Hidden Scars (21 page)

He held me fast, kissing me until his playful teasing filled my lungs with air and the room with laughter. How I’d missed him. My body yielded to his touch, and for the moment, everything that threatened our happiness dissipated.

For the next thirty-seven hours, we basked in the warmth of each other’s presence and love. We left the room only to eat or go for short walks.

“Tell me everything,” he insisted our first morning together. “How’s the job? Mom? Dad? Are you taking good care of yourself?”

I kept my answers light, upbeat.

But then he asked, “What about your folks? Any problems?”

“Not really.” I wouldn’t have told him any different, even if there had been. “Gram’s been a great comfort for me. Remember, I wrote you about how I visit her while Mom and Dad are at work.” Telling him about our suspicions would only upset him. Besides, we didn’t have any proof. “What about you? Tell me about Fort Benning, your classes, and the friends you’ve made.”

The one subject we both avoided was Vietnam and the real possibility we could be separated for twelve straight months or worse—he could be taken from me, forever.

Sunday, when it came time for Chuck to don his uniform, waves of nausea threatened to expel the breakfast I’d barely eaten. Whoever said a man looked good in uniform must not have envisioned him in combat.

He wiped the tears from my cheeks. “God’s going to get us through this. And now that I’m out of basic, there’ll be more weekends like this one. Time will pass faster. In less than four months, I’ll be home on leave.”

And then what? I shook the thought from my mind. My fingers twined with his, holding his hand close to my face. No words would come without a barrage of new tears, so I didn’t try to speak. With my eyes closed, I absorbed his warmth.

Chuck slid his hand free. “It’s time to go.”

My insides twisted. I kept my eyes closed.

“Morgan, look at me.”

When I did, he handed me a small box wrapped in shiny, blue paper with the tiniest, white bow. “I bought you something at the PX for your charm bracelet.”

I sat on the edge of the bed and removed the paper and lid. A ray of sun reflected from the gold disc. Through tears, I could hardly make out the inscription Separated But Always Together.

He eased down beside me and gathered me in his arms. “We’ll always be together, Morgan—in each other’s thoughts, hearts, and prayers. No one, not even the Army, can take that from us.”

Once again, a steady stream of tears spilled from my eyes. Would there ever be a time when days of smiles and laughter outnumbered the sad ones?

After several minutes, Chuck helped me to my feet. “We’ve got to go.”

Our good-bye ended in reverse of our greeting. In the parking lot, we held on to each other. It reminded me of two little scared monkeys I’d once seen in a zoo. The babies clung to one another as though they were all the protection they had. Unable to understand there was a wiser and smarter keeper who watched over them. I reminded myself we also had a Caretaker. One who keeps a constant vigil, not out of obligation or pay, but because He loves us.

I drove away, watching in the rearview mirror through a sea of tears, wanting one more glance.

Days turned into weeks, and life became a little more bearable. Weekend passes and trips to Meridian helped. Even our phone conversations were unrushed since he’d completed basic, his letters longer.

Since school was still out, I had Chuck’s little sisters as well as Becky and occasionally Mimi Clair, along with Janet to keep me company. And the time Gram and I spent together kept my hands and mind busy.

Gram and I worked hard on our project and completed all nine six-by-eight white, cotton squares. The blocks came to life, each with a different farm animal cut from materials of unique patterns and colors and hand-stitched in place. Delicate embroidered flowers and leaves framed each little critter. I couldn’t believe I’d actually helped make something so beautiful. Nor could I believe the change in Gram. She laughed and talked more and hummed her favorite hymn, “Beyond the Sunset”, while she worked. Perhaps Marsha and I had been too quick to jump to conclusions. My conscience twinged, and I winced.

Today, Gram would teach me how to piece the squares together. I dressed quickly, walked to the mailbox to deposit the letter I’d written Chuck last night, and then tossed a bag of groceries into the car. The early morning August heat and humidity had me scrambling to get the air conditioner going full blast. The soaring temperature had taken its toll on the last of the magnolia blooms. But the clusters of blue and pink hydrangeas decorated almost every yard and continued to thrive and show their beauty.

Before pulling into my parent’s driveway, I spotted Mom’s car parked under the carport. Eight thirty. She must be running late. I had no desire to see her, but a sudden stubborn streak refused to allow me to leave. After parking, I grabbed the sack and stepped onto the gravel. Mom’s voice rushed from the house, but I couldn’t make out her words. I didn’t need to, her tone said it all. I crept closer. Scenes from the past flashed before me. The storm door swung open with a force that jarred me back to the present.

Mom stopped, glared at the sack in my hands, and then at me. “If that’s more junk food for Mother’s room, you can take it right back to your house. I’m sick and tired of picking up candy wrappers and seeing cookie crumbs on the floor. And another thing, don’t leave bits of string and material strewn all over my furniture. I don’t know why you two think Marsha would want anything so old fashioned. Why don’t you buy your sister something nice…or is money your problem?” Her lips drew into a sneer. “I bet that husband of yours doesn’t send home a dime. He probably spends all his money on beer…or whatever he
wants.
”

My face grew hot. My fingers clenched the grocery bag, but I refused to play into her hands. I kept my voice calm. “Who were you hollering at when I drove up?”

“That’s none of your business.” She stomped toward her car.

“It is if you’re mistreating my grandmother.”

Mom whirled on her heels and retraced her steps. “I dare you.”

Her eyes flickered then narrowed. She didn’t blink as I held her gaze. My insides churned. I braced for the blow that never came. Then without a word, she walked back to the car and left, scattering rock and dust as she sped onto the main road.

I took a deep breath and stepped inside. Gram wasn’t in the family room, kitchen, or her bedroom. She didn’t answer when I called out for her. I knocked on the bathroom door. “Are you in there, Gram?”

No reply. I knocked louder.

“I’ll be out in a little while.” Her voice quavered, barely audible.

I stood at the door and listened but heard nothing. “I’ll start breakfast.”

Gram’s soft slippers scuffed against the linoleum as I placed a platter of bacon and eggs on the table. She gave me a weak smile when my eyes met her red-streaked ones.

I busied myself pouring coffee and milk, trying desperately to hold in the anger ragging inside.

She ate very little.

“Aren’t you hungry, Gram?”

“Some days, I don’t have much of an appetite. I’m sorry you went to so much trouble. Save it, and I’ll eat it later on today.”

“Yuck. Cold eggs?”

“Young’uns today don’t know a thing about the Depression. Back then, you’d be glad to have an egg, hot or cold. Or whatever else you could find. They were good times, but tough ones, too.”

“Was it as tough as what you’re going through now?”

She didn’t look at me or answer.

“I couldn’t help but hear Mom when I drove up. Was she upset with you?”

Gram fumbled with the corner of her napkin. “She was running late this morning. That’s all.”

“Are you sure?”

“It’s hard having someone living with you all the time. I’m a burden to her and your dad. I know that.”

“Is that what they say?”

Her fingers continued to work the napkin. “They don’t have to. I’m of no use to either of them. I can’t cook or clean like I used to. What good am I? I’m grateful to have a place to stay.”

“You mean the world to me and Marsha. So what if you can’t work as hard or as fast as you once did. Who says you have to? You still do a lot. Marsha’s going to be tickled when she sees one of your beautiful quilts for her baby. And I couldn’t have survived these past months without you. But you don’t have to stay here, Gram. You’ve got other family. And you don’t have to be mistreated. I know what it feels like, and—”

“Morgan.” Gram raised her head. Her eyes met mine. “You and Marsha shouldn’t have ill feeling toward your parents, no matter what they’ve done or didn’t do. You have to forgive and forget and go on with life. That’s what the Bible teaches. You know that.”

“I know I have to forgive, and I’m working on that. But sometimes, I don’t know if it’s humanly possible to forget all the hurt.”

“If you don’t forget, you haven’t forgiven.”

“Where in the Bible does it say that? …This is hard for me to say, and it’s only an example. But, if someone cut one of your fingers off, it would cause a lot of pain. And long after your hand healed, I bet there’d be many times you’d look at your hand with the missing finger and you’d remember. Wouldn’t you?”

“I suppose.”

“Let’s say you forgave the person, and they cut off another finger. According to the Bible, God’s word, you’d have to forgive them, but now, with two missing fingers, I doubt you’d soon forget. Maybe over a period of time, you wouldn’t dwell on it as much. I don’t know. But here’s the big question: should you continue to have a relationship with that person, knowing there’s a good chance you’ll lose yet another finger? Or do you walk away until the person has a change of heart? And if they never do, at least you kept some of your fingers. A pastor in Waitsville gave me this example. It helped me to know what I had to do. Hopefully, it’ll help you to know what you need to do.”

“Don’t worry about me, child. I’m not missing any fingers.”

“Gram—”

“That’s enough talk. We’ve got work to do.”

Later that night, someone knocked on my door. I eased it open. Dad stood on the bottom step. I looked past him. Mom wasn’t with him.

“Listen up, girl.”

I cringed. “Would you like to come in?” I responded out of upbringing, not desire.

“No. What I have to say won’t take long. I understand you talked back to your mother today.”

My mouth gaped open. “I did not. I asked her—”

He pointed the fingers holding a lit cigarette in my face. “Shut up and listen! You came to our home this morning, right?”

I swallowed and held my chin up and my shoulders back. “Yes, sir.”

“Uninvited. Right?”

“I went to see—”

“Uninvited! Your mother and I know you’ve been visiting your grandmother while we’re at work. If you want to continue spending time with her, I suggest you apologize to your mother for your behavior.”

Never blinking, his gaze remained fixed on me, but I refused to look away. “I haven’t done anything to apologize for.”

He tossed the cigarette to the ground and squashed it with his foot, then leaned inches from my face. “If I ever hear of you talking back to or upsetting your mother again, it’ll be the last time you’ll step foot in our home. You give that some thought.”

He turned and ambled back toward his truck.

The muscles in my arms ached to slam the door off its hinges. Tears stung my eyes. “Don’t you dare cry, Morgan Mathews,” my voice ordered my heart. I closed the door. “Don’t you
ever
allow him to make you cry again.”

I thought about calling Marsha to let her know about Dad’s threats and today’s events. But what could she do? Gram’s refusal to open up to us only tied our hands tighter.
God, please. Help us to help her.

Two weeks later, a constant influx of men gathered in the parts house with only one thing on their mind, Bradford County’s first casualty of the war, Brandon Anderson. His family lived in the small town forty miles south of Greer. I didn’t know him or his family. Still, I grieved for their loss. I hated this war. What I really hated was my inability to make sense of it. Civil unrest, and protest against a war many felt we had no business being in, held our country in turmoil. And what seemed a never-ending struggle between the blacks and whites fueled bitterness and anger.

“We can’t settle our differences at home,” a man with a deep, raspy voice argued. “So why should we think we can help another country reconcile theirs?”

By five that afternoon, my back ached from holding myself stiff trying to ignore the men’s talk. My mind screamed for an escape from the little office. I drove out of the parking lot, took a couple of lefts, and steered the car toward home. An empty house would be far better than what I’d endured for the last four hours. In the distance, a yellow Camaro swerved onto the highway. As the car passed going the opposite direction, I shielded my eyes from the sun and craned my neck to get a glimpse of the driver. “Kyle!” I looked for a side road and turned the car around. So many vehicles had passed by, I’d never catch him.

In town, our one and only red light demanded “stop.” My patience grew weary waiting for the light to change. Once it did, I scanned Main Street, even cruised past a few of the local hangouts: the dairy bar, Greer’s convenience store, and an unnamed clubhouse where men gathered to play cards. I gave up. That’s when I spotted his car in the park. Kyle sat on top of a wooden picnic table, black with sap from the surrounding pecan trees. His feet rested on the bench. After a year in Vietnam, he’d made it!

I waved with frenzy as I parked beside his car and jumped out. He stared as though he didn’t recognize me.

“Kyle, I can’t believe it’s really you.” I quickened my pace, eager to greet him with a hug. But he didn’t stir. He just sat there with his shoulders slumped, holding a burning cigarette. My smile slipped away. “Kyle?”

Finally he spoke, “Hey, Morgan. It’s been a while.”

“It’s been over a year. You stopped writing. Chuck and I wondered if you were getting our letters—”