Here and Again (7 page)

“It was my wrist you were holding, after all. Come on. I shared.”

Ginger shrugged.

“Come on,” he whispered. His eyes didn’t move.

“I was just thinking—I was just hoping someone had hold of my husband’s wrist when his pulse stopped.”

Jack leaned his head to the left. “I hope whoever held his wrist held it as tenderly as you did mine,” he replied.

Me, too,
she mouthed and, flicking off his light, Ginger shut Jack’s door. Taking a deep breath, she headed back to the ER and slid next to Jacob’s gurney. He was shivering. Pulling out another warmed blanket from the cabinet, she laid it over the boy, tucking it under his legs and shoulders.

“You need to go home, Jacob Esch,” she said softly.

“I know, Captain. But I can’t,” he replied.

July 18, 1861

Dear Juliette,

A queersome feeling awoke me at dawn this day. It is July and spring has ridden away; her vibrant colors and new green leaves scattered in her wake. Now the world is turning deep, lush, and thick, as is the nature of summer in Virginia. Do you remember summers here? There were dances lit by a full moon and lightning bugs. I see you still in your pale blue dress as we spun around in a waltz for the first time. Are you remembered of the night we first met? Do summer nights in Sharpsburg hold the ebb of lightning bugs and the memory of our first dance not so long ago?

The earth is always weighty as Virginia dons her summer shawl. Trees are heavy. Air is heavy. Yet I was light last night with the memory of you in my arms. But all levity vanished with the breaking day, for nothing should have been as heavy as it was this morning, which is what brought me from my blankets just before reveille.

It had softly rained the night before, the mist of which stood like a ghostly wall all round. It neither rose nor fell, but simply hung as if waiting for us all to stand and crawl on top of it. The sky was violet-gray but the mist reflected no light and I stood in the silence. That is unusual since I am now always surrounded by my regiment but even their breath was still. And in that silence, I heard a solitary bird singing, if a song is what you could call it. The sound was less trill and more whistle, a punctuating sound inflected up as if it asked a question of me—the same short question
over and over. If I understood its language, perhaps I could have answered, but since I did not, I simply whistled back to it the same sound, the same question. As soon as I did so, the bird stopped and all was quiet and in that heavy stillness I heard someone calling my name. Not as if I was called to dinner or was needed for something, rather it was inflected up—Samuel
?
I turned around in the mist, seeking for the person, but could see no one. I answered—
Yes?
And then the bird sang again, posing the exact same query it had done so many times before. But now, in answer, the bugle struck reveille and a thousand men coughed as one, breaking the stillness. The mist stirred, twirling, falling, rising with the movement of men.

So I lie here now, resting in the evening after a day of marching. Colonel Jackson is now Brigadier General. As you may have heard, we destroyed many engines and railroad cars at Martinsburg. Now we move north as part of General Johnston’s army, our destination not generally known nor could I write it down here, lest my letters be accidentally misplaced and picked up by another. But, knowing where we go, I find this morning’s event as heavy on me as was the mist at dawn—a wall beyond which I cannot see. What was the bird asking? Who is it that calls my name? Is it you praying for me, Juliette? I can only find peace when thinking of you, so there my thoughts have turned the entire day. The sky is a lapis stone as the sun just sets, clear of all trouble, and upon it the evening star shines brightly. I see it, a single bright point in the great lapis blue emptiness of the sky, and in it, I see you. I pray that I shall fall asleep quickly, with no bird and no mist weighing on me—just the light and brightness of you in my soul.

Your devoted,

Samuel E. Annanais

Manassas

T
he early-morning quiet at Franklin District Community Hospital was broken by a howling two-year-old boy who arrived at five a.m. with a temperature of 103, chills, and a severe cough. As Anna Maria D., MD, and Ginger were working on him, the ambulance across the street screamed to life at five thirty a.m. and a telephone call came in stating a seventy-four-year-old man with chest pain was on his way in. He coded twice in the ambulance. There was no radio at Franklin District Community Hospital, just the phone, so as Anna Maria continued with the two-year-old’s bronchitis, Ginger called into Winchester Medical informing them that they were likely to receive a new patient and to please send a helicopter. The ambulance pulled up to the door at five forty-five a.m. with the morning shift on its heels along with the arrival of Jonathan J., MD, and Everett K., RN.

Everett took the baby bronchitis as Dr. Anna Maria, Dr. Jonathan, and Nurse Ginger stabilized the heart attack. Not once but
three times did Anna Maria D., MD, call out “NGMI”—“Not Going to Make It.” Ginger could hear the helicopter land because a nearly severed finger and an asthmatic with the flu came in the door, followed by a winter morning exhale, which sent its great chilled breath blowing through the tiny ER. The heart attack stabilized and was rushed out into the cold, bright morning to the helicopter, which lifted off in the presence of what, to Ginger, seemed like the entire town. Anna Maria D., MD, left at seven forty-five a.m. and as Ginger went from heart attack to nearly severed finger to asthmatic flu, Jack Wolfe and Jacob Esch were released. Ginger hadn’t really noticed exactly when they left. They, after all, had become Everett K., RN’s patients, as all incoming patients were her triage responsibility. She simply found their beds empty when she went on break at ten a.m.

So the morning passed; the baby was sent home, as was the nearly severed finger. The asthmatic with flu was admitted. Two FABIANS (“Felt Awful But I’m Alright Now Syndrome”), a broken arm, and a “Two Beers” came and went. Two Beers was brought in by the local police, having slid off the road quite near to where Ginger had seen Samuel the night before. As always, though clearly drunk, he claimed to have had only two beers before his crash earned him his now broken collarbone. When the blood alcohol level returned with.08, his arm was placed in a sling, the typical treatment, with instructions to keep it immobile for four to six weeks. Then, without handcuffs, he was placed in the back of the police car and driven off for his DUI booking just as Ginger’s shift came to an end.

Dialing home, she walked out into a clear blue and white day, her feet sliding on the icy asphalt of the parking lot.

“Hello?” Osbee answered the phone.

“I’m off. We need anything from the store?”

“Uh, no. No.” Osbee’s voice was quieter than usual. Ginger stopped.

“Everything all right?”

“Yes, yes. Uh . . . Ester and Hugh are still here. They are staying for supper.”

“Oh.” This was bad news. Ginger’s body was still buzzing with adrenaline from the night’s work but she knew by the time she reached home she’d be spent. If Jesse’s mother and father were still there, she’d need to keep her wits about her.

“They brought presents for the children.”

“That’s nice,” Ginger replied. That was her Southern way of having no opinion one way or the other on a subject.

“You working tonight?”

“No. My registry schedule is tonight off, then Friday and Saturday back up here in Franklin. Why?”

“Oh,” Osbee said brightly. “Maybe you’d like to take some time for yourself. Go somewhere. A drive or something.”

Though that did sound appealing from an avoidance point of view, she felt it cowardly. Plus, she had no extra money for gas.

“I’ll give you some cash when you get home,” Osbee offered as if reading her mind.

“You’ve no money.”

“Not yet, but I will.”

More of Ginger went cold than just her feet and hands. “Osbee,” Ginger whispered, hoarsely.

“Not to worry, Ginger, my dear. You go. Have a nice lunch. It warm up there?”

“Not really.”

“Well, there’s no new snow and it’s relatively warm down here. Like spring is about to spring. Come down here. Drive the Shenandoah.”

Ginger wanted to go home. She wanted to—to— She wasn’t sure exactly. But she didn’t want Osbee to be alone.

“Go for a drive. Have some mommy alone time.”

Ginger sighed. It felt so wrong. It was as if she were surrendering before the battle even began.

“Ginger?”

“Yeah. Okay.”

“Good. Be careful and call now and then so we know where you are.”

“Okay,” Ginger said again. Her stomach rose to her throat, threatening to empty its contents onto the snow.

“Not to worry,” Osbee repeated. “Have fun.”

“All right,” Ginger replied. “Bye.”

“Bye-bye.” The line went dead.

“Shit,” Ginger said, swallowing hard to avoid throwing up. She knew Osbee had signed papers. She knew Osbee was selling her home—her root. Unlocking the door, Ginger opened the truck and was promptly slapped across the face by the horrendous smell.

“For the love of Pete!” she declared, and covering her mouth, she opened all four doors to the cab of her truck. As she was the only RN on duty during the night and the ER had been so busy when the morning shift arrived, there had not been one minute for Ginger to deal with the mess in her truck. Now she left the vehicle open while she went back inside the ER, grabbed towels and a bucket, and returned to clean out the backseat. The smell was better but not completely gone, so she rummaged through her handbag, looking for the small bottle of perfume Jesse had given her three Christmases ago. She’d worn it only when she was out with him, and as he was now gone, she never had cause to use it. It was buried deep somewhere in the bottom of her purse, so she
dug. Before she spotted it, she came across the little yellow envelope with its gold key.

“Aha,” she said with a smile. “Hope.”

Pulling the envelope from her handbag, she carefully extricated the newspaper clipping. Ginger held her breath and scooted into the front seat, engaging the engine to warm the truck. Sliding back out again, she stood in the snow, dialing Ed Rogers. The phone rang four times, and as she was about to hang up, someone picked up the line. It was a woman.

“Hallo?”

“Oh. Uh. Hello. My name is Ginger Martin and I was calling for Ed Rogers.”

“Martin, did you say?”

“Yes. Ginger Martin.”

“Just a minute.” There was a muffled cry from the phone with the woman yelling for Ed as she held her hand to the receiver. Ginger’s heart sped up as she looked down inside the envelope at the little gold key. The phone rattled a bit on the other side and then a very Virginian man with an accent from the north near Richmond came on the line.

“Mrs. Martin? Are you Jesse Martin’s wife?”

Ginger smiled, relieved. Ed Rogers was still at the same number and he remembered her husband.

“Yes, I am.”

“It is so good to hear from you. How is your husband?”

Ginger stopped breathing. Of course he would want to know. How obvious. But she had rarely spoken to anyone regarding what was being asked of her now, for everyone she knew already knew. So, for the first time, she tried putting into words the truth of the matter. Her mouth wouldn’t cooperate.

“Mrs. Martin?” The man’s voice went softer and far lower.

“Yes?” Ginger whispered, tears rolling down her cheeks, causing the world to glisten in blue and white.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” he replied.

“It’s all right,” she lied.

“No, it’s not,” he said.

Ginger let out a little weeping chuckle. “No, it’s not,” she agreed.

“I am sorry. I hadn’t heard from him, so I thought he was still deployed. We often lost touch for a year or so while he was overseas. He was a good man.”

“He was.”

“Mrs. Martin? I have a couple of tractor parts he asked me to get for him. I was wondering if you’d like me to ship them to you.”

“I—I have no money to pay—”

“Oh, he already paid. You want me to ship them?”

Ginger thought for a moment. She had nothing to do. “Where exactly are you, Mr. Rogers?”

“Call me Ed. I’m by Manassas.”

Manassas was a three-hour drive. “Are you busy today?”

“No. No. Not at all.”

“Well, I can be there at around five or six. Is that all right?”

“That’s fine. You need directions?”

“Let me get a little closer if that’s all right, and then I’ll call to ask.”

“Very good. See you soon, Mrs. Martin.”

“Ginger. Call me Ginger. Ed?” She quickly climbed into her truck. The smell brought tears to her eyes. She was sure that’s what was causing them now.

“Yes?”

“Do you know anything about a little gold key?”

There was silence.

“Ed?”

“No. Not that I remember.”

“Okay. It was just in an envelope with your number so I thought they went together.”

“Sorry I can’t help.”

“It’s all right. I’ll be there in a few hours.”

“Be careful, Ginger. Roads are icy.”

“Yes. Thank you. Bye.”

She hung up and as she put the truck in gear her entire body lightened. It was as if weight had shifted onto the seat next to her, and though she knew it would slide back eventually, she could at least feel a touch of the world as it was when Jesse was alive. She glanced up into the blue sky that sparkled as only the blue sky can when the earth is covered in white, filling her dark places inside with the blue-white winter light.

•••

J
esse had Ginger’s hand with his right and was holding two-year-old Henry in his left arm. It was steep from the bridge to the water and Ginger could barely see her feet over her very round belly.

“Be careful,” Jesse said.

“Hard to be when I can’t see where my feet are going,” she replied. There was no sweat trickling anymore down her neck. Bad sign.

“Let’s just get in the shadow of the bridge and out of the sun for a minute.”

“You need to get the ranger to help,” she said.

It was so humid, Ginger felt she wasn’t even breathing. She had been fine as they walked around Henry Hill Visitor Center, and though Jesse liked the idea, Ginger decided she wanted to take the path to the stone bridge over Bull Run. It was, after all, July 21, the anniversary of First Manassas. She knew Jesse wanted to make the trek. He, however, wouldn’t go without her and as he was not about to take her in
Virginia’s summer sun for a walk, or more like a waddle, to the creek, she had to just start heading that way without discussing the matter with him. There was, however, little silence on the way because he just kept repeating, “Ginger, we should go back.”

Truly, they should have gone back. She was now dizzy and nauseated and though she had been absolutely convinced she couldn’t get heatstroke in the two miles of path it took to get to the stone bridge, she was now not so sure. She needed to cool off. She needed to get out of the sun. So here she was, slipping down the steep embankment to the water, trying to get in the shade of the bridge on the east side.

“I’m so stupid,” she said, her breath shallow.

“Sit.” Jesse lowered her to the grass right next to the bridge. A small sliver of dark shade covered her head.

“Here, hold Henry. Let me get some water.” Ginger leaned against the bridge, the stone still holding the heat of the noonday sun, which had passed two hours earlier. Jesse unbuttoned his shirt, pulled off his undershirt, and went down to the river, where he dunked it into the muddy water. Wringing it out into the grass, he first dripped a little of the water on Henry’s head and then rubbed his undershirt across Ginger’s neck and shoulders. It was so cool. Her head was pounding.

“You need to go get help,” she said.

“I can’t just leave you.”

“Take Henry and go back.”

“Look. I’m not just going to leave you here. What da ya think?”

She looked up at him and found his gray eyes as unyielding as the day she met him at the hospital. She smiled a little.

“I say that—‘What da ya think?’”

“Well, that’s where I am with this. No argument.”

“We need help.”

“It’ll come,” he replied, sliding back into his shirt. Kneeling down
in front of her, he moved his wet T-shirt from the back of her neck to the front while sliding a portion of it over Henry’s head again.

“Jesse?”

“I’m not leaving.”

“No, no—I’m sorry. I should’ve thought of Henry.”

“Henry’s not in trouble, Ginger.”

“I know. But now we’re here and we don’t have his food or anything.”

“Help will come.”

“Are you sure?”

“This is the stone bridge at Manassas. It is July twenty-first. Help is probably approaching the bridge as we speak.”

At that moment, Ginger heard a fife playing in the distance.

“See?” he said, grinning at her.

She closed her eyes, listening. The music grew louder and now there were voices—children and adults laughing and talking. They were yet too far for her to understand what was being said.

“Shouldn’t you go get whoever it is?” she asked.

“Help always comes when you need it. Just have to sit still long enough.”

“Shouldn’t you go bring them here?”

“If you go and it comes, it won’t find you.”

The voices were very close but there were so many of them and her head hurt so entirely that she understood none of what was being said. Jesse burst out laughing.

“What is it?”

He couldn’t stop laughing.

“Jesse?”

He took in a breath. “It’s a Girl Scout troop.” He bent down and kissed her head, chuckling still. “See? Help,” he said.

“Can you ask them if they have any cookies?”