March 1944
“Goodness gracious,”Nancy says, switching the power off on the radio as she walks by our nurses’ station. “It’s no wonder you have nightmares every night.”
“We have to stay informed of what is happening. We’d be foolish to turn a blind eye to it all,” I tell her.
“It won’t change anything in this hospital, Lizzie.”
“London was already attacked once. There’s no saying it won’t happen again,” I argue. Nancy dips her hands into the deep pockets of her trench coat as if she’s waiting for me to say more before responding. “Well, it’s true, isn’t it?”
“You, my dear, listen to the radio for updates about the Army Air Corps. There’s nothing you are going to hear that will offer you peace of mind. Wherever your Everett is, the information is probably highly classified.” We’ve had the same conversation so many times over the last eight months, and I have tried my best to shut the thoughts off but being here in London is a constant reminder of the nagging question that haunts me. “You don’t know this for sure,” I tell Nancy.
“Your father has said so too in his letters. You should take some comfort in his words. I’m sure he would know if something happened to Everett.
“I’m not sure what to believe anymore.” I shuffle a pile of records from our current patients and click the stack together on the countertop.
Nancy retrieves a paper bag from her pocket and places it down in front of me. “Maybe this will help.”
The tattered and torn tea-brown bag looks older than me. “What is this?”
“It’s a stack of mail that arrived just before I was leaving our quarters. It all came together enclosed like it is, but it’s addressed to you from another unit.”
I trace my fingertips along the soft touch of the worn paper, feeling a quiver move through my nerves. I carefully open the bag and retrieve the stack of letters, careful not to catch a corner on the weak seam of the bag. My hand trembles as I read my name written in black ink. “It’s his handwriting,” I mutter, feeling unable to take in a full breath.
I remove the twine wound around the pile and thumb through the envelopes, finding the dates in order from the most recent one being from this New Year’s Day all the way back to last April. I couldn’t figure out how almost a year has passed since I’ve heard from him, but his letters are all here. Even through all my doubts, questions, and worries, I continued to write to him. There were days I thought I might have been mailing letters to a ghost. For all I know, it could be true since the last letter is from January, three months ago.
I start with the most recent letter and hold it up to my nose, hoping to inhale a familiar a scent, but all I smell is paper and ink. The flap parts and I pull the yellow piece of notepaper out. My thoughts on what might be written inside the folds initiate a sense of panic, stiffening every muscle in my body.
“Nurse, pardon me,” a patient hollers for me from behind.
“I’ll help him. Take your time and read what you need to,” Nancy says, placing her hand on my shoulder as I ease into the seat of the wooden folding chair.
I feel like my fingers are coated with grease as I try to part the folds. With a deep breath, I close my eyes and straighten out the full length of the paper.
My Sweet Lizzie,
It’s been so long since I’ve heard your angelic voice, and longer since I’ve read your poetic words. There’s been a rumor about a hold up in the mail because of a block in communications. I’m not sure if that’s why I haven’t heard from you, but I hope you are receiving my letters at the very least.
I’ve been unimaginably busy these last few weeks. There has been little time for sleep or any other extra-curricular activities some other units often get to take part in. I wish I could tell you precisely where I am, but they have prohibited us from disclosing those details. All I know is, I pray you are somewhere safe and not seeing the same appalling sights I’ve witnessed. I couldn’t have thought anything would dull the reminders of what happened during the attack on Pearl, but I was wrong.
All I can do is tell myself you are okay, but it’s not enough, Lizzie. We haven’t heard many details of casualties among the Nurse Corps, and I hope it’s because you are safe. Each day brings the shock of unspeakable horrors, and I wonder how much longer this war can continue.
Last week, I was in a small village with quaint family homes settled above blocks of shops. There were so many colors and rich artwork on every corner. I couldn’t help but think how much you would love being there, if it was a safe place to be, of course. It’s maddening that this war is the cause of destruction to so much beauty. I try my best to see through the smoke and debris, but some days are harder than others. I’m sure you are experiencing much of the same wherever you are.
As I’ve said in all my other letters, my heart aches when I sit down for a moment with a piece of paper and pen. You feel so far away and then I stare up at the sky and I find a hint of warmth. I tell myself you are looking at the same clouds I am, just like we promised to do. The days when the sky is clear and blue, I wonder if you’re somewhere closer without the clouds separating us. I’ll stare at the sun for a few seconds and when I look away, I can see your face looking down at me. Then I realize I might have lost my mind at some point throughout this past year.
I wish I had something more insightful to say, but I am missing you more than I have ever missed a thing in my entire life. I didn’t know such a pain existed, but in my heart, I know it’s a battle we have to fight before we can find the ending we want.
Anyway, I love you, doll-face.
Soon. It must be soon that we will see each other again.
Always and forever,
E—
The letter falls from my loose grip and drifts like a feather down to the counter. Three months have passed since this letter. He’s seeing far worse than we are here, and that’s the only detail given about his location. I don’t understand why he hasn’t received my letters, and there’s no way to know if it’s the same reason there isn’t one dated from within the last few months. Dad’s updates in his letters to me could be outdated. By the time I find out there is no recorded listing of casualties for his unit, it’s at least two weeks later than when the numbers came in.
I’m not sure I feel any better than I did twenty minutes ago. Knowing he was still alive and well in January doesn’t offer me comfort aside from learning he hadn’t stopped writing, and he still loved when he put the heartfelt words on paper. Deep down, I couldn’t see him forgetting about me, but when the mind has too many avenues to travel, the roads can end traveling down a dark path.
