ago.
His next questions
burned through my thoughts. "Have you had any of the symptoms your
mother experienced?"
At first I was
surprised at his candor, then angry. After all we had been through in
the past, and to meet again ten year later, he was only interested in
finalizing his research.
"I’m
fine," I said abruptly.
Richard furrowed
his eyebrows. "I had hoped so. I haven’t found any evidence that
your mother’s illness was hereditary. If I had, I would have contacted
you directly."
I nodded, still
seething inwardly.
"But to see
you here, after all this time, is truly remarkable. Tell me what it’s
been like, Janey."
His eyes held mine
and I found myself sinking into their depths. I was taken back to the
night I had confided in him at the boarding house. He had a way about
him that made me feel like I could share my innermost secrets and he
would understand.
"I
lost a child," I said quietly. I waited for the emotion to burst
from me, but it didn’t. "She died of polio when she was only
four." My voice caught, but I wanted to go on. It had been a long
time since I’d spoken of Elisabeth. "She was our joy, our
happiness. When she died all of my dreams went with her."
Richard remained
quiet.
"But when
Edward died . . . I died, too."
Richard took my
hand and this time I didn’t pull it away.
"I couldn’t
live in that house anymore. I couldn’t go on visiting their graves day
after day. Each hour that passed grew more painful and I thought I’d
go mad." I stopped, suddenly realizing what I’d implied. But
Richard didn’t seem to notice. "So I left everything and threw
myself into the war. I didn’t care if I lived or died." A tear
escaped and trickled down my cheek.
"But you care
now," Richard said gently.
I stared at him.
"You’re
wearing the jade necklace."
A burden seemed to
lift from my heart. I did care and I wanted to live. But I hadn’t
realized it until just then.
We sipped our
coffee in silence for a few minutes. "So what about your
life?" I finally managed.
"After
leaving Providence I eventually established a private practice in
Boston, and began an in-depth study of psychoanalysis," he said.
"Psychoanalysis,"
I pronounced slowly. "What is it?"
"A form of
psychiatry which uses psychoanalysis to reveal patients psychological
conflicts they are unaware of. I had just completed my training in
mental disease when the Japanese attacked America. First, I was
stationed at Pearl Harbor, then a few months ago I was sent to France. I
was expecting to be transferred to England when the Battle of the Bulge
broke out. So I was relocated here."
I don’t know for
how long we talked, but when I finally made it back to my tent and
stumbled into bed I felt I’d begun a new stage in my life. Hope filled
my barren heart. Even in the midst of one of the most horrible battles
in history, I had found a glimmer of happiness.
***
Six weeks after
the Germans first attacked, the battle was over and cleanup began. The
Americans had outlasted the Germans, who lost a staggering number of
troops. The field hospital work slowed as the fighting came to an end.
Richard and I spent many stolen moments together, even working together
occasionally. He was a very calm and intelligent surgeon, never
distracted in the commotion. I relied on his good nature and common
sense to help me through the daily traumas of work. The other nurses
gossiped and teased me about our budding relationship. I noted a tinge
of jealousy among them but ignored their passing stares and comments.
One afternoon
after a long night shift I awoke to find a note on the floor next to my
cot. I tore open the envelope.
My Dear Janey,
I’m sorry I wasn’t able to tell you good-bye this morning.
The orders came suddenly. I’m finally being transferred to
England, and I don’t know what will happen. Here is my Boston
address in case you ever need it.
Sincerely,
Richard
I kept that note,
smudged with my constant reading, inside my bodice for the next six
months. His presence at the field hospital had given me a renewed sense
of hope. I felt ready to go on and finish my duties until the end of the
war.
Heather Moore
began writing fiction in 2001, and has won writing awards for two
novels. She is a former Chapter President of the League of Utah
Writers, and currently serves as Secretary. She lives in Lehi, Utah,
with her husband, Chris, and their three children.
Magazine