Back to Yesterday (24 page)

I
received the first letter with an APO address from Charlie on February 27, 1943, three weeks after he boarded the train. The next letter wouldn’t come for another six weeks. Whenever I did receive a letter I held in with both hands, clutched it to my chest like a shield, and thanked the good Lord because it was a sign that he was alive and okay. My saving graces, I called them.

He never spoke about his missions or where he was. I suspect he wouldn’t have even if he was able to. He kept that all to himself, locked away in some secret vault, and spared me the details. Rather, he spoke about his love for me and his dreams of coming home. I relished every letter, reading the emotions behind his every word. They tumbled off the pages and fell into my lap where I would scoop them up and try them on. I wore them on my skin like a pair of flannel pajamas, keeping me warm when fear chilled me to the bone.

And fear, it sometimes grappled me, held me down, and threatened to be my shadow. Fear was unforgiving and I often dreamed of a day that I could introduce fear to Charlie’s bravery. What a showdown that would be. I thought about it more and more every day.

On May 18, 1943, another letter arrived from Charlie and the first two lines tore my heart open.

Dear Sophie,

They’re all so very young. These pilots…so young. I know I’m young too. I’ll be twenty-three in a week, yet I feel so old. I feel as though I’ve lived a thousand years.

He was revealing his vulnerability and I think it only made me love him more. He trusted me with his honesty. He needed someone to talk to, to tell someone how he felt, and he chose to tell me. It couldn’t be easy for him. I wanted to reach my hand through the pages and be pulled in by him. Lifting the letter to my nose, I smelled it, hoping to catch a trace of his essence. Then Fear lifted my chin, forced me to look in its eyes.

“He could die,”
Fear said.
“What would you do then?”

“Shut up,” I muttered.

Fear lifted one eyebrow, its lips quirking to the side.
“Ah, does she want to fight me today?”

I narrowed my eyes.
Yes, she does.
I imagined myself in a boxing ring with Fear as my opponent, trying to break me down, get me to submit, cower in the corner. Then I would hear Charlie whisper in my ear, “You never lose, remember?”

I focused all my energy on Fear, looked it right in the face, its smug smile staring back at me. I let anger fuel me, waited until I was ripe with it, let it seep into my pores and get under my skin. Fear started to taunt me once more, and then I reared back, fingers curled into a fist, and punched Fear right in its smug face.

Fear stumbled, shocked that I was fighting back. For a while, however short-lived, I felt victorious. I left the ring and Fear called out after me,
“I’ll be back you know. This is just one battle. There’ll be more.”

I refused to look over my shoulder, not giving Fear the satisfaction. I pushed open an imaginary door to the outside, to freedom, and said, “But today you lost.”

~ Too Far Moon

Till My Heart Stops

I
filled my time by volunteering a few hours each day, mostly with children whose fathers were away at war, and waited for more letters that never came. I taught art classes in the basement of our local library on Mondays and Wednesdays, and on Tuesdays and Fridays I tutored a summer reading program. On Thursdays, I visited Julia. I still worked at the café as well, so I kept myself busy.

I liked busy. When I wasn’t busy my mind dove into dark places with deep crevices, where doubts slumbered and worry thrived. Staying busy was my lifeline to survival.

I did allow time for myself, though. A few days a month I would wait until the sun settled in for the night, and then I would paint by the soft light of a small table lamp, dressed in an old shirt that was too big for me. It was my oasis, my reprieve from realism, where I created a world where Charlie and I walked into the sunset, hand in hand.

I painted us lying down, standing up, and dancing. I painted us sitting and staring at each other longingly. It was the world I understood, the one my heart belonged to.

My favorite painting was one I’d painted of myself. If you looked closely enough, you could see Charlie in my reflection. The blue in my eyes was the backdrop of the sky and I knew how much Charlie loved the sky and how much he loved me. It seemed right that he should be there.

Some nights I didn’t paint at all. I just stared at the ones I’d already painted, touching Charlie’s face, having private one-sided conversations with him.

How are you, Charlie? How’s the weather where you are? Are you getting enough rest? My mother made meatloaf for dinner. Wish you could have been here. I’ve been visiting Julia, Tank’s mom, for a while now. She’s okay. A little sad most days, but okay. I’m taking care of her so you shouldn’t worry about her while you’re there.

Elizabeth is dating someone now. She met him before the summer. He seems nice. I had to do a little covert maneuvering to get them talking. Neither one seemed to be making a move even though I would catch both of them giving each other goo-goo eyes when the other wasn’t looking. Were we ever like that? No, we weren’t. You weren’t afraid of being rejected. Or were you? You always appeared so confident. It’s hard to imagine you ever being afraid. I wasn’t, though. Confident that is.

I thought that if you ever got to know me, you’d realize I wasn’t everything you thought I was. But you met me in the middle, didn’t you? Somehow you saw the scars in my eyes and you met me in the middle. You took my hand and showed me the way to love. You were my compass when I had no direction and no idea which way to go. You led. And I followed. I’m glad I followed you. You took me to places I never knew existed. I guess that’s why I stepped in and put things in motion for Elizabeth. I didn’t want her missing out the way I would have missed out on you. She deserves to be happy. I think everyone does. And you’re still my compass, Charlie. I don’t know where I’m going without you. So, you have to come home and show me the way. I’m lost, Charlie. I’m so damn lost.

Please come home.

At night, when my mind relaxed, peace would wash over me. I never felt peaceful during the day. I was always too busy staying busy. When I figured out how to keep my mind from wandering the dark halls of the unknown, I dreamed of Charlie holding me. His hands would slip over me, drawing a map of where he wanted to go. I could feel his touch, heat rising over the places he’d been until I was warm all over.

I was young, but I was also a woman, and I yearned to feel his body connecting with mine. Wondered what it would feel like to have him moving inside me, filling my body the way he filled my soul. I dreamed of watching him watching me as our bodies came together, love spilling from his eyes. I could even taste his skin, salty with need, and sweet with desire. He would press his lips to mine and I would swallow his breath, and he would whisper, “Are you in love with me yet?” This time, I would answer, “Yes, yes, I’m in love with you.”

Our hearts would beat faster, but our mouths would move at a lover’s pace, slow and careful, unwilling to rush what was happening between us. He would take his time loving me. It would be as though the world knew what was happening, and time would tiptoe away, careful not to disturb.

I had these dreams every night for months on end. I wanted the nights more than the days,
needed
them, craved them. The days were fast and demanding and downright rude, unraveling me like I was made of old worn sweaters. But the nights – the nights were patient and kind. They were respectful and reverent.

It was only in the dreamy nights that Charlie would visit me, where we were together and alive, happy and falling in love over and over again. Only in the nights, but that was okay because my dreams…they were the thread that sewed me back together.