He never went back to Europe, even when Mom hinted at it for vacations. She would leave brochures for Spain, Italy, and Greece in conspicuous spots throughout the house, and he responded with decadent trips to the Caribbean, Australia, and even the Galápagos Islands. And Hawaii—always Hawaii. When they went to Israel fifteen years back, he booked the trip so that the layover was in Toronto rather than London or Amsterdam, so that he wouldn’t have to come up with an excuse not to leave the airport. It was the only thing he’d ever denied her, as far as I knew, and I didn’t think she begrudged him.
I came armed with acid-free, archival-quality photo books, a fresh notebook and pens to make a record of each of the photographs, and even a mini-recorder in case Dad had stories to tell about the various objects he’d hauled home from his years overseas.
Dad came into the dining room, his walker guiding each step. Kimberly walked beside him, chatting companionably but poised to catch him if his balance faltered.
“You’ve been hard at work, Bethie,” Dad said, observing the organized piles of photos and the carefully placed mementos.
“You wanted to see your things, Dad. I just figured we’d better preserve them after all these years, or there won’t be anything left. I hope you don’t mind. There was no salvaging the box.”
“Fine, fine,” he said. “I should have done this years ago, but time plays cruel tricks.”
Dad seemed invigorated by the memories before him. He took the packets of photos and organized them into chronological order from basic training to discharge and homecoming. He patiently described the contents of each photo as I wrote copious notes, assigned them numbers, and placed them carefully in an album. He remembered names and dates as clearly as though he’d served last month instead of more than half a century before.
He flipped through the postcards, telling me why he’d chosen them and about some of the sights he remembered. There were quite a number from Paris, though most were from the front in western Germany. He began checking each of the yellowed photo envelopes, making sure they were empty except for the strips of negatives.
I felt a prick of embarrassment, knowing what he was looking for. The picture of Dad with his arm around the blond woman was tucked carefully in my purse. I still wanted to know who she was, but part of me had become afraid of the answer in the days since I discovered it. So long as I didn’t know who she was, she wasn’t the other woman in his life before he met Mom. A Schrödinger’s photograph, of sorts. I had pushed away the juvenile thoughts of keeping it to myself, but separating it from the rest of the pile was bad enough.
“Oh, this one fell out of the box when I got home. It hadn’t fared as well as the others, so I put it in a protective sleeve.” It was a shallow lie, but the kind that parents overlook in their children.
I pulled the picture from my bag and slid it over. For just one moment, his face crumpled, but he regained his composure. His breathing was measured even as he seemed to will his tears away.
“Who was she, Dad?” I asked, deciding that the time for subtleties had passed.
“A sweet girl who was caught up with the wrong people at the wrong time,” Dad said, his voice husky. “Smart as a whip and twice as pretty. A lot like you.”
“She’s lovely,” I admitted. “How did you meet?”
He looked back down at the photograph and rubbed his eyes. “Not today, Bethie. It’s been a long enough stroll down memory lane, don’t you think?”
I just then noticed the bags of fatigue around Dad’s eyes. We’d spent a solid three hours poring over the photos, and he looked drained from the effort.
“Why don’t you go lie down before dinner, Dad? I’ll tidy this up while you rest. I’ll stick around to eat if you want.”
“I’m sure you have plans, Beth. You’ve been by a lot lately, and I won’t have you giving up your life to look after me.”
The reality that I had no plans on a Saturday night didn’t sting as much as it probably should have. The blessings of being a homebody, I supposed, but I didn’t feel all that compelled to rush back to my empty apartment either.
“I don’t mind, Dad. I want to spend time with you,” I insisted.
“You go out tonight, Bethie. That’s an order. It’s not healthy, all work and no fun. You know the saying.”
“Are you saying Jane is a dull girl?”
“Never dull, my girl. But you need to be with people your own age and away from work. I’ll tell Kimberly to chase you out with a fireplace poker if you give me any trouble.”
“It’s Encinitas, Dad. You don’t have fireplaces. But fine, I’ll take the hint.”
“Always a smart mouth, this one,” Dad said, shaking his head. I took him back to his room and helped him stretch out on the bed. I returned to the dining room and gathered up the newly organized photo album and put the rest of the items in the plastic bin. As I worked, I thought about what to do with my Saturday night. Gwen was out of town with her new boyfriend, so I couldn’t impose my company on her, and the thought of going out to eat or to a movie by myself just made me itch. I had never been one to feel uncomfortable in my own company before, but since my split from Greg, I felt conspicuous doing those sorts of things alone. Coupley things. I was a woman of logic and reason. My brain knew that a woman standing alone in a line to buy a movie ticket wouldn’t even register on people’s radar. Hell, I didn’t even have to stand in line in public view if I didn’t want to. I could buy tickets online and bypass standing on a busy sidewalk altogether. It was absurd to be even the slightest bit self-conscious, but it was how I felt.
By the time I returned to Dad’s room to leave the album and bin for him to peruse later, he was already breathing in the deep, even breaths of sleep. I went to kiss his forehead and noticed that the picture of the blond woman was still tucked in his hands, crossed over his heart.
CHAPTER NINE
WHERE LOYALTIES LIE
MAX
September 21, 1944
Hürtgen Forest, Germany
I spent the day in the rear evacuation hospital assisting the colonel as he patched up the men who were shipped to us in scores from the front. I’d sewn up so many bullet holes that day, I’d never again be able to feign incompetence and ask my mother to sew on a shirt button. I wouldn’t be surprised if I could perform the task with more skill and speed than she could at this point.
Dusk fell, and I went to stretch out my weary back and breathe in something other than the putrid air of the tent. I lit one of my army-ration Chesterfield cigarettes between my lips and took a long drag, expelling the smoke from my lungs in a slow, steady stream. I heard the snapping of a twig to my right, and dropped the cigarette in the dirt, extinguishing it with the toe of my boot in a quick movement.
I heard another crunching sound from the woods and saw a face peer out from behind a tree. The girl from the night before. She motioned for me to join her away from the tent. I looked around to see if there were German snipers hiding in the trees or bombs hidden in the brush, but the truth was that if she meant to kill me, she wouldn’t have gone to the trouble of getting my attention to do it. The camp was its usual bustle of activity, everyone so preoccupied with their work, they wouldn’t notice me slip away.