In the Shadow of Blackbirds(90)
“Did anyone bring a doctor’s bag that belonged to me?” I asked. “I left it inside a red automobile in front of a house on Coronado.”
“It’s sitting right below your cot.”
“I need to look at a photograph tucked inside.”
“I need to take your temperature first.”
“Please let me have my—”
She shoved the little glass tube inside my mouth before I could say another word. The thermometer made the insides of my cheeks itch, and I was tempted to pop it out with my tongue, but I needed her help.
She kept track of the time using a wristwatch, and after a grueling wait that seemed to ramble along for an hour, she fetched the stick from my mouth. “Ninety-eight point six.” Her eyes glistened. “Congratulations, my little fighter. You’re beating the infamous Spanish influenza.”
I tried to sit up. “May I have my bag now?”
“Lie down, lie down—you’re not completely healed yet.” She lowered me back to the cot by my shoulders. “I’ll pull out whatever it is you need, but then we need to get you resting and eating and drinking so we can send you on your way. Why do you own a doctor’s bag, anyway?”
“My mother was a doctor.”
“A lady physician for a mother?” She whistled. “No wonder you’re a bold one, missy.”
I heard her click open the black bag’s clasp beneath me, and I swallowed with anticipation.
“I see a pretty photograph of a butterfly—”
“It’s the other one. The lightning bolt.”
“Here it is.” She set Stephen’s picture on my stomach. “My, my, my. That’s a beauty. Must have been taken by quite the photographer.”
“Yes. It was.” I ran my fingers down the chipped frame to his words written at the bottom. The letters—written below an older, scratched-off title—were just as I remembered:
I DO LOSE INK
LOOK INSIDE. Not a title at all.
A request.
The nurse patted my knee. “All right. I’m going to check on some of the other patients, and then I’ll bring you clear broth and get a doctor to examine your lungs and head. Don’t go anywhere.” She chuckled and shuffled away on the soft soles of her shoes.
I pried open the frame’s back cover and saw the shine of a gold key—and a note, written on the photo’s cardboard backing in Stephen’s gorgeous handwriting.
April 29, 1918
My Dearest Mary Shelley,
My mind keeps replaying the events of yesterday and giving our time together a new ending, one that doesn’t involve Julius ruining everything for us. That morning feels like an unfinished work of art, interrupted and spoiled. If I could have had just five more minutes with you, I would have kissed you until our lips ached, and I would have told you I’ve loved you from the moment you fixed my camera on those church steps when we were little kids.
Even when the world seems like it’s spinning out of control, you’re always there for me, Shell, whether in person or through your letters. During my darkest moments, you have always reminded me that life is interesting as hell (pardon my French, but there’s no other way to put it). If nothing else, I will fight in this war to ensure people like you remain free to dream your dreams and become whatever you desire.
This photograph is for you—a small compensation for putting up with my brother’s spirit games and for sending me off to battle with a contented soul. I photographed the lightning storm from my bedroom window last winter. I’m guessing you would have loved seeing the bolts pierce the Pacific. I wish you had been here beside me.
You’ll also find a key to a safe-deposit box at the main San Diego post office (I’ve written the box number, as well as my military address, below). I don’t have time to put this parcel in the mail myself, unfortunately. The idea of giving this key to you just struck me as I was getting dressed to leave this morning. Hopefully, my mother will send it before Julius snoops and you’ll be as skilled at this anagram as you were with Mr. Muse. A regular letter would likely disappear in Julius’s hands.
Please take the contents of the box and do with them what you like. I don’t want to risk writing them into a will or leaving them in my house. Julius would get to them somehow. My mother has copies of her favorites, but the negatives are in the box. You may keep the photographs or sell them if you can. Never send any profits to my brother.
If I lose my life in France, perhaps show my work to a few people as proof that I was once in this world. It’s hard to imagine disappearing without a shred of evidence that I existed. I would be eternally grateful.
Thank you for coming back into my life before my departure to the unknown. I will never forget you, Mary Shelley Black.
Yours with all my love,
Stephen
P.S. Don’t ever worry what the boys who don’t appreciate originality think of you. They’re fools.
A DOCTOR SIGNED MY HOSPITAL RELEASE PAPERS THE same day the war ended: November 11, 1918.
Fireworks whistled and exploded somewhere out in the city, and when I flinched from the commotion, the nurses told me a German delegation had signed the armistice to end the fighting. Faraway battles would stop snatching the minds and lives of our boys and men in the dark bellies of the trenches. The carrion crows would have to fly to other hunting grounds.