Hidden Scars (25 page)

Déjà vu?
No. Even though I’d never heard the story before, I could see it and feel it as if I’d lived in his very skin. “Did she watch?”

“What?” He shifted and leaned against the doorframe.

“When Granddaddy took off his belt and whipped you and Uncle Jay, did she watch?”

“She certainly did. And grinned like a Cheshire cat. Why she’d…”

His voice faded. Yet it all became so clear. For some sick reason, the need to watch, be the one to control the timing and amount of the inflicted pain on someone else started as a child and grew worse with age. Had she become like a drug addict, who needed more and more in order to obtain the same high as at first? But on the other hand, it didn’t make sense. How did she pull Dad into her game?

“Ready?” Uncle Frank asked as he turned the knob to the door clearly marked Red Cross.

Just seeing the bold red letters and the red cross—their emblem that looked more like a plus sign than a cross—gave me hope and peace of mind. Finally, someone who’d help me find Chuck. Then without warning, optimism faded with the niggling question, “but what if”?

I shook my head, refusing to allow Satan’s tormenting to take root, and smiled at my uncle. “Yes, sir.”

Inside, posters—portraying nurses dressed in uniforms of days long ago, military men from all branches, and young families in need—papered the walls.

“Can I help you?” An attractive woman, whose jet-black hair didn’t match her gray streaked roots, approached and introduced herself.

“We’re counting on it.” My uncle gave a confident nod. “My niece,” he placed a hand on my shoulder, “needs your help locating her husband. He’s stationed in Vietnam, and she hasn’t heard from him for several weeks now.”

“Please,” she motioned toward chairs across from a nearby metal desk, “have a seat.” Once we all settled, she picked up a pen and rolled it between her palms. “It’s not unusual to have a lull between letters, Mrs.—I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name.”

“Mathews. Morgan Mathews.”

“As I was saying, it’s not unusual to have a lull between letters—”

“But he writes to me almost every day.” I wanted to still her hands, stop the pen from clicking against her rings. “I’ve received at least one letter, sometimes two, every week since he’s been there.”

“Perhaps he does try, but if he’s away from his base camp and out on mission, it may not always be possible. And no matter what he may have written, he couldn’t mail it until he got back in camp. It would then most likely be shipped to one of the larger cities like Da Nang before being bagged and flown to the States. So you see, unfortunately the mail service can be slow.”

“You don’t get it. I know.” I patted my chest. “Everything inside me knows something’s not right.”

The chair squeaked in protest under the weight of the woman whose name I’d already forgotten. “Sometimes I think it’s harder on the ones at home than our loved ones over there.” She leaned forward, propping on her elbows. “What I’m about to say may sound harsh, but I certainly don’t mean for it to be. If your husband had been injured, or God forbid killed, you would have been contacted rather quickly. The old saying ‘no news is good news’ may be tough to accept, but it’s very true in times of war.”

“Not that what you’ve said doesn’t make good sense,” Uncle Frank spoke up, “but is there nothing you can do?”

She smiled and shifted her gazed back to me. “Exactly when did you last hear from your husband?”

“The twelfth of December.”

Her eyes focused on the desk calendar. “Have you received any of your letters or packages back?”

“No, ma’am.”

“I’m assuming you sent a Christmas package?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Well there you have it.” Her smile broadened. “You have nothing to worry about. I’m sure your husband’s next letter is probably already on its way with a perfectly reasonable explanation for why he hasn’t written sooner.”

“So you won’t help me locate him?” My voice trembled.

“Mrs. Mathews, if we contacted every company commander every time a wife or mother failed to hear from their husband or child within what they deemed a reasonable timeframe, they wouldn’t be able to spend their time wisely, protecting their men and fighting this war. Nor would they take the Red Cross seriously. I’m sorry.”

Uncle Frank stood and held out his hand. “Thank you for your time.”

Once again, she assured me I had nothing to worry about. Empty words did nothing to calm the panic festering inside me.

She handed me her card. “If I can be of further assistance, don’t hesitate to call.”

I wanted to ask, “How much time would have to pass without hearing from Chuck before you’ll help?” Instead, I dropped the card inside my purse, thanked her, and headed for the door, refusing to give in to the tears begging for release.

I followed Uncle Frank to Mom’s and helped him pack Gram’s things, then went by the efficiency to change clothes and on to the parts house with minutes to spare.

Mr. Latham didn’t ask for an explanation for my absence yesterday, but I gave him one all the same. Like Uncle Frank, he assured me, “Why, I bet next time you check your mailbox, they’ll be one—no, probably two or three of them—waiting on you.”

But today’s mail had already run, and once again, the mailbox set empty.

I made him promise not to tell anyone. Pity and undue sympathy would only stir up a whole bag of emotions better left tied up.

The part about Gram would be something I’d only share with Chuck’s Father. Mom would have to say something in her own defense to Uncle Frank and anyone in the town who learned Gram no longer lived with her. Her version of what happened didn’t matter. Gram was safe.

I closed the mailbox. Its emptiness resembling the void in my life without Chuck and Gram. Four days since I’d talked with the lady from Red Cross, and still nothing.

A shrill ring called from inside the efficiency. My heart galloped, matching my feet’s pace as I ran into the house.

“Hello,” I panted, mostly due to nervousness rather than the jog.

Rachael’s wailing made it difficult to hear Marsha’s words. “Have you heard anything from Chuck?”

“No, not a word, and this waiting is about to drive me nuts. Sounds like I’m not the only one in a bad mood. What’s the matter with her this morning?”

The crying stopped.

“Hungry! But everything’s under control now. I switched arms and didn’t get the bottle plugged in fast enough.”

I got tickled. “So you’ve finally met your match.”

“We don’t really argue, I give her what she wants, when she wants it, and we get along fine. And speaking of getting along…what’s been happening between you and our parents?”

“Haven’t seen them. But then all I do is work and come home. Now that Gram’s in Memphis, my days are even longer and lonelier. I sure miss her.”

Marsha cleared her throat. “She’s one of the reasons I called.”

“Why? What’s wrong?”

“You know Aunt Sally talked about taking her to see a doctor.”

“Yeah…”

“She did, and he did some X-rays and blood work. They don’t know for sure what’s wrong, but she has an appointment to see a specialist.”

“A specialist? For what?”

“Her white count is high. Real high. They’re thinking leukemia.”

I slid down the wall until my bottom rested on the floor. “Cancer? Does Gram know?”

“Uncle Frank doesn’t want to tell her until they know for sure.”

The vision of Mom standing over Gram, shouting, “I’m sick and tired of all this whining and complaining. You don’t do anything but sit around this house all day and think up another ailment”, popped in my head. “She knows. Gram knows.”

Each day I trod the worn path to the mailbox. Each day my heart grew heavier, my prayers longer, and my patience shorter. Over four weeks, and still no word from Chuck.

My suitcase waited beside the door packed and ready to be loaded in the car. Gram’s diagnosis of Leukemia had not become official, but in my heart, I knew we wouldn’t have her much longer.

Chuck’s Dad pulled up beside me and stopped. “Anything?”

“Nothing.”

He rested his hands on the steering wheel and stared toward the roadside, worry lines etched between his eyes.

“Did you write his company commander like I suggested?”

“It went out yesterday.”

“Good. Maybe that’ll get us some answers. Meanwhile, don’t give up hope, Morgan.”

“Never,” I forced a smile and assured him. And I wasn’t about to.

“You headed to Memphis?”

“Yes, sir. Since I worked a full day yesterday, Mr. Latham gave me today—Look!” I pointed at Mr. Stewart’s black Toyota pickup as it turned onto our road.

“Well, I be dog. Fred’s running late today.”

Fred made his way from mailbox to mailbox before stopping in front of mine.

“Fred.” Mr. Mathews nodded. “Hope you’ve got a letter from my boy somewhere in that stack of junk mail you carry around with you.”

“As a matter of fact.” Mr. Stewart sported a wide grin as he held up a white envelope.

I drew in a deep breath and reached for the letter, my hands itching to touch it, my eyes burning to see Chuck’s handwriting and to know he was okay.

Mr. Mathews and Mr. Stewart exchanged pleasantries as I ripped open the envelope. Hands shaking, I scanned the single page for an explanation on his not writing while aching to know he was truly all right. Later, in private, I’d savor each one of his words.

“Well?” Mr. Mathews asked.

The words
hospital
and
Malaria
jumped off the page. My hand clutched the neck of my sweater. “He’s been sick.”

“What kind of sick?”

“He says, ‘I’m sorry for not writing sooner, but somehow, in spite of the medication the Army issued to prevent malaria, I ended up with it. It seems I’m not the only one. The hospital here in Long Ben has several of us. Some had it much worse than me. Try not to worry. The worst is over. They’re talking about shipping me back to base camp. Exactly when, I’m not sure. As soon as I know more, I’ll write. Let the folks know I’m okay. Looking forward to’…” I glanced at Mr. Mathews, my face growing warm. “The rest is kind of personal.”

He hooted and readjusted his hat. “Good! Now I
know
he’s doing better.” The sparkle of mischief lit up his eyes. “Now you and his mother can stop your frettin’.”

The thought of Chuck having malaria, a disease I knew nothing about, scared me. But my heart was grateful to God for answering my prayers. Yet, until Chuck returned home safely, I’d never stop “frettin’.”

January 25 and the rush was on to get Chuck’s homemade box of Valentine goodies mailed, but first I had to decide which of the three cards in my hand to purchase. I glanced at my watch then reread, for the third time, the last one I’d picked out.

“How could you do something so unspeakable?” My mother’s voiced hissed next to my ear.

My purse straps slipped from my shoulder to my wrist, knocking the cards and envelopes to the floor.

“I’ve never been so embarrassed in my life,” she muttered. “You’ll never change.”

I hoisted my purse to my left shoulder while eyeing the sprawled mess on the floor, making no attempt to pick it up.

“Not. Ever.” Venom laced each word.

Still, I said nothing.

She stepped closer. “Because of your lies, I’ve been over here sorting through copies of the past years’ statements. Seems my brother and his wife questioned some of the drugs Mother takes, and at the same time, they enquired about why her bill and mine are not kept separate. Insinuated I used Mother’s money to pay for my personal use. I guess I’m no longer responsible for paying her bills. In fact,” she spoke through clenched teeth, “I’ve been advised, by my brother I’m no longer on Mother’s bank account.”

“She’s sick.”

“Mother’s always sick.” She smirked.

“Didn’t Uncle Frank tell you? Gram has Leukemia.”

“Hum!” She crossed her arms. “I
bet
she does.”

“Why would he make something like that up?”

“You mean lie?” Her voice rose an octave. “You’re asking me why someone would lie? You
are
pitiful.”

“The doctor gives her only six months.”

Her eyes narrowed. Her mouth twisted. “And I give my brother and his wife two before they drag her back here for me to take care of.”

I locked eyes with her. Had she ever loved Gram? Any of us?

I marked through the date, March 10, before turning off the lights and crawling in bed. Another day closer to Chuck’s return. Joy and hope mixed with sadness, because it also meant another day closer to losing Gram. She looked so pale, so tired when I told her good-bye Monday. Marsha said she’d given up.

April 14, 1971

Dear Chuck,

It’s almost seven a.m. Just got off the phone with Aunt Sally. Gram’s gone. Aunt Sally said she died suddenly and without suffering. I hope so. She suffered enough already.

I wish I’d spent more time with her. But Marsha and I both take comfort in knowing she was loved and cared for by Uncle Frank and Aunt Sally and surrounded by their grown children and families for the past four months. We only wish she had been with them all along.

I will always blame myself for not seeing the signs earlier. For not protecting her.

Please take care of yourself. I miss you so much.

Love always,

Morgan

Bob, Marsha—holding Gram’s little namesake—and I walked up the cracked narrow sidewalk to Gram’s house where her body lay as she’d requested. Daffodils, pink hyacinths, and purple irises sprang through layers of dead grass and leaves in the front beds. Unpruned yellow bells had almost taken over the side yard. A piece of molding was missing from one of the large, tapered white columns supporting the wraparound porch we’d played on and under as kids. As we reached the front door, in my mind I could still see garlands outlining the massive wooden door, as the red bells hung against its etched glass center, their blinking lights greeting us every Christmas Eve from years past.