Though None Go with Me (17 page)

He nodded. “But you would have heard something by now. No news is good news, right?”

“I've heard that before,” she said. “I wish it were always true.”

Trudy arrived home about three hours later with two girlfriends, greeted Elisabeth, and disappeared. Elisabeth couldn't imagine how she could socialize and carry on as usual with her fiancé at war.

The following Saturday Elisabeth read that the problem at Tarawa was that air support had not been properly coordinated. However, the U.S. had finally taken the island on November 26.

Just before she was to leave for work on Monday morning, the sixth of December, Elisabeth's phone rang. The caller, who spoke with a thick southern accent, identified himself as Sergeant Howard of the United States Marine Corps.

“Oh, no,” she said.

“Madam, this is not a bad news call.”

“Oh, thank God.” She had heard that death notices came in writing or in person, to prevent cruel hoaxes.

“It's not all good either, I'm afraid, but your son is coming home. If you can confirm that I am speaking with the mother of Bruce James Bishop, DOB six-one-twenty-five at Three Rivers, Michigan?”

“That's him. How bad?”

“He was not physically wounded, ma'am, to the best of my knowledge. He has been diagnosed with battle fatigue and has suffered, I'm reading here, ‘possible sensory damage which will be better evaluated when oral function returns.'”

“He's lost his voice?”

“That's the way I interpret it, ma'am. That's usually not physical but psychological, and not uncommon with battle fatigue. Problem is, until he can talk, it's hard for them to know the extent of any hearing or vision loss.”

“Is he in shock?”

“In a manner of speaking, ma'am. He was apparently involved in heavy combat and was traumatized. It's no minor condition. There are chances of complete recovery, but no guarantees.”

“When can I see him?”

“He's been transported to Honolulu where he's being stabilized. From there, when he's up to it, he'll be flown to San Diego. He could be moved from there to Quantico, Virginia, Washington, D.C., or directly home, depending on whether we can find a suitable rehabilitation facility in your area. I need to warn you that transporting these boys from the Pacific is always tedious, and you may not know exactly when he's getting home till he gets there.”

Elisabeth phoned the Childses; word spread through Christ Church, and a prayer vigil began to get Bruce home as quickly as possible. After ten of the most anxious days of her life, Elisabeth received a call from Sergeant Howard. “Miz Bishop,” he said, “Bruce James is expected to arrive tomorrow at 1900 hours at the State Hospital in Kalamazoo. Do you know where that is?”

She smiled. “I'm sure I can find it.”

Of course, Bruce was late. The last leg of his journey was routed from Chicago rather than Detroit as planned, and when he arrived, he was sedated and asleep. Elisabeth and Trudy embraced him and sat with him through the night.

“He'll speak as soon as he wakes up and sees me,” Trudy said.

“I don't think we should overwhelm him,” Elisabeth said. “You greet him first and I'll hang back.”

Trudy paced the halls, then finally stretched out in a chair and fell asleep. Elisabeth kept watch in case he woke early. But Bruce didn't so much as twitch. She lifted his hand and held it in hers. It was the big, warm hand of a man. When had that happened? How she wished he would open his eyes and know she was there, know he was home and safe. He looked just like the pictures he'd sent from Hawaii, maybe a little more tanned and angular, hair starting to grow out.

Elisabeth prayed as she held his hand, thanking God for watching over Bruce.

“I thought I was supposed to wake him up,” Trudy said, and Elisabeth jumped.

“He's not awake, dear. I'm just praying for him.”

“Well, what if that wakes him up?”

“He's really out, Trudy. Yours will be the first face he sees, I promise.”

Trudy didn't look so sure, but she soon slept again.

A doctor entered at six in the morning and checked Bruce's vital signs. “He should wake up in an hour or so,” he whispered. “His pulse and respiration have increased, BP's up. He'll start moving, but don't try to make him speak. He may try, but just let that come. You'll do more harm than good if you rush him. They'll bring him some breakfast at eight, and I'll check back after that.”

Elisabeth wouldn't have missed seeing Bruce's eyes pop open. As the clock crowded seven, she stared at his face. His fingers moved. He rolled his ankles. His head came off the pillow, then dropped back down. Sunlight peeked through the venetian blinds and crossed his face. He turned away, lids fluttering.

Finally he turned back toward the sun and let it bathe his face. He opened his eyes and blinked slowly. Elisabeth woke Trudy. The girl sat up, scratched her head with both hands, shook out her hair, and leaned forward from the foot of the bed. “Hi, honey!” she said a little too loudly.

He looked right through her.

Trudy moved to the side of the bed. She tried to take his hand, and though he did not pull away, it remained limp. Still he stared, and Elisabeth stayed where she was, a foot from his line of sight.

“It's me, Bru! It's Trudy! Welcome home, soldier boy!”

She pressed her lips together and sighed. Elisabeth started to protest when Trudy cupped Bruce's face in her hands and tried to get him to look at her. “Wake up, sleepyhead,” she said. He lay back on the pillow and stared straight ahead. “Forget this,” Trudy said. “Tell them to call us when he's conscious.”

“He's conscious, honey. He just won't be rushed.”

Bruce followed Elisabeth's voice, and his eyes widened when he saw her. She hesitated, not wanting to crowd Trudy or confuse Bruce. His eyes locked on Elisabeth's. She smiled.

“That's your mom, Bru. Can you see her? Say hi to your mom.”

Elisabeth shook her head, trying to remind Trudy that they weren't to push him to talk.

“Fine,” Trudy said.

Elisabeth slipped to his bedside and he turned to stay focused on her. How many thousands of times had she dreamed Will would follow her with his eyes? “I'm here, Bruce,” she whispered.

Bruce's lips moved as if he was about to say something but couldn't form the words. His mouth curled with the effort and it appeared he might cry. That broke her heart. He took a breath, raised his chin, and appeared to try to open his mouth. He exhaled through his nose and shook his head.

“Shh,” she said, taking his hand in both of hers. She rubbed the back of his hand. “There's plenty of time, Bruce.”

Trudy backed away and watched from the doorway. “How long are you going to stay?” she asked.

“Probably until midmorning.”

Trudy looked at her watch. “That long?”

“You need to be somewhere?”

“Kinda. By noon anyway, back in Three Rivers.”

“I can get you there by then.”

Elisabeth stayed by Bruce's side until his breakfast arrived. A volunteer, a redheaded candy striper whose nameplate read “Joyce,” delivered it. She read from his chart. “He needs to be fed. Either of you want to do it?”

Elisabeth very much wanted to but thought she should defer to Trudy. She nodded toward her.

Trudy hesitated. “I thought he was all right.”

“I'm just telling you what the chart says,” Joyce said. “We don't feed him, he doesn't eat.”

Trudy shook her head.

“I'll feed him,” Elisabeth said, and Trudy walked away.

Feeding him like a baby came back to her as if the years had melted away. Elisabeth put one hand under his chin and spooned his food into his mouth with the other, tidying him up with each bite. Bruce would feed himself eventually, and the sooner the better. But to Elisabeth this was a privilege.

“Looks like you've had experience,” Joyce said on her way out.

“Years,” Elisabeth said. “I haven't seen you around here before. New?”

“In rehab, yeah,” she said, smiling.

Late in the morning, while Bruce napped, Elisabeth and Trudy headed for the car. “I know that candy striper,” Trudy said. “Fourth ward.”

“Really? You didn't greet her.”

“I told you, fourth ward. I think she might even live in a trailer park.”

Elisabeth couldn't imagine the importance of that tidbit. “Would you mind driving, Trudy,” she said, “since you got at least a little shut-eye?”

“You didn't sleep?”

“I was too excited.”

“I've never driven one of these big, old ones. How about I just make sure you stay awake?”

Trudy was silent all the way home. When Elisabeth pulled in front of the Childs's house, Trudy started to get out, then hesitated. “You know what, Mrs. Bishop, I don't think I'm going to be able to handle this.”

“Sure you will. He'll come around. I don't know where he was or what he saw, but God will see him through this and he'll get better, you'll see.”

Trudy shook her head, tears in her eyes. “I feel awful, but I just, I just can't—”

“Trudy, honey, we need to be strong so we don't set him back farther.” Trudy collapsed into sobs. Elisabeth patted the young woman on her back.

“I hate to admit this, Mrs. Bishop, but I can't help thinking Bruce was a coward.”

“A coward?”

“He's not hurt!” Trudy said. “He's scared! Guys are getting wounded and dying over there, and he's back because he didn't like what he saw.”

“For heaven's sake, child! He wasn't AWOL and he hasn't been accused of desertion. They tell me this is a common malady and very real.”

Trudy looked up at her. “To come home early without being wounded?”

“If you know Bruce,” Elisabeth said, “you'd know he's deeply wounded.”

“I don't know if I know him or not,” Trudy said. She reached for the door handle.

“You want to ride along tomorrow?”

Trudy hesitated. “I'll call you.”

Elisabeth drove home wondering what she would tell her son if Trudy didn't call. Elisabeth had misgivings about Trudy, and they had been exacerbated by the previous twenty-four hours. But she couldn't imagine Trudy as one of those fiancées who disappear when things get tough.

The next several weeks were grueling for Elisabeth, but at least she had only one round-trip drive to the same place every evening. She spent most of her time with Bruce but always stopped in for several minutes with Will too. “If only you knew who was in the other wing,” she told him. “If only I could make you understand.”

To put her own mind at ease and, she hoped, to give her an advantage once Bruce started to talk, Elisabeth investigated what he had been through. She called Sergeant Howard and asked if Bruce had been at the battle on Tarawa.

“Did he tell you that?”

“He's not talking yet.”

“How did you know then?”

“I read, sir. I want to know firsthand whether he has legitimate reasons to be home or whether he should still be there doing his duty.”

Sergeant Howard's tone changed and his pace slowed. “I understand where you're going with this,” he said. “Let me find out and call you back. You may rest assured that I will tell you the truth, either way.”

Two days later he reported, “Not only was there no sign of cowardice or failure to perform, but Private Bishop recorded several enemy kills and was credited with heroism in the face of mortal danger.”

“Kills?”

“How he avoided injury while exterminating at least six enemy soldiers at point-blank range is a mystery. But at least two compatriots credit him with cover fire that allowed them to escape with their lives, if not with all their limbs.”

“It's no mystery to me, Sergeant. It was a miracle of God.”

“I wouldn't argue that, ma'am. Your son was the only one unscathed in that sector. Eleven dead and sixteen critically wounded, all within his view.”

“How close to him?”

“It's difficult to recreate these things, but it would not stretch the bounds of credulity to say that these men could all have fallen within an arm's length of each other.”

“No wonder he was traumatized.”

“Ma'am, you wouldn't want to dwell on what he might have seen and heard. There's nothing more pitiful than a teenager who knows he's dying, and no more helpless feeling than knowing you can do nothing for him. I imagine one of the things your son is going to have to deal with is the guilt of surviving.”

“You sound as if you speak from experience, Sergeant.”

“I'm speaking to you from a wheelchair, ma'am, my constant companion. Let's just say I'm half the man I used to be.”

Unless Elisabeth was reading Scripture or singing hymns to him, Bruce struggled to speak. His face contorted into a mask of horror and grief and his lips trembled as if he were constantly on the verge of tears. “Which is what he is,” his doctor told her. “If you've ever tried to speak while weeping and were unable to form the words, that's what he feels every second. He wants to say something, to explain, to make sense of it. He wants you to know what's wrong with him. We've learned from men who've come through this that the harder they try to speak and the longer they are unable to, the more frustrated and panicky they become. They come to believe they will never be able to speak again, and it scares them to death.”

“What can I do?”

“Speaking to him is good. Talk soothingly, tell him there's lots of time to heal and recover and grow and that he mustn't push things. Remind him it will take time, and remember, when you're entertaining him—reading or singing or whatever—you're taking the pressure off his feeling obligated to talk.”

From then on, any time Bruce labored to communicate with her, she sat patiently, touching him. When he grew agitated, she'd say, “Let's wait. There's time. We'll talk tomorrow. Let me read to you.”