“What? Why?” I shout.
“Everett was a prisoner, and he was tortured. He doesn’t look the way he did when you saw him last. I need to prepare you for what you’re about to face, and this is by far the last thing I would ever want you to have to witness. You must understand.”
“I don’t care what he looks like, Lewis. I just want to be with him.”
“That’s the unstoppable girl I know,” he says, pinching my cheek. “He needs you.”
45
September 1944
Over the past two years,I thought I had seen it all, or at least, the worst of it. After being witness to the most horrific of injuries, I thought nothing could ever suck the air from my lungs again, but to approach someone I love and face the unimaginable requires a type of bravery I’m not sure I have. As I walk beside Lewis, I try to maintain my composure, but it’s a facade. My heart pounds like a drum as I step closer and closer to what could be the end of my world. “Is he conscious?”
“He’s—well, yes, somewhat. However, you should try to prepare yourself. He isn’t making much sense when he tries to speak,” Lewis explains, keeping his voice soft. He’s being as gentle as he can with me, knowing full well that I’m no different at this moment than a grenade after I have pulled the safety ring.
“What are his injuries?” I continue, ignoring his attempt to walk on eggshells.
“We aren’t sure of his condition or prognosis yet. The immediate priority was to get him here to the hospital as quickly as we could. We can see the external injuries, but what’s happening internally is yet to be diagnosed.”
“Can you at least tell me what you know? Please don’t speak in riddles, Lewis.”
“All right. I’ll give it to you straight. He has multiple contusions, a broken ankle, and several injured ribs. There could be head trauma, but to what extent, is not yet clear. What is obvious is that he has been starving and dehydrated beyond what most men would survive. The long-term effects of his injuries—well, we just don’t know.” Lewis’s explanation is uncoated and sharp, but there is no way to lighten the description that I asked for. If I wasn’t already aware that I have nothing left in my stomach to vomit up, I would prepare to become sick.
“I missed you,” I tell Lewis.
“Me too, kid. It’s been a long time, but your letters have made me laugh more times than I can count. I know it looks like we’re losing this war, but we aren’t. We’re doing good things, better than what you can see.”
“Yeah, you’ve said that in your letters,” I say, elbowing him gently in the side.“I’m having trouble seeing much past the deaths and injuries, though.”
Lewis takes my chin in his hand. “You are Mom, and you can do this. You hear me, Elizabeth?” I try to swallow against my dry throat, but I feel like choking. I nod in response. “I wish I could stay with you, but I’m not supposed to be here. I just—I need to help and make sure you are okay. James and I fought over who would go. I won this time.”Out of habit, I roll my eyes, finding out that he and James are somehow together and still fighting over everything.
“I should have figured as much.”
We’re approaching one of the intensive care tents where we tend to the most serious injuries to first. I’m lightheaded as we step into the cloaked, humid space filled with body lined cots. I would do anything for more air than I can currently take in, but I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to take a full breath again until I know Everett is going to be okay.
“He’s lost a lot of weight,” Lewis says.
Everett was always lean, but with a muscular physique. He was the picture of good health.
Lewis places his hand on my back to turn me toward Everett’s cot. My heart stops beating for a moment as I approach his side. He’s pale, but scabbed with what looks like burn marks, his lips are bluish, but cracked and dry. The sunken dip in his cheeks and temples is intense, and though a sheet is covering most of his chest, his collarbone is far more defined than someone who has been starving for just a few weeks. It looks like he hasn’t eaten in months.
But he’s still beautiful.
“Hey brother, look who I found,” Lewis calls out to Everett.
Brother.That one simple word makes me weaker than I already am.
Everett struggles to open his eyelids, and his lips part slightly.
“Baby,” I call out. “It’s Lizzie. I’m here.” I fall to my knees and carefully rest my cheek on his arm, not recognizing the scent or texture of his skin. His hands are much larger than mine and when we would intertwine our fingers, his hand would cover mine as if he had a bear claw in comparison. Now, our fingers look similar in width, but Everett’s are still much longer.
“Liz—” he mumbles.
I lift my head and place the back of my hand on the side of his. “Everett, I’m here, and I’m not going anywhere.”
“It’s—bye. I need—I—”
“No goodbyes. Don’t say that to me. You need to rest. You’re safe.” This is what I say to all the men when they arrive in my care, knowing my words aren’t always the truth. There’s no way to provide an honest statement about anyone’s safety in the conditions we’re in. None of us can call ourselves safe. We could be the target of an air raid, dropped on us at any moment if one bypasses our artillery.
