Interrupted (16 page)

“You look lovely, Allie,” Sam whispered, kissing my gloved hand.

My heart squeezed. I tilted down my hat so that no one would see the tear sliding down my cheek. “Thank you.” I managed a smile. “You don’t look so bad yourself.” I fixed a crease in his uniform.

Sam lifted my chin and wiped away the tear. “Don’t cry.”

I looked away. It was too much to see Sam in his newly pressed uniform standing in front of me. Especially with a young couple embracing on the other side of the station; the girl was weeping as her sweetheart kissed her.

“Allie,” Sam whispered. “I’ll be back.”

“I know.” I gulped and focused on a spot near his shoulder.

“And then we’ll hear the church bells ring and you’ll look beautiful in that white dress.” Sam squeezed my hand, his voice growing shaky.

“I’d like to have a June wedding, so I can have roses,” I whispered, looking up at him. “My mother loved roses.”

Sam nodded. “I remember.” A whistle shrilled and smoke filled the station. I coughed as my lungs began to cloud up. I gripped Sam’s sleeves and looked up to see the train rolling onto the platform.

“Sam?”

“Yes, Allie?”

I looked down and brushed off his uniform, taking a deep breath. I raised my chin. “Just be careful.”

Sam cleared his throat. “If I write to you, will you write to me?”

I fought down the hot, sick feeling in my stomach and managed to nod. “Of course,” I said, a bit more sharply than I intended. “If I find time.”

Sam just smiled at me. “I’ll pass the time by imagining you — reading Emily Dickinson and writing in that little notebook of yours.” He chuckled. “I hope you don’t glare at any other young men while I’m gone.”

“I’ll try to resist,” I said sarcastically.

“All aboard!” A man yelled, hopping off the train.

Sam gave my hand one last squeeze and leaned in to kiss me on the cheek. “Good-bye, Allie,” he whispered. “I love you.”

“I love you,” I whispered back.

And then it was all over, and in a puff of smoke the train was pulling away from me. I realized I was alone and frantically looked for Sam. There he was, sticking his head out of a window and giving me a little wave.

I pressed my gloved hand to my cheek. It suddenly felt cold.

“Allie?” Beatrice called as I walked into the kitchen and dropped the keys on the table. I sank into a chair and stared out the window.

Beatrice came in from the living room and glanced at me. I ignored her and continued to watch a caterpillar inch its way up the glass.

From the parlor, a Billie Holiday record was playing. “I’ll be seeing you,” her voice crooned, “in all the old familiar places …”

“Could you turn that off?” I asked sharply.

A few seconds later, the room was silent. Beatrice poked her head in the doorway of the kitchen, holding a half-finished sock. “Are you okay, Allie?”

I reached up to wipe a tear off my cheek before smoothing back my hair. “Of course. I’m fine. I just have a headache.”

Beatrice pulled out a chair and sat down, her eyes on her knitting. “Did things not go well at the station?”

I shook my head. “They went as well as they could go.”

Beatrice reached out and squeezed my knee. “He’ll come home soon. In the blink of an eye, in fact.” She snapped a finger. “And then we’ll have a big wedding right here at the house!”

She fidgeted with her needles and glanced up. “Still unhappy?” she asked in a low voice. “Do you want to talk about it?”

I bit the inside of my cheek. How typical of Beatrice — to be utterly concerned with my life and my friends, wanting to help me piece my heart back together, when it was clear there was nothing she could do.

My stomach churned. “Never mind,” I muttered.

I ran to my bedroom and sank to the floor against the door, burying my head in my knees. I felt sick, like when I was little and Mama used to hold back my hair while I threw up.

I sniffled.
Oh, Mama, why couldn’t you be here now?

I
t was a
beautiful
wedding,” Irene remarked, sipping her pink lemonade beside me on the porch. She watched me out of the corner of her eye.

I nodded, fingering the wood grains on the old rocking chair. The white paint was chipped and peeling, and I tore several flakes away.

“Charlie was a lovely bride.” I smiled. “She was just glowing.”

“Russell certainly seemed happy enough.” Irene laughed. “I thought his shaky knees would give way and he would
collapse
at the altar.”

“Would have been interesting.” I took a long sip of my tea and sighed. “Wouldn’t say I’d want it to happen, but —” I
stopped abruptly and ran my finger along the rim of the glass.
If only …

“Do you miss him?” Irene asked, reading my thoughts.

I shrugged. “He writes.” I bit my lip and fought the burning sensation behind my eyelids. “The last letter contained a dried rose. He knows I wanted a June wedding.” I squinted up at the sky and sighed. “Maybe next year.”

“Do you write back?” Irene probed, watching me.

I avoided her glance. “Every now and then.”

Irene sighed and put down her glass. “What are you afraid of, Allie?” She paused, raising a red eyebrow. “Of getting too attached?”

I sucked in a gasp of air.
I don’t want to lose him
. Several more paint flakes tore under my fingers. “I just want to be certain that, if the worst should happen, I’ll be ready.”

“Allie, you block out everyone. Even yourself.” She shook her head. “I noticed it when you came here and I figured I’d just ignore it. I thought that over time you would open up and allow us to love you, and love us back. But you haven’t. You’ve just held on to this bitterness inside of you and let it grow into this huge …” She held up a hand. “I don’t even know what to call it. Can’t you see this …
shell
you’ve built around yourself? You block out everyone. Even yourself.”

“I do not have a shell!” I bristled.

“See there!” Irene pointed, her eyes widening. “You’re defensive to a
fault
. Every time someone tries to show they care about you, you take it as an insult. Why don’t you ever let your guard down and relax?”

I put down my tea and began to stand. “I have things to do, Irene. I need to …”

She rolled her eyes and reached out to stop me. “Just sit for a second, Allie.”

I sat back down, rigid.
Here we go …

“I want to talk to you about Mom,” Irene said. “Have you noticed anything strange about her lately?”

“About Beatrice?” I shrugged. “I don’t pay attention to her much.”

Irene shrugged. “It’s probably nothing. She’s just been complaining of headaches. Maybe I should take her to the doctor.”

“Ha. Doctors can’t do a thing.”
Look where they got Mama
. I stood and headed inside.

“Allie?”

I looked over my shoulder to see Irene smiling timidly at me. She tucked a piece of hair behind her ear. “I’m sorry if I hurt your feelings,” she said softly. “I just care about you, that’s all.” She looked up at me with her big green eyes, looking sad. “I want you to be happy.”

I paused in the doorway, my heart caught somewhere between the inside and the outside. My
happiness died four years ago
.

I nodded at Irene and went inside, the screen door slamming behind me.

I folded the last of the clothes and began stacking them in the basket. My hand smoothed over a plaid dress as my mind wandered.

When was the last time I wrote to Sam?
I frowned, trying to remember.
Probably a few weeks ago
.

Maybe Irene was right. Maybe I should write him.

I headed up the stairs, laundry basket in hand. What would I say? My life was so boring. And he always wrote the most interesting things — talking about Europe, and tanks, and his daily life.

I paused on the step. No, actually, he never wrote about his doings. Only what he wished he was doing.

Which was usually being close to me.

I leaned against the wall and closed my eyes, trying to imagine life on the warfront. I pictured Sam, ragged and worn, with mud smeared across his face and uniform. He carried a large gun in his rough hands and had a heavy sack thrown over his back. I could just see him lifting the gun to his eye and aiming at a German boy, shells exploding behind him.

A shudder ran through my body.
What would I ever do if …

I pushed the thought out of my mind and walked down the hallway to Beatrice’s room. I slowed in the doorway and raised my hand to knock.

“And please be with my Irene, and bless her and give her the strength she needs to go on without Daniel here beside her.”

I paused and peeked into the room. Beatrice was kneeling by the bed, her gray hair hanging down her back. Her head was bent in prayer.

“Lord, I know how it feels to have to face each day without a husband beside you. But I pray that Daniel will continue to stay safe and will come back to us soon. And may Irene continue to trust in you, knowing that you will comfort her and stay close by her forever. Lord, I love her and only want what’s best for her. You know that.”

My heart squeezed. Of course she loved Irene. Irene was her daughter—her flesh and blood.

I knelt to place Beatrice’s clothes on the floor and turned to leave.

“And, Lord, please be with Allie.”

I froze, afraid to turn for fear she’d hear me. Pressing my cheek to the wall, I bent my ear toward the open door.

“Lord,” Beatrice’s voice drew strained. She coughed several times before continuing. “Lord, I just don’t know how to comfort her. I can’t imagine what that child’s been through to harden her heart like that. I’ve prayed for years, and she still shuts out anything I offer. Lord, continue to give me the daily strength I need to show Allie that I love her and care about her. Help me to reach through all the barriers she has set up around herself and let her know I don’t want to replace her mother; I just want to love her. And Lord —”Beatrice’s voice began to break. “Lord, please soften her heart toward you. Please let her experience your love and come to drink of your salvation. Please melt her heart of stone and please give her a heart of flesh. Let her learn to truly love, and to accept being loved. I know you can reach her even when I cannot. I ask these things in your precious name … Amen.”

I moved from the doorway and rushed into my room, quietly shutting the door behind me.

What was that all about? Beatrice prays for me?

My heart felt a strange flutter. I tried to remember what Mama had said about religion. She had called it superstitious nonsense.

Was Beatrice a superstitious fool? She certainly hadn’t seemed so.

Christians will make you feel loved — make you feel wanted
. Mama’s words rang in my ears.
But they don’t mean any of it
.

I began unbuttoning my dress, pausing when I caught a glance of myself in the mirror. My mother’s face looked back at me. I was like her in so many ways.

But Mama had loved. She loved me, at least.

I went back to undressing. Had Beatrice really meant those things she said? She couldn’t have been trying to trick me. She didn’t even know I was there.

Her words played over and over again in my mind. Was there a God who wanted me to … Well, what did he want me to do?

I crossed over to my bed and opened up my journal. Smoothing out the paper, I raised my pen to the paper.

I stared at the empty page. For once, I had nothing to say.

What am I thinking? I don’t need a God. I can depend on myself for anything I need
.

My hand was still on the blank page. I stared at it. In my mind’s eye, I could see Charlie shrugging, looking doubtful.
What if it’s not enough?

I closed the journal and turned out the light. Beatrice’s words played over in my head. “Melt her heart of stone …”

The room had never seemed so dark and quiet before. I rolled on my side and curled my fist. What if my heart
couldn’t
melt?

I
lay in bed and listened to Beatrice walking about downstairs. She was probably going to leave for church any time.

I wonder what she does there
.

I hadn’t been in years —not since my mother’s funeral. I stared at the cracks on the ceiling.
Maybe I’ll go … just this once
.

I would never have to go again. But it wouldn’t hurt to go just once — to see what it was like.

I climbed out of bed, brushed my teeth, and pulled my best blue dress out of the closet. I slipped it over my head and sat down at the mirror to examine myself.

My dark brown hair fell down my back in soft waves. I brushed them out and pinned them up on my neck. If I brushed
just a tiny bit of powder on my nose, you couldn’t see those faded little freckles.

I pinned a hat on my head and sat back to check myself.
Don’t I look silly — all dressed up on a Sunday morning
. I scrunched my nose out of habit.

My shoulders slumped as I stared at myself.
I do look ridiculous. Everyone will stare at me when I get there
. I bit my lip.
They’ll know I don’t belong
.

“Allie!” Beatrice shouted from downstairs. “I’m leaving! I’ll be back around noon!”

“Wait!” I jumped up and ran to grab my shoes. “I’m coming with you!”

I bounded down the hall and skidded to a halt in the stairwell. Beatrice was waiting at the bottom of the steps, disbelief etched on her face. She clutched the railing and looked me over. I straightened my back and brushed past her, heading for the car.

Beatrice slid into the driver’s seat quietly. She turned on the ignition and gripped the steering wheel, and we rolled down the street in silence.

It was a beautiful Sunday morning. May was in full bloom— roses and wild blueberries were budding everywhere.

I squirmed at the eerie quiet. “Aren’t you going to ask why I’m coming?” I asked.

“No.”

“Oh.” I itched my neck.
Dratted hairpins
. “I just thought I might try it … just for today.”

“Very well.” Beatrice kept her gaze on the road. I couldn’t tell if she was pleased. She had to be pleased. I had heard her praying for me the night before, hadn’t I?

We pulled up in front of the little church and climbed out of the car. Families were beginning to gather into the building. I smiled at all the mothers herding their children like chicks.

Beatrice led me into the church and settled down in the back pew. “Are you comfortable sitting here?” she asked.

The question took me by surprise. “Of course.” I slid in next to her and looked around.

Beatrice smiled. “It’s been said that in heaven the last shall be first.”

“And who said that?”

Beatrice ducked her head, her face reddening. “For once, not me.”

I smiled and looked around. It must have been a very private church, for everyone was looking at me with interest. I shifted in my seat.

The pastor was a short, balding man. He smiled easily, his face widening and his eyes crinkling. He was shaking the hand of an older woman and laughing with the man beside her. He certainly didn’t look like the angry preachers I’d seen in my childhood.

Several women came to speak with Beatrice, Mrs. Wilkinson among them. She wouldn’t stop gushing about Russell’s wedding.

Charlie was sitting by her husband, glowing and talking to the women gathered around her. I watched her from a distance.
She never told me she’d been going to church
. I wondered if Charlie was afraid of what I’d say. Scared that I’d shut her out, like I did to everyone else. The thought that I was the kind of person my best friend might be scared of made my insides churn.

“I believe Pastor Davis is starting,” Beatrice remarked sweetly, motioning for Mrs. Wilkinson to move back to her seat. Beatrice turned to beam at me.

I avoided her gaze and focused on an ant crawling across the wooden floor.

“Good morning, beloved!” Pastor Davis boomed with a surprisingly large and forceful voice.

I lowered my eyes and fiddled with my hat.
What am I doing here? I don’t belong in church
.

Beatrice reached over and almost tentatively gave my hand a little squeeze. I resisted the urge to yank it away, letting it stay in her hand. I did give her a slight glare, though, to let her know I still wasn’t completely happy.

“Let us turn to the book of Matthew this morning,” Pastor Davis began.

I crossed my legs and watched him, my curiosity piqued. Everyone was opening their Bibles and reading the pages with care. They looked at each other with respect, and bowed their heads reverently.
So this was religion
.

I bowed my head too, although I peeked around the room. If this is what Beatrice claimed changed her life, there wasn’t much to it.

I squirmed in my seat. But there was something—a sort of light in the room. I bit my lip.
I wonder what it would be like to have that light
.

I paused and stared at the sheet of paper. For someone who called herself a writer, I made a pretty lousy letter.

How would Sam feel about getting a letter from me? He wrote me every week, but I hadn’t written in over a month.

My letters were short —to the point. I never embellished, never talked about my feelings.

Sam’s were wonderful. His writing wasn’t the best, but he always expressed so much emotion in a few words. He always asked about what I was thinking and feeling.

I crumpled up the piece of paper and started over.

I stopped suddenly. Why had I written
that
? Sam wouldn’t want to hear about Mama.

But he knew her too
. I bit my lip. Maybe he wouldn’t mind a few sentences. I continued writing.

I looked at the new letter. I sounded so weak and vulnerable — like a love-starved fool.

I sighed and folded up the letter, placing it in an envelope. Sam would understand. He knew me like no one else.

I placed the envelope on my nightstand and crawled into bed.

Where can I find a Bible?
I wondered if Beatrice would notice if I took one of hers from the bookshelf.

I curled up my knees and sighed.
What’s the matter with me lately?

I pulled into the parking lot and looked up at Goodey’s. The diner was closed, but there were still a few lights on.
Maybe Irene is still inside
.

I grabbed my keys and climbed out of the car. My heels clacked on the dark cement. I unlocked the front door and looked around. “Irene?”

A light was on in the back room.
Why would she be doing inventory at this hour?
I knocked lightly on the door before pushing it open. “Irene, I thought you said you were coming for …” I trailed off and stood, unmoving, in the doorway.

Irene was sitting behind her desk, collapsed in a pile of tears. Her head was buried in the desk, her shoulders shaking.

“Irene?”

She looked up and sniffled. Mascara ran down her cheeks. “Allie?” She blinked at me. A letter lay discarded on the desk, crumpled and soaked.

“Is something wrong?” I ran forward and knelt at her feet. “Is it Daniel?”

Irene frowned. “What are you doing here?”

“You were supposed to meet us for supper at Beatrice’s two hours ago,” I said gently. “Do you remember?”

Irene sniffled. “Oh, yeah.”

I looked around.
Nothing much out of the ordinary
. “What’s the matter?”

Irene pointed at the letter and shrugged. “I’m sorry. I just … I just got depressed.”

“What’s in the letter?”

“It’s from Daniel.” Irene turned back to her desk and picked up the letter. “It’s just a normal letter. I don’t know what I’m so emotional about.” Her eyes skimmed the lines. “He talks about his new friends and what he’s been reading and thinking. And he signs it ‘Thankful, as always, for you and our little family; Daniel.’ ”

I blinked. “So then what’s wrong?”

Irene took a deep breath before bursting into tears again.
“One of his …” She gasped for breath, wiping her eyes. “One of his military friends told him that his wife is expecting their first child. Daniel didn’t mean to rub it in, I know. I know he’s happy …” She covered her mouth with her hand to muffle her sobs.

I don’t understand
. I scooted forward and placed a hand on her leg. “What are you talking about?”

She shrugged her shoulders, her tears slowing down. “Daniel and I can’t have children,” she whispered. “He says that the two of us — that we are already our own little family. But sometimes …” She trailed off and stared at the ceiling. “I just really want a baby.”

I bit my lip, unsure of what to say. “I had no idea. I mean, I just supposed …”

“That I didn’t want children?” Irene sighed, clicking her pink fingernails against the desk. She stared down at the letter. “I want a baby more than
anything
I’ve ever wanted in my life.”

I sat up. “So why don’t you have one?” My blood began to boil. I grabbed Irene’s skirt, tears stinging at my eyes. “Why didn’t God give you a child?”

“I don’t know.” Irene burst into a fresh batch of tears.

I sat back and rocked on my heels, feeling disgusted.
It shouldn’t be this way. People shouldn’t feel this way
. I glared at the ceiling.
Do you hear that, God?

Irene finally calmed down, lifting a strand of my dark hair. She turned it over in her hands and sniffed. “I ask myself that almost every day.” She took a deep breath. “But I know that, for some reason, he chose not to.” She shrugged, her voice cracking. “And I don’t know why that is, but I know that it’s for my good.”

“How?” I glared at the floor. “How can wanting something good and honest and not getting it be for your own good?” I balled my hand into a fist. “Why does God keep us from being happy?” I whispered.

Irene looked down and seemed to really see me for the first time. She reached over and smoothed the hair off my hot forehead. “I don’t know,” she whispered. “But I will love him for it. I would love him if he gave me a child and I will love him if he doesn’t.” She wrapped my hair around her finger. “Sometimes God doesn’t give us the answer that we want. But that’s no excuse for being angry at him.”

A lump formed in my throat. I pushed away and sniffled, wiping my nose on my sleeve.
It’s not fair. Who else is there to blame if not God?
I swallowed my questions. Irene wouldn’t give me the answers I wanted.

Irene was silent for another minute or two. Then she pushed away from the desk and blinked, rubbing her eyes. “Come on. I think I’m late for supper.” She folded the letter, tucked it in her pocket, and smiled. “I’ve gotten somewhat hungry.”

Try to say something nice. Just to see how it would sound
. I looked across the table at Beatrice, who was quietly eating her supper. I bit my lip and stared at my plate. “This is good chicken,” I said. “It’s not nearly as burnt as yesterday’s.” I winced. Why was it that every compliment I gave had to be laced with a twinge of malice?

Beatrice smiled. “Thank you.”

I studied her profile. She was so calm and peaceful, her
gently wrinkled face containing a glowing light. She grunted quietly, and put down her fork. I frowned. She seemed tired.

“Are you okay?”

Beatrice sighed. “Just a headache. I think I’ll go lie down for a spell.” She stood and pushed back her chair. “Allie, if Mrs. Wilkinson comes over with the books I loaned her, would you please explain that I’m napping and have her leave them in the living room?”

I nodded and began clearing the table.

“I’m going to go rest,” Beatrice muttered again, moving slowly.

I washed the dishes before stealing into the parlor. There, sitting by Beatrice’s chair, was her Bible.